For as long as I can remember, I have known shame.

Like a big gray cloud hovering constantly above, my shame would follow me. It marked me with an 'X', and made me feel different, separate from others.

I always thought that if only I could be like one of the cool crowd, people might accept me and want to be my friend. I thought that perhaps I would even find the love that I always wanted.

Do you know what I'm talking about?

These feelings, which plagued me through a rough adolescence, are a consequence of the abuse I suffered as a child. From the age of four to six, I was physically abused. When I was eight years old, the sexual abuse began. It lasted until I was 13.

It's no surprise that I felt I didn't matter, no wonder that I had a low sense of self worth. And it seemed that nothing I did could alter my circumstances.

That all changed the day I telephoned the Children's Aid Society asking for help. At the time, I didn't consider myself especially abused or neglected. I lived my life as thousands of other kids do. All I wanted was help. All I wished was for our family to change, for us to heal, and not to hurt so much.

Things had reached a point where I could not go on feeling as awful as I did.

That call was the most drastic thing I had done in my life, an act of desperation. It was also an action that I undertook entirely on my own. I never imagined, though, that by phoning the Children's Aid Society I would end up spending eight years in their care. What was to have been a temporary arrangement, while our family got counseling, led to my becoming a ward of the crown. Our family never reunited.

My parents took it badly. But then how were they supposed to react? They had mistaken my cry for help as a shot at them. Perhaps they really didn't understand the kind of pain I suffered, each and every day. In fact, they often wondered why I couldn't just get on with my life, and put the abuse "on the back-burner."

Ultimately, though, I think my parents felt relieved that they no longer had the burden of caring for me. In attempting suicide, I had pushed them even further away and made it distressingly obvious that I needed far more support than they could offer. Once I had been placed in the care of the Children's Aid Society, my parents could get on with their own lives, where they continued to blame each other for my problems.

I am angry? Yes. Do I still suffer the many repercussions of abuse? No question. But I won't let the pain rule my life. I want to find out who I really am. I want to heal. And I want to protect others from the horrible pain of sexual abuse.

Sexual abuse exists everywhere in our society. Yet, we are uncomfortable with the issue, and don't want to discuss it. We think it happens only to others. But that is a lie. The truth is that one of every three girls, and one in eight boys, has been sexually abused. And these figures, I believe, represent only reported abuses. As in my case, most incidents are never disclosed.

Children are sometimes afraid that people won't believe them if they report abuse. But why would a child make up a story about such a thing? There is no reason to disbelieve your child - or any other survivor - if she tells you about an abuse. You can doubt it all you want, but the truth remains.

We should be supporting victims, not blaming them. We should be protecting our children. They are the most precious things in the world.

Children should not be used as objects of gratification or stimulation. They should not be told horrible lies and exploited, leaving them scarred for the rest of their lives. Children are beautiful, trusting beings. These days, they are often starving for attention. Children want to feel special. And deep down inside, isn't that what we all want?

I have faced many challenges throughout my teenage years and as a young adult. Being sexually abused affected everything that was sacred in my life. It added more stress to what is already a difficult time for young people. And the lack of support only made things worse.

Looking back, I realize that calling the Children's Aid Society was one of the best decisions I ever made. It drastically altered my life. Although it was an emotional strain on my family, it allowed me to save myself by establishing a healthier way to live.

Not that my life became a bowl of cherries. Living in the child welfare system took me down many a dark alley, and there are numerous experiences I would rather forget. Let's face it: it isn't easy being a ward of the courts. But it taught me to be self-sufficient. And besides, I wouldn't change a thing even if I could, because if I did I wouldn't be the person I am today.

The big gray cloud that followed me all those years is finally gone. I have come to realize that the shame I felt had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with my abusers. For a long time, I thought that I was alone. I thought that no one could understand my pain. But when you give your pain a voice and bring the secrets to light, you find out that you are not alone. By talking about our pain we can put the responsibility on the perpetrators, instead of blaming ourselves.

I want to share my story to raise awareness about child abuse, and to help other youth by letting them know they are not alone. We all have rights and freedoms. But no one has the right to take away your innocence.

Erika Klein is 23 years old.

Fleeing Gerald
By Aurore*
Young People's Press

I dedicate the following to my mother, whose love has guided me throughout my life. The following is a true incident, one that strengthened our relationship while tearing apart our lives. I only hope that I can be half the mother to my daughter as Mom was to me.

The sun sank over the horizon, bathing the sky in a reddish haze. Tomorrow, the heat would return. The rippling sound of the river that flowed through our backyard carried far on the soft autumn breeze. Mom's geese restlessly tried to settle on their haystack. Gerald's chickens lay peacefully in their coop.

Mom and Gerald should have been home hours ago.

I shuffled over to the wood stove. As I opened the metal door, a blast of hot air hit my face. I dropped a log onto the glowing coals and watched the flames lick and then start to devour it.

Headlights flickered across the wall.

Slamming the stove door shut, I scurried to the table. I tried hard not to look afraid. Although I was only 13 years old and alone in a beat-up mobile home on a reservation, I did not want to appear scared.

Mom came in and hurried to the back of the trailer. Gerald sat down in his chair at the table. We carried on a conversation, but the words went largely unheard. I did not want to talk to this man.

What was Mom doing, I wondered. Awkwardly, I excused myself and walked toward my room.

Mom stirred and muttered, "Stay there." I went outside and paced in the backyard. The tepid, dust-filled air wrapped its hands around me, suffocating me. My throat was dry. The nearest phone was a fifteen-minute walk, and I could have made it there and back without being noticed. I did not, however, want to leave her alone with this man. Besides, whom would I call? What would I tell them? I did not really know what was wrong.

After what seemed an eternity, I came in again, quietly shutting the door behind me. I peeked around the corner. Mom was holding her eye. When I stepped into the kerosene lamp-lit room, she jumped. I gazed in disbelief at the blood dripping from a cut beneath her glasses. Her eyes were purple and starting to swell shut.

His hands were clean.

I veered back towards the door, the wooden floor creaking with each step. I strode across the yard, but could go no further than the property boundary. I had to do something. I went back and asked Mom to come outside, but Gerald would not let her leave the room.

I loaded the .22, just for practice. Click, click.

I think now how easy it would have been to put a bullet through that bastard's head; never to have the memories haunt us; never to have him standing behind me in line at Zellers, calmly whistling a tune; never to have him show up on the doorstep when I was home alone; never to have my mother experience the nightmares and the seizures that were a result of too many shots to the head.

If I had known what this man would do to us over the next two years, I would have done it! I would have suffered the consequences.

But I didn't.

That night I went to bed with Mom and cried. I told her about what he had been doing to me for the last month. I told her about the touching, kissing, and fondling. We fell asleep holding one another, awash in tears.

Two days later, I went to school as if nothing had happened. I told a teacher whom I trusted about what had been going on. That day, I did not return home. When the police brought Mom to my school she was still wearing her pyjamas.

We stayed at a shelter called Interval House for the next six weeks. It felt safe there. There were other women staying at the shelter too. These women, who had all suffered so much, were the victims of a war. It is a war waged by husbands, by men - no, by monsters - against the very ones they were supposed to love and protect.

When the court proceedings began, I was informed of the questions I would be asked. I was told not to let the defendant's lawyer make me feel that it was my fault, that I had invited it.

In the end, I never went court. The lawyers plea-bargained with the judge and the charges were dropped. Gerald received two years of probation for destroying our lives. It hardly seems fair.

It also hardly seems fair that, because of what I went through, I am now afraid to trust any man totally. And it hardly seems fair that my mom has to see a doctor every month to try to combat her migraines; or that she has seizures in which she forgets part of her life; or that she has flashbacks, and sometimes thinks that her new husband is the old one, and that he is going to kill her.

All I can do now is to hope for the best, to hope that everything will be all right. In the meantime, I will try to put my life back together, fragment by shattered fragment. And I will continue to support my mother while she does the same.

Yes, it will be difficult, for we have lost some of these pieces forever. And some pieces can never be replaced. Or forgotten.

Aurore* is 24 years old.

*the names in this article have been changed.

Cutting: Self-injury by Teens
By Vanessa Lyn Mann
Young People's Press

My friend and I walked together, heading for the world outside our secondary school. I was about to hurt the person dearest to me.

"What is it Ker?" Tom asked as he turned to face me.

"Well," I stammered, "I told you what I've been through, and you know things have been really... pure hell for me. Well, I cut. Last night, I cut my wrists."

Tom stood there looking at me, as if he was trying so hard to believe that those words didn't come out of my mouth. Trying to believe that what I said didn't happen.

"You lie," was all he said. We walked to my first period class. "You lie," he repeated. Then he paused briefly and said, "You don't love me, either." Devastated, I turned away from him so he would not see the tears. Tears I was certain would soon come.

-- from the journal of Kerri*, 16, about an incident that occurred the day after she cut herself so badly that both her wrists required bandages

The notion of a seemingly well-adjusted young woman deliberately hurting herself is not something that many of us can easily comprehend. In fact, Tom* was not the only person who initially doubted Kerri's claim. Dylan*, another acquaintance of Kerri's, didn't believe her either. He remembers when she came to him looking for compassion. "It was tough love," he recalls. "I figured that if I just ignored her and pretended that what she said wasn't true, the problem would go away."

But the problem did not go away. Kerri became even more insistent, telling Dylan almost every day that she was cutting herself. Instead of suggesting she find help, he egged her on.

"One night he decided that it would be clever to try and use reverse psychology on me," recollects Kerri. "He held a Swiss army knife out, expecting me not to take it. He was wrong. The blade was pointed out towards me and I grabbed it, cutting my hand in the process."

Sadly, incidents like this occur every day. A recent study by Karen Conterio and Dr. Wendy Lader, founders of the original Self Abuse Finally Ends (S.A.F.E) Alternatives program in Chicago, shows that one percent of the population is prone to self-injurious behaviors. Of this group, 97% are female. These behaviours involve the deliberate, repetitive, impulsive, non-lethal harming of one's self. The most common types of self-injury include burning, cutting and punching one's self.

And while the majority of self-injurers are female, the problem also affects males. Jimmy Ray* is a 19 year-old reformed self-injurer. Like Kerri, he was also a "cutter" (a term used by people who cut themselves).

"I started in the summer of 1992," he begins. "I did it because I was depressed, and to get attention, because my family practically ignored me. The first time I was at home alone when I did it. I took a razor blade and drew it back and forth across my wrists lightly until I began to bleed. Then I just sat there until the blood stopped flowing from the wounds."

Conterio says Jimmy Ray's behavior is typical of people who cut themselves. She suggests that people who harm themselves are usually, but not always, from middle to upper class backgrounds, are of average to high intelligence, and have low self-esteem.

Conterio explains that, "in a middle to upper class home both parents are usually working. This means that there is often less family interaction and less support from a family unit." She goes on to say that when young people have no one to talk to, they will sometimes take this course of action to draw attention to themselves.

There are many reasons why people engage in self-injurious behaviours. In their study, Conterio and Lader report that almost 50% of self-injurers had experienced physical, sexual or emotional abuse. They also claim that as many as 90% of them felt discouraged from expressing their emotions - anger and sadness in particular.

Serena Coy, a community outreach worker at Delisle Youth Services in Toronto, adds that self-injurious behaviour is sometimes linked to issues of power and control. Much like eating disorders, these behaviours can be an attempt to impose a feeling of control on the one thing that a young person has a sense of power over - one's body. She says that self-injury can also be a form of group identity, whereby four or five people will secretly engage in it together.

Whatever the cause, Coy says she has noticed an increase in the number of people seeking help for self-injurious behaviours. And if the Conterio/Lader study is any indication, for every person who cuts or otherwise self-injures, there are many more who consider it.

Of the various types of self-injury, cutting is by far the most common, in part because it is easy to conceal. People who cut often attempt to hide their scars by wearing long-sleeved shirts and baggy pants - even in the summer. And if someone does see their cut-marks, they usually invent excuses.

"I wore long-sleeved shirts in 35 degree weather so my family didn't find out I was cutting until a couple of years after I started," confesses Jimmy Ray. "They found traces of blood leading from the laundry to my room. They questioned everyone (in the house) about the blood and I told them what I had been doing. They asked why, and I said it was because of my grades, having few friends and wanting their attention."

When he was in grade nine, Jimmy Ray was admitted to the hospital to be treated for depression. He remembers looking down at his wrists and seeing the scars. It was only then that he began to realize the extent of what he was doing.

His stay in the hospital was not long. "My parents suggested that I get counseling for my depression, but I declined," says Jimmy Ray. Instead, he overcame his problem on his own by avoiding knives altogether. To date, he has succeeded. He says that it was hard at first, and that he had to fight the urge on a daily basis. But as time went on, it became easier.

Kerri also managed to find a cure for her behavior, though it came from an unlikely source - her friend, Tom. "The thought of losing her was just too much to bear," he recalls. "I really care for her a lot and didn't want anything to happen. The only way I could help was by threatening to break my promise and tell her parents what she was doing. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life."

Kerri now understands what she had been doing to Tom, and how she put him through hell. "I didn't want to lose him... and he didn't have to say it, but I knew I would if I didn't help myself."

Kerri and Jimmy Ray have stopped cutting, but these behaviors can often last for 5 to 10 years or longer without proper treatment. "Sometimes all you really need is a good support system," says Kerri. "All I had was Tom as my main support. I tried looking elsewhere for help to start with, but all I found were cold stares and mocking disbelief."

The good news is that help is available. In 1990, the first S.A.F.E. program in Ontario was established in London. It is closely modeled on the original program in Chicago. Today, there are also programs in Toronto and Oshawa. The Toronto S.A.F.E. program, in association with the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, runs an 11-week educational group two or three times a year.

Ultimately, "cutters" and others who engage in self-injurious behaviours need to know that it's all right to seek help.

"I wanted to tell my story so that others would know that they are not alone, so that maybe I could help them realize that they need help and that maybe reaching out to someone isn't always a sign of weakness," concludes Kerri.

* The names in this article have been changed to protect the privacy of the people interviewed.

Vanessa Lyn Mann is 17 years old.

Further information on self-injury and treatment is available:

· The Toronto S.A.F.E. (Canada) program offers programs for self-injurers. Call Polly Gove at (416) 438-2911 ext. 3016.

· S.A.F.E. Alternatives operates a help line. Call 1-800-DON'T-CUT.

· S.A.F.E. in Canada web site:http://users.imag.net/~lon.safe/index.htm

· S.A.F.E. Alternatives web site: www.selfinjury.com

· For more a more extensive overview of self-injury, consult Bodily Harm: The Breakthrough Healing Program, for Self-Injurers, [Hyperion].

Squeegee Kids and the Homeless: Give Them a Break
By Hijal De Sarkar
Young People's Press

"Hey, bum, why don't you get a job?" shouts an irate motorist, head tilted out of the car window.

Listening to degrading comments like this is all part of a day's work for Ryan* and his street friend, Scott*.

Ryan and Scott are squeegee kids. And they're part of a growing contingent of similarly employed young people on Toronto's streets.

Now, with the introduction of new legislation that makes it an offense to ply their trade, they've become the targets of a police crackdown on street people.

Scott, Ryan, and Ryan's common-law wife, Jennet*, have been on the streets for the past two to three years. For them, squeegeeing is a way to help make ends meet. They earn whatever money they can by cleaning car windshields at major intersections. The money buys food and other basic necessities.

Ryan and Jennet are also trying to put a little money aside each week. They hope to save enough to get a marriage license and make it official.

The three friends are run-away youths who came to Toronto from rural areas in Northern Ontario. They came here to escape what they felt were horrible and sometimes dangerous situations at home. They thought that there was no place in their hometowns where they could go for help.

"There's a lot of support and resources in Toronto," offers Tommy Lee, another friend of Ryan's. Lee ended up on the streets when his gambling addiction spun out of control and he was unable to find support.

Although he now has a job, Lee says he is having a hard time finding an affordable apartment to rent. He blames the problem on the lack of rent control in the city. "Without any rent control, landlords have no reason to give a place to a guy trying to get help for his problems," says Lee.

And it's not just from other parts of Ontario that young people are coming. They are arriving from all over Canada.

"Toronto has an image of bright lights, big city. In some parts of the country, this means opportunity," explains Rose Cino of Covenant House, a major shelter for homeless youths.

With the housing crisis worsening, more and more people are flocking to the city's already over-crowded shelter system.

Some people are worried that the shelter system is a Band-Aid response to a long-term problem. "We've been very concerned for some time now that youths, in particular, are trapped in the shelters," says Cino.

It's a concern shared by Jennet. She thinks that many of the homeless who enter the hostel system end up staying there, with no incentive to escape.

Like many people on Toronto's streets, Jennet doesn't have much faith in the shelter system.

"I don't think any of the shelters are all that safe. You could get your stuff stolen," says Jennet. She knows only too well, having had items stolen while spending the night at a shelter.

And yet the demand for hostels is increasing. Stacey Bayne, who works at a shelter on the corner of Church and Richmond Streets, has noticed that more and more people have been relying on hostels over the past five years. She attributes this to a lack of affordable housing.

But merely opening more hostels is not going to solve the problem, say both housing rights advocates and those most directly affected. Like many of the street youths interviewed, Jennet thinks that a solution will come about only if the government starts building affordable housing.

When the provincial government eliminated rent controls, many landlords increased rents by large amounts. If your rent goes up, but your meager earnings don't - well, it's not hard to do the math - the outcome is often homelessness.

Meanwhile, life on the streets remains a twenty-four-seven struggle for the squeegee kids.

The stereotypes remain. As Lee observes, "People think squeegee kids are either drug addicts or alcoholics, and that they're very hostile."

"I don't know what I'm going to do. All I know is that I'm trying to make an honest living, and suddenly that isn't good enough for those #*@!#*!" exclaims Lee, who continues to work as many hours as possible to make ends meet.

And motorists continue to glare and shout profanities.

* The names of some of the young people in the story have been changed.

Hijal De Sarkar is 15 years old.

Just Say No
By Katie Bruce
Young People's Press

A simple puff. A simple sip. A simple death wish?

The scene of the crime is often the same: A group of kids get together for a party. You're the new kid in town and you want to fit in. Unfortunately, it is with the wrong crowd. The cool one of the bunch steps up and exhales a mist of death in your face. The phrase "take a hit" hangs in the air. So many thoughts race through your mind. You get tired of thinking. You crack and give in.

Congratulations! You have just been peer-pressured into one of the deadliest traps - drug abuse.

Did you know that marijuana contains hundreds of different chemicals? That's right. And with one puff they all enter your body. I don't need a breakdown of the various properties of these chemicals and how they affect the body. Just knowing there's such a large concentration of chemicals in marijuana is enough to throw me off. How about you?

Of course, there are many kinds of drugs - drugs you sniff, pop or inject with needles. Hmmm, needles. How would you like to contract the HIV virus from a contaminated needle? Sounds great, doesn't it?

I think that the issue of drug use among youth comes down to peer pressure and the desire to conform. I'll bet that most of the kids who do drugs today would never have tried them had it not been for peer pressure.

I have always looked away from drugs. In my opinion, drugs are for the weak. They are for those who can't handle life and its magical beauty. Drugs are simply a substitute for those who can't handle the real world. Can you handle it?

I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on life. I will never sell myself short. I will never underestimate my will power. And I will never do anything I don't want to do.

I don't need to be part of a gang. I don't need drugs, alcohol or weapons. And I don't want to be around people who do need these things.

Well, I guess I do belong to a gang of sorts. But it's a special kind. You see, I am part of the "children of the future" gang. It takes a lot of integrity to join this gang. It also helps if you have the encouragement of family and friends. Making mistakes and learning from them are part of the initiation process, too.

We, the children of the future, have rules and we follow them. We don't look for trouble. We don't have criminal records. We embrace each day and try to live it to its fullest.

Yes, this is my gang. If we fall down, we get back up again. We try until we succeed. We know that we have to be happy with who we are so we can help others.

We are in control of our own future. Sure, there will be guidance to help us along the way. But ultimately we will choose our own path.

We will shun peer pressure and do what is right for us. Those are our rules. Can you handle them?

Children on drugs, you are the children of the past. Come on - get real. You only live once. Why not really live life to its fullest?

So go ahead, peer-pressure me. Try to influence me. I dare you. We children of the future just say no!

Katie Bruce is 15 years old.

We Dont't Give A Damn

By Andrea Ebenstiner
Young People's Press

We don't care.

That's just about sums up everything there is to say about drugs and alcohol in the lives of kids that had such potential.

It doesn't matter if it screws up our future. We don't care that it ruins our so-called potential. The only thing that really clicks with us is now. Well, maybe we do have other concerns - like not getting caught by the police (who, I might add, seem to be quite oblivious about just how many people are getting stoned during school hours).

