Our Boys Speak: Adolescent Boys Write About Their Inner Lives - Softcover

John Nikkah is a graduate student in clinical psychology at the New School for Social Research in New York City. His clinical and research experience includes working with adolescents as an assistant recreational therapist at the New York Hospital/Cornell Medical Center.

1
In You We Trust
MANY OF YOU are going to be shocked by what I’m about to say, just because it is an extremely uncommon sentiment, but here it goes: I cannot think of one bad thing to say about my parents.
Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if there’s never been any discord between us. Sure, we’ve had our share of disagreements, times when I would have gladly stomped out of the house or thrown a vase at the TV. But I never did do that. Why? Simply because I always knew that no matter what the subject of contention, my parents were always arguing from the viewpoint of what they thought was best for me. This made it very difficult ever to stay mad at them for too long.
The truth is that in their relationship with me, my parents have always behaved in the most unselfish manner. For as far back as I can remember, whenever I needed anything, whether it was a ride to soccer practice, help with my schoolwork, or advice on a relationship I was in, they were there for me. Forever putting my needs before their own, my parents acted as if they couldn’t truly be happy unless I was.
However, having parents who fit the above profile does have one main drawback. In a word, guilt. We’re talking capital G guilt, colossal with a capital C guilt. No two ways about it, since I had the ideal parents, I had to be the ideal son. That meant never getting into trouble at school, never hanging out with the wrong crowd, and always striving to achieve the best grades.
On the rare occasion that I did transgress the boundaries defining my self-imposed perfection, I suffered great anxiety. The only way to relieve myself of these feelings was to push myself harder and make my parents proud. In essence, the avoidance of guilt acted as the main motivation for my academic and social successes. Anytime I would find myself in circumstances that involved making an important decision, whether it was to take drugs, get into a car with someone who had been drinking, or simply procrastinate when I had to study for finals, I always thought of my parents. What would they want me to do? How would they feel if something harmful happened to me?
Answering these questions was never too difficult; the hard part was actually conforming my behavior to them. Although I’ve been known to stray from the path that bore my parents’ seal of approval, most of the time my course of action has been in tune with their wishes. Frankly, I could not bear to think of the heartache my parents would experience if one of my decisions had had ill-fated consequences. The notion that constantly haunted me when presented with a risky proposition was “My parents have always done their best for me, and this is how I repay them.”
My parents were not strict disciplinarians; my choices never reflected a fear of punishment. It has always been the guilt. I tried to think of their well-being over my normal coming-of-age impulses. When contemplating my adolescent years I realized the great influence my parents had on me as well as my attempts to model their own behavior. Our relationship had become wholly symbiotic—it was as if I couldn’t truly be happy unless they were.
The bottom line is that no matter how flawless our relationships with our parents are, the absence of conflict can be a problem in its own right. Take the essay “Dysfunctional Mediocrity” from Chey Pesko, for example. The writer sets up the story as he would a movie. His poker buddies are the ones with the “real” problems. Chey is just an observer, watching the action from a safe distance. In his poker game, good families are as rare as good hands, and Chey feels as guilty as if he’d cheated misfortune at his friends’ expense.
The next story, “The Game,” by Joel Ashcraft, also depicts a happy childhood. Joel talks about how his relationship with his father has enriched his upbringing, instead of focusing on the ways in which this bond might have alienated him from some of his less fortunate peers. In fact, while there is indeed a downside to growing up without any major family turmoil, the stability and joy that a solid family provides are priceless treasures that Joel, much like myself, wouldn’t trade for the world.
In writing the pieces that appear in this book, many of the boys were very open about the problems afflicting their homes. Of course, such uncensored self-expression is the exception rather than the rule when it comes to our behavior in the real world. Whether our home life is “satisfying” or “dysfunctional,” we all see our own families as somehow abnormal, and live in fear lest someone discover our dreadful secret. After requesting that his last name be kept anonymous, Jason describes a typical scene at his besieged household in “America the Beautiful.” While the chaotic scene should strike a chord with anyone whose house is ruled by pain, anger, and resentment, it’s Jason’s ability to see past his own selfish needs and empathize with the rest of his family that makes this story so excruciatingly heart-wrenching.
