John contacted over 5,000 schools across the country looking for the voices of America's boys. What are their goals, their fears, their hopes, their dreams? What are their lives really like as they stand on the verge of manhood? Our Boys Speak takes the best of hundreds of entries from boys aged 12-18 from varied racial, economic, religious, and regional backgrounds. The essays, poems, diary entries and stories cover topics ranging from sex and dating, sports, religion, depression, violence, video games, family, and just about everything in between. And narrating the essays is John Nikkah, who comes to new understandings about his own teenage years through the raw voices he encounters. This is a book for parents, for teens, for educators and for the heart.
Our Boys Speak is just that. It is our sons, our friends, our neighbors, our families, ourselves. Sometimes painful, sometimes joyful, Our Boys Speak is most of all truthful and real.
John contacted over 5,000 schools across the country looking for the voices of America's boys. What are their goals, their fears, their hopes, their dreams? What are their lives really like as they stand on the verge of manhood? Our Boys Speak takes the best of hundreds of entries from boys aged 12-18 from varied racial, economic, religious, and regional backgrounds. The essays, poems, diary entries and stories cover topics ranging from sex and dating, sports, religion, depression, violence, video games, family, and just about everything in between. And narrating the essays is John Nikkah, who comes to new understandings about his own teenage years through the raw voices he encounters. This is a book for parents, for teens, for educators and for the heart.
Our Boys Speak is just that. It is our sons, our friends, our neighbors, our families, ourselves. Sometimes painful, sometimes joyful, Our Boys Speak is most of all truthful and real.
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Overview
John contacted over 5,000 schools across the country looking for the voices of America's boys. What are their goals, their fears, their hopes, their dreams? What are their lives really like as they stand on the verge of manhood? Our Boys Speak takes the best of hundreds of entries from boys aged 12-18 from varied racial, economic, religious, and regional backgrounds. The essays, poems, diary entries and stories cover topics ranging from sex and dating, sports, religion, depression, violence, video games, family, and just about everything in between. And narrating the essays is John Nikkah, who comes to new understandings about his own teenage years through the raw voices he encounters. This is a book for parents, for teens, for educators and for the heart.
Our Boys Speak is just that. It is our sons, our friends, our neighbors, our families, ourselves. Sometimes painful, sometimes joyful, Our Boys Speak is most of all truthful and real.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780312262808 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/12/2000 |
| Edition description: | First Edition |
| Pages: | 192 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
In You We Trust
MANY OF YOU are going to be shocked by what I'm aboutto say, just because it is an extremely uncommon sentiment,but here it goes: I cannot think of one bad thing to say aboutmy parents.
Now don't get me wrong, it's not as if there's never beenany discord between us. Sure, we've had our share of disagreements,times when I would have gladly stomped out of thehouse or thrown a vase at the TV. But I never did do that.Why? Simply because I always knew that no matter what thesubject of contention, my parents were always arguing from theviewpoint of what they thought was best for me. This made itvery difficult ever to stay mad at them for too long.
The truth is that in their relationship with me, my parentshave always behaved in the most unselfish manner. For as farback as I can remember, whenever I needed anything, whetherit was a ride to soccer practice, help with my schoolwork, oradvice on a relationship I was in, they were there for me. Foreverputting my needs before their own, my parents acted asif they couldn't truly be happy unless I was.
However, having parents who fit the above profile does haveone main drawback. In a word, guilt. We're talking capital Gguilt, colossal with a capital C guilt. No two ways about it, sinceI had the ideal parents, I had to be the ideal son. That meantnever getting into trouble at school, never hanging out withthe wrong crowd, and always striving to achieve the best grades.
On the rare occasion that I did transgress the boundariesdefining my self-imposedperfection, I suffered great anxiety.The only way to relieve myself of these feelings was to pushmyself harder and make my parents proud. In essence, theavoidance of guilt acted as the main motivation for my academicand social successes. Anytime I would find myself in circumstancesthat involved making an important decision,whether it was to take drugs, get into a car with someone whohad been drinking, or simply procrastinate when I had to studyfor finals, I always thought of my parents. What would theywant me to do? How would they feel if something harmfulhappened to me?
Answering these questions was never too difficult; the hardpart was actually conforming my behavior to them. AlthoughI've been known to stray from the path that bore my parents'seal of approval, most of the time my course of action has beenin tune with their wishes. Frankly, I could not bear to think ofthe heartache my parents would experience if one of my decisionshad had ill-fated consequences. The notion that constantlyhaunted me when presented with a risky propositionwas "My parents have always done their best for me, and thisis how I repay them."
