The Kid From the children's home who taught me the true meaning of "strength"... and how to choose a name for my son (featuring @hanshotfirst as author)

You never know when you are going to meet someone who will forever change the way you think about the world. I met someone like this in the summer of 1995.

From 1993 - 1997, I was a youth care worker at a children's home in Chicago. Not only did working at the children's home finance my quest to become a special education teacher, it taught me more about working with kids than anything I could ever learn from my professors. I learned quite a bit from my colleagues... but I learned even more from the kids.

Mercy Home is located on the West Side of Chicago. It's in a pretty nice neighborhood now, but it wasn't always that way. In the early 90s there was always a pretty good chance that you'd get to your car at 11:05 PM to find a smashed window, a pile of glass and one less electronic device in your car.

Honestly, it wasn't the bad. Especially when you compare it to the neighborhoods where its residents came from. Many people desperately wanted to get their kids into Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. If you did, you knew your child would be safe. You knew they would never be hungry. You knew they would not be pressured to join a gang... or be shot by one. You knew your kid would go to school every day and have someone to help them with their homework. You knew there would be caring adults there 24/7 to make sure your child was OK. You knew you were giving your children a chance.

Once the residents were accepted and moved in, it was up to the youth care workers to take care of the children. We basically had to do everything parents do. We made sure they went to school, did their homework, exercised, went to counseling and ate nutritious meals. We also held "family" meetings every day.

The meetings were a time for residents to discuss issues, make suggestions and COMPLAIN. "Why can't we listen to inappropriate rap songs?" Why can't we stay up later"? "Why can't I eat just dessert?" "Why do we get up so early?" You know, typical kid stuff.

When a new resident would arrive we would have a special meeting at which he would read his autobiography. There usually wasn't much to them. They would talk about their home, family, school and chores. They always seemed to toss in some kind of story to help establish their "Street Cred". These were never anything too scandalous (adults were listening you know). Kids would toss in something like "On the court they call me the bus driver because I take fools to school". Or they would talk about how no one messed with them at their last school "because they knew better". Although these autobiographies didn't provide the full picture, they encouraged the residents to reflect on their lives a little bit. After the official welcome, the boy became part of the family and lived his life like many teenagers.

One Friday, I was told that a new resident would be moving in on the following Sunday. My boss explained that this would be a very unique and tough case. Although my boss had never met the child, he had read the very thick and disturbing file about him. Basically, this kid came from one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, had a very rough family life, and was going to be a handful.

On Sunday, as I entered the home I braced myself to meet... Timmy Rodgers. I wondered what he'd be like. Would he be a rough looking dude who appeared more ready for prison than a children's home? Would he swear and threaten me like many scared kids do when they enter such a different environment? There was only one way to find out. I opened the door and my coworker Dory motioned and said "He's in the dining room". I entered.

I was shocked like I had never been before. There was no "handful" there. Instead, there was a skinny little 13 year old sitting at the dining room table... making a collage! He looked up at me and asked, "Are you Murphy? I'm Timmy. Nice to meet you. Do you want to help?" All the while he was grinning ear to ear. Two of the things I will never forget as long as I live are Timmy's smile and his strength. I sat down and helped him with his collage. We did a nice job (mostly him... he was very creative). It looked cool.

A few days later it was time for Timmy's autobiography. We all prepared for the typical and superficial story. Danny stood up, faced the group and began.

"I am Timmy Rodgers. I live in a crack house. I have to live there because when I was 5, my momma died in a fire. After that I lived with my granny until I was 11. Then she also died in a fire. After she died I had to go live with my uncle who is a crack head. He never has no money for food and he doesn't talk to me much. He don't care if I go to school or not. But I go. It gets me out of the house. When I'm at home, it's my job to clean up the crack pipes and beer bottles. He only wants me there so he can get a government check for me."

Then he sat down. Timmy wasn't lying. It was 100% true. More importantly, Timmy wasn't bragging. He wasn't telling this story to get "Street Cred". He was telling it because it was the truth and this is who he was. A kid who had survived a childhood filled with misery.

When he finished the autobiography, the room fell completely silent. Not a single 13 year old boy made an immature or negative comment (which is a miracle if you've ever been around eight 13 year old boys). It's a good thing they didn't. Because if they had, I was too busy trying to prevent myself from sobbing to intervene. I did let a tear or two roll down my cheeks, but I had to maintain as much composure as possible for the kids.

Timmy saw that we were all struggling... so he tried to help us out (Timmy was really good at helping out people in need). He knew people were uncomfortable so he let us all off the hook by saying, " Ah guys relax. It ain't that bad. It's not like I had to live with a Detroit Pistons fan." That's a great line when you know everyone listening is a rabid Chicago Bulls fan. The room exploded in laughter. Timmy gave everyone exactly what they needed.

Then all the kids gave him high fives, slaps on the back and "bro hugs". Timmy was their hero. Even 13 year olds knew it took a badass to crawl through the the river of excrement Timmy had and come out clean on the other side.

What he left out was how he managed to get accepted by the home.

You see, Timmy did go to school. He also did his homework. But his homework was hard, so he enrolled himself in an optional after school tutoring program. At this program he caught the attention of one of the tutors (how could he not!). This tutor had also volunteered at Mercy Home, so she told Timmy about it.

Timmy begged his uncle to let him live at Mercy Home.

"Please uncle! Please let me live someplace where I don't have unlimited freedom. Where they won't let me listen to inappropriate songs and I'll get in trouble for coming home late. Someplace where they wake me up early, make me eat healthy and exercise. Someplace where they will make me go to school, and won't let me do drugs. Please let me live someplace where they care".

His uncle said "No".

Still determined to get a shot at the life he deserved, Timmy hopped on a bus and rode it to the train. He got off and boarded a second train. Finally, he walked about one mile to the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. (He did all of this without the aid of GPS or smartphones mind you).He opened the office door, walked in and said, "I'm Timmy Rodgers and I really want to live here".

Thanks to the help of his tutor and her family, but mainly due to his own determination, Timmy was accepted to Mercy Home.

Timmy was not only his fellow residents' hero, he is my hero as well (and I mean today as a write this). That speech gave Timmy power. After that, the other residents would have followed him anywhere...and they did. Timmy could have lead them in any direction he wanted. Luckily, what Timmy wanted, was to help them become better people. Timmy showed them what a good student, a good friend, and a good leader looked like.

One time when the residents were complaining about chores and not getting enough dessert, Timmy (who was the 2nd smallest resident) stormed into the kitchen. He slammed his hand on the table and yelled, "Would you just shut up. Listen to yourselves. Look at how much you have here. We are so lucky. Now shut up!" It may be important to note that saying "shut up" was against the rules.

None of us enforced that rule that day... and all of the other kids shut up.

Timmy had taught them another lesson. This time, it was about appreciation.

After living at the home for two more years, his tutor's family decided to adopt Timmy. They had some pretty good lawyers and were able to make this happen. Their plan was to enroll him in a very selective and prestigious high school attached to the University of Chicago.

I remember my boss saying, "I love Timmy, but that place is tough. He'll never graduate from there".

Yet again, Timmy showed his strength and determination. Three years after he left Mercy home, Timmy walked across a stage to accept the diploma he had earned from this very selective and prestigious high school. Luckily I was there to see it.

So what does this have to do with my son?

12 years ago, as my wife and I awaited the birth of our son we "argued" about names. I preferred the name Nick because, "Nick's the kinda guy you can trust. Nick's your buddy. Nick's the kinda guy you drink beers with. The kinda guy that doesn't care if you puke in his car. Nick."

The only problem with that name was that my wife has an uncle named Nick (actually she's Greek so I think she has 6 uncles named Nick). It wouldn't have gone over very well with her dad if we named our baby after his brother instead of him. My wife, on the other hand, liked the name Alexander... but we couldn't decide.

Then one day after knocking back a few with my pals, I came home and sat on the couch with my wife. I became really serious (I very rarely get serious).

"Why so serious?", she asked (well it was before Dark Knight so she probably did say exactly that). "I figured out what to name our baby", I replied. I continued, "We need to call him Timmy because if he is half as strong as that kid, I know he'll always be OK. Let's call him Timmy. It will be good luck. I know it". I was clearly a little over served. What the hell does "luck" have to do with anything? Oh well.

My wife knew who Timmy was so she kindly said, "Of course. Perfect!" (My wife is pretty awesome).

A few months later our Timmy was born. After just one look, we knew we had chosen wisely.

Don't worry this story isn't going to end with something tragic happening to Timmy. I couldn't handle writing that.

I ran into Timmy at a baseball game about 12 years ago. He was in his 20's and was on break from the art school in Oregon he was attending. He was doing great! We talked for a while, then went our separate ways. Although I haven't spoken to him since then, I have heard that he is a professional artist and still lives in Oregon.

Hopefully our paths will cross again someday so that I can tell him that he is the kid from the children's home who taught me the true meaning of "strength"... and how to choose a name for my son.

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