YOUTH NOW
The Cycle
Walking in my father’s footsteps, and trying to find a new path
As I entered Bridges Juvenile Detention Center, otherwise known as Spofford, I was deathly afraid. I’d been shuffled through its barbed-wire fences in handcuffs and shackles, and so far, I could see little that distinguished my new home from an adult jail — the kind I’d seen on television programs like Lockup or Scared Straight. To me, the place looked more like Alcatraz than a residence for misbehaving children.
A short African man, the color of a ripe, unbitten plum, stood before me, giving instructions. He had a relentless gut that threatened the nerve of his belt, and I remember thinking the leather would give at any moment and send the metal buckle flying across the room.
“Move your hands,” the man said in a heavy African accent. Reluctantly, I placed my hands back at my sides.
I thought of American History X, Lockdown, and every other prison movie I’d seen where men were attacked and raped by muscle-bound gangsters. I was 11 years old.
“Lift up your testicles. Squat down and give me a big cough.”