My parents were not strict disciplinarians; my choices neverreflected a fear of punishment. It has always been the guilt. Itried to think of their well-being over my normal coming-of-ageimpulses. When contemplating my adolescent years I realizedthe great influence my parents had on me as well as myattempts to model their own behavior. Our relationship hadbecome wholly symbiotic—it was as if I couldn't truly be happyunless they were.
The bottom line is that no matter how flawless our relationshipswith our parents are, the absence of conflict can be aproblem in its own right. Take the essay "Dysfunctional Mediocrity"from Chey Pesko, for example. The writer sets up thestory as he would a movie. His poker buddies are the ones withthe "real" problems. Chey is just an observer, watching the actionfrom a safe distance. In his poker game, good families areas rare as good hands, and Chey feels as guilty as if he'dcheated misfortune at his friends' expense.
The next story, "The Game," by Joel Ashcraft, also depictsa happy childhood. Joel talks about how his relationship withhis father has enriched his upbringing, instead of focusing onthe ways in which this bond might have alienated him fromsome of his less fortunate peers. In fact, while there is indeeda downside to growing up without any major family turmoil,the stability and joy that a solid family provides are pricelesstreasures that Joel, much like myself, wouldn't trade for theworld.
In writing the pieces that appear in this book, many of theboys were very open about the problems afflicting their homes.Of course, such uncensored self-expression is the exceptionrather than the rule when it comes to our behavior in the realworld. Whether our home life is "satisfying" or "dysfunctional,"we all see our own families as somehow abnormal, and live infear lest someone discover our dreadful secret. After requestingthat his last name be kept anonymous, Jason describes a typicalscene at his besieged household in "America the Beautiful."While the chaotic scene should strike a chord with anyonewhose house is ruled by pain, anger, and resentment, it's Jason'sability to see past his own selfish needs and empathizewith the rest of his family that makes this story so excruciatinglyheart-wrenching.
The poem "Junkyard," by Mike Grohsman, picks up wherethe preceding selection leaves off. As his childhood lies dyinga painful death, the speaker explores issues of abandomentand loss. He is unable to save himself, and has long since givenup any hope of his family coming to his rescue. Unwilling toblame his father, Mike gives him credit for trying his best. Butin the end, he believes that both of his parents turn a deaf earto his distressing cries for help.
The next story probes beneath the surface of a family hometo find a morass of secrets and lies. Dave Langley's essay "MyDad's Trippy Psychedelic Room" probes into the dark cornersof the family basement, where he discovers his father, a warveteran, reenacting a scene from his days in the service. Scaredand confused at what he finds, Dave runs away from the sightof his father's pain. While Dave is unable to understand hisfather's experiences during the war, what is particularly sad ishow father and son deal with the aftermath. Unable to discussthe occurrence openly, the grown man and the little kid bothchoose to pretend as if nothing had happened and go aboutplaying the part of a "normal" family.
Of course, all families have their share of problems, but thenext stories dealing with divorce and single-family householdsreveal issues specific to children of broken homes. Jeffrey Dussich's"13 to 40" is one of the most insightful and painful accountsof divorce that I have ever heard. As it chronicles howhe was forced to grow up too fast and adopt the role of "referee,"Jeffrey's tale of struggle reveals the ravaging effects thatan acrimonious divorce can have on kids of any age.
The next memoir, "The Hard Side of Life," also provides arare look into the life of a troubled family. Shuffled betweenhis biological mother and various foster homes, the writer isthe victim of senseless abuse and perpetual loneliness. Hisquest to find a real home has yet to end, but we pray that hewill one day find the love and support he deserves.
The last essay comes from Robert. It is through his eyes andpainful experience that we can finally come to understand thathe is not unique. Millions of young boys like him are left tofend for themselves. And without the proper parental figuresto guide their way, they end up dealing drugs, abusing illegalsubstances, committing crimes, and landing up in jail. Fortunately,Robert's story has a happy ending—the perfect endingfor this chapter.
> Chey Pesko, 18, Wantage, New Jersey
DYSFUNCTIONAL MEDIOCRITY
What a shot this would be—I mean, if anyone I knew eversaw me where I am now, I would be categorized as someprime-time junky from some life beyond reproach. I mean, thisis a scene right out of some cheap mobster movie. First, theslow circular pan of the apartment, which reveals scattered garmentsand an occasional beer stain on the carpet, not to mentionaccumulated dust in hard-to-reach places. A table made offinished oak comes into focus.