The poem “Junkyard,” by Mike Grohsman, picks up where the preceding selection leaves off. As his childhood lies dying a painful death, the speaker explores issues of abandoment and loss. He is unable to save himself, and has long since given up any hope of his family coming to his rescue. Unwilling to blame his father, Mike gives him credit for trying his best. But in the end, he believes that both of his parents turn a deaf ear to his distressing cries for help.
The next story probes beneath the surface of a family home to find a morass of secrets and lies. Dave Langley’s essay “My Dad’s Trippy Psychedelic Room” probes into the dark corners of the family basement, where he discovers his father, a war veteran, reenacting a scene from his days in the service. Scared and confused at what he finds, Dave runs away from the sight of his father’s pain. While Dave is unable to understand his father’s experiences during the war, what is particularly sad is how father and son deal with the aftermath. Unable to discuss the occurrence openly, the grown man and the little kid both choose to pretend as if nothing had happened and go about playing the part of a “normal” family.
Of course, all families have their share of problems, but the next stories dealing with divorce and single-family households reveal issues specific to children of broken homes. Jeffrey Dussich’s “13 to 40” is one of the most insightful and painful accounts of divorce that I have ever heard. As it chronicles how he was forced to grow up too fast and adopt the role of “referee,” Jeffrey’s tale of struggle reveals the ravaging effects that an acrimonious divorce can have on kids of any age.
The next memoir, “The Hard Side of Life,” also provides a rare look into the life of a troubled family. Shuffled between his biological mother and various foster homes, the writer is the victim of senseless abuse and perpetual loneliness. His quest to find a real home has yet to end, but we pray that he will one day find the love and support he deserves.
The last essay comes from Robert. It is through his eyes and painful experience that we can finally come to understand that he is not unique. Millions of young boys like him are left to fend for themselves. And without the proper parental figures to guide their way, they end up dealing drugs, abusing illegal substances, committing crimes, and landing up in jail. Fortunately, Robert’s story has a happy ending—the perfect ending for this chapter.
Chey Pesko, 18, Wantage, New Jersey
DYSFUNCTIONAL MEDIOCRITY
What a shot this would be—I mean, if anyone I knew ever saw me where I am now, I would be categorized as some prime-time junky from some life beyond reproach. I mean, this is a scene right out of some cheap mobster movie. First, the slow circular pan of the apartment, which reveals scattered garments and an occasional beer stain on the carpet, not to mention accumulated dust in hard-to-reach places. A table made of finished oak comes into focus.
Ambient movement interrupts the silence of the large room, as the pan continues from each tightly situated chair to the next, revealing one new face after another until completing the journey, coming into focus on the five individuals chattering like angry penguins. The dim, depressing lights leave grim shadows on each figure’s face, leaving specific features like eye color and complexion just out of visual reach. The familiar stench of multi-brand tobaccos, ranging from the trendy GPC brand cigarettes to the wooden-tipped Jewel brand cigars, completes the mood for the attendees of this gathering. Zooming in on the blackened ashtray, there is still physical evidence of a previous encounter of sloth and ill demeanor with the carcasses of old, half-smoked butts, each with its own unique past.
The jagged cut to the next shot imparts meaning to the whole tomfoolery of the scene. A single pack of Juggler playing cards rests on the table, sitting vertically, as if attentive and listening to every word pouring from the flamboyant table. A pair of eyes fixate on the anxious deck of cards and, as if in slow motion, a clammy hand crawls its way over to retrieve them. The stage was set, the effects were right on, and, as if a quiet voice whispered into my subconscious, “ACTION,” the table exploded into a lawsuit waiting to happen.
“Five card poker, jokers wild,” announced the dealer as he looked blankly in front of him.
“I think we all already knew that, Jim,” a voice answered back from across the table, in megaphone format. “We’ve only been playing the same game, every Saturday, every month, for the past year!”
Jim looked across the smoky table and eyed the dim face staring back. It was Matt, a tall, lanky teen who lived in this apartment wit...