Bus Ride Revelations

I think by now that most of you are familiar with how awful and stressful my last job became, and how I was driven out for being passionate. (In case you missed it- Prison (Mis)Treatment: An Inside View). Despite how heinous my company and work environment were, I truly loved the work I got to do with my clients. The part I miss most about my old job is the individual counseling sessions. These hour long meetings, conducted a few times a day, provided me much needed respite and gave me purpose.

Most of my friends are familiar with my penchant for heart to hearts, and I often joked that I had found a way to turn my favorite pastime into a career. But the sessions I conducted at work were so much more than just quality conversations; they were tiny, powerful steps towards healing. The men I worked with in prison had deeply-seated, complex traumas, wounds often older than me, and creating a nurturing space where they felt comfortable sharing is one of the proudest accomplishments of my life thus far. When they would open up to me in session, it felt like I was uncovering buried treasure. I felt blessed to be privy to their hearts and minds in such an unguarded and rare way.

I’ll never forget what one of my first clients told me in our last session together: “When I’m here in session, just for like one hour, I actually feel like a human. Thanks.” Or another, who was releasing and endearingly asked me to be his psychiatrist on the outside. He had never talked to someone professionally before, and he had worked up the courage to open up to me. After explaining to him that I, a) wasn’t a psychiatrist, and, b) couldn’t continue to work with him upon release, he nodded ruefully and added, “well, if you change your mind, I’ll pay you really well.” (I should have snatched that up, huh!) But in all seriousness- the opportunity to be entrusted with the experiences and emotions of my clients, to make them feel understood and human again, was my beautiful oasis in the middle of an anxiety inducing nightmare, the well I drank from to keep going. I miss those counseling sessions, a lot.

And yet, as anyone who works in an emotional capacity with human beings knows, the work is both incredibly meaningful and incredibly draining. When I was given the opportunity to work as a camp counselor in Istanbul this summer, I was honestly thankful for a bit of a break before diving back into more intensive human services. I had been working exclusively with adults for a few years, and I was excited for the energy and wonder of being around teens again. On top of that, at orientation for this camp, one of the Turkish directors told us that the demographic of kids we would be working with would not be your typical teens, but instead mostly from upper class, privileged backgrounds. “Don’t let them get to you,” she cautioned, “they can be very spoiled and entitled.” Privileged was not a word used to describe many, if any, of the clients I had worked with in my career. I figured it would be a nice, simple summer. There would be room to build meaningful relationships with the kids, and space for some good heart to hearts, but nothing too heavy.

And yet, I’ve noticed that I seem to have a propensity for digging deeper, a habit that follows me around regardless of where I am or who I’m interacting with, and a habit that I have no intention of kicking.

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On the bus ride back from a boat cruise on the Bosphorus, an afternoon flanked by sunshine and Turkish pop music, vanilla ice cream coated in pistachio crumbs, Çinar begins to tell me about his family.

Çinar is fourteen years old, a fact that is easy to forget because he speaks with the wisdom and patience of someone twice his age. Contrary to his assured speech, he walks with a slight hesitancy in his footsteps, and has way of hanging on the fringes of things- ultimate frisbee games, dinner tables, conversations. But when you have him one on one, his focus is intense, and he will do anything to hold your attention- even if it means poking, prodding, and annoying you until you want to scream. His eyes are bright and magnetic, black pools of wonder, saturated in unspoken questions. He has the cutest little poof of charcoal-black hair that fringes the top of warm brown face. His smile feels familiar, comfortable, inviting, even when his body language is awkward and unsure.

He tells me that his dad is a Professor at a University similar to the one that the summer camp I’m working for is hosted at, and that he spent the first 8 years of his life living on campus in faculty housing. He says that when he was younger, he had a huge personality- tells me he would talk to everyone, that all the college students knew him by name, would wave hello as he would wander across campus, his own personal playground. “I’m not like that anymore- I’m very shy now,” he admits wistfully. I reply, “but you’re so friendly and easy to talk to!” and he shakes his head, continues, “I usually get along well with adults, but I find it hard to talk to people my age.”

