By Valerie Frost, Community and Parent Advocate
At 15 years old, I sat in the guidance counselor’s office after a friend walked in on me crying in the school locker room. I don’t recall much of the conversation that followed, other than generally not being taken seriously by the school professional. But everything changed the moment I dared to utter the magic words: “I really don’t wanna go home.” A cry for help that, to my surprise, was met with instant action.
The guidance counselor explained that because I had just disclosed my feelings, I was now a liability to the school. Legally, they had to ensure I made it home safely once I boarded the school bus. She said that she couldn’t let me leave alone. Even though my friends were waiting for me, I would need to be escorted home by law enforcement.
This was my first encounter with the system. I was a straight-A student, a classical piano player, a hospital volunteer since I was 13, and an altar server at my Catholic church. I had never even received detention before. Yet, in that moment, I was labeled a risk — an immediate threat, not to others, but to myself.
When the police officer arrived, I was informed that I was now considered a potential runaway and needed to be taken to the station for fingerprinting. If I truly ran away, I would be placed in juvie.
We grow up believing in the potential of the world, of life. We’re told to dream big, to believe that we can be anything we want to be. At one point, I wanted to be the next Kristi Yamaguchi, or a ballerina dancing to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. But that day, the system seemed to confirm what I’d feared several times since, that perhaps the world was not built for someone like me.
Slowly, or abruptly for some, lived experiences start to chip away at innocence.