Twice I have said Monday did not go as planned. Work, however, was the norm. It always is. I work at a residential treatment center for teenage boys with addictions. These are adaptive youth, which is a nice way of saying that they are used to manipulating the adults in their lives to get what they want. Because of their addictive behavior, they don't really view people as people, but rather as objects to get what they desire--namely to not grow up. Our lead therapist, Doctor Zeeloff, or Doc Z, as he prefers, says that they are on a "developmental vacation" and will do anything, absolutely anything, to avoid maturity. He says they view themselves as the center of the universe, and their primary job is to keep you, the adult, in orbit, circling around them, catering to their every need. They do this by tricking you, the adult, into falling into one of the two effective ego states--for them, not you: 1) the nurturing parent, or 2) the critical parent. The ego state you want to be in is the adult: someone who is open, but steady; someone who is caring, but not emotionally dependent; in short, someone who has their own life to lead and neither orbits others nor expects others to orbit them.
Conceptually, it sounds very clean, and in the process, makes the boys I work with seem like little monsters. But, if you go back through it again, you'll see the same thing could be said about, I'm ball-parking it here, based on 17 years of teaching, 80% of the youth anywhere, including your children and mine, and oh I'd say 60% of adults. Fact is, few of us want to grow up--ever! Hard things are hard. Who wants that? We cling to anything and everything to avoid standing on a high cliff on a cold, hard star-studded night, looking over the black void at our feet, while calling out to our creator, "Here me, my Lord, I come to thee fully prepared to accept whatever trials you wish to give me in order to forge me into a better man. I submit; your will be done, not mine." That simply doesn't happen. We kick and scream and throw tantrums every single time that life doesn't submit to our will. We are all kids.
So, I love my job. I am working with kids as I always have. I enjoy their creativity, I enjoy their humor, and I enjoy their cynical outlook on life. What I enjoy most though, is that they love music. Teen worlds revolve around songs. I don't especially like rap, like they do, but I like anyone who orbits around music. It's an unconditional admiration. And I've found unlike most adults, teens are open to new sounds. I listen to a lot of jazz funk and blues, and they are receptive. They ask questions like, "Who is that by?" or "What is that song?" When I tell them, they write it down. Although they don't say it, I know they are planning on adding it to some play list when they get free. Songs are knowledge; music is currency; you can buy cool with them. Sometimes, those are also just manipulations, and I know "Who is that by?" will be followed with, "We had to go to group last night, so I wasn't able to finish my paper; would it be a big deal if I turned it in now instead?" Usually not. They genuinely like music. So do I. A lot. So I like teens. That's all I really expect from them--to like music.
Occasionally, I get one who doesn't, and then I struggle. I about lost it one day when, in the middle of the first cannon firing of "The 1812 Overture" Winston Oregano Black asked, "Can you turn that shit down; I'm trying to take a test!" I felt like failing him right then and there; I struggled towards my adult ego state--I mean I literally crawled. And here I don't mean literally literally; I mean it the way your teenager means it; I mean that I metaphorically crawled towards my adult ego state, but I used literally to emphasize that struggle, which is absurd, of course, because that is what a metaphor is designed precisely to do--to emphasize! Okay, perhaps I expect more out of your kids than to like music. I literally expect them to use literally right. Of course, they won't, and there will always be some dweeb, such as Winston Oregano Black, who cares more about concentrating on his grammar test than bowing before the majesty of Tchaikovsky. And that's where Zen comes in.
I turned it down. The other students, of course, all groaned. "Why'd you do that? This is the best part." They are right, of course, but they don't understand Zen. Zen is not a teenager understanding. It is clearly more part of the adult ego state.
"Bless you, Oregano."
He looked up at me with way too blue confused eyes and a strange baffled expression on his chubby, round too blond, pink-skinned head.
"What?"
"For teaching me the art of Zen."
"What?"
"I killed the last kid who told me to turn down Tchaikovsky."
He smiled. "You're strange." He went back to his test.
I would have given him ice cream if I had had a scoop, but I didn't. Then I thought, someday I will though, someday I will.
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