Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II by Jack Canfield
About a dozen or so years ago, a friend who knew about my past and the way I grew up encouraged me to write it down. He told me it was important for people to know what it's like to grow up the way I did. And so, with much stress and difficulty, I somehow found the strength to reach back forty years to relive all the pain and all the
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tears. I revisited the fear and the loneliness. I wrote my autobiography, They Cage the Animals at Night. It was reading this book, and responding to it, that prompted those in charge of the graduation ceremony to invite me to address their kids.
It was a warm June morning when I stood at the podium. All eyes were fixed upon me. The kids were dressed in their caps and gowns and sticky from nervous perspiration. From time to time, they'd glance over to the sections reserved for parents, family and friends. They were trying to locate the proud and smiling faces of those whom they belonged to. When they did, they would smile as a faint blush filled their cheeks. They were just as proud as their parents.
I began to speak. I told them I was honored to be addressing them, but not having been in high school, or graduating from anything, I didn't feel qualified. I then made an unusual request. I asked them if there was any way in which I could take part in their moment, if they might let me be one of them: a graduate. Their applause took me into their ranks, and their eyes took me into their hearts.
I choked back my tears as I said, "This is a street kid's guide on how to get from here to there." Maybe a word here or a line there that might help you get through a rough time: I hope so. . . .
A Street Kid's Guide
(How to get from here to there)
It's hard to get from here to there
If you never get out of bed.
You lie a lot to fool your friends
But you fooled yourself instead.
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It's harder to get from here to there
If you set your goals too high;
Then nothing ever works out right;
Too soon, you no longer try.
But the hardest way to get from here to there
Is when all you ever do
Is count up the years, and miles to go.
Then you're through before you're through.
So how do you get from here to there?
Well, you first must believe you can
Let no one tell you differently
It's your life and it's in your hands.
Then turn your dreams into your goals
And see what you need now
To satisfy the requirements:
The why, the where and how.
At first you're overwhelmed, of course;
There is so much you don't know.
But keep your faith, be strong and sure,
For you do have a way to go.
Take careful steps and do them right,
Take pride in each thing done.
Don't look too far ahead of yourself,
Just that next step yet to come.
Before you know it you'll be there, friend,
Your dream will then be real.
And you'll be standing where I am now,
Telling others how good it feels.
You'll tell them not to quit themselves,
To have faith, though it's hard to bear.
So they will know it can be done
They, too, can get from here to there.
Jennings Michael Burch
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Teenagers Today
I can't count how many times people have uttered, while shaking their heads in obvious disappointment, "I just don't know what is with teenagers today."
The other day I was in my car on my way to the farmers market with my friend Jan when we passed two teens standing by the side of the road with a car wash sign. My car was filthy and my heart was full, so I pulled over. There were teenagers everywhere. There was a group directing the cars and another group spraying them down. As sponges were wiped over every square inch of my dirty car, I sat enjoying the little water battles and the many silent scenarios that were so obviously taking place. I couldn't help but wonder how many crushes, how many new friendships and how many little insecurities were in the air on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. I was amazed at how forty to fifty teenagers had devoted their Saturday to washing cars, and I was curious what their motivation might be.
At the end of the assembly line I handed them a twenty-dollar bill and asked what they were raising money for. They explained to me that a friend of theirs,
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C. T. Schmitz, had recently died of cancer. He was only fifteen years old and six-feet-two. He had gone to school with a lot of the teenagers who were there that day and each of them had memories of a boy sweeter than any they had known. His friend Kevin had decided to put this car wash together because he wanted to honor his friend and also bring together his classmates with his boy scout troop. He told me that they wanted to plant a tree in front of their school and if they raised enough money they would put a plaque there also. Both would be in memory of their friend C. T.
They handed me a bag of homemade cookies with my receipt and we drove away. I asked Jan to read to me what the tag that was tied to the bag said. It said simply, "Thanks for helping us plant a tree for C. T."
Yeah! I don't know what is with teenagers today!