Ambient movement interrupts the silence of the largeroom, as the pan continues from each tightly situated chair tothe next, revealing one new face after another until completingthe journey, coming into focus on the five individuals chatteringlike angry penguins. The dim, depressing lights leavegrim shadows on each figure's face, leaving specific featureslike eye color and complexion just out of visual reach. The familiarstench of multi-brand tobaccos, ranging from the trendyGPC 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 physicalevidence of a previous encounter of sloth and ill demeanorwith the carcasses of old, half-smoked butts, each with its ownunique past.
The jagged cut to the next shot imparts meaning to thewhole tomfoolery of the scene. A single pack of Juggler playingcards rests on the table, sitting vertically, as if attentive andlistening to every word pouring from the flamboyant table. Apair of eyes fixate on the anxious deck of cards and, as if inslow motion, a clammy hand crawls its way over to retrievethem. The stage was set, the effects were right on, and, as if aquiet voice whispered into my subconscious, "ACTION," thetable exploded into a lawsuit waiting to happen.
"Five card poker, jokers wild," announced the dealer as helooked blankly in front of him.
"I think we all already knew that, Jim," a voice answeredback from across the table, in megaphone format. "We've onlybeen playing the same game, every Saturday, every month, forthe past year!"
Jim looked across the smoky table and eyed the dim facestaring back. It was Matt, a tall, lanky teen who lived in thisapartment with his father.
"It's expected of the dealer to announce the game beforeany cards are dealt," Jim barked back in defense. "It's the cardinalrule of the Dealer Guild."
I couldn't help but chuckle at that remark.
Jim quickly glanced at me, before turning his eyes back onMatt. The remaining two individuals at the table, who to thispoint had stayed out of the ordeal, both let out strange half-laughs.
"What's so funny?" Jim said immediately. He looked like hewas getting agitated. His eyes darted about the table, lookingeach of us in the eyes. He began to breathe heavier, like anold vacuum cleaner. His face was turning a tinted pink.
I immediately ceased my amused behavior and slowly leanedback into a relaxed position in my chair. Jim was about to blow.
"Well, I'm a member of the Bullshit Guild, and I say you'refull of shit," Matt barked back like a junkyard dog. He startedsmiling and leaned back on the rear legs of his chair.
Jim jumped to his feet. What happened next occurred in amatter of seconds, but the events seemed to unfold in slowmotion, with each movement enhanced and magnified to thesmallest detail.
I watched as Matt's facial expression morphed from one ofglee to puzzlement. His eyes squinted and his jaw seemed todrop to a level. Jim clasped the nearest inanimate object, theJuggler card deck. I was amazed at his form when he woundup his arm like a real-time major league baseball pitcher. Hislong arm extended and the force of fifty-four tightly packedcards shot from his sleeve like a cannon. His wrist added a sicktwist to the aerodynamics of the rectangular deck, sending itspinning wildly like a Chinese star. The deck homed in onMatt's noggin, striking him in the center portion of his forehead.Still practicing his chair-balancing technique, Matt fellvictim to gravity as the force of the deck sent him reeling back,arms and legs flailing wildly. I stood up just in time to see Matt'simpact with the red carpeted floor. The room went silent andthe scene then seemed to be put on pause.
Jim quickly attempted to compensate for the outburst bywalking around the table to where Matt was lying totallysprawled out and looking at the ceiling. I also inched my wayover to the crime scene.
"Why ... did you do that?" Matt asked the air in front ofhim. There was a red blemish on his head, which appeared tobe the extent of the physical damage. I reached for the deckof cards, which had landed a few feet away after it ricochetedoff Matt's cranium.
Jim grasped Matt's arm, raising him to his feet. "I'm ... I'msorry. I just ..."
He was quickly but politely interrupted. "I know you'resorry, but that's not what I asked. I'm looking for a 'why.'"There was a pause. "We've always joked like this."
Matt picked up his chair and sat down. Jim stood in frontof him, like a criminal being questioned in court. Without answering,he turned and slunk his way back to his chair at thetable. I mimicked his actions, and sat down myself. Lifting thecover of the deck, I removed the set of cards from within. Ajoker was on top.
