Adults In Training -- Learning Together To Live On Their Own
THE TEEN-AGE MOMS ARRIVED first, somehow managing to lug babies and overstuffed bags across town. Throughout the late afternoon more young people sauntered in: kids from group or foster homes, others from temporary shelters or the streets. Soon the small office on the third floor of the downtown YMCA was filled to overflowing. Excited chatter about the summer ahead, schools and jobs, adventures and misadventures filled the air.
They've come for Group - the communal event at the Independent Living Program of King County. Every Wednesday evening, these gatherings offer them the chance to talk and share a teenager's feast of pizzas and pop. But what draws them more than the free food is another basic that's missing from most of their lives. They come to be with family.
At this well-attended gathering in late June, they also convened to celebrate. Chuck Bartlett, director of the program and head of this makeshift family, was the most jubilant. He boasted of recent breakthroughs: a single mother graduated from high school and got an apartment, another young woman who had hung out with gang members landed a job at a summer camp, and a young man whose life revolved largely around getting high enrolled in college. Then, that week, more good news.
Tony Harrington, a skinny youth whose wild mat of brown hair and bushy mustache inspired the nickname "Caveman," declared from the far end of the room that he had a job.
"A legal one," Bartlett chimed in, from the head of the table.
Everyone laughed, and Tony grinned. He didn't mind the teasing. At Group, everyone knew everyone else's business. Rising from his seat to show off his dirt-covered shirt and faded blue jeans, Tony said he was working on landscaping and maintenance at a Rainier Valley housing project. Bartlett led the round of congratulatory applause.
Tony, 20, had another announcement: "I'm off the streets," he said, his grin widening into a smile. His new boss had helped him to line up an apartment at The Morrison, a low-income housing complex downtown. It was the first time in nearly a year he had a place of his own.
Demetrius "Dee" Morgan, a gangly 16-year-old, also had a job - as Independent Living's summer intern. On his second day he tagged along on a recruiting visit and almost single-handedly sold the program. When the newcomer came to that night's group, Dee saved a seat next to him, and he issued a mock threat to the others: "Make him feel comfortable, right? Or you answer to me."
But it was another accomplishment he announced to the group: "As of this week, I've been sober 10 months," he said. "I ain't done no 40s, no dank, ain't done no stuff."
"All RIGHT, Dee!" said Bartlett, who has talked to the group about his own battles with the bottle and drugs. "That's fantastic. Keep it going."
Others around the table, caught up in the spirit of the moment, served up their own private triumphs: a young woman received a diploma as a licensed cosmetologist; another broke off a troubled relationship; in the back corner, a tall, quiet youth said his only good news was that he was still out of jail without any outstanding warrants. Applause punctuated each announcement.
Swept away by the optimism of the moment, Bartlett beamed his broad, toothy smile and brashly sought to extend their good fortune into the future.
"This," he predicted, "is going to be a great summer."
But it didn't take long for everything to fall apart.
IMAGINE NOT HAVING someone to bake you a cake, or drive you to ballet lessons, or tell you stories about family history. Beyond that, imagine not having someone you can count on to always be there, and offer you unconditional support, or teach you about life.
In 1987, the federal government created the Independent Living Program in response to a lawsuit filed on behalf of former foster kids in New York. The youths, discharged from state care at 18 when they became adults in the eyes of the law, said they were ill-prepared for adulthood. The program, which is voluntary, now exists in one form or another in every state. In Washington, the YMCA-administered program in King County is the largest. It is open to anyone under 21 who came under state care sometime after they turned 16, either through placement in foster or group homes or a youth shelter.
It's the job of Chuck Bartlett and his crew of three caseworkers to teach the 72 people in his program how to navigate the uncertain waters of independence: helping them with everything from getting an education, to finding a place to live in, to landing a job. But teaching them the basics is usually complicated by the emotional scars from a less-than-idyllic past and their troubled present. The youths referred to the program also tend to be the ones who have fared worst under state care. Many were shuttled from one foster home to another or repeatedly ran away from group homes; others have extensive juvenile records. They're the hardcore kids, the ones who have fallen through the cracks.
Bartlett has guided the King County program since it started. He believes that to teach self-sufficiency, you must first nurture a healthy sense of the self. And to do that Bartlett believes the youths must first be given what they most need - a stabilizing force, someone who can be counted on to be there no matter how bad things get.
TONY WAS MISSING.
Less than a month after starting his new landscaping job, he simply stopped coming to work and hadn't been seen his apartment. The building manager entered the room to check on him and found nothing but scattered beer bottles. It was unlike Tony to just disappear. In the past, when he'd been arrested for drugs or drunken behavior, he usually called Bartlett from jail. When he skipped town, he informed his counselor. On the wall in Bartlett's office is a letter Tony sent to him when he abruptly left last year to visit his ailing father in Denver. After letting Bartlett know where he was headed, he wrote: "You have helped me out a lot in the last two years and I will never forget." There was speculation that maybe he had gone back to Denver, but Bartlett thought that unlikely since his last visit hadn't gone well. And if he had gone there, he would have called by now. That there was no word meant Tony was either on a serious binge or he was dead.