Kimberly Kirberger
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An Open Heart
We had to take a malaria pill every week for eight weeks and get a shot of gamma globulin. We were told to bring old clothes, flashlights, bug repellent and an open heart.
I think the last item was the most important: an open heart. That is what those kids really needed.
Honduras is a small country in Central America. The majority of the population is dirt poor, hungry, homeless, parentless and in need. This is where I, along with eighteen of my peers, had committed to spending two weeks of our summer vacation.
I am sixteen years old. This trip was not the vacation trip most teens dream of. It was sponsored by Mrs. Patricia King, whose two sons were adopted into her family from this third-world country. Through her love we were able to help those in need.
We spent our time at an orphanage with children who won our hearts the very moment we met them. How could you not adore a child who wants only a multicolored pen for his fourteenth birthday? For two weeks we shared our souls with these children. We lived in their world, relying only on bare necessities. The heat was
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often unbearable and the smell of raw sewage was constant. Dirt clung to everything and we had to close our eyes and hold our breath to shower in the contaminated water. It was our job to repaint the boys' room and the hard iron bunk beds. We washed and braided the girls' hair and painted their nails. We exchanged hugs, high fives, kisses and eventually good-byes. We came home differentbetter.
We learned that the best of all blessings is to be able to give to others. I feel lucky that I'm sixteen and I know that we can make a difference. That's not just something that celebrities say on TV. Every day I am grateful that I learned an open heart is a happy heart.
Sandy Pathe
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8
GROWING UP
My mother always used to say: "The older you get, the better you get . . . unless you're a banana.
Rose Nylund
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Wonder, to Me
One morning, I woke up later than usual. The night before had been difficult. My eldest daughter, Carla, and I had exchanged harsh words. At sixteen years old, she was challenging my parenting skills. I'm sure that I must have scolded her about the type of friends she was hanging around with, her choice of social activities, even the clothes she wore.
When I walked into the kitchen, I saw an unfamiliar piece of paper on the kitchen table. Carla had already left for school. I thought maybe this was some homework that she forgot. Instead, it was a poem she had written:
Wonder
Is the worst place to be.
Situations get complex,
You're afraid of what's next.
Starting out fresh and brand-new,
Stepping in another shoe.
Wondering how you'll turn out,
Having all sorts of doubt.
Turning over a new leaf,
Sometimes wanting to leave . . . sometimes do!
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As I read her words, my heart ached for the pain she was feeling. I recalled my own youth and teenage struggles. Now I felt that I had let her down somehow. A single mom, raising five children on my own and working two jobs, I was dealing with my own set of problems. But she needed me! How could I reach her?
Suddenly, all my own selfish worries left me. I grabbed a piece of paper and penned a reply that I hoped would bring her some comfort.
That afternoon while I was at work, she came home and found the poem that I had left. That evening there were hugs and maybe a few tears. It seemed that perhaps I had made some progress in narrowing the generation gap.
Days and months passed. We still had the typical mother-daughter disagreements, but with a special bond of respect and understanding for each other. It wasn't until a year later that I realized the full impact of our special relationship.
It was Carla's graduation. I was sitting in the bleachers, so very proud to see my own daughter's name on the program for the class speaker. As she approached the podium, I felt a sense of accomplishment in knowing that, through it all, I must have done something right to have such a vivacious, beautiful daughter who was providing her classmates with advice for their future.
She talked about leaving the security of school and venturing out on your own. Then I heard her share the story of her own struggles, doubts and fears. She was telling the entire audience about that difficult day when she left the poem on the kitchen table. And then, the words of advice to her classmates ended with the reply that I had given her so many months ago.
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Dearest Carla,
Wonder, to me, is a good place to be.
It helps you to think, it helps you to see.
Life's full of twists and turns will abound,
But wonder and insight can guide you around.
Explore what you may and fill up your mind,
And hold in your heart the mysteries you find.
Wonder is only saying you yearn
To know and select the things that you learn,
And making a choice in which way you turn.
