What I Learned in Reform School

They know violence. Its evidence is etched in their flesh.

by Bruce Schimmel

Even as Philadelphia public high schools go, this one is strange. It has no sports teams, no yearbook, and in its 40-some-year history, there's no record of anyone having graduated from it.

But I think it's a wonderful school — in some ways a model of what could be done elsewhere. That is, if they had small classes, dedicated teachers and excellent classroom discipline.

Still, this is no school to which you'd willingly send a child.

Called the "Kiddie Jail," its official title is the Youth Study Center (YSC). It's a secure facility where the city's Department of Human Services houses about 150 teenagers — for from weeks to months — while deciding what to do next.

Some students will go to group houses, some to correction camps and some will even return home — to the "bricks" or street, which is often the most violent choice (if you can call it a choice).

The school, itself, will also move soon. Located on the Ben Franklin Parkway, it's coming down to make way for the Barnes Museum. Next semester, it will relocate temporarily to East Falls.

So here is my school cheer for an odd alma mater, through whose doors have passed some of the city's toughest kids. Angry, hurt and almost always abused — together in class they learn about justice, respect and civility.

As a volunteer, I've worked with caring teachers to help students make recordings of what they write about. Kind of like audio snapshots, where kids talk about who they are, and what they believe in. We call the program "Tell It Forward," because it lets students leave behind something that's good.

We've made hundreds of recordings about dozens of topics: about what makes a man or woman good. About "stop and frisk." About drugs, bullying, poverty and racism.

This and other humanizing programs at YSC are possible, because — ironically — kids here have it better in some ways. Classes are usually single sex, with only about eight to 12 students. In addition to a teacher, there are also three or four DHS "counselors" (i.e., guards), so there are few discipline problems. And counselors often contribute to the discussion.

For example, recently a class of three black and three white kids debated racism. Each side gave ample examples to hate the other and the discussion was hot and deadlocked, until one of the counselors — a woman — piped up.

"I have the blood of five races in me," said the guard, "so your battle is mine. But let me tell you, when you let racism rule, in the end you disrespect yourself." In the silence that followed, everyone felt this foundation of civility.

Whose fault is it, I wonder, that this 17-year-old girl is now at YSC? Is it her fault that since age 13 she's been raped by her grandfather and pimped by her grandmother? Do we blame her for doing "minor things" to get sent back to this sanctuary? How is justice even possible when she had no good choice?

These children are sadder and wiser than many adults. They know violence intimately; its evidence is often etched in their flesh. But as children, their sweetness still challenges their cynicism. And so there's hope.

I don't know, frankly, if civility in the classroom translates into peace in the streets. But I do know that listening is an act of love. And hearing from these students, and helping them listen to each other, I've learned that respectful conversation is always possible. Which is good, because it's the only real way out of violence.

(bruce@schimmel.com)