INSIGHTS FROM THE ISLE OF MAN

At NBC basketball camp the athletes write letters home on the third night to someone they love. It can be a parent, sibling, friend, etc. I’ve read loads of these letters and found them frighteningly transparent as kids express concern, regret, anguish and fear. But today a kid couldn’t even write his letter. He just sobbed in the hallway while the other campers wrote theirs. What kind of hurt causes such paralysis?

I wondered at first. Truthfully, I still do but I didn’t even notice the boy crying until five-to-ten minutes into letter wirting. He’s about 16 years old but looks much older. He’s a tall yet broad build, the kind that makes uncontrollable weeping seem misaligned. But when I heard the sniffling and saw the hood hiding his bowed head, I detected the depth of his injury if nothing more.

Teens are accused of and branded with heartless personhood. The language describing them around the world portrays hapless ingrates devoid of possessing any substantive interest in things other than themselves. Perhaps the crying camper has forced an ephiphany – that dismissing our youth for their character flaws is neither logical nor humane. It is akin to abandoning infants because, via similar reasoning, they too qualify as self-absorbed parasites. The cruelty in this line is unspeakable. Somewhere along the line it became vogue to birth children, deliver death blows to their consciences and demand they grow up this instant.

The counter argument would attest to the gross indifference of yougn teens as conclusive diagnosis rather than symptomatic. They addage goes, “Hurt people hurt people.” What do you think? Will critics of my observation respond defensively claiming themselves as evidence that more can be justifiably demanded of the oppressed who flood camps, classrooms, sports teams and such. My young guy from the intro paragraph couldn’t even finish…no…even begin a letter to any significant people in his life. That’s appauling. Whether it was due to fear, grief, anger or a combination I may never know. But here’s what I do know. We the aged and imperfect must champion a movement of mentoring the most exploited minority in our history – the non adults.