Latest news with #HardTimes
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
They served their time, so why can't they leave prison behind?
Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma. For many felons, prison ends, but the damage doesn't. They struggle with post-incarceration syndrome — a PTSD-like condition that makes rebuilding their lives an uphill battle. Without the right support, many battle anxiety, depression and the weight of their past. That struggle often leads to joblessness, addiction and ending up back in prison. Some lawmakers and civil rights groups are pushing for better research and more support. In 2023, U.S. Reps. Ayanna Pressley and Grace Napolitano urged the National Institute of Mental Health to study post-incarceration syndrome and its consequences, highlighting how carceral environments lead to lasting mental health damage. The NAACP says nearly 2.3 million people are locked up in the U.S., yet most don't get treatment for PTSD. Without help, people bring that trauma home to their families and neighborhoods. As such, the NAACP has called for trauma-informed care for former prisoners. Holyoke City Councilor Israel Rivera has a recurring dream that he's back in prison. 'I still wake up in hot sweats, stressed out, wanting to cry, because I got a family now,' Rivera said in a recent interview at the Holyoke office where he works as a regional manager for Families First, a nonprofit that supports parents throughout Massachusetts. In the early 2000s, law enforcement officers raided a home Rivera was in. Rivera was arrested and served five years on drug-related charges. He was not far from adolescence, having just turned 21. Since getting out, he's struggled to leave prison behind. As an example, he told the story of a dinner party where he introduced himself as an 'ex-felon.' A woman asked, 'Why do you do that?' He hadn't thought about it. In part, he wants to humanize other felons. He wants to let people know that they are people like him. He uses his presence to challenge prejudices. 'But then I was like, damn, it's been over 10 years since I came out of jail. Why am I still saying that?' Rivera said. He's not sure why, but he knows prison is still inside him. 'It is still in my head,' he said. 'I'm keeping myself in a kind of box. That's PTSD.' In prison, Rivera dreamed of home. But when he woke up, the bars were still there. Now that he's home, his dreams have reversed. 'Now I dream I'm still in prison,' he said. Rivera's story is far from unique. A lot of people in prison were struggling kids first — kids who never got the help they needed. 'If we don't reach young people early and help them heal, they'll carry that trauma into adulthood — filling our prisons instead of reaching their potential,' said Leon Smith, executive director of Citizens for Juvenile Justice. For 30 years, the Boston nonprofit has worked to reform the juvenile justice system in Massachusetts, advocating for policies that address the root causes of criminal behavior. Smith said Massachusetts has made strides in this area. A recent MassINC and Boston Indicators report found that since Massachusetts passed criminal justice reform legislation in 2018, incarceration rates have dropped nearly 50%. The sharpest reductions have come in the last five years, driven by investments in prevention, treatment and reentry support in the Commonwealth. 'Which largely avoided the major spikes in crime experienced in other cities and states during the pandemic,' the report stated. While these improvements are promising, Smith warns that the decline in incarceration has slowed. Between 2022 and 2023, Massachusetts' prison population dropped by only 166 people, according to the Massachusetts Department of Corrections. The real fix, Smith said, is making sure every young person has access to mental health care. 'I have professional friends who are parents and are having a difficult time getting mental health support for their kids,' he said. 'Now consider what it's like when you are at the intersection of race and poverty in our commonwealth. Those parents are having an even more difficult time.' Read the original article on MassLive.
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- General
- Yahoo
What are schools doing to save vulnerable students?
Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma. In struggling neighborhoods across the city of Springfield, children grow up in 'survival mode.' 'You can't address trauma without understanding the history of urban poverty — segregation, neglect and marginalization,' said Yolanda D. Johnson, chief of student services for the Springfield public schools. Life in survival mode wears students down, making it hard to learn. 'But we want our students to thrive,' Johnson said. In Springfield's schools, 85% of students are from low-income families, nearly double the state average, and 89% have high needs. In struggling neighborhoods, children grow up in 'survival mode,' Johnson said, which wears them down, making it hard to learn. 'But we want our students to thrive.' To do that, educators must acknowledge trauma as a reality, said Yveline Hulse, a school adjustment counselor in Springfield. She follows the four Rs: Realize trauma exists, recognize students' specific experiences, respond appropriately and build resiliency. 'We have to create islands of competency for our children to succeed,' she said. It all starts with relationships. 'Poverty does not mean you can't learn,' Johnson said. The challenge is how schools interpret students' struggles. Damion Dallas, a school adjustment counselor, says the key is trust. 'Square one is establishing a relationship,' he said. 'So many kids don't have a safe outlet to communicate their concerns.' In Springfield, that means implementing a 'primary person model' — ensuring each student has a trusted adult in school. 'Research shows that increasing belonging reduces anxiety and trauma symptoms,' Johnson said. Teachers need to step in early, not just when things go wrong. 'If you know your students, you should know their triggers,' Hulse said. 'We have to be present, ask how we can help, and respond before issues escalate.' At the end of the day, what happens in the classroom is what really counts. 'It's one thing to have a trauma-informed district,' Hulse said, 'but what happens in the classroom every day makes the biggest difference.' For a child experiencing trauma, the classroom can feel like a howling wind tunnel — overwhelming, chaotic and impossible to focus in. 'Trauma takes up operating bandwidth they can't put into impulse control,' said Tim Oaks, a trauma therapist who works at the Northampton Trauma Institute and Child Trauma Institute. As a result, students may be misinterpreted as disruptive when, in reality, they are struggling to regulate their emotions. The Massachusetts Department of Education urges schools to become trauma-sensitive — training staff to identify trauma, adjust teaching methods and connect students with mental health resources. It's all about keeping things on an even keel. 'Predictability helps students feel more secure — reducing transitions and providing advance notice can make a significant difference,' Oaks said. While public schools strive to implement trauma-sensitive practices, alternative programs like The Care Center in Holyoke have created deeply supportive spaces that transform lives. The center sits in a neighborhood struggling with poverty, where violence and trauma are part of daily life. Yet inside its renovated red brick mansion, the school provides a supportive environment where young mothers and low-income women thrive — often in ways they never have before. Each year, approximately 100 students enroll in The Care Center's college preparatory program, while an additional 50 take part-time college courses at partnering institutions. Seventy-five percent of its graduates enroll in college, far above the national average for high school equivalency earners. Additionally, 95% of its college students are the first in their families to attend college. 'Our goal is to create an environment where our students feel emotionally and physically safe,' said Executive Director Oona Cook. 'We pay very close attention to what might be triggering for our students and address it immediately.' The center's staff members approach each student as an individual, addressing their specific academic and emotional needs. 'Our small classrooms give us the opportunity to really build close relationships,' Cook said. Classes sometimes have as few as 10 students. The school promotes a 'culture of resilience.' 'It's not just about where you came from,' Cook said. 'It's also about what you've endured and the changes you're able to make moving forward.' Outside the classroom, students do hands-on art, visit museums and take part in activities like rowing, yoga and pickleball. Most importantly, students learn they belong in school. 'I was talking to one student yesterday who started in our high school program,' Cook said. 'The first day she came here, she felt like her daughter, who was in our daycare, had 10 new aunties. When she walked in the door, she felt like part of a family.' That same student is now in the center's microcollege, and her mother has applied to start next semester. Seeing families succeed, Cook said, is inspiring. 'There's the transformation of the student, and because our students are also young mothers, there's the transformation happening for their children,' Cook said. 'But it doesn't stop there. It extends to their parents, siblings, and partners. It changes their community.' Read the original article on MassLive.
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Yahoo
What happens when ‘at-risk' youth reach for better lives?
Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma. She thought it was normal. Watching people work nonstop. Watching them take extra jobs to keep the lights on. Using candles when they couldn't. 'People who live their life worrying about where their next paycheck is going to come from,' said Janeyah Madera. 'People who worry about whether they have enough to pay the rent.' Madera, a 17-year-old junior at Holyoke High School, watched teenagers drop out of school year after year. 'I thought everything was normal,' she said. 'I normalized it for so long.' Until someone set her straight. While at Holyoke High, she met a teenager from Pa'lante Transformative Justice, a nonprofit with a mission to build 'youth power to heal and transform interpersonal harm and systemic injustices.' 'And they were like, 'No,'' Madera recalled while sitting with a friend at Pa'lante's Linden Street center in Holyoke. 'That's not the way things should be. I never knew. I just thought that's the way things work.' At Pa'lante, she learned about the school-to-prison pipeline. 'The school-to-prison pipeline targets people who look like me,' said Madera, who was ready to drop out of school before she joined Pa'lante. 'I'm just really grateful I found Pa'lante when I did.' Her friend Nichelle Rivera was sitting beside her on a couch in a second-floor room of Palante's Victorian home. 'I was a real quiet person, and Nichelle had to break me out of that,' she said, looking over at her friend. 'She used to come up to me, no matter how much I didn't want to talk, and be like, 'How you doing? You okay? What are you coloring? What are you reading?'' Eventually, Madera followed in Rivera's footsteps and became a peer leader at Pa'lante, helping more teenagers realize their potential. 'You're born with an endless amount of possibilities,' Madera said. The name Pa'lante is a reference to the Young Lords, a group of young people of color, primarily Puerto Ricans, who worked to address racism, police injustice, poor health care and tenants' rights in the 1960s and '70s. Inside Pa'lante's three-story home, inspirational murals decorate the wood-paneled walls. Pockets of young people talk and laugh, while others fiddle on their cellphones. In a large downstairs room, a group dances salsa while another group cooks in an upstairs kitchen and plays Nintendo video games on a big screen television. Connecting local kids is not accidental. 'It's one of our main goals,' said Christopher Lora, a youth leadership coordinator. 'When we come together, we build power and we can use that power to transform systems of oppression.' When asked about the hardships and trauma that young people experience living in urban poverty, Lora immediately brought up the school-to-prison pipeline. It's a system that pushes students out of schools and into prisons. 'With being pushed out comes different things,' he said. 'Because of being pushed out, the student has to find a way to make money.' A study from the National Library of Medicine found that the school-to-prison pipeline traps adolescents in the criminal justice system. Lora said schools use suspensions and 'emergency removals' to force certain students out of school and onto the streets. A federal report, 'Exploring the School-to-Prison Pipeline: How School Suspensions Influence Incarceration During Young Adulthood,' supports Lora's experience. 'Our findings demonstrated that youth who experienced a suspension between grades 7 and 12 experienced significantly higher odds of incarceration as young adults, relative to youth who were never suspended,' the report said. Pa'lante fights back by showing up for local teenagers. 'We bring them in and, in a transformative way, we tailor our work to their needs,' Lora said. Madera's friend, Nichelle Rivera, said Pa'lante is 'transformative' because it is inclusive. As a peer leader, she connects with each person who walks into Pa'lante's youth drop-in center daily. Upstairs, there's a chill space they call the 'meta.' 'We are in touch with everybody in the meta,' she said. 'We try to make sure everybody's included in the space so that nobody's left out and left behind.' Everyone is welcome. 'No matter where you're coming from or your background, your sexuality, your ethnicity, it doesn't matter,' Rivera said. 'We try to accept everybody.' Rivera, who's 17, knows what many of her Holyoke peers are going through. 'I came from struggle after struggle thinking that life wouldn't get better,' she said. When she was 10, her grandmother died and she and her mother lost their home. They bounced from shelter to shelter. 'My mother was working when she was in the shelter from nine to nine,' she said. 'It wasn't even a nine-to-five. I didn't see my mother for most of the day.' That's why she looks up to her. 'When I think about transformative justice, I think of my mother,' she said. In her story, Rivera finds strength and resilience. 'It's just amazing where I've come from to where I am now,' she said. 'The school-to-prison pipeline tries to catch me, but I just beat it down.' She's proud. 'My story is powerful,' she said. 'My story needs to be heard.' Kids who grow up in the system get judged fast, she said. People see them as 'bad,' she said, 'but that's not the truth.' 'Your story is powerful, too,' she said. 'You're amazing no matter where you come from.' Such affirmations changed Madera, Rivera's friend. 'I thought school wasn't for me,' she said. 'I thought I'm never gonna get anywhere. I was like, 'Who am I? I'm nobody.'' But that started to change when Madera found Pa'lante. 'I have a community of people here that I can lean on for help,' she said. That connection changed how she saw everything. 'When I joined, they taught me that I am somebody,' she said. 'That if I want to make a change, I can do it. And if I want to go to college, I can do it. And if I want to graduate, I can do it. I have power and I am amazing.' Read the original article on MassLive.
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Does Massachusetts have the guts to save its kids?
Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma. When I taught English in a Springfield public school, one of my students started every morning the same way — scrolling through a website on a school computer, checking where gunshots rang out the night before. 'Bullets fly all around my neighborhood,' she told me. Another student came home from school one afternoon to find her father gone. He'd been picked up on a drug charge in a police 'sweep' of her community. She wouldn't see him for years. Another student showed me a newspaper clipping: mugshots of three young-looking Black men arrested on drug charges. 'They're my uncles,' he explained. 'No Christmas presents this year.' His uncles were the ones who made sure everyone had gifts. There were other stories. Children without permanent homes. Children raising siblings. Children growing up in the streets. I've spent months reporting on how this kind of shared civic trauma warps and stunts hope – and limits opportunity. In stories today, I share the experiences of people in Western Massachusetts whose lives have been changed by trauma. And I introduce readers to politicians, attorneys, counselors and community activists working to help those affected by trauma. In her book 'Truth and Repair: How Trauma Survivors Envision Justice,' psychiatrist Judith Herman outlines what justice looks like for survivors of abuse, including survivors of racial violence and urban poverty. To Herman, healing isn't private — it's a public act. She believes we must confront trauma's causes, hold systems and people accountable and make amends. And we must do this together, openly, as a community. These stories are meant to explain why. 'Growing up in Springfield's North End — one of the poorest districts in Massachusetts — I saw food insecurity, substance abuse, domestic violence and even murder,' said state Sen. Adam Gomez, a member of the Massachusetts Childhood Trauma Task Force. Two out of three Massachusetts children experience at least one traumatic event before age 16, according to the group's 2023 annual report. The closer you look, the worse it gets. Black, Hispanic and low-income children experience trauma at much higher rates, largely due to systemic barriers — growing disparities in education, health care and the justice system. Since 2019, the task force — made up of child advocates, legislators, juvenile court officers and social service agencies — has worked to bring what's known as 'trauma-informed' practices into schools, health care, child welfare and juvenile justice. Yet such work is limited due to a severe shortage of trauma services, leaving many children without care. 'Without these services, many of our efforts to support children cannot succeed,' the report states. One effort to close this gap is the Center on Child Well-Being and Trauma, established in 2021. The center trained 378 educators from 19 school districts to create trauma-informed classrooms and is developing a statewide web-based resource to help caregivers find trauma services. However, Massachusetts has no central database of available trauma services, making it difficult for families to find help. Gomez sees a pressing need to help urban communities, where children often face violence and economic hardship. Addressing trauma early, he said, can help young people avoid the school-to-prison pipeline and find stable careers and housing. While some progress is being made, the state's behavioral health workforce remains dangerously understaffed, making trauma support programs harder to access, people in the field say. Without changes, Massachusetts won't come close to becoming trauma-informed — and the repercussions can be deadly. When children suffer trauma, it harms their bodies as well as their minds. Dr. Megan T. Sandel, co-director of the Grow Clinic for Children at Boston Medical Center, recalls treating a young girl whose health declined dramatically after her mother lost unemployment assistance. Though once thriving, the child's weight dropped and her growth stalled until she met the World Health Organization's definition of malnutrition. 'And I'm treating that child in the city of Boston,' Sandel said. Sandel is the principal investigator for Children's HealthWatch, a research and policy organization that strives to ensure kids have enough food, stable housing and basic necessities like heat and electricity. Too often, they do not. And the crisis isn't confined to big cities like Boston. In Holyoke, for example, 26% of residents live in poverty, with 47% renting, 6.8% unemployed, and 23% of children raised by single mothers. According to cities like Holyoke and Springfield score 'very low' in opportunities for children. Poverty's effects go beyond financial hardship. Overcrowded housing, pest infestations, mold, noise pollution and food insecurity all take a toll on children's health. Some lack a home altogether. Ten percent of Holyoke students and 5% of Springfield students have experienced housing instability. In addition to homelessness, frequent moves, unaffordable rent and the stress of choosing between food and electricity wears parents and children down. 'Being behind on rent can be just as bad, if not worse, than being homeless,' Sandel said. Even families with stable housing aren't immune. Living in high-poverty neighborhoods exposes children to violence, underfunded schools and fewer opportunities. Poverty isn't random, in Sandel's view. It's the result of policy choices. When a supplemental child tax credit was in place, child poverty dropped. When it ended, poverty surged again. 'In this country, we have a narrative of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps,' Sandel said. 'When people struggle, they're told it's their fault. But it's not.' 'We have the evidence — money helps families thrive,' Sandel said. 'The real question is whether we have the political will to invest in children.' She recalled the words of 19th century orator and abolitionist Frederick Douglass: 'It's easier to build strong children than to repair broken men.' 'We spend too much time fixing broken men,' Sandel said. 'It's time to invest in building strong children.' Attorney Maurice C. Powe was exhausted. As a public defender in Springfield, he has spent the past month watching a street war unfold — culminating in a police officer being shot in the face. Among those arrested was a 16-year-old. 'I can't think about anything else right now,' said Powe, who defends juveniles like that teen. Over 15 years as a public defender, 10 of those focused on juveniles, Powe has seen young people charged with assault, rape, attempted murder and even murder. Beyond his clients' alleged crimes, he sees their circumstances. 'I really believe in the juvenile justice model, which is about rehabilitation,' he said. 'We try to get the kids before they reach adult court.' Yet rehabilitation is limited by the system itself. Judges have only a few options: juvenile detention, probation, or diversion programs — most of which are reserved for first-time offenders. But what happens once sentencing is over? 'They go home with their trauma,' Powe said. This isn't only a local issue. Some see it as a national crisis. A 2023 report from the state's Childhood Trauma Task Force found 'a dearth of services' for traumatized youth. The American Bar Association has urged reform, warning that many detained juveniles suffer from untreated trauma, leading to higher rates of suicide, aggression and recidivism. One case haunts Powe – that of a 13-year-old girl who got into a fight at a community center. She often ran away, and her mother refused to take her back. Knowing probation would only set her up for failure, Powe fought the charges — and won. 'She was found 'not delinquent,'' he said. 'But then what?' With no stable home, she was placed in the child welfare system, only to run away again. 'Last I heard, she was stealing food from Walmart,' Powe said. 'She's going to get caught for trying to feed herself.' He sighed. 'Yes, we won the case, but did we really improve this child's life?' It's a question with a sobering answer. As Powe has seen time and again, the system is sending young people in trouble back into the same environments that shaped them in the first place. And those settings do more than influence their choices. Hostile environments affect their brains. 'When children face prolonged hardships like poverty, violence and racism, their brain development is stunted,' said Dr. Christine M. Crawford, a child and adolescent psychiatrist at Boston Medical Center. Under normal conditions, healthy social interactions help form strong neural connections. But when a child is raised in constant stress, that process is disrupted. It's helpful to think of a gardener pruning branches. Trauma, however, prunes away the wrong ones in the brain — damaging impulse control and emotional regulation in the process. Children raised in violent environments develop different brains. Their fight-or-flight system is always on high alert, said Crawford, who wrote a book on trauma called 'You Are Not Alone.' A minor insult can trigger rage because their brains struggle to slow down and weigh consequences. The National Task Force on Children Exposed to Violence found that trauma leads to hypervigilance, impulsivity, aggression and isolation — all factors that increase criminal behavior. 