Often people ask if the kids try to run during the night.

They don’t.

‘Why not? How not?’ People ask ‘There is nothing to stop them leaving.’

That’s true, there’s nothing to stop them walking off, nothing but total and utter fear. Fear of getting lost, fear of dying, fear of being eaten a bear or worse.

As dusk starts to fall the animals come out and start to make their noises. They run the full gambit of Halloween sounds. The Coyotes come out first. They go from the cartoonish yelps of a solitary dog with a thorn in its paw, to the American werewolf in Londonesque, murderish group howling. I can see the blood drain from the faces of the kids each time they hear it.

Next come the owls. They go from the classic Twit-ta-woo of the wise old owl, to the monkey cackling that I mentioned before.

On top of that we have trees that creek in the wind, leaves and duff that rustles on the forest floor, and more commonly than you would think a helicopter flying over.

This all amuses me, as I am big and tough.

Despite the kids fear of death the regulations say we sometimes have to watch the kids sleep so they don’t abscond. So most nights after an 11 hour day we have to do a night watch. This means splitting the night up in to equal shifts, normally 2 and half hours long, and then staying awake.

I was sitting struggling to stay awake trying to get through my shift without freezing to death. When I hear footsteps in the forest. Its 3am none of the kids should be awake, most are medicated and could sleep through a tornado. Still I have to make sure so I shine a flash light over to the kid’s tarps but see nothing. I jump to my feet and quickly run round to do a head count. They’re all there. I return to the center of camp.

I hear the noise again this time it’s much closer and louder. I have no idea what it is, it’s moving nearer that’s all know. I shine my headlamp again but see nothing. Whatever it is it’s huge, it sounds like a yeti. Then I realize it’s a bear. I start to panic a little and struggle to control myself.

I call out to Finn but nothing comes out. I am bricking it. I try again, still nothing comes out. I decided that if it’s after anything it’s my food so I choose to sacrifice it to save myself. I bend down to pick it up when I see a mouse feasting on it. I decide the mouse must also be feed to the bear as there is no time to spare. As I pick up the bag of food the mouse takes off crashing through the forest. It makes so much noise it could be a bear.

I realize my folly and sit back down and nurse my humiliation.

On a hike, in the woods,
Contemplating murder.
All because the fucking kids
Keep asking ‘How much further?’

Clearly I was walking at the back of this October trip. This was where the slower less willing kids would filter down too.

As discussed, the youth have a very distinct urban vernacular. In its defense it is one of the few truly egalitarian aspects of their culture. Regardless of race, class or ethnicity all my youth employ the same, idiotic, phrases and expressions. They do this in part to blend in, to be part of the gang, but most importantly to be cool. (See previous posts)

The uninitiated, upon hearing them, would mistake this as some exotic or exciting tongue. Those familiar with their language would mock the uninitiated for being stupid and failing to recognize it for anything but madness and stupidity.
I hope I am not coming across as bigoted or ignorant, but I feel an important part of language is that it allows us to communicate. These kids uses all these cool words to talk to each other, but very often they really have no idea what the other is saying. (See That John for another clear example)

Take an incident on my last tip for an example. The kids are eating trail mix, when one turns to the other and said “This trail mix is banging”
“No its popping.” Another youth says.
Both popping and banging are words that I have heard before, along with hitting, cracking, snapping and thumping, they mean good. But up until now I had always assumed that they were interchangeable, I had never imagined it was hierarchical or that there was a graduation from good to ‘goodest’.
So I enquired.
Foolishly perhaps, but hey if you’re not living on the edge your taking up to much room.
“So, is there a hierarchy of onomatopoeic adjectives?” This is of course met with blank stares, raised eye brows and a couple of kids declaring that the ‘old head’ is trippin’.
“What the fuck did you say?’ one of the more articulate youth asks.
‘You said it was banging, he said ‘no it’s popping’ is there an order? Is one better than another? Are the louder sounds better than the quieter ones?”
“No it makes no difference. There all the same” I’m told.
“So what made that popping rather than banging?” I receive more dumb looks.
“You’re being ignorant.” I am told.
“Yeah, your being retarded.” They proclaim.
Of course I am the issue. My mistake.

On October 23 2008 I posted….

 

What’s up bitches? That’s right I am back. After 7 days of Naughties wrangling in the wilds of Northern Pa I have returned. I managed to herd them through the forest without any deaths or a single one straying from the herd. I have lots of news to share with you over the next few days.

