The Boy Who Dreams of Babies

There is banda music playing loudly somewhere in the distance, an "Ay! Ay!" heard every few moments when I pull up my car at the group home for boys in Compton.

The house is on a quiet tree-lined street, seemingly far from the liquor stores and women in tight, cheap clothing I passed just minutes before. A Baptist church is perched on the corner of Hobart Boulevard, and a turquoise Neon, dents like pockmarks on its doors, is outside the house.
Once I'm led inside, a flurry of activity greets me. The staff member is annoyed I'm five minutes early, explaining that it's snack time. The boys, six of them, are lined up against a white wall to receive their snacks. A sign on the wall has a picture of a boy with slouched pants and a red line crossed through it. "This Isn't Black culture!" it reads. "This isn't black History!"

These boys are all on Probation, although I don't know the level of their offenses. I'm meeting with two of them today, with orders from their Probation Officer to enroll them in services. The first boy I sit down with still has a child's face. He is soft-spoken, and keeps his eyes downcast. I have to lean in close to hear him speak, which seems to make him uncomfortable. He tells me he's in an Anger Management class, which I find difficult to believe.

The second boy, a 17-year-old named Ernesto, is wearing a light grey sweatshirt like the ones you see at Juvenile Hall. The first question he asks me is if he can drop out of high school if he signs up for our program.

Our services don't replace school, I explain. You would still go to school during the day and come to our classes in the evenings.

Only twice a week, I add.

"Alright," he nods. "But like, I think I'm ready to get a job and be like, an adult. I'm sick of school."

But you're 17, I say. You're so close to finishing. And with your high school diploma, you'll have a lot more opportunities.

He looks skeptical.

Higher paying jobs, