For several years, I worked as a counselor at a Youth Center in the southwestern United States. While the work had its rewards, it also had its drawbacks. I primarily worked with disadvantaged Navajo and Zuni youth, and ran a center for the Spanish youth who lived on the wrong side of the railroad tracks that divided the town. Poverty, family abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and poor educational opportunities made the work challenging. After twelve years, I decided to leave—partly due to frustration, partly because of the number of suicides among the youth I counseled, and partly because I knew too much.

The probation officer, a friend of mine, asked me to run a group session for him. It would be mandatory attendance, and I would have to give him a report on how each of his parolees participated. It was a tough group to work with, but after several sessions, I seemed to be making progress with some of them. One of my biggest accomplishments was passing a rule that prohibited smoking during the one-hour session. That rule held until… well, let me start from the beginning.

I got a call from the probation officer, who said he had a special case to send me. It was the son of the local sheriff, arrested with a group of boys for possession. His father wanted him to be treated like all the others so that the public would see he wasn’t using his influence to shield him from punishment. I agreed to take him for seven group sessions, but I was hesitant because I knew his history from some of the group members. They told me he was very domineering and acted out against all authority. I wasn’t looking forward to the next session, but I tried to plan it to be less confrontational than my usual programs.

He arrived five minutes late in his sports car. We had already done introductions when he came in, nodding to one of the boys, who quickly surrendered his seat to him. I welcomed him to the group and invited him to introduce himself.

“Everybody here knows me,” he said somewhat belligerently, sitting back in the chair and lighting up a cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying not to sound authoritative, “but we have a rule that there’s no smoking during group sessions.”

“Who would make such a stupid rule?” he asked, exhaling a large cloud of smoke.

“We all did,” responded one of the group members.

“Well, I wasn’t here when you voted, so let’s have another vote,” he responded confidently.

A couple of the guys voiced their agreement, and I could feel my face turning red as I realized I was losing control. “Okay,” I responded, hoping I still had support in the group. “How many think we should change the rule on smoking that we all agreed on?”

It was a unanimous vote, as everyone lit up a cigarette and started talking like gangsters among themselves. I dismissed the group early and went to the nearest tavern for a beer.

The following morning, I called the probation officer and told him what had happened, explaining that I didn’t want the boy back in the group. He was understanding but said the courts had ruled that he must complete seven hours at the center. So, he asked if I would consider seeing him for individual counseling sessions instead. I refused at first but eventually agreed to see him for an hour each week for six sessions.

The first two sessions were spent in silence while I worked on my records and he looked through magazines. The third session started the same way, but after ten minutes, he looked at me and said, “You don’t like me, do you?”

“No, not really. You’re a very selfish person, and you’ve damaged many of the relationships I had with the other kids.”

“So why are you seeing me then?”

“Believe me, I’m only doing it because your probation officer asked me to… but I doubt there’s anything I can do or say that will have any effect on you.”

“How do you know you haven’t already had an effect on me?”

“If I have,” I responded, “I don’t see it.”

“Can we get out of this office and take a ride?” he inquired politely.

We got into my car, and I started driving around town. He opened up a bit about his family life—his concerned mother and his tough-on-crime and drugs father, the sheriff. He directed me to a road I’d never driven on before, one that led to a mostly deserted area outside of town. The only exception was a large white mansion sitting atop a small hill.

“Pull over on this next dirt road,” he said, pointing ahead.

I did as he asked and saw that it was the service road leading up to the mansion. A sign on the fence said “Do Not Enter.” I stopped the car, and he got out to relieve himself in the tall grass.

“Do you know about that house?” he asked.

“No,” I responded. “It doesn’t look like anyone lives there.”

“They don’t… that’s where all the confiscated drugs are kept that my father collects from the dealers he arrests. My father and his friends sometimes have big parties there, and the unused drugs are sold back on the streets.”

Suddenly, I saw him in an entirely different light. He was a young man trapped in a living lie from which there seemed to be no escape, and the information he had just given me could put my own life in danger. I didn’t know what to say. We returned to the center in silence.

He came for the remainder of his sessions, and we ended our relationship on good terms. His final words to me came from a place he seldom spoke from: his heart.

“I don’t know how to get from where I am to where you want me to be, Wayne… and I doubt I’ll ever find a way out, but thanks anyway for showing me something better.”

I left town shortly after that, but I have carried the lessons I learned with me throughout my journey. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is an old cliché, but it’s a good one to remember when faced with books whose covers appear unappealing.