………. “How on earth did you get into this line of work?” It’s a long story! Are you ready?
When people find out what I do, it is normally met with an interesting 'How did you get into that?' question. I do find it difficult to answer in one sentence. I have, after all, been training all my life to do this.
I was a really lucky kid. I came from a very stable home and my dad was not averse to the odd bit of Steven Covey material, so while most other children were watching TV, I was reading ‘7 Habits of Highly Effective People’. I was immersed in self-development from a very early age and was always led to believe I could be and do anything I wanted. I truly thought that everyone had the same sort of upbringing.
The truth, however, was far more shocking and affected me deeply.
My dad, sick of the local kids hanging around, started a youth club when I was about nine. I thought it was so cool as I was able to hang out with the big kids. Every Friday night there I was at the teenager disco and they all looked after me so well. They loved my dad and because of that they loved me too. I recognise now that he may have been the first person in these young people’s lives to care about them. I particularly remember two young lads, Chris and Tom. I thought they were the bee’s knees as they would sit and talk to me for hours, always making sure I was happy and even, on the odd occasion, sorting out people who were picking on me. They were the kindest, gentlest and funniest people I had ever met. I never remember feeling as alive as I did that summer.
I learnt very fast though that all was not as it seemed. I remember hearing whispered murmurings coming from the kitchen one night and my dad leaving in haste. However much I quizzed mum she would not tell me what had happened. I just knew something was wrong — I could feel it in the air. I waited up for dad for as long as I could but eventually fell asleep on the settee hoping that morning would bring the answers. Dad woke me early with a very serious look on his face. “Sarah,” he said sternly, “I need to talk to you about Chris and Tom.” It transpired that they had been arrested and, because of previous convictions, it was likely they would go to jail. I remember feeling devastated. I could not believe it; they were not criminals, they were my friends.
That day my life changed. I realised that people did not all get an equal chance, that some made decisions that were bad, not because they wanted to but because they did not know anything different. I sat in my bedroom and vowed that, because I did know something different, I would never ever be tempted to break the law, take a drug or do anything bad. I felt that I had to make the right choices for those that could not. From that day onward I have always refused drugs and I have never committed a crime. I really did, and still do, take the moral high ground because I did not want to let Chris and Tom down. So, many of the decisions in my life were moulded at the age of nine. Tom had always said that he wanted to go to America and work, so I decided I would go instead (and, sure enough, at twenty I worked at Disney for a year). I decided I would get married and have children late because Chris often complained about being a teenage father. I stuck to every promise I made to myself that night my summer was torn apart.
My teenage years were pretty uneventful. I was highly driven, highly motivated, challenging, principled and maybe slightly rebellious but I never did anything really bad – despite the long list of juvenile delinquents that I tried to save. I was a normal kid. I left school, went to college, went to Disney World to work and spent seven years of my life working in Hotel and Catering Management (which was a posh word for pub manager). Chris and Tom were far from my mind. I did see them once when I went back home but the drugs had done their work and they were like empty shells.
I had almost forgotten my calling; my promise to save teenagers was far from my mind. Then it happened. I was watching TV and something about rent boys came on and all the feelings I had that day when I was nine came flooding back. I was strong — I had to help those who were not. On the spur of the moment I made a decision. I was going to be a police officer. Now, as you can imagine, most people discouraged me (especially my dad) but I was undeterred and after a year’s selection process (this was the time when 10,000 people applied to the “Met” for 1,000 places), I got in.
Now I do have to say the police and I were never a great fit. While I was busy trying to save the kids, I felt that the rest of the “Met” were trying to lock them up. My entire probation felt as if I was fighting the system. After two years of dealing with young offenders like a conveyor belt, I just gave in and succumbed,. Don’t get me wrong, I did not forget my purpose, and the relationship that I had with most of the local youths was second to none. They told me things that perhaps they shouldn’t have and that I was too nice to be a copper. I had no time, however, to save them … that was until I met Luke.
Luke was funny, humorous, handsome and gregarious. He had bright skin and big blue eyes that always had a mischievous glint in them. He was also a persistent offender. It felt as if I spent more time with Luke than I did with my own family. His ins and outs to the police station spanned over a two-year period. As time went on his eyes became grey and his skin sallow.
His humour seemed to pack its bag, his looks went down the drain and gregarious turned into downright annoying. It did not matter what I did, I could not stop him offending.
One day I led Luke from the police van to a prison cell. That was the last time I saw him because later he took his own life. Luke was disengaged, de-motivated and apathetic about life. He had no adult to guide or support him. He felt a failure. I felt helpless and useless, unable to make a difference. I had failed again. I spent weeks not knowing what to do. I wondered if it really was possible to change things. Where had I gone wrong? What was I to do? I then remembered something that my dad used to say, “Sarah, everyone has a gift, when we find it we have cracked it.” I realised that was what I needed to do; I needed to look for the gift in each young person I saw. So when young offenders came my way I began to ask different questions like “What drives you in life?”, “What is important to you?”, “What are you passionate about?” I began to look at them differently. I began to see young people in front of me who had purpose, drive, motivation and, of course, a special gift. I remember this one boy who, in three months, turned himself around and began teaching other kids about the dangers of cocaine just by me asking him “What is the gift in this situation, what can you give the world?” I had finally found the key to unlock these young people from their patterns, perspectives and their miserable lives.
The rest really is history. I spent the next nine years of my life after that moment getting through to young people who had previously seemed unreachable. My passion was eventually born into a business and, as I said, the rest is history.
When I see young people now, I really do see the gift they are to the world, the gift they can give the world, the gift of hope they can give themselves. So the next time you are on the street and see a gang of teenagers will you cross over? Will you ignore them? Will you check your bag whenever a teenager walks by? Will you believe everything you read in the press or will you be brave and look for the gift? Look for the gift and you will find it, look for the gift and you will see things in our young people that you have not seen before. Look for the gift in your own teenager and you will be overwhelmed with their greatness, and if you think they haven’t got one, look again — it’s not them, you’re just not looking hard enough.