Finally, Jim sighed and began to speak. "Man, when everyonewas laughing at me I felt like a damn idiot. And there youwere, the ringleader, orchestrating the whole thing."
I watched them closely. They were looking at each other,and the other two were busy talking about some freshmen girls,and how it "just wasn't right" for seniors to hook up with them.We were all seniors at the table, but they were speaking forthemselves. I dropped the joker into my lap and began shufflingthe cards on the table.
"I get enough of it at home. You know the way my dad is.Whenever anyone is over, he makes a damn fool of me."
"'You're lying out yer' ass,'" Matt mimicked, trying to portraythe sound of Jim's father. "I got ya. I guess it's me whoshould be saying sorry. Let's play some cards."
"What game?" I asked, smiling sinisterly.
Matt shook his head at me, and smiled a little. Jim actuallysmiled, too. Jack and Drew, who had been engulfed in theirown conversation, both looked up. Jack pulled out a pack ofcigarettes, took one, and threw the crinkled soft pack at Matt.Helping himself, he then threw the pack to me. I pulled a thinbody from the near empty pack and continued the rotation. Ipulled a Zippo from my pocket, lit the cigarette, and put it onthe table.
"Bets," I announced. I fondled the lighter and studied itclosely. It was black and well worn in. It had been through alot; it had been with me when I moved, it had been lost betweenthe tightest of car seats, and was even in the ocean atone point, when I was in the Bahamas on vacation with myfamily. Written on it in big red letters outlined in yellow was"POW," like in the old Batman series when the villains weresocked in the face. To me, this antique was a symbol of power.
"I don't even feel like going home tonight. I think my dad'shome. Can I bunk here tonight?" Jim asked, as he threw a gold-platedmoney clip on the table. It had the initials "J. R." on it.Joe Richards, I thought to myself, "'Jim's dad!'"
"Yeah, why not. You know the way it is here," Matt respondedin a restrained voice. The smoke from his cigarettewas getting in his eyes and they began to tear. I stood thelighter up straight in the center of the table. As my hand retreatedback to the deck everyone began digging in coat pocketslike pack rats. Drew pulled out a small vodka bottle androlled it to the center of the table.
I cackled and asked, "Where'd you get that, a hotel minibar?"
"I stole it from my parents' liquor cabinet," he answeredhoarsely.
"I wish to veto your bet, under the cheapness clause," I retorted.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he questioned.
"He means your bet blows. It's worthless," Jack cut in. "Ithink we're all in agreement here."
Looking around, Drew saw that everyone was nodding. Hegrabbed his bet and put five silver dollars, which seemed to bepretty old, in its place. He looked at Jack, who seemed amused."Well, what do you have?"
"I'll find something," Jack responded.
He pulled out a long silver necklace and held it danglingin the light. We were mesmerized. The light danced all overits surface, blinding me when it caught the right angle. I tookthe last drag of my cigarette and buried it with the rest of thebutts in the ashtray.
"What is this?" I yelled with my arms spread wide. "We comehere to play some poker every Saturday, and every Saturdayyou guys use it as a reason to raid jewelry boxes, wallets, andliquor cabinets? What do you have, Matt, your mom's weddingring?"
Realizing what I was saying, I calmed myself down andsmiled like it was a joke. Buying it, they looked at Matt, eagerly,awaiting his bet. He looked at me and got to his feet. He madehis way over to his jacket hanging on a hook at the front doorand began rummaging in the pockets.
"You could have been a little more prepared," Drew quicklyadded, as he blew a smoke ring into the smog-filled room. Thehalo of smoke quickly dissipated into the existing cloud thatseemed to hover above his head like a bad conscience.
Matt found what he was looking for and yelled over hisshoulder, "Hold on!" He made his way back to the table holdinga small black bag with a drawstring, sat down, and startedto untie it.
The bag seemed full enough to supply Matt for fifty handsof poker. I was getting frustrated with the slow pace of things.I looked at the alarm clock sitting a few feet from me. It wasblinking 12:00 midnight. What? These people have no senseof time here?
"C'mon, the suspense is killing me," I laughed. By then hishand was in the bag and he was feeling around. I lookedaround the table and saw that my friends were experiencingthe same anguish as I was. Matt's hand stopped moving and itstarted to make its way to the brim of the bag.
"I saw this in the front seat of a parked car at the Gettystation," he said. "I just had to have it."