The best path you take will always be right,
'Cause if you were wrong, you CAN make it right.
Each new step you take when you listen and hear
Will give you more courage and freedom from fear.
So wonder my child, rid of your doubt,
And you will rejoice with how you turn out.
And though you may fall and struggle, too,
Know that I've been there, and will always love you.
I sat there, stunned. The entire auditorium was silent, listening to her message. My eyes welled with tears; everything was a blur. When I finally blinked, I saw the entire roomful of people on their feet, cheering and applauding. Then she ended her speech with her own inspired summary of ''You can turn YOUR wonder into wonderful!"
Jill Thieme
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How Much Does It Cost?
The six teenagers sank onto their beanbags in the group counseling room. Today there was none of the usual raucous punching and good-natured exchange of insults. I knew they didn't want to be at school this week any more than I, their counselor, did.
For three days they had received counseling, comfort, sympathy and lectures. Ministers and psychologists had come to the school at a time when the kids' world seemed to have ended. It had indeed ended for four of their schoolmates, who had died in a car accident on the way home from a keg party in celebration of graduation.
What was there left for me to say? Only that these six would go on living, barring a tragedy like this onea tragedy that didn't have to happen.
My mind searched for words to fill the silence. Finally I said, "I remember a day when I was about your age, seeing a fancy Levi's jacket and jodhpurs in a store window. Since I was to be riding in the girls' rodeo competition the following month, I figured I simply couldn't live without that outfit. I went into the store, found the garments in my size and bought them without asking how much they cost. I practically had a heart attack when the clerk told
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me the price. There went all the spending money I had saved practically forever. In fact, I had to go home and rob my piggy bank and then go back to the store for my purchase."
At that point in my story, I paused long enough to note that the group members were staring at me with questioning eyes. After all, what did a stupid rodeo costume have to do with their grief?
So I babbled on. "Was the outfit worth that much? No way, I concluded during the following months, when I had to do without several things I needed or wanted, including a class ring."
My counselees continued to look at me with a so-what? expression.
"I did learn from that experience," I said finally. "I learned to ask, 'What does it cost?' before buying. During the years following, I've learned that looking at price tags is a good idea when it comes to actions, also."
I told them about a time when I went on a hike with friends without telling our parents where we would be. The price was heavy. My fellow hikers and I got lost, and it was many terrifying hours before we straggled back to town to face our frantic parents and the drastic punishments they decided we deserved.
Now it was the kids' turn to talk, and they did, relating some of the times when their bad judgment had not been worth the cost of the consequences.
I gently reminded the students at this point that their friends' graduation celebration had cost too much. I mentioned the frequency of teen tragedies, many involving alcohol and other drugs. Then I read them parts of an editorial about an accident that had occurred a few months earlier. The article had been written by the town's chief of police:
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Close to a thousand people were there that day, all sitting in front of a smooth casket topped with flowers and a high school letter jacket. Jason was president of the senior class, a star athlete, a popular friend to hundreds, the only son of successful parents, but he drove into the side of a fast-moving freight train at the city square on a beautiful Sunday afternoon and was killed instantly. He was eighteen years old. And he was drunk.
You never get accustomed to or forget the horror on the faces of parents when you break the news to them that their child is forever gone from this earth.
We know there will be both youth and parents who don't like our enforcement posture. There will be verbal and maybe physical abuse against the officers. Some parents will complain about our enforcement of underage drinking laws. But we can live with that a lot easier than telling parents that their son or daughter has been killed.
Four of the six students were crying by the time I finished reading the editorial. Crying for Jason, crying for their dead schoolmates and their families, crying because of their own loss.
Then we talked about the four friends they had just lost.
"Can any good come out of our tragedy?" I asked. "Or do we just let it end like a sad movie?"
It was Mindy, the shyest member of the group, who suggested in a wispy voice, "Maybe we could make a pledge or something."
Ordinarily, the three boys in the group would probably have ridiculed the idea, but this day was different.