The Magic of Mischief
When I was a child there were risk-taking acts that my friends and I performed with the change of seasons. We conducted these activities with mindless abandonment, oblivious to the inherent dangers. For example, the following:
In the summers I would deftly “borrow” one of my grandfather’s larger wrenches (he was a shipbuilding metalworker by trade) and, accompanied by a chanted chorus of encouragement, I would use all of my strength to turn the valve on our city block’s fire hydrant. The water would usher forth amid cries of glee from my scampering and squealing crowd of known associates, all whom would rapidly become drenched, alternately sliding and slipping in the vast quantity of water running in a torrent down the street before being lost forever into the storm sewer drain. That drain was a scary place - nothing ever came back once it went down there. Many of our prized baseballs went into that hole. It was so deep you could barely hear a faint splashing sound when they hit the bottom before an outstanding smell arose from out of the darkness. We knew something large lived down in that cavernous place. You would surely get polio if you ever fell into it. Only frogs and alligators could survive in that environment. All of our laughter and fear combined to help us happily pass the hot summer days in my home town. Never once did we consider it tampering with the municipal water supply, or interfering with an emergency response system, or violating some regulation of Homeland Security. It was hot, we were kids, and I knew where we could get a wrench. And, after an appropriate length of time playing, our joy would be interrupted by someone’s on-looking father or mother who though stern in appearance and holding back a smile would assure that the water valve was tightly closed again and we were all sent home to flatten out our wrinkled skin. Life as a child was full of wonder and hope and a few precious moments of mischievousness.
In the winters, back in the days when it actually snowed to some appreciable depth, we turned our attention to sledding. There was a hill nearby; steep, icy, and no one dared park a car on it in the winter for the snow plows would bury a vehicle in one pass at some ridiculous hour of the early morning. That hill was a frozen playground that provided hours and days of fun but none as grand or delightful as when a car would travel on it, up or down. With their chains or studded snow tires alternately spinning and grabbing as traction was gained and lost, it was our pleasure, no, indeed, our obligation to rush in behind each vehicle, throw our sled to the ground with us upon it and to grab hold of the car’s rear bumper for the ride of our lives. Oftentimes we would daisy chain behind a car; three or four of us joined by hands and feet behind the one affixed to the bumper, cheering each other on as we maneuvered into place, staying low to the ground so as not to be seen in the rearview mirror by the drivers. Though sometimes the drivers would stop and scold and tell us how dangerous and reckless such an act was, we never once experienced an injury or near accident in all the years we heartily played that game on our frozen tundra. We never gave a thought to impeding traffic, interference with the operation of motor carriers, endangering others by creating obstructions on the highway, and such. Life as a child was full of surprises and unique accomplishments and a few precious moments of daring adventure.
Today, however, criminal liability is swiftly attached to activities which were if not tolerated, more age-appropriately understood and corrected years ago. Contrary to the emerging research, legislation across the nation continues to identify children as adults yet rarely identifies adults as children. Treating children as adults is just plain wrong and our Association is looking into ways we can help prevent the further “adultification” of the juvenile justice system. We are so hypersensitive when it comes to what a child may be charged with as an adult that we often forget they are not. We focus on crimes that may result in twenty-year sentences if committed intentionally by adults and forget these children don’t know what twenty years constitutes. Let me share with you a recent true story of our world gone awry. I’ll change the names and some particulars to protect the innocent.
In a small community in Virginia, an officer noticed recently spray painted graffiti on a residential chimney. In bold red numbers 7-4-0 was clearly displayed with the letters CCL underneath. By virtue of training, experience, and written protocol, the local gang specialist was dispatched to photograph and decipher the gang symbols that were so flagrantly, publicly, openly advertised in this upstanding community. This was not merely creative tagging, this was the real deal. The gang specialist checked their literature of known graffiti in the area against larger tomes of codes, symbols and signs. The matter was actively discussed in the law enforcement community and many badges made slow, purposeful drive-by observations of the house with the red-lettered chimney. Was this new gang establishing a crack house? A ‘meth’ lab?! The gang specialist could not definitively identify the symbolism, so they enlisted the aid of a state agency’s gang management unit. After days of cross-referencing thousands of known gang markings, it was finally concluded that the CCL part identified a subset of a subset of the Southern Gangsters, itself a set of the Red Coagulants. But the numbering was troubling. 7-4-0? Perhaps it was an area code; perhaps a message; perhaps a penal code reference; perhaps a date and time for some unknown mayhem soon to descend on this pristine town. At any rate, this was most definitely, most assuredly a sign of gang activity, and given the local protocol the town sent officers to request the home owner to paint over the markings. Covering the graffiti was the next logical step now that they knew what it meant.
The officers approached the home. A woman answered the door with her eight and nine year-old sons by her side. After explaining why they were there and expressing that they did not wish to alarm her, the officers requested that she paint over the markings as soon as possible, so as to not encourage this gang developing new turf, using her house as part of a coordinated, geographical conspiracy. The woman was overwhelmed and immediately admitted her sons’ culpability in the matter. It seems that these two strapping young men had played an exceptionally successful season in the junior baseball league. Their team had apparently won 7 games, lost 4, and tied none. They were so proud of their accomplishment that they had secretly spray-painted the chimney to pronounce their championship to the world. Embarrassed, the officers inquired about the nature of the CCL reference. Yep - the Conestoga Cub League. The woman mentioned she would quickly get some gasoline and remove the paint, to which one officer suggested that gasoline and chimneys were not a particularly good combination and she might consult professional help first. She suggested the same to them. Case closed.
In our post-tragedy world, where the cumulative effect of crime has more influence than the actual frequency of occurrence, we might all do well to jump over more frogs and fire hydrants. We are in the juvenile justice business and children are not small adults. They are who we all were once. Please advocate for court-involved children to remain children for as long as they can and treat them accordingly. The world is a hard enough place for adults; we don’t need anyone to join us too soon.
(Ron Telsch is a Probation Supervisor in the Virginia Department of Juvenile Justice's
25th Court Service Unit (covering Lexington, Covington and Botetourt).
