My Story: Learning to love my greatest challenges

Estimated read time: 5-6 minutes

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“You want to go to the corner with me?” Mark’s face is plastered with a wicked grin. I shake my head and almost chuckle to myself. It’s not every day I am invited to the corner by a delusional and mentally delayed 16-year-old. I raise my hands in the air and tell Mark to look at my fingers as I look at the first problem on his math homework.

“Five plus ten?” I say. I hold five fingers up in the air and start counting out loud. Mark is interested. I have his attention. Heaven knows how long this would last.

“Six, seven…”

I try to be as animated as I can. I feel like a ditzy blonde high on caffeine, but my squeaky voice and exaggerated gestures intrigue Mark. I wonder what a spectator would see in my odd behavior. He or she might deem me the unstable one.

I continue counting, “Eight, nine…”

“I’ll take your mom in the corner if you won’t go with me,” Mark says.

These boys have no idea what it means to follow a recipe. They have no idea how to talk to a young woman, how to greet a person, how to do things without a bribe, or how to deal with their depression. The result is a more complicated and taxing tutoring session. Nonetheless, the final result is more valuable because of it.

This one gets me. I attempt to disguise a laugh with a deep, complicated cough. I keep chugging ahead. “Ten, eleven, twelve…” He gets back on track, but only for a second.

“You don’t know what you are missing out on," Mark says. "Will you be my girlfriend?”

If only all men could be that bold. I ignore the comment. As I think of my lack of a love life, I think my voice gets higher as I finish counting.

“Thirteen, 14, and 15!”

I feel like I just ran 10 miles. I start clapping like possessed maniac — not quite sure why I am so excited. I find out shortly.

Mark writes the number 15 on his paper. For a brief moment, his eyes are devoid of any craziness. He looks like a normal teenager who is simply doing his math homework. Mark looks up at me, and his eyes slightly shift — signaling that he is back to his normal self. He grins — like any devious, hormonal boy — and mischievously laughs as he tries a variation on the only pick-up line he knows.

“If you go to the corner with me we can do more math homework and we can do our writing!”

Holy cow. My ears perk up at the word "writing." If it means he will actually work with me on his writing, I almost take his offer. I decide to bribe him. Gum for writing? Mark nods his head. Score. He will write something for me, and I won’t even have to go in the corner to get it.

I was first introduced to group home boys when I was 10 years old. My uncle was a social worker at the time and brought one of the boys he worked with to our Christmas dinner. His name was Jonathon. He was Latino and only 12 years old, but he was twice my size. He was in a group home because his mom severly abused him.

I remember being very frustrated with Jonathan because he would not be quiet when we watched movies. He would talk to the characters and jump on the couch when there was an action scene in the movie. I asked my uncle what was wrong with him. He looked at me and said simply, “Nothing is wrong with him.” I have kept that response in my mind today, 14 years later, as I work with violent and mentally unstable young men.

Level-12 group homes are for severely delayed and/or emotionally unstable young men who are wards of the State of California. At the group homes where I work, I am a staff member during the summer months and a tutor during the school year. With some of the boys, I work on them with their homework. With others, I teach them how to clip their fingernails and tie their shoes.

I remember the first time I made cookies with some of the boys I worked with. It was a reward for a good tutoring session. I brought the things needed to make chocolate chip cookies, and before we even began the two boys almost started slobbering. The first boy was Michael. He was 14 years old and over 6 feet tall. The second boy was Todd. He was 15 years old and almost 200 pounds. I was an average sized 5-foot-7 girl working with two huge teenage boys. I had my work cut out for me.

The cookie making was a disaster. The boys were dumping excess amounts of sugar and butter in the bowl. At first I was concerned. I tried to tell them the cookies wouldn’t work if they put in all the extra ingredients and if they didn’t follow the recipe. Needless to say, they didn’t listen to me.

Eventually, I just took a step back and watched the two boys make their version of chocolate chip cookies. I noticed their smiles, their laughter and their conversation as they dumped cups of butter in the bowl. Soon, the fact that they were no longer following the recipe did not bother me — they were having a good time, and that is all that mattered.

Oftentimes, I get the same result in tutoring sessions. These groups of boys have no idea what it means to follow the recipe. They have no idea how to talk to a young woman, how to greet a person, how to do things without a bribe, or how to deal with their depression. The result is a more complicated and taxing tutoring session. Nonetheless, the final result is more valuable because of it. It is worthwhile because of the sweat and tears that went into that product. It is a testament that these boys are actually capable of accomplishing something.

I lovingly refer to my group home clients as "my little psychopaths." They are truly crazy young men, but I love working with them. They keep me grounded and at ease. I find that I feel comfortable with them — sometimes more so than when I am with people out in the world. My little psychopaths remind me why I love a challenge: If it is accomplished, it has the most rewarding results.

Shelby Scoffield is a graduate of Brigham Young University and a graduate student at California State University, Stanislaus.