Bartlett has known Tony for more than four years and had seen him go through up-and-down cycles before. Two years earlier, Tony worked hard at a construction job Bartlett found for him. He saved $300, and stayed out of trouble. When the job ended, however, so did his resolve to stay clean, and he was soon penniless and on the streets. But in the months before his disappearance, Tony seemed ready to give it another try. He said if he only had a place to stay, he'd be able to get off the streets and away from its temptations. Bartlett believed he could do it again.
When Bartlett last saw Tony the week before he vanished, there was no indication anything was amiss; everything seemed on track. That afternoon, Tony had just gotten paid, but his income wasn't enough to cover the deposit and rent for his new downtown apartment. He was short $20, so Bartlett lent him the money.
"I looked at Tony and said this goes directly to rent," Bartlett recalled. "And he even left my office saying `Yeah, I'm going to get a money order 'cause I know if I had cash, I'll go spend it on drugs.' He's even thought about the temptation."
It was the last time Bartlett would see him for the next three weeks.
WHEN THE YOUNG WOMAN CAME INTO the office to seek help after getting kicked out of her apartment, summer intern Dee Morgan got the job of finding her and her baby temporary housing. It was a frustrating process. No one Dee called on the resource list had any room, but he liked helping out others; he toyed with the idea of social work as his future profession.
For Dee, thoughts of careers marked a big change from last year, a large part of which he spent drinking, getting in trouble and spending time in a series of juvenile halls. This summer he has started to think more and more about his future and about his 18-month old daughter, Marissa.
But being good hasn't come without a struggle.
At the last group meeting of July, Dee rose from his seat and announced that he used his first paycheck from Summer Youth to get drunk with friends.
"Ten months sobriety down the drain," Dee said.
"What about since then?" Bartlett said.
"Since then? Saturday night too."
"And since then?"
"No."
"All right, you have four days again," said Bartlett. "You're back on the road."
"It felt too good," Dee added.
"We're still here for you, regardless, man. Just hope you can make the best choice for your body," Bartlett said.
"It felt good though, man," Dee said. "I missed it."
"Yeah I know," Bartlett said. "That's the problem, it feels too good."
". . .Getting sloppy drunk, kicking back, man. . ."
"The scary part about it is that it does feel so good," Bartlett said. "But whatever we can do to help you..."
Suddenly squirming under the heavy weight of the moment, Dee tries to inject some humor: "Let's not get emotional now, you know."
But Bartlett isn't ready to go on just yet.
"That took a lot of courage," he told the young man.
IN THE CARE PACKAGE Tonya Vann, 17, received from the staff of Independent Living, were Ebony magazines and a Big Daddy Kane tape from Lissette Jackson, granola bars from Chris Spear, some bottles of Schweppes from her case counselor Kim Rodgers, and a tape of oldies-but-goodies made for her by Bartlett. There were also letters from her friends from group.
Tonya managed to snag a sought-after job at Camp Orkila, the YMCA's summer camp on Orcas Island. But the summer wasn't going as planned. She was moved from the camp store to laundry duty, and often clashed with her boss, who accused her of being insubordinate. As one of the few African Americans in an overwhelmingly white camp, she also felt isolated. It helped that she was able to make collect calls to her friends at the Group, to vent her frustrations.
"That was a good release," Tonya said about her calls home. "I'd go, `Chuck, I hate this place,' and he'd say `OK, sounds good.' But after I got off the phone I felt better."
Twice she told her boss she was going to leave and go home, but she couldn't do it. She was determined to stick it out.
The highlight of Tonya's summer at Camp Orkila was when Rodgers, her counselor, came to visit. The visit got off to a rough start. Rodgers was supposed to arrive in the morning but got bumped off the ferry and didn't arrive until 3 p.m. Later, at Friday Harbor, they missed the return ferry and found themselves stranded there until 8 p.m. To keep warm and to make up for a meeting she was planning to attend in Seattle, Rodgers dragged the reluctant Tonya to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
"I was like, I don't want to hear this," said Tonya. "But being the lady I am I just sit there and nod my head." When they got back to the ferry terminal, they found out their boat was three hours behind schedule, so they spent the night talking.
"We had so much fun that day," Tonya said. "It was so crazy. We ate and we laughed. We sang and we even went to an AA meeting."
When Tonya returned from camp, there was celebration cake at her first Group meeting - as she knew there would be.
"A couple of weeks later," Tonya said, "Chuck was still saying this is Tonya, who worked at Camp Orkila this summer, I'm, like, `Chuck. . .' It's kind of embarrassing, because he makes a big issue, but it also makes me feel good."
TONY RESURFACED THREE weeks later, dropping by the office without any warning.
After he got paid, Tony got drunk with his friends at his apartment. When a friend suggested they go to California, he agreed. They were headed to Glendale where his friend knew someone they could stay with, but they hitchhiked only as far as San Francisco. They ended up getting separated as they were coming back along the freeway. While Tony went to get cigarettes from a store, his friend got a ride and took off.
Bartlett was angry at first, then simply disappointed.
