Josh Shipp - The Grown-Ups Guide to Teenage Humans: How to Decode Their Behavior, Develop Unshakable Trust, and Raise a Respectable Adult

To Isaiah, my favorite teenage human: Im proud of you.

CONTENTS

T his book aims to help grown-ups who care for and interact with teens.

You may be their parent, teacher, coach, or grandmother.

They may be your kid, student, athlete, or grandson.

In an effort to write this book as prescriptively as possible, much of the advice and many of the situations are aimed at parents. However, the ideas can be customized to nearly any caring adults unique situation and relationship.

So for the rest of the book, lets use this shorthand, shall we?

Parent = any parent, educator, coach, mentor, or caring adult. In essence, you.

Your teen(s) = any teen(s) in your classroom, home, or care.

Thanks for doing what you do. Its my deepest hope that this book helps you.

S tatistically, I am supposed to be dead, in jail, or homeless.

Because I was a foster kid, my odds were already pretty bleak. About 20 percent of foster kids end up homeless. Less than 3 percent go on to earn a college degree. Only about half will be gainfully employed by the time they turn twenty-four years old.

In addition to that, I was actively working to worsen my already bad situation. I was stubborn. I was making stupid choices. I was marvelously bitter. All at the ripe old age of fourteen.

So what happened?

Rodney happened.

Before I moved in with Rodney, I had mastered the art of getting kicked out of foster homes with dizzying speed. I was like a lone wolf version of the von Trapp kids, driving away foster parents with my antics.

Yes, I just made a Sound of Music reference, and the point is this: Getting kicked out was my goal. In fact, I was so callous and removed from my situation that I made it a game. I actually kept a logbooka Mead journal composition book with a black-and-white mottled coverin which I would log the stats of how quickly I could get kicked out of each foster home.

Column 1: The date I entered the home.

Column 2: The date I was kicked out.

Column 3: The strategy I employed for getting kicked out.

The goal: Beat my high score, which at the time was less than a week.

The truth is, I was terrified, and my logbook gave me a sense of control. Because what kids dont talk out, they will act out.

I trusted no one. Especially adults. My birth parents had abandoned me when I was born, which is how I ended up as a ward of the state of Oklahoma. And because my first set of adults broke my trust by not sticking around, I unfairly assumed that all subsequent adults would do the same.

One night while I was living in a group foster care home, one of the older boys snuck into our room and raped some of the younger boys. Including me. No one stopped that horror from happening. No one stepped in.

Its tough for kids to live in a world where they believe that no adult is going to look out for them. It creates a terrible anxiety and loneliness, and everything feels uncertain.

Its hard to handle this kind of weight. At one point in my preteen years, I was bullied so much and felt so alone and worthless that I tried to end my life by taking a bottle of pills. I couldnt fathom a world in which I could trust anyone.

Again: What kids dont talk out, they will act out.

That was when Rodney happened.

One of the odd things about being a foster kid is that new parents are randomly bestowed upon you. Ten minutes earlier, these people were complete strangers. And then, ten minutes later, some social worker says, Josh, meet your new mom and dad.

I showed up on Rodneys doorstep the summer before my seventh-grade year. I was fourteen years old, and I had lots of baggage. Not luggageemotional baggage. Fourteen years of stuff that clearly wasnt Rodneys fault, though now it was his issue.

At first glance, Rodney seemed as though he was going to be an easy victory for me. He had no special psychological training. He had no certification for dealing with highly oppositional teens like me. He had no obvious or overwhelming skill or talent. He was just a portly midwestern man, shaped like a lowercase B, who happened to have narcolepsy. Im not making that up. Sometimes Rodney would just fall asleep with no warning. Like when your cable goes out inexplicably. Hed be awake, and then, night night.

This was sure to be my easiest opponent to date.

My well-meaning social worker gave me some parting advicesomething along the lines of Give these nice folks a chance, would you? Also, remember arson is illegal. I moved into Rodneys house and immediately began to implement my game plan: get kicked out of here ASAP.

I began with my typical opening overtures. I was obnoxious. I was defiant. I was ungrateful. I was rude. I stole Doritos from the school store. I got suspended from school for public intoxication on school grounds. I got suspended for the second time for hacking into the schools computer files to try to change my grades. I set things on fire. I stole Rodneys Ford Ranger pickup for a joy ride. I was a menace. A whirling dervish of mischief. This was some of my best work to date.

Three. Years. Later.

I couldnt shake this guy. Rodney simply refused to kick me out.

This pissed me off.

But remember that I am a foster kid, which means Id developed a certain brand of perseverance. After all, perseverance is merely stubbornness with a purpose. And now I had a purpose. Rodney was being stubborn, so I had to step up my game. Tip the scales.

I discovered there was a small town bank in Yukon, Oklahoma, where I could open a checking account. I deposited about $100 into the account. I then proceeded to write $10,000 or so of hot checks. I figured by the time the checks didnt clear, Id be in the clear. One of those hot checks was a payment for my car insurance. If you dont have car insurance in Oklahoma, the Oklahoma DMV will suspend your drivers license.

I was traveling to Stillwater, Oklahoma, up Interstate 35, where the speed limit was 65 mph. Going at least 85 mph, I raced past a police officer. I had no insurance and no valid drivers license. I was handcuffed and thrown into the back of the cop car and taken to jail.

I was on my way to becoming yet another statistic.

Now, once you are booked, you are allowed that one phone call. I called Rodney.

ME : Rodney.

RODNEY : Yeah.

ME : Its me. Uhhhh, listen. I dont exactly know how to say this, but I did something stupid. Im in jail in Stillwater. Ill explain everything later. Will you come bail me out?

RODNEY : (Long pause)

ME : Rodney? Rodney!? (I assumed the narcolepsy had kicked in)

RODNEY : Josh, I will come bail you out. But not until tomorrow. Good-bye. (Click)

I was so mad. But Rodney, who was a history teacher and middle school football coach, had a mantra he lived by. Dont bail a kid out of failure or success, cause you learn from both.

The next morning Rodney arrived to bail me out of jail. Just as he said he would. The drive home was incredibly awkward. And keep in mind, Id just spent the night in jail with strangers. You dont make small talk with the other nice folks in custody when youre seventeen years old.

As we pulled into the driveway, Rodney reached his arm up to pull himself out of the car and said, We need to sit down and talk.

And thats when I knew. Finally, after three years, Id succeeded. Id cracked Rodney. I mentally began to pack my things and make a new entry in my logbook.

Let me be clear: I didnt blame Rodney for wanting to kick me out. He was gracious and really tried. He inconvenienced himself for me. And I in return was ungrateful, unreasonable, and downright mean. Frankly, I would have wanted to kick me out as well.

Rodney and his wife, Christine, sat me down in the living room to begin the conversation I had heard so many times before.