We haven't much guilt about lying to have things our way. As for parents and other supposed authority figures in our life, they only control us to a certain extent. And their power is a thousand times smaller than what these authority figures think it is. We steal, we shoplift, we vandalize, we get drunk, we get stoned, we skip school, we lie and we cheat. But it's what we don't do that best characterizes us: We don't care.

We party until the music, drugs and booze are gone - or until we've passed out. Then we phone home and ask to sleep over at a friend's house. Sometimes we get there, sometimes we don't. It really doesn't matter one way or the other, as long as we have our fun. The night is considered a success if we manage to avoid the intervention of suspicious parents or the police.

We will not listen. And even if we are forced to do so, the message will go unheard. We don't care - get it?

Teachers try reaching us with classroom television programs and guest speakers who are former junkies or alcoholics. Give me a break. Don't you know that we laugh at these appeals? Don't you know that we're an apathetic generation living in an indifferent era? You cannot influence us with your simplistic strategies. The more you try, the harder we laugh. If nothing bad has happened to us yet, it doesn't concern us. The only thing that matters is the present.

It's true that not all young people are like this. But here's a news flash for the parents of 'straight A' students, football stars, and other good kids who hang out with nice people: They're doing the same things on the weekends as those who don't quite fit the clean-cut, wholesome image.

What I say might sound cynical. And it certainly goes against the perception that some adults have about teens, that we're all happy, school-spirited people, and that only a small percentage of us consume alcohol and drugs. These views are based on misguided polls no doubt intended to ease the public's fears about rebellious teenagers. As if many of us are actually going to come forward and say, "Hey, yeah, I do various types of drugs and love getting drunk on the weekend with all my friends, so why don't you take down my name, inform my parents of my extra-curricular activities, and sign me up for rehab. Thank you very much for the insightful information. Now, I think I'll just join up as a volunteer at the recreation centre." Not likely. This scenario didn't happen, and it never will.

You can throw us in detention centres or put us in jail. You can bring us to court until the sun doesn't shine. You can try to help us all you want. But in the end, we'll figure things out on our own. Until then, leave us alone. We will party, drink, smoke, wreck, break, take drugs and laugh. You cannot change us. We will not let you.

Andrea Ebenstiner is 16 years old. She doesn't do drugs, but has many friends that do. She wrote this piece to provide some insights into the thoughts and feelings of a large segment of the teenage population.

School Can be Hell for Gay Teens
By Winston Ma
Young People's Press

I have this recurring nightmare. As I walk down the hall, I see a crowd of students circling what seems to be my locker. Bewildered, I get closer. Someone has scrawled 'FAG' in felt pen on the locker door. My classmates start giving me strange, scary looks and I know my life will never be the same again.

I know this could happen to me and to the many other gay youth who are forced to remain in the closet. We have to face the harsh fact that there are people out there who really hate our guts.

Imagine fearing that someone you know would enjoy beating you to a pulp - just because you are who you are. How does that make you feel? Miserable? Scared? That's how I feel every single day.

Walking down the hallways of my school I constantly hear students saying, ''Oh, that's so gay!'' or ''You're such a faggot!'' Even though their scorn isn't particularly directed at me, I cringe and at times, cry.

I want to yell at them. ''Are we (gays) so funny to you?'' But I can't. I'm too afraid to spill out my little secret.

One thing I've learned in this life is that I can't say anything about my sexuality. I know that I must act like I'm straight to people who don't know.

I've also learned that many people are afraid to actually talk to a homosexual. If they find out I'm gay, they start making fun of me and telling other people. Trust me, it sucks!

Somehow this person - let's name him 'Bor' - found out my secret. I don't know who told him, but he knew. Whenever 'Bor' said stuff like, 'That's so gay!, he'd look directly at me.

Then 'Bor' started telling other people. When a new student said 'Hi' to me once, 'Bor' suddenly said, 'He's gay.' The guy who had said 'Hi' muttered, ''Oh'', and turned away.

I was completely miserable.

It would help us a lot if more people could get it through their thick, ignorant and conservative heads that there are gay people in the world. And that we are no different than they are.

It's bad enough to have to worry about the reactions of strangers, but the fear many gay youth have of disclosing our identity to our own families is another dilemma we face.

I'm afraid that my parents could completely shut me out of their lives. They might kick me out of the house or deny my homosexuality, saying, ''it's just a phase''. They might be angry with themselves and think that my sexual preferences are their fault.

I hope that they will just accept it and live with it.

Thankfully, some of my friends accept me for who I am. I can say anything to them - even talk about the cute guy who works in Fairview Mall.

One friend in particular is completely honest with me. Once she asked me if I was happy being gay. ''I'm mighty proud to be GAY!'' I replied.

To tell you the truth though, at times I really don't want to be gay. It's hard to feel that you're different than most people and that there is a possibility that someone might hurt you just because of who you are. With all the added problems, it's hard for me to be just a 'regular teen'.

In the end though, I just have to accept who I am and be proud of that.

I'm gay.

Winston Ma is 14 years-old.

I know how difficult it is to be so young and "different'' because I went through the exact same thing about four years ago. When I was about 16 or 17, some idiots in school decided to prematurely `out' me, causing a lot of problems. I even received a couple of serious threats, which could have hurt me. I rose above it all, and finished school. But high school was horrible.