A quick sneak peak of what’s to come. Stories with loads of wind, a spot of rain and even a smidgen of snow and plenty sub-freezing temperatures. Wish I could say I was hardy and loved every minute of it, but I have to be honest I was a total queen about the whole thing and bitched about the cold for 7 days straight. I would more than likely have cried myself to sleep each night but my eyes would have frozen shut.

 

I have no memory of this trip. And didn’t post about all the things I teased. Can’t have been that great.  Or it was truly traumatic.  Either way it was October so I must have misjudged the fall transition.

Sometimes my the kids were so cute.

We were preparing for a seven day hike. My co-worker, a bit of an ass clown, was driving in the van, and one of the kids asks him. “Mr. Ass Clown, when Miss Newton,” (The kids call everyone Mr or Miss, except for me my name was prefixed with the word Adventure and I got called little else (to my face anyway). It was weird Ass Clown never got called Adventure Ass Clown and Newton is never Adventure Newton.

Anyway, Kid asks “Mr Ass Clown, when Miss Newton is not in the van is it OK if, when we see a nice butt, that we talk respectfully about that butt? But only when Miss Newton is not around.” Ass Clown had no choice but to agree. And from then on Butts where discussed respectfully.

Sadly this story has no happy ending. These kids haven’t seen girl butt in a very long time, they have been in placement for months and some in lock up before that, what they consider a nice butt and what we considers a nice butt are not the same. Soon we were traumatized and need of therapy

One of the great things about my job is I get to be right – a lot. I like being right, its not quite a hobby, but a past time I enjoy. Therefore when I am right I roll with it and make the most of it, often at the expense of reason and professionalism. I can also be quite conceited, and therefore I hate when stupid people think I am dumb, or have pulled one over on me. Combine the two and we have a volatile blend. Take today for instance. We were in a van, where the kids must wear seat belts, buckled up and over their shoulder, in the conventional normal person manner. They struggle with this. Any excuse to not wear one and they take it. They all try and pretend they are wearing one, when they of course are not. They just hold it at their side. This always strikes me as more work than just putting one on. I digress.

We do this every trip. Ten times a week, normally more. Each trip there is always someone that can’t work their seat belt. They have a script of excuses that they run through. Nothing to clip it in to, Not working, to fat, shoulder injury, stomach problems, what ever. So today a stupid youth pretends the seat belt is on. I can see it is not. The kid says it is broken. I can see it is not. I tell the kid to clip it in, he says he has. He has lied to me three times and been caught in the lie each time. There is no hiding what has happened I think dedicated readers know where this is going. I call the kid on his lie, surprise, he denies it. He sticks to his story so I take pleasure shooting holes in it, showing him he’s a idiot, showing the world that i am really petty and a little pathetic, but i care little, there is no denying I am right so there can be no backing down. I know I need therapy, but who doesn’t. He still denies he is lying. He tells me I am wrong that I am mistaken, that I am now the liar. I am getting pissed. I know I am right, there is no question I am right, so I get out the van to put the seat belt on him like I am his mother. Shock horror the seat belt suddenly works and he gets it on before I open the back door. Miracle. So I get back in my seat. He is now defensive, I am on the attack. I ask why he lied. He said he didn’t. I point out that, half-truths, falsehoods and omissions when used to deceive, are lies. QED the kid is a liar. I call him a liar. This may be a little much. I don’t know, but it felt good. Then He tries to defuse the situation. “ASM you can call it what you want, but I know it’s not a lie. I am telling you the truth it was broken.” I point out that after three brutal lies why would I believe him now. He says I should all same, that he never lies and he’s not a liar. Then comes the first part of the Naughtistic tri-factor. The last gasping attempts to tell the world that you are honest and trust worthy gangster. “I ain’t Lying – for real” he says. ‘For real’ is special. ‘For real’ is gangster code. It means that though I have lied in the past. This time you should believe me. These words wash over me. I care little. Then comes part two. This is a gangster on the edge. “On everything I own, on my mother I ain’t lying“ Oh. Well if you’re willing to stake your word on everything you own, which my tax payer’s dollars bought, then I should take you at your word for you wouldn’t want to lose everything, so you must be telling the truth. Wrong you’re still a liar. But I miss heard him. He also swore on his mother. Even a gangster has a mother that loves him. A mother whose heart he broke when he offended and weeps at home now he’s doing time. But I have to believe him, he would never disrespect his mother. Though he would sell her into slavery or pimp out his sister, he would never mean disrespect by it. You just have to do what you do to get by. No kid you’re still a liar. Then it comes. I knew it would. The Piece De La Resistance, the crowning moment in our chat. The last ditched chance to show his honesty. The final proof that I am wrong. He says”real rapp Dogg.” Well holy fuck. Real rap. I am sorry I totally didn’t believe a word that came out of your mouth, but now you have said real rap. I know it’s true. I am sorry. Forgive me. I didn’t realize it was real rapp. I thought it was fake rap or forged rap, or pretend rap or glad wrap. But no it was a real rap. Awfully sorry my mistake. Get the fuck out of here. Somehow they actually think that by saying real rapp all the bull shit, all the lies vanishes, suddenly its real rap and everything changes, two words and they are a living saint again. Can you imagine. “Mr Hitler did you kill all the jews?” ‘No.’ ‘But there are 7 million bodies. and 7 million missing jews. And your signature on the execution order. Are you sure it wasn’t you?” ‘I didn’t do it. I swear.’ “Mr Hitler you’re a liar.” ‘Real rapp dogg it wasn’t me.’ “Oh I’m sorry my mistake go about your business.” Real rap my ass. At least have the balls to admit your wrong just once. The worst part of it; the other kids respect real rapp. “he didn’t do it, he said real rap.” Please.