I watched Jack's eyes widen, for he was closest to the mysteriousbag. In Matt's hand was a small gun, black with achrome-like grip. I eyed the petite weapon of destruction, andrealized that this gadget wouldn't suit a midget, if anyone atall. He put it in the pot, where the rest of the bets were.
"That's no gun!" I exclaimed, grabbing the pistol to furtherexamine it. I caressed the gun's cold grip and took notice ofits light weight. I aimed it across the table at a picture on thewall. With the crosshair on a photo of Matt's family at DisneyWorld I pulled the trigger and, as if by magic, a blue and redflame emitted from the barrel. A smile came over my face.
"Now this is a power lighter," I thought out loud, but quietenough not to attract attention.
I laid it back on the table with the rest of the bets. Althoughstolen merchandise, the gun lighter captured my undividedattention. Groping the joker in my lap with my left hand Irealized that the gun would be mine before the night was over.
The cards flew from my fingertips to each awaiting set ofhands. Even I was amazed at my precision. First one, then two,faster and faster until five cards had been distributed to eachof us.
"You thought the gun was real?" Matt laughed. He took astealthy peek at his dealt hand.
"At first," I began, "but only at first." I, too, took a look atmy cards. What a hand: a two of diamonds, a queen of hearts,a jack of hearts, a seven of hearts, and a six of hearts. I threwmy hand down in disgust.
In all our history of playing, nobody had ever had a decenthand. No royal flush, never five of a kind or full house, merelypairs and triples. We really don't even know the complete rulesof poker. We just enjoy the betting.
"I'm out next weekend," Jim said, while signaling me fortwo cards. I grazed the surface of the deck, sending two cardsflying in his direction.
"Watch it. Someone might see 'em," he blurted.
"What's going on next weekend?" Drew said, while raisingthree fingers. I carefully removed three cards from the deckand placed them in the middle of the table. He snatched themand put his "losers" in a separate pile.
"I've got to go see my mom in Connecticut. She just gotengaged."
"It's no big deal," Jack said gruffly, "My dad is remarriedand I haven't even met his new little wife."
"You mean your step-mom," Matt added.
"Not the way I see it," Jack said sloppily, launching salivaacross in my direction. Those damn S's always get him, and wehave to suffer because of it. He signaled for three and I quicklyexchanged them for his discarded cards. The last thing Iwanted was for him to speak to me in close quarters and batheme in his lethal ooze.
"Matt, what do you need?" I asked.
Matt looked up and shook his head.
"I'm good," he responded.
He looked down at his hand and a small discreet smile cameover his face. What could he possibly have? I was not about tolose my lighter and that gun in one worthless hand of poker.I quickly discarded my two, six, and seven. I usually stick withroyalty, hoping to double or triple up. I grabbed three newcards but didn't look at them.
"I raise," I said bravely, throwing a dollar on the table.
That's the way we usually work. Start out with the big gunsand work our way down with smaller bets. I turned to Jim, whoseemed a bit bewildered by his own hand.
"Call," he droned, also putting a dollar on the table.
He was obviously out. He was a bad bluffer and everyoneknew it. We all smiled at him. I gave him the "cut throat" signaland he snapped.
"I'm dead," he said sheepishly, grabbing his dollar from thepile.
I leaned back in my chair comfortably, knowing that I hadone less threat to worry about.
"Raise," Drew said, taking out the vodka bottle again, rollingit back onto the table.
I looked at Jack's face, but his mind was elsewhere.
"You know what's funny. My mom drove my dad and menuts. And when he left, he didn't even offer to take me," Jackstarted. "By the way, I fold," he announced as he threw hishand down in front of him.
I stayed silent. I mean, what could I possibly have to say? Icouldn't relate. I couldn't relate to any of them. My parentshad been married from the dawn of time. I began to feel alittle uncomfortable. I glanced at Matt, who was midwaythrough a yawn.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Our Boys Speak by JOHN NIKKAH with Leah Furman. Copyright © 2000 by John Nikkah. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Table of Contents
AcknowledgmentsIntroduction: At War with Ourselves
Part I: Our Inner Circle
1. In You We Trust
2. Sharing a Room
3. To Friendship
4. First Love
Part II: Our World
5. School Ties
6. Toy Soldiers
7. Free to Be
8. Escaping into Oblivion
9. Outside Looking In
Part III: Our Selves
10. Playing to Win
11. Gone Too Soon
12. Song of Sorrow
13. Between Worlds
Epilogue
About the Author