I ask to hear more about his family. It’s one of my go to conversations here, a topic that most kids have something to say about, with a vocabulary that is easy for a non-native English speaker to understand. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Çinar?” He shifts in his seat. “I have a younger sister, she is very sweet. And a brother…” he trails off before the sentence feels ready to end. “Oh cool! Older or younger?” I prod, “What’s he like?”

“Well actually…” he stammers a bit. Çinar has the most adorable, creaky speaking voice that always sounds like it needs to be oiled. He converses with me like a peer, and I almost forget he is still a child, but his little voice cracks remind me of his youth. Usually I find it intoxicatingly cute, but right now, his voice is breaking a bit more than usual. I reposition my body to face him. “We don’t get along,” he finally admits, “actually… I hate my brother.” I frown- not at him, but for him. I can’t stand the word hate, and usually I would challenge it, push back a bit, ask if he really means it. But something tells me not to interrupt, to just let him get it out. I sit back and listen as Çinar tells me about his older brother, who is nine years his senior, an engineering genius, and “a complete douchebag.”(I raise my eyebrows at that word, tell him I’m surprised he knows it, and he blushes, explains “I watch a lot of American TV shows.”) He says that his brother has a quick temper and a hot hand, that he used to always beat him up pretty badly, and that he only speaks to Çinar to remind him that he is stupid and a bother. “But, it is my fault. I was always asking him to play; I should have left him alone. And I am stupid.” 

I remember a workshop on trauma-informed care that I attended years ago while working as a residential counselor, where the presenter offered: “Next time you feel a child is being “attention seeking”, reframe that in your mind to “affection seeking,” and approach the child again through that new lens. They are not malicious. Maybe they just desperately need affection.” I think again about how obnoxious Çinar can get during afternoon field time, and wonder if he just needs some extra love. 

I feel an overwhelming urge to put my hand on Çinar’s shoulder, but hold back, remembering how he reacted when I patted his head earlier on the boat. I reached down and tousled his bangs as I was passing behind him, and I felt his body jolt unexpectedly. “Did I scare you?,” I teased, but his big black eyes looked unsettled, genuinely fearful. “Sarah, can you please not do that?” I crouched down to hear him better amidst the sea of teenagers swimming around us, and he explained that he really didn’t like to be surprised, that his visceral reaction was to hit me, that he was telling me because he didn’t want to swing at me angrily on accident. He spoke with a quiet deliberateness, an insightful understanding of himself. And he meant it- his words were a genuine warning. I apologized, thanked him for telling me, and vowed to not do it again.

As he starts to tell me about his family on the bus, I think about our earlier interaction and feel a gnawing at my heart. I don’t know Çinar’s story, and try not to assume, but the pieces are coming together in an all too familiar way that makes it hard not to. I think about the hundreds of men and boys I’ve counseled who struggle with touch, surprise, people standing behind them, loud noises- usually as the result of trauma. I suddenly wonder what it is that Çinar has been through that has made him such a mature soul, why he has grown up so fast. Who taught you fear?, I wonder, Who placed violence in your bones? 

I hope that I am overreacting, misreading the situation, but my suspicion grows when the conversation turns to his parents. He begins to talk about his father and I ask what he’s like. Again, he takes a quick breath, unsure about whether or not to continue, but decides he will. I am touched that he feels either wild or safe enough to share his life with me, and sincerely hope that it is the latter. “My father…he is very mean.” The words hit me like cold water. What a first word to use to describe your parent. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe my dad, not once, and feel a strong pang of perspective, of privilege, remember how rare and lucky that is. I try not to speculate too much- Çinar is fourteen after all, maybe he’s just exaggerating, dramatic, moody, like we all are at that age. But I can’t shake the feeling that his words carry weight, are the tip of an iceberg much larger than he lets on. He goes on to tell me his father is very angry, that he yells a lot, fights with his older brother often, rarely smiles. I ask what Çinar and the rest of the family do when his brother and father are at odds and he explains that they just try to ignore them. “Well, I used to. Now when they come at me, I don’t ignore them anymore- I fight back.” His eyes turn a deeper, hollow black: “I get very angry sometimes too, and when I do, I just want to hurt someone.”

