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***Note: This is a fictionalized speech based upon actual cases. No one person is represented in this article nor is one viewpoint. Any connection to real people, places or situations is purely coincidental. ***
He takes a deep breath, drinks the last of the water from his water bottle and walks into the university lecture hall. Another deep breath to calm his shaking hands, his quivering legs and nervous stomach and he feels ready. Ready to face all the people who gathered in the hall to hear the "youth of today." He stops, closes his eyes, focuses upon his calm inner core and opens his eyes to look upwards to the vast sea of faces. The hall is packed. All had come to hear him. He is "Mark." No last name. No PhD's nor fancy degree letters behind his name. In fact, he only learned to really read and write the past few years and yet, there they are, ready to hang upon his every word. Amazing how far he had come - from the scum of the streets to the healthy young man he was today.
Mark is 19 years old and one of the youth chosen to speak out about the issues youth face in today's world.
Mark walks up to the podium, shakes hands with the host and begins:
My name is Mark. I am 19 years old. Before I begin, I wish to thank every one of you for attending this conference. I also wish to thank you all for taking time out of your busy schedule to attend my talk around the viewpoints of today's youth. While I may not be speaking for all youth, I will be speaking for many. I will be speaking from my own experiences and my heart.
My story begins 19 years ago when I was born to a woman who lived on the streets. My mother was only 16 years old when I came screaming into this world. She gave birth to me alone, in a dirty hotel room of a customer who left quickly when his actions caused me to arrive early. He did not even look back as his feet hit the streets below, running to his expensive Fiat parked many blocks away and driving as if the devil was chasing him back to his rich condo by the sea.
From the accounts I could gather from family members, my mother cut the cord which bound us by a dirty pair of nail scissors she found on the nightstand then gathered me up in soiled sheets and walked, bleeding to the nearest church. In the morning, I was told, they found me crying in hunger protected through the night in her arms, with a heart that no longer carried life.
My mother was a run away youth. Another statistic marked as a black dot in a research office in some elite university, far away from the violent streets, which stole her life. My mother ran away from a home which, from all outside appearances, was filled with money, love and security. Apparently my mother told a teacher, her minister and a neighbour of the pain she endured in the darkness of night - secrets which broke her soul to tell. They refused to listen. They called her a liar. They told her to be grateful for everything she had because many children have nothing.
That was the day she placed the locks upon her heart and learned the tricks to survive in a world that refused to protect her from the sins of a father.
You may wonder why my family never helped my mother. I wonder that too and have asked them that question. In turn, they have asked themselves that question and haven't been able to come up with a clear answer. I suppose it was fear, a warped sense of loyalty to family and denial. Whatever it was, my mother was left without any allies, in a world that was cold and cruel.
One day, my mother heard of a phone line to call when you are being hurt and have no where to turn. I am told she phoned the line and spoke with a social worker that promised to end the pain and fear she had been living under.
Unfortunately, the social worker informed her boss of the call who in turn contacted my mother's father - who was the Sgt. of the local RCMP. The social worker was transferred to another province and my mother's story was never told.
Yes, my grandfather is an upstanding citizen, a member of the highly respected RCMP, loving husband and wonderful father. The truth is much different but no one was willing to look beyond the money and status to the monster underneath.
~Mark stops. Taking a deep breath to gather strength, he places his hand into his pocket and feels the power stone the youth counsellor had given him prior to the speech. He knows this is right. It's time that voices become heard - voices which have been hidden in the dark far too long. No one speaks. No sound is heard in the hall packed with a thousand people waiting for Mark to continue his story. All are intent on hearing this young man's story. Many are reaching for tissue as tears flow silently down their cheeks. Mark wipes away his tears and resumes his speech.~
~2001~
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