Roses in the concrete

Adjacent fields of of dreams, some are blissful and some are broken and torn.... behind the adjacent fences are many untold stories...summer dreams field with the smells of dirt, grass, hot dogs, and soda pop....on the other side of the fence are the pungent odors of a hundred men, unshowered and disheveled, the wafting odors of fermenting bread and fruit to quinch the thirst, numb the mind, and fill that hole...both the you g boy with the ball and glive, and the older boy wearing his prison issued blues are lost in the cali sky, painted with sunsets, and the silhouettes of the nearby hilks and trees.....these silhouettes can also be a shadow of a life that feels lost and forgotton....the setting sun bring darkness, shadows....for a young boy this is a time to be embraced by thier mom, a time to dream, while laying in the safety and comfort of thier bed...for the prisoner, darkness and shadows bring danger, time to think about missed opportunities, regrets, and betrayals.... lost dreams that seem to be blowing the wind, through the fences, around the hills, dispersing in the air, in particles so thin that it seems impissible to bring it back together....these young lives start the same...when looking at the infants in the nursery, it is difficult to determine a newborn's race, gender, the color of thier skin, the texture of thier hair, and number of bejamens in thier daddy'$ wallet. Despite coming into to rhe world so similar, these young lives become separated by winds and streams of opporrunties taken and lost.... some are praised for thier ordinary, meager, and pedestrian efforts, while others are chatised, ignored, and belittled....they are overlooked teachers and preachers, whonfailed to do as rhey say, and they fell right through the cracks of a systems created to help them.....HOW DID THINGS GO SO RIGHT FOR SOME, AND YET GO SO WRONG FOR OTHERS...WHERE THEY DID GO WRONG....WHERE DID WE GO WRONG....the lost and ignored walked on the outside of the ball field, and followed a stained and worn path, filled with the blood of their enimies and the tears of thier mothers.....along this path they robbed, hustled, conned, and killed....they do the messy business of providing the suburban housewives with a little something to help them clean that house quickly, with a smile, and then a little something to calm those nerves at night..the dirty business of providing tha lost teen in the dysfunctional home a way to fill the hole growing bigger in thier soul...the filthy business of providing the desperate junkie thier next, or perhaps thier last fix.....this blood and tear stained path, just the other side of the ball field, leads straight to cdc solano....on the other side of the fence....there is still innocense and dreams..... the belief that they can pitch a no-hitter at AT&T Park. Keating Park in Vacaville, California is adjacent to a California State Prison....these two fields are separated by a few wired fences. The children playing ball can see the prisoners, from a distance... the majority of these kids know that they never want to be on the other side of the fence. The prisons, looking at youth, have as many thoughts and reactions as there are people behind those walls. While some have regrets and wish they could go back and be that kid throwing that ball, others will look at the kids and the game with apathy, distain, and disolution, as the opportunites in thier lives were much like the promised roses in thier lives, which failed to thrive in the cracked concrete near thier homes. As I am now nearing 50, and I am conti ui g to work in and for "the system", I am not tarnished, cyanacle, and ruined....I still believe that many people can change...however, with great sadness, I also have to admit that there are a few people that have crossed over a line of depravity from which rhey cannot return. It is this group of people who create the trauma that change lives....causing loss, dispair, and destructive cycles, and for others the trauma is met with a resilliace that creates the desire to help others. As for me, I will do all in my power to nuture and cultivate the small glimmers of hope, those yiny rose buds sprouting from the cracks in the concrete...I will continue to steer the youth to the side of the fence where thw fields are still with hopes and dreams. Roses In The Concrete The Human Condition Silhouette Field Of Dreams Broken Dreams Prison Untold Stories
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