-Scott

I'm 17, gay, and attend a high school just outside Toronto. I would like to offer the observation that while some may accept us, the majority do not. It can be very dangerous not to be "normal''. I live this every day of my life.

-D. As a gay teenager, I understand the hardships many other gay/lesbian/bisexual youths have to live with. Being gay is sometimes not tolerated, especially in school. Fear of the many who are homophobic has kept me in the closet. It is my hope that one day we will not have to go through this kind of fear and hatred.

I believe there is a misconception about how someone becomes gay. Someone once told me to get a girlfriend soon before I turn gay. Well, I can't tell you how people become gay. I didn't choose to be gay. I think I was born gay. No one 'recruited' me and I cannot change.

All we can do is educate homophobic people and live as ourselves, our true selves.

-Kenny

High school is hell for any gay teen. But what you need to know is this -- and it goes for all teens. Be true to yourself, have respect for yourself. I can't stress that enough. You don't have to flaunt your sexuality, it's nobody's business whether you are gay or straight. Being true to yourself means not going out of your way to try and fit in with those who are labeled cool. You don't have to wear anyone's shoes but your own. Life has many roads to travel and you haven't even got on the highway yet. Take it slow. Merge into life with discretion, the respect you give to others will be the respect you earned, gay or straight.

-Cherie

I'm 18, and have known that I was gay ever since I was about 10. It wasn't until recently that I came out to my friends and also my parents. So far, all "coming out'' incidences have been great...people accept me for who I am, and I can express how I truly feel.

But I haven't come out at high school, BECAUSE homosexuality is not accepted. It is probably the worst place for a homosexual. You have to live two lives. One as a gay person and one as a straight person. You have to lie. You have to act like you're heterosexual when you're not. It also hurts to know that people can be so ignorant and close-minded. It was so hard for me to make friends and be social because I was so depressed. I'm still depressed but not as much as before because I don't have to fake as much any more.

I hate high school. I want out now. I've wanted out since I first started.

Do I want to be gay? No. I don't have anything against homosexuality, I would just rather be straight. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier. It really bugs me when people ask: "Why did you choose to be gay?'' I didn't choose. It's not a choice. It's something that I'll have to deal with for the rest of my life.

-Ryan

I was also in the closet throughout high school: it was a miserable experience. Now I teach: while my own school is very gay-positive, I've done many workshops across the province and know it to be the exception.

It's very important for teachers and administrators to set the tone in schools. Racist and anti-Semitic language is rarely heard inside schools, because students know it is not tolerated and would get them in trouble. Teachers need to be just as aggressive in intervening when they hear words like "fag'' or expressions like "that's so gay'' in corridors and classrooms. That's the only way the everyday verbal assaults will stop.

-Allan

I am a gay teacher now working at my old high school. The experiences of the young writer are similar to what I faced as a student: knowing that I was gay but being unable to admit it to anyone for fear of rejection and violence. I felt my feelings were sinful and that even teachers would dislike me if they knew the truth about me.

Now I walk the same halls as a teacher. I hear the words "fag'' and "that's so gay'' all the time. Students who are different or effeminate are labeled and derided. Of course, I do my best to stop this behavior, while some other teachers do nothing. But I still feel that I should do more.

What stops me is that I am a very young teacher working in a Catholic high school. When you teach in a Catholic school, your public life is supposed to be lived according to the teachings of the Church. If it became known that I was living a "gay lifestyle'' I could be fired. As well, being a young teacher makes it difficult since I worry that if the students knew I was gay I would not be respected.

Furthermore, if a student confided to me that he or she were gay, I would not be free to advise him or her on aspects of their sexual orientation that are not in keeping with church teaching.

I know this makes me sound like a coward. I do not stand up enough for myself or others who are hated for being what they are: gay. Friends ask me why I don't switch to the more tolerant public system. I answer that I am Catholic and believe in Catholic education. Why should I deny my religious identity because of bigotry?

One day I will be braver. One day I will be open about who I truly am for my students and co-workers to see.

-An anonymous Catholic High School teacher

As an out gay teacher at the Kingston Collegiate and Vocational Institute, I am very impressed by the young author of the article.

KCVI is not your typical high school. Our school is seen a "safe'' place for lesbian/gay/bi/trans students. Incidents of homophobia are rare. Many queer youth from other regional high schools transfer to KCVI because it is a much more welcoming and accepting environment. This situation is created by the wonderful school body, teaching staff, and a tremendous administration.

We have had politically active queer youth win the support and respect of their peers and really open the eyes of the student body. My life has been enriched many fold by the amazing queer youth who have called KCVI their school.

I often need to remind myself that queer youth and queer teachers across the province do not share sense of safety, security, well-being and acceptance that I do at KCVI.

-Michael Dinel

As an out gay educator in 1999, I know the comments and graffiti that are heard and observed in the schools. I also know that these are difficult problems to overcome as many staff members are not willing to deal with these issues for fear of being branded as gay or lesbian by their students.

I hope that the young writer of this article continues his brave walk in life as an openly gay man. Be proud of who you are, you are worthy, you are special, as is every one of us.

G.M. Stephenson-Jackman

The Old Bastard By Arleen*
Young People's Press

It happened one summer day a long time ago. The sun was shining. At least I think it was. Being only four years old at the time, I don't remember all the details exactly.

