“You’ll get burnt out here. Guess my name,” he said. “It starts with M.”

A few “m” names later, a satisfied Michael said, “guess my age.”

Fourteen-year-old Michael had been in the home off and on since he was a baby.

“I’ve lived all over the world,” he laughed. “No, I’m just joking. But I’ve lived in three or four places. I move all the time.” He pointed in various directions toward the city, explaining the different homes he’d had.

A police man rode past us on a bike.

“Are the police kind here?” I asked him.

Michael just laughed. “Kind? Them?! You’re joking, too, right?”

“I’ve never met one here,” I said. “Have you?”

“Oh man. They’re not kind. You do something wrong and they whip you. They don’t care where. If it’s your leg, it’s your leg. If it’s your back, it’s your back. And you don’t do anything, you just take it ‘til they’re done.”

Michael told me more about his friend’s experiences with the police. His story came together in bits and pieces. Once, after leaving the children’s home, he’d contemplated joining their youth brigade.

“They send you out to make sure people are behaving. You go to the parks and watch people. Then you tell the police if they do something bad. But man. You better do what the police want or they make you do push-ups!”

“How many push-ups?”

“At least 50. Then more. And if you don’t do push-ups, you have to run around their building one, two times. You have to do what they say.”

“Did you like it?”

“No way. I left. You can leave if you want and come back. But if they kick you out, it’s good-bye. You can’t go back. Sometimes they send you here. It’s better here.”

Michael told me about the rules at the Children’s Home. He doesn’t enjoy school very much. And he generally behaves because he doesn’t want to write “lines” (sentences).

“I wrote 50 lines before because I left without telling them one day.”

A cheer erupted from inside. Michael’s eyes brightened. “The World Cup. It must be started now. Let’s go!”

I've thought about Michael a lot since that afternoon. I've been back in the US for nearly 3 weeks. It's a relief to come home even though it's hard to escape the guilty feeling of being one of the "haves" instead of the "have-nots."

It's almost easy to forget there are people here with lives like Michael's. But I only see them on TV, I don't sit across from them on the swings and shoot the breeze. I wouldn't even know where to find them, or if they'd talk to me.

My husband goes to Juvenille Hall every week to hang out with the "kids" there. I used to think I'd have nothing to offer them. But after listening to Michael and remembering the stories my husband tells me when he comes home, I know they just want (and need) someone to pay attention to them. To value them.