Adapted from an October 15, 2008 post

Sometimes I had to hand it to the kids they were fucking genesis. Around the Middle of October we finally understood what Slab meant.  First there was disbelief, this gave way to annoyance that we had been so slow cracking the code.  Then finally, we acknowledge the beauty of it all. These were exciting times.

Slab was a rhyming slang for DICK BAG!!!!

Then one day we were hiking and I got to hear it all for myself.   We were hiking in preparation for a 7-day trip. The kids were plodding along, and surprisingly not bitching, when one kid trips, then tumbles to the ground. No sooner had he hit the ground, than I hear a chorus of 5 scream “Slab – Dick Bag.” The rumor was true.

The eloquence, its simplicity, the beauty of the end rhyme I fucking loved it. Better yet the kids had been calling all the staff dick bags for weeks and we had no idea

But it got better. There was a “Slab, Dick Bag” marching song.

Bit of back story, the place I worked used to be a boot camp back when we tried to scare kids straight. Though things have changed some of the less sinister aspects have been preserved. One of these things is Marching Cadences. Some love them I hate them. But not this one, Not the SDB one. This one I love. Imagine one kid leading the cadence, Three or four replying.

Lead – let me hear you say Slab

Group – Slab

Lead – let me hear you say Slaaa – aaab

Group – Slaaa – aaab

Lead – let me hear you say Sl- ab

Group – Sl – ab

Lead – Let me hear you say Slab, Slab, Slab.

Group – Slab, Slab, Slab,

(they would stop here because the lead is a staff singing with them.  but in there minds the all scream)

All – Dick Bag!

Also on the same hike I got lost. Not a little lost but really spun around and totally fucking lost. The worst map reading fuck up of my career. Not too bad but really, really amateur and embarrassing. If Shaun hadn’t caught it I might still be walking around in a giant circle. Newton was polite enough to not call me a slab. They may not be so forgiving tomorrow.

I had to work an extra shift yesterday as a favor. I arrived to find my office broken into. I am pissed and will need time to process and heal before I am able to write about this, but i soon will.

So instead I shall tell you about a less traumatic but equally surprising event that took place yesterday. After I describe the break in as ‘inconceivable’ one of the most gangster kids we have stops in his tracks and proclaims that I sound just like the bad guy from princess bride. Except he doesn’t actually say that he tells me I sound just like Vizzini (the bad guy). I am stunned. I question the kid, and it turns out, to my total amazement that it is his second favorite film after some gang land classic I have never heard of. My initial skepticism is washed away by some quick questioning and by now I could quite literally be sent tumbling to the ground by a mere brush with a feather. He is not only intimate with the plot and characters, but is passionate about them too. Then a second kid, the most thuggish of thugs, and the youth that probably sanctioned the break in over hears us and asks “are you talking about the princess Bride? I love that film it is a favorite of mine.” I am again stunned and amazed they know about it. Excitedly he asks ” Have you seen that other John?” No help. “The John with the young bull?” Still nothing. “The one with the rock eating bull?” “Never ending story?” I offer. “That’s it. That shits banging. When that horse sinks in the swamp I used to cry so much as a kid.” I get a unexpected glimpse into this probable killers Psyche. “Have you seen the second and third ones?” “Yes!!!” the first kid proclaims. “I have, that nearly ruin the first one, them john’s where so bad.” I sit in utter disbelief.  Not that they like the film, but that I forget that these guys were once kids that did regular kid things.  I feel like a prejudiced dick. “What about that other one?” I have no idea what’s coming ” the john with the singing bulls… and the machine that sucks the life out of… “ “Dark Crystal” The second youth interrupts. “I love that, with all the Gelflings.” I am never really shocked or scared by events at work. Now I am terrified. I have no idea what is happening. This is unpredicted and unsettling. I am expecting something cataclysmic to happen. By now three or four youth are chatting with us. “What about the one with all the little folk?” A new youth asks. I am almost catatonic. I am in such deep shock I have no idea how to act. I have lost the ability to speak. “Willow?”I finally ask. “Yes! Yes!” To or three proclaim. I get up and leave. I can no longer take it. I have to look for kids trying to steel and kill each other. Order and balance must be returned to the universe. This is far too much to take. But I leave with a little hope. But a healthy dose of fear. After this anything is possible.