'When someone lives in survival mode, delinquent behavior can feel like control,' the report said. The connection between trauma and incarceration is well documented. According to a U.S. Attorney General's report, youth in detention are three times more likely than their peers to have experienced violence and trauma. Crawford puts it simply: 'Hurt people hurt people — because hurt people have vulnerable brains.' Behind Enrique Vargas Gonzalez's desk, three framed drawings tell a story. Some see suffering. Others see triumph. 'It depends on how you look at it,' he said. Vargas Gonzalez works as a therapist, mostly helping Latino people struggling with poverty. He's seen firsthand how hard urban poverty hits families in Springfield and beyond. The drawings on his wall were created by a patient, a young girl forced by circumstance to move from Puerto Rico to Springfield. 'She used to cry in every session, mostly because she missed her home,' he recalled. 'She's much older now.' When Puerto Ricans leave their home, they often settle in cities like Springfield and Holyoke — the U.S. mainland city with the highest proportion of Puerto Ricans. After Hurricane Maria in 2017, thousands of Puerto Ricans were displaced. Many children, like Vargas Gonzalez's patient, struggled to adjust. 'They would talk to me about what they missed about home, and you could see how their faces changed,' he said. More than half of the Puerto Rican children in Massachusetts grow up in poverty — twice the national rate. Many endure trauma linked to poverty, family instability and systemic barriers. Vargas Gonzalez recalled how his patient channeled her emotions into art, drawing detailed pictures of her home. 'She had such a good memory,' he said. Vargas Gonzalez's office at Mercy Medical Center in Springfield is a calm space. In addition to being a therapist, he serves as the clinical coordinator for the Gandara Center, a statewide organization providing mental and behavioral health services for Latinos and low-income families. His office is calm, but the people who walk through the door carry heavy lives. Vargas Gonzalez recalls a man who was repeatedly expelled from residential homes. 'He would be kicked out at least once a week,' he said. The man grew up surrounded by violence. As a child, he didn't attend school — he dealt drugs. 'Where he grew up, dealing drugs was one of the only ways to make money,' Vargas Gonzalez said. Eventually, the man went to prison and became an addict himself. Now older, he is trying to turn his life around, but finds barriers at every turn. 'He feels misunderstood and treated unfairly,' Vargas Gonzalez said. 'He would always say people look at my face, and they shut the door on me,' Vargas Gonzalez said. 'And it's true. But when you talk to him, you see he has a big heart. He's trying to grow and become better, but nobody gives him an opportunity.' Vargas Gonzalez believes healing is possible, but systemic obstacles make it difficult. 'The problem isn't just poverty,' he said. 'It's the lack of access to the resources available in wealthier communities.' While Massachusetts has one of the lowest poverty rates in the U.S., Latinos in the state face poverty at nearly twice the national rate. In Holyoke, the median yearly household income for Latinos is $22,700 — far below the state median of $81,000. A lack of good jobs and past trauma keep the cycle of hurt going, making it even harder to break free. Many who come to Massachusetts for a better life find the same struggles they tried to leave behind. 'They move here thinking things will be different,' Vargas Gonzalez said. 'Then they realize it's not.' Stuck in a system with no real way out, a lot of people end up with post-traumatic stress disorder, which makes everything even harder. 'When someone has lived through trauma their entire life, it doesn't just haunt their past — it shapes their relationships, their sense of self and their ability to believe in the future,' he said. The Gandara Center works with 15,000 clients a year. But the demand for mental health services far exceeds availability. Vargas Gonzalez pushes his patients to find ways to heal. 'It's about finding parts of their identity that aren't defined by trauma,' he said, glancing at the drawings on his wall. 'Her art became her voice,' he said. 'It helped her say, 'That's not me anymore.'' Patrick O'Connor, a public school teacher, is a regular contributor to The Republican. Read the original article on MassLive.