"Tony," he said. "I like you a lot and I care about you a lot, but you have to take the initiative. You have to start making things happen."
That was the worst part about messing up, Tony said later. It wasn't losing the job. Or the apartment. It was having to face Bartlett and knowing that he'd let him down again.
After coming back from California, Tony returned to the streets, making a home of a doorway to an antique shop just north of downtown. The door is recessed deeply enough for him and another homeless youth to lay out their blankets fully and still stay protected from the rain. After they are awakened in morning by the man who opens up the antique shop, they quickly gather up their belongings - the layers of comforters that serve as bed and bedding - and stash it in the vent of an abandoned parking lot. Tony borrows a dustpan and broom from the shop and sweeps the doorway. When he's done, he rolls two cigarettes. He checks his jacket pocket for his needle, fishes it out and then puts it back in. The garbage is dumped in a brown paper bag with the empty beer and whiskey bottles from the night before. After returning the broom and dustpan, they dump the bag in an alley, and start their aimless day.
Tony doesn't talk much about his lost landscaping and maintenance job, his first in a year, or his apartment. He still doesn't have a good explanation for why he gave it all up.
"It was really going well for a while, but then I screwed up," he said. He peers intently into his cup of Denny's coffee, then he looks up. "Every time I get up there, I screw up. I really don't know why. I haven't figured it out yet. I have to make a change somewhere down the line."
He knows his life's in a downward spiral.
"I've been drinking too much and using too much drugs," he said. "If I get an apartment, I might get motivated to get off the drinking binge. I usually get drunk by midday, but I think I'll stay sober a little longer today to fill out some job applications."
But while he continues to slip back, Tony knows it's still not as bad as it used to be. When Tony first met Bartlett, he used to say he would die on May 10, 1994 - the day he turns 21.
"When I first entered this program, I had a death wish," Tony said. "I don't have a death wish anymore, but I did because I didn't want to live anymore. Now I know somewhere out there, somewhere in this life, I have a future. My goal now is to get off these streets before I turn 21."
DEE EMERGED FROM SUMMER sure about his future: He wants to go college. With Bartlett's help, he plotted the path to his goal. When he told Bartlett he wanted to transfer to the Middle College High School, Bartlett drove him to the campus and helped him through the application process. The Middle College, designed for kids in danger of dropping out of school, proved a perfect fit. Dee liked the individualized attention and appreciated seeing African-American culture and history integrated into the course work. He never missed school, and he was never without his class folders. But within a month of the start of school, Dee got into a fight. The incident, which occurred while he was heading home from a visit to a friend's house, left him with numerous bruises, and shook his new-found confidence and determination about the future.
"I got into a fight on Friday, Chuck," Dee said, tentatively delivering the news.
"What happened?"
"I got jumped. I was waiting for the bus, and this guy asked me for a cigarette. I told him I didn't smoke. He asked me again and we got into it. But you should have seen me, man. . ."
Spotting an opportunity to give the story a positive spin, Dee became more animated, demonstrating his punches and fancy footwork against an invisible sparring partner.
"I got him good a couple of times, though," he said.
"Looks like he got you, too," Bartlett said solemnly.
Dee touched the bruises on his face and pulled down the knit cap covering his head. "Yeah, well. . ." he smiled. "I got this bruise too on my back."
He pulled up his loose shirt, revealing purple splotches spread like a constellation across the center of his back. When the fight was under way, the man's friends jumped in, knocking Dee down, and kicking him on his back. When his attackers fled, Dee went into a nearby convenience store and asked them to call for help. An ambulance took him to Harborview, where he was treated.
"I've got to get out Seattle, Chuck," Dee said, suddenly serious. The cocky bravado was switched off. The need to get out of town was a recurring theme in their talks. Dee felt it was hard to get back on track in the city because he knows too many people who tempt him into his old ways. It seemed easier to begin again elsewhere.
"I've been thinking about this," he said.
From his back pocket, the young man pulled out a brochure for Job Corps, a training program for youths who want to learn a trade. It was the escape route for a number of Independent Living's more successful graduates. Dee grinned as he presented the brochure. He knew he was again on uncertain ground. He was right.
"Job Corps? You want to do Job Corps?" Bartlett asked, clearly disappointed. "What about Middle College and about becoming a writer or a social worker?"
"I can do those too," Dee countered. "But if I do Job Corps I can learn a trade. I was thinking I can go to the culinary school. I can get out of the city. I need to get out of Seattle. I'm sick of Seattle."
"Yeah, but you like Middle College. You're really into school."
"I can always go back."
"But there's no guarantee you'll be able to get back in. Dee, Job Corps is fine, but you want to go on to college. To be honest, you can do better." Dee stayed silent, avoiding Bartlett's gaze. "Well, I can't tell you what to do, Dee. I know you'll do what you need to do. But I think you should think about it."
Awkward silence filled the room as Dee and his mentor reached an impasse. Dee knew the decision was his. He stared at the brochure he clutched in his hand and stuffed it into his back pocket. He promised Chuck he would do some more thinking.
Ferdinand M. de Leon is a reporter for The Seattle Times. Gary Settle is Pacific's photography coach.