As you should now be aware the kids I worked with had their own dialect. In retrospect this was as much a security protocol as it was a teen thing.  In many regards it was almost a complete language of their own. Some of the words we are already familiar with; John and Husky. There is also Bull’s, both young bulls and old bulls. There are Heads; these also come in both the aged and youthful variety. Those from Pittsburgh talk of you as part of their large extended family – Cus’.

There is Real Rapp, I have no idea if there is a counterfeit Rapp problem. I am constantly told that the kids have ‘got him’ I never have a clue who or what he is, nor do I ever know he has escaped until he has been caught again. There are ‘shiv’s’ and ‘fee-fee’s’. There are ‘bricks’, ‘the streets’ and ‘the outs’. When these pesky miscreants think they have deceived me they scream ‘psyke’!

The list of words is near endless and trying to understand them all could almost be an academic discipline. The words come and go, they become fashionable and then fade away. They are then revived by a new batch of intakes and these kids think they are the first to have invented them.

Every now and again a truly new word comes to our world. When this happens it is a moment of great confusions, but also excitement. Sometimes the etymology of these new words are clear, more often we have no idea where it has come from. Sometimes we understand the meaning of these words straight away, other times we are left in the dark.

Cleveland and Lambchop have discovered a brand new word. The word is Slab. We have absolutely no fucking clue what a slab is. Slab is clearly pejorative, and it is meant to cause offence. We know this because the kids use it when we are there and then laugh. We act all indignant and then they apologies. We only do this because we have learned we must. For in all honesty we are totally clueless as to what it could possibly mean.

We know only this.

Slab can be one quick syllable or it can be slow and drawn out so it almost becomes its own sentence.

Changing the tone in which you say it, seems to leave its meaning unchanged but increases the amount of mirth the others naughties glean from its use.

History tells us it probably means nothing

The kids that use it are ass clowns. but then they all are.

The investigation continues.

Posted: October 12, 2008

 

We cycle the same loop on the Mt bikes day after day. It takes ten minutes to do a circuit I do three circuits per group. I could ride the circuit blindfolded I have done it so many times.

This time I am pushing it. I am getting huge air on every bump. Everything is perfect, I have achieved cycling Zen.

I take a sharp banked turn, there is a huge drop off coming up in front of me. I have the perfect line and I am poised to make record air.I might even try something fancy while I am up there.

The dessert has pig type creatures in it. They are called Havolina. I have never seen one during the day so have never thought about them when cycling.

I complete the final turn and hit the drop off hard. I have perfect air. I look at the landing and there is a giant pig ten feet behind where I will land. I panic. I fail to pull the handle bar high. I am going down and going down hard. I try to bail from the bike, but I am unable to get free. The inevitable happens. I eat shit and I eat it hard.

I don’t remember hitting the ground, but I am on it. I am in pain. The pain reminds me I am alive, but I hurt so bad I wish I had died. I am blind from the dust in my eyes. I have desert in my mouth I don’t like the taste. I can feel my feet and my hands but I am scared to move them. I am convinced my spine is broken. My ears are ringing, they too seem broken. I am very aware that there is a giant pig in the vicinity, and that there are 5, some what inept bikers and a staff following quickly behind me.  I don’t care about any of this.

I just lie there trying to collect myself. Imagining a life in a wheel chair.

“Is he alright?” I hear a kid. My ears work, that’s a start.

“I don’t know, he is not moving.” It is Vic the other staff member.

“What should we do?” The kid asks.

“I don’t know I am trying to think.” Vic responds

I am worried by this conversation.

“Should I get a stick?” A new kid asks.

What are they going to do with a stick? Vic is my friend I have nothing to fear about the stick.

“Yes get a stick.” Vic replies. WTF. A Stick? I hate Vic.

“Don’t touch me with any sticks” I find the strength to talk. “I’m fine I just want to lie here for a minute.”

“Take you time man.” He sounds very relieved.

I thank the stupid idiot. My hate is immense. Our friendship tentative.