Yahoo
25-05-2025
- Yahoo
After a violent past, could ‘Puppy' help lead his community to peace?
Editor's note: This story is part of 'Hard Times,' a special report by The Republican on the challenge of healing from civic trauma. In the heart of Holyoke, where shadows dance, Lived a young man named Puppy, caught in a trance. His eyes held storms, his heart a flame, A soul entwined in a perilous game. That is the first stanza of a poem by Luis Antonio 'Khalil' Rodriguez, reflecting on the moment he nearly took a life. Rodriquez posted the poem on his Facebook page with a newspaper article underneath it, with the headline: '2 Brothers Wanted in Street Shooting.' Back then, in the early 2000s, people in Holyoke called him Puppy. 'The name Puppy came from childhood,' Rodriguez said, sitting in a Holyoke restaurant, just below Whitley's Boxing and Fitness gym, where he now coaches. 'They bought me a puppy, the puppy bit me, and I bit the puppy back,' he said. The nickname stuck. 'I have a tattoo of it on my stomach,' said Rodriguez, who, although he's 43, is lean and muscular with a defined six-pack and a boxer's physique. 'The name resonated with gang culture and the lifestyle of selling drugs.' Born to a world where hope seemed lost, He wandered through streets where dreams were tossed. In alleys where whispers of violence grew, He found a home in a dangerous crew. Rodriguez's parents were drug users. 'I came out of my mom's womb going through withdrawal,' he said. After his birth, he was placed into child services, moving between foster homes and, eventually, juvenile detention centers. He had two brothers and a sister, who were also taken away. 'My sister got raped in foster care,' he said of the horrors they faced. Once he was old enough, he started selling drugs, hoping to earn enough for a place where his mom, little brother and sister could live. 'I was always thinking about the future, and my whole process of selling drugs was to try to get my little brother and sister back from foster care. I was trying to get my mom sober enough to get our own place,' he said. But gang life consumed him – and soon the streets became his only focus. His fellow gang members offered him a kind of love he had never felt. 'For the first time, I felt at home,' he said. Everywhere else in his life, 'there was no love or affection.' The gang was like a tribe that loved each other and offered 'a kind of unison,' he said. He was 14. 'But then, the goal was no longer to get enough money to get my mom sober enough to get an apartment and get those kids back from foster care,' he said. 'That lifestyle, it sucked me in like a vacuum.' With fists clenched tight and a gaze of steel, He wore his anger like a shield, to feel. The world had taught him to trust his rage, A fiery script on a youthful page. The love he received from the gang was conditional. It was contingent on violence. 'I believed violence was a language,' he said. And in that world, power belonged to those who spoke it fluently. 'The most violent, the most rageful people were the ones in leadership positions,' he said. 'They were seen and respected and honored.' Reflecting as a grown man who's been incarcerated for attempted murder, he now questions that kind of love. 'I feel like people were more afraid than loving,' he said. 'The reality is people would do these things for me because they were scared of what I was capable of doing to them.' Yet beneath the bravado, a child remained, Yearning for love in a city stained. Even as he sold drugs in a gang, Rodriguez understood that he was just a child. He still had the needs of a child. He still wanted a family. He craved unconditional love. He yearned for 'that peace,' he said. But his life would get much more violent before he found it. The echoes of shots rang through the night, As he sought power in a fleeting fight. Rodriguez was 20 years old when someone pulled a gun on his 17-year-old brother, prompting him to go looking for the man, he said. On that fateful eve, with adrenaline's rush, He faced a rival in a deadly hush. In the heat of anger, decisions made, A bullet's path by his hands was laid. He and his brother arrived at the man's house. When the people there saw him, they realized who he was. 'It's Puppy!' he heard someone shout in fear. A man reached out to shake his hand. Rodriguez slapped it away. His gun was already loaded. 'I ain't come here for that,' he recalled saying. The man who he said pulled the gun on his little brother walked over, 'acting real tough.' Curses were exchanged. 'I just shot one time to the face,' he said. 'I remember he dropped.' Such violence was his reality. As he walked away, he didn't think about what would happen next. He didn't think about death or life in prison. 'I never thought I'd make it to 21 anyway,' he said. 'Because a lot of folks around me weren't making it.' And as the sirens wailed their mournful tune, The stars above dimmed in the solemn moon. For in the act of fury, lives were changed, A cycle of pain forever arranged. He and his brother ran to Delaware but were eventually found and arrested. Police officers surrounded their car. One stood on the hood, pointing a shotgun down at his chest. Rodriguez's gun was loaded, but he didn't reach for the weapon. Instead, he reached for a photograph. His niece. His family. The life he had always wanted. 'And there was my niece,' he remembered. 'There was life.' Yet, somewhere, deep in his restless soul, Lies a flicker of hope for redemption's goal. For even in darkness, light can break, And heal the wounds of a heart that aches. The man he shot survived. Rodriguez went to prison on a charge of assault with intent to kill. He served eight years. In prison, he met some Muslim men who gave him a new name: Khalil. 'It means 'intimate friend,'' he said. 'They taught me the importance of a name.' 'He told me that this new name was going to define me in the future,' Rodriguez said. 'I didn't believe him, but it did.' Rodriguez's road from violence to redemption has been long and hard, but he has committed himself to using his failures to help others. After serving his time, he began working for different nonprofit agencies. He's worked with adolescents from 17 to 24 who have been arrested for committing felonies. He's worked in harm reduction, making sure drug users have clean needles — giving them a chance at getting sober. Rodriguez's father died from AIDS after contracting the virus from a dirty needle. Rodriguez has spent many hours in city alleys, talking to people caught in addiction. He's picked up thousands of dirty syringes from the streets. He has worked helping people who suffered from domestic violence, sexual assault and human trafficking. In 2014, he created the Vanguard Movement, which works directly with gang members, trying to help them improve their lives. He has dedicated his life after prison to helping people facing similar struggles he experienced before he went to prison. Meanwhile, he learned how to feel. The same Muslim man who gave him his name passed along this wisdom.'When I look back at all the decisions I made, I never processed my emotions. It was always a reaction,' he said, adding that he only knew 'happy' or 'angry.' He didn't know anything in between. Healing for him has been about experiencing a range of emotions, and learning that it's okay to feel. 'It's what you do with those feelings that matter,' he said. All of this work has helped him get closer to his 'authentic self,' he said, which has nothing to do with the gangs he joined as a child. Since being released from prison, Rodriguez has run into the man he shot. One time, they were attending a basketball game where Rodriguez's stepson and the man's son were on the same team. He hadn't known this before. When they locked eyes, the man walked out, but Rodriguez followed. They had a short talk. Rodriguez wanted him to know that they could share the same space. Rodriguez carries the weight of that night. He asked for forgiveness. 'Yet, I understand that he doesn't have to forgive me,' Rodriguez said. Eventually, they met again and introduced their sons to each other. Then, Rodriguez was doing 'Stop the Violence' workshops and he asked him if he wanted to participate. 'He didn't feel comfortable doing so,' Rodriguez said. They have not spoken since. For this article, I reached out to the man he shot, but he declined to be interviewed. 'I need to make amends with him through my actions today,' Rodriguez said. 'Which is why I'm dedicated to the line of work I do.' Oh, Puppy from Holyoke, may you find your way, To peace and solace in the light of day. For within the ashes of anger's fire, Lies the seed of change, and a heart's desire. A few days after we talked, Rodriguez reached out again. He'd run into the man he shot. And this time, the man said something Rodriguez never expected: 'I forgive you.' 'I was truly awed,' Rodriguez said. Read the original article on MassLive.
