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Where Are
We?
As I walked through the
doors, I was greeted by officials in uniform, my briefcase confiscated
and I was hurried through a makeshift door. Pockets were emptied by
many as one hears, "Sir, madam, please continue on around the walkway
and pick up your belongings." Long stark, uninviting hallways lay
before us. At long last we reach our destination. Sunlight radiated
through the windows as we sat there almost over-taken by the mix
of colognes and perfumes filling the air. There was a coolness to
the room that lasted only a short time. As others file into the
room, a stuffy warmth seemed to permeate the air. Some
interacted freely, but others became stiff, terse, refused eye
contact, even refused conversation. Bodies touch as they are
packed together, and others noticeably attempted to stand
as far away as possible. While there is a constant rotation of
bodies and chairs, others squirmed from long waits.
Individuals slipped into the hallway for a drink of water, often as a
means to kill time. Yet for others it is an attempt to refresh a dry
throat. Oh, how cold and sweet the taste! “I can't imagine
the water ever tasting so good," was the sentiment echoed
throughout. The tension and anxiety level
ran extremely high as I looked at faces etched with pain, anger,
and fear. One could hardly hear a low rumble of voices while
others sat in a silence that was almost deafening. Half shaved
hair, fair chalky skin that looked stark against a black suit;
eyes with little or no expression are only a small part of the
picture. The picture was further completed by an oversized jacket
that hung so long on this small frame that it was almost
impossible for the hands to reach the pockets. The jacket sleeves
draped over the knuckles and on over the end of finger-tips
almost concealing the hands. I found this not unusual. As I
scanned the room, I found completely shaved heads and ear-rings,
and others with baggy, bright colored clothes. Everyone seemed
to be making their own fashion statement. But were they? Another
look and I realized this was not a fashion statement as much as
it was a cry to be noticed. They seemed to be saying: Look at
me! I hurt! As they waited, they had this unshakable taste for
freedom as never before. The moment of truth arrived as they were
called into the court room to tell the judge their side of the story,
and hope that maybe he would see their pain.
Author: BJ Patchett, copyright 1994
Not to be copied or used
without written permission
Empowerment Professionals
PC, 310 W. Hudson, Royal Oak, MI 48067
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Proud Member of the Dynamic:

Copyright ©
2005
Empowerment Professionals. P.C.
Beverly J.
Patchett, LMSW
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Last
revision: July 10, 2010
Beverly J.
Patchett, DCSW, QCSW, LMSW, CAAC, CAADC
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