I do recall, though, that I was wearing my favourite outfit, a white, sleeveless dress with green buttons down the front. I especially liked the skirt, which was made of overlapping pieces of bright, mulitcoloured silk. It was so girlie and happy. I loved it.

As she often did when she had to work, Mom dropped me off at my aunt and uncle's place; since she and my father were divorced, Mom supported the two of us. I really liked going over to play with my cousins Dan* and Kim*. Dan, who was five years old, had a vivid imagination like me, and the two of us always amused ourselves easily.

On this particular day, Dan and I wandered over to the park adjacent to where my uncle was baby-sitting us. We had found a few old plant pots and decided to dig up some wild flowers to sell for a penny apiece.

At first, things were going well. I wouldn't say that business was brisk, but we managed to make a few sales.

Then, while we were digging up more flowers, an old man approached us and asked to buy one. The old man startled me.

I'll never forget what he looked like. He was very tall and thin, and wore a black suit and hat. He had white hair, pale skin and cold, icy blue eyes. But his hands are what I remember best. They had long, bony fingers, and were covered with old spots. To this day, the image I have of him is that of the old man from Poltergeist.

The old man started asking us questions. Because I was afraid of him, Dan did all the talking. The old man asked us if he could help dig up flowers. Dan said that it would be okay.

By now we had found a new place to dig, underneath the deck of a jungle gym. It was a concealed little area, barely noticeable from the rest of the park. But if someone had been able to see us it would have been an odd sight: two young children and an old man digging in the dirt.

Dan would occasionally leave to tend to customers. One time, when I was alone with the old man, he started commenting on my dress, saying it was very pretty. Then he crouched over me and asked where my panties were.

I thought it was the strangest question I had ever heard. Nonetheless, I innocently told him that I was wearing them. He bluntly responded, "No, your panties, where are they? You'll get into trouble if you aren't wearing any." Then he lifted the skirt of my dress.

I was scared, but frustrated that he wouldn't believe me.

Being Oriental, I had been raised to always obey and respect my elders, no matter what. I was a shy, obedient child, and the last thing I wanted was to get into trouble. So I showed him my underwear, to prove that I was wearing them.

But he persisted in asking where my panties were. Again and again he asked me. And I kept telling him, over and over, that I was wearing them. I remember feeling confused and fearful. I wondered why the old man wanted to know where my panties were. Couldn't he see that I was wearing them?

By then, I desperately wanted Dan to come back. Why was he taking so long, I wondered. I was very frightened.

This is where my memory becomes hazy.

My underwear had somehow come off and the old man was touching me. His cold, rough hands were touching my body in an area where only my mother and close relatives had when bathing me. But this was very different. I was not taking a bath. I was completely alone and this stranger was hurting me.

When Dan came back to tell us he'd sold another flower he found me squatting without underwear. Dan had always been protective of me, and must have sensed my fear. But the old bastard spoke to him like nothing was the matter, like everything was normal. Then he sent Dan off to do something.

I was alone again.

At this point, the old man jammed one of his long, bony fingers inside me. Never before had I felt so much pain. I cried and said that it hurt, begging him to stop. In my mind I was screaming, crying and howling. But it came out only as a whimper.

I do not know how long it went on. When the old bastard finally stopped, though, he told me to stay put. I don't think I could have run away if I had wanted to. I was completely dazed and unable to move.

At the age of four, you're supposed to have only sunshine and love.

But when I was four, an old man stole a part of me. He tore me apart and left me scarred for life, destroying my innocence.

After the old man left, Dan returned. He just stared at me. Or maybe he was talking to me, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. All I know is that I couldn't feel myself. I was in a kind of detached dream state. It seemed like I was watching everything from a dark corner.

Then the old man came back. Again he violated me.

I was hurting so badly and crying so hard that my mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings. But one feeling did stick out: I wanted my mommy.

The old man left again. This time I could hear Dan. He was saying, "Come on Arleen, let's go, come on! He's going to come back soon!" He said it over and over.

But my only response was "No. He told me to stay. He'll come after us!" And there I stayed; a four year-old girl shivering from shock and fear, crouched over and hugging her knees.

In the end, Dan was able to drag me away before the old man returned again. We ran for dear life back to Dan's house.

The next thing I remember is my uncle holding me. He was calling what I assume were the police. I don't remember anything after that. In fact, I don't remember thinking or talking about what happened to me that day for a very long time. It seems that I buried the entire incident until I was 13 years old. Since that time, I have occasionally had nightmares about it. I sometimes shout in my sleep or wake up with a tear-stained pillow.

Today, I realize that I'm too old to push it away and not think about it any longer. I have to deal with it. And that's what I'm doing now, 12 years later.

Arleen is 17 years old.

Youth mentoring fights youth violence
Ezra Houser
Young People's Press

Telling young people to behave or punishing those who don't is not the best approach to dealing with violence, say youth workers.

Natisha Ryner, 20, works for Violence Overcome In Creative Ensemble (VOICE). "It's better talking to youth on the same level. Youth talking to youth has a greater impact," she says.

When Ryner and other youth leaders sit down with young people, they make sure they don't do all the talking. "We not only give kids ideas and talk about non-violence, but we encourage their ideas and what they think about violence - and changes that they want," she says. "We incorporate their ideas and teach them at the same time."

Katherine Marielle, director of VOICE, explains: "At-risk youth need to be given just a bit of encouragement to say, `You know what, violence sucks - I don't want to have anything to do with violence.' They need to be given permission to say, 'I don't think that violence is cool.'"

VOICE has encouraged young people to create art, music and other forms of creative expression both as a way to process feelings and emotions and as a vehicle to share their views. When young people are given the chance to "speak out," says Marielle, "it's amazing what comes bursting out of them. Their hearts are with non-violence."

Youth Assisting Youth is another organization implementing proactive solutions to violence. Since the program started in 1976, 98 per cent of all youth participants, including many high-risk ones, have stayed out of trouble with the law.

The organization's approach is to partner at-risk youth - kids whose background makes them more likely to become violent offenders or who have serious difficulty adjusting to society - with older mentors who are screened to ensure that they can be responsible and committed.

Selwyn Thorpe, 25, has been a Youth Assisting Youth senior partner to one boy for four years. "I've noticed that sometimes I want to say, 'Don't do this,' or 'Don't be this way,' but I find myself drawing back because it's really not my place to tell him what to do," he remarks. "The best way is just to show by example what I think."

Not all youth are drawn to creative anti-violence programs such as VOICE or mentoring programs such as Youth Assisting Youth, but many other programs serve to address the same needs.

Sunni works at Gateway Café on the Danforth and Coxwell Ave., helping other youth find jobs. He was hired even though he has been in trouble with the law and still has court cases pending. Sunni says many youth form their values based on the limited experiences they have in negative environments.

"A lot of people come from broken families, where the dad beats up the mom, a lot of family violence. So they're brought up with it and it's like the only way that they know how to deal with a problem," he says. "A lot of criminals I met when I was in jail come from families where there's no encouragement given to the kids…and they seem to use the negative examples they got as an excuse for their own violent behaviour."

According to Gateway co-ordinator Diane Gatti: "Our clients are here an average of three or four months before we can get to the job interview stage, because we need to work through a number of different things." Gateway staff have helped more than 400 at-risk youth find full-time employment in the last two years. They know that youth see the hypocrisy of a society filled with problems, which nevertheless demands that they conform to standard behaviour - simply because they've been told to."

Given the chance to work through their own feelings in a supportive and respectful environment, young people overwhelmingly express a desire to follow a positive example.

Ezra Houser is 23 years old.

Violence Likely Begins At Home
By Negin Chelehmalzadeh Young People's Press

As I walk down the hallways of my school, past friends and classmates, I often ponder the question: "Can they be trusted?"

The scary answer is: "Who knows?"

I remember when the worst thing that would happen in high school was getting teased about your clothes, intelligence level, or lack of popularity. Yes, that was cruel. But things are getting worse.

I've learned that kids don't just tease anymore. Teasing has turned violent.

Students should feel safe in school, not fearful. Yet nearly every week I hear more horrifying stories about teen violence, about students being swarmed, held hostage or even killed by fellow classmates.

I ask myself why this is happening.

Reporters, psychologists and educational authorities say that much of the violence - at least in the U.S. - is a result of easy access to weapons. I don't agree.

The problem is not the number of guns being sold; it's that we live in a violent society. If you take the guns away, students will get bats. And if you take the bats away, they'll find knives. My point is that eventually the violence will show itself in some form.

The media, especially the entertainment industry, has exposed my generation to an enormous amount of violence. And the more violence we are exposed to, the less it effects us. We are becoming desensitized.

Hollywood's message is not that violence is wrong, but that it's the very height of "cool".

Take The Basketball Diaries, which stars Leonardo DiCaprio as a disturbed young man named Jim Carroll. In one scene, Carroll dreams about barging into his classroom and shooting his fellow classmates.

This scene did not affect me in a negative way. It certainly didn't make me want to act out violently. That's because I can differentiate between fantasy and reality. But not everyone's grasp on reality is as solid. Some individuals, especially those who look up to DiCaprio as a role model, might be horribly affected by watching such a scene.

In an ideal world, young people would not look to movie stars for guidance, but to their parents. Unfortunately, parents are not always there for their children. And when they don't get involved in their children's lives, these children will try to find attention elsewhere. They want to fill the emptiness they feel.

Parents should be more aware of their children's interests and activities. They should ask them about what they are doing at school and about whom they are hanging out with. Even if parents are working extremely hard to make ends meet, they still need to make time to listen, to understand, and most of all to love.

If parents show that they care, it won't matter as much if a child is not "Mr. or Ms. Popular." Because when that young person gets home, a loving family will surround him or her.

Then, they will learn to love themselves. And when people value and feel secure about themselves, they learn to value and love others, too.

For the violence to end, we need to accept one another.

I may not be the most popular girl in my high school. But my parents have taught me that popularity is not what makes a person who she is. Love, compassion, morals and values are what define a person.

We should make everyone feel welcome. If only we could realize that every person has unique feelings and needs, massacres like the one at Columbine High wouldn't happen so often.

When I heard the report of the killings in Littleton, Colorado, I was disgusted. It was a tragedy that could have been prevented if we as a society had been a little more considerate.

I pray that someday people will become more aware of the effects that their actions have on those around them.

Negin Chelehmalzadeh is 16 years old.

HOME