I glance at his slight body, the way his oversized t-shirt hangs on his bony shoulders, his chubby button nose, his one untied sneaker, the way his long, delicate eyelashes drip over his dark eyes. I think about the way that man takes pleasure in breaking gentle things, like ripping the petals off of a flower, and suddenly I want to cry. I suck a sharp breath in through my nose and tell myself to pull it together before refocusing on Çinar. He is unphased- he already knows the details of this story, is just sharing the facts of his life with me, does so with an air of detachment. Why would he be alarmed at the norm?

Again, I think back to all of my former clients. Think about how cyclical anger and hurt and pain are. Think about how hard it is to break out of the pattern when it’s been bred into you at a young age. They say that the critical period for language development in a child is by the age of five, that speech habits birthed by then are much more likely to be retained later in life. I remark how body language seems to be the same way, how Çinar’s body seems to be fluent in fear and violence learned at far too young an age.

I want so badly to hug the little nugget sitting beside me, but am trying to be mindful of his boundaries, and decide instead wrap him in my words. I tell him how much he amazes me, that he is not stupid, share how much I admire his mind, how impressive his English is. I explain the concept of emotional intelligence, tell him that his oversized heart is far more important than test scores, tell him how much he inspires me to be better me when he goes against the grain, as he often does. When we are playing sports and kids get picked last for the team, Çinar gravitates around them, reading their energy, making sure that they are okay, before returning to the game. When we have a group conversation about religion, he shares boldly that he is an atheist- that he likes the idea of religion, but can’t understand how many people hurt and judge each other in the name of God. When we do an icebreaker about pet peeves and the other kids say friends who don’t text back, or boring classes, Çinar says “ignorance and racism. I can’t stand when people judge other people. It makes me very upset.”

Çinar has a lovely little soul. He is kind, thoughtful, wise, aware, unique. He is also incredibly frustrating and confusing at times. He is, after all, just a child. I wish I could hold him in my arms until my opinions of him seeped into his skin and became his own.

When we pull up to the dorms, he hops of of the bus, gives me a little wave, and heads off to his room. I am feeling introspective, a little bit heavier now, but hope that maybe he felt just a quick moment of lightness. I’ll never know for sure, so I grab hold of his parting smile, fix the image in a frame in my mind, and tell myself that that is enough.

I think back to the warning at orientation about these teens: “Don’t let them get to you,” she cautioned, “they can be very spoiled.” And some are this way- braggart and egocentric, flaunting designer clothes and vacation homes. But they are also teenagers, living on a shifting landscape, in uncertain times. What a terrifying, liberating age. Little people, at the precipice of adulthood, fumbling along, trying to figure out what they want from themselves and from the world around them.

I think about Umut, who talked to me about his love of politics for an hour, who told me he wanted to run for office someday, but quickly followed it with, “but not here- my country is too dangerous. And not in America, because I’m Muslim, so I know no one would vote for me there.” His words struck and deflated me. I think about Mert, who proudly boasted about his hometown in southern Turkey, casually told me about the bullets that come into their kitchen on occasion before moving on to the next talking point.

I think about Çinar’s sweet little face, those wet black eyes. I am reminded how nuanced identity is, how powerful perspective is, how malleable the human heart is, how much I have to learn. I am reminded that these hard conversations, this whole counseling thing, is what I’m good at and what I love, and though the journey back into it will be harrowing, it’s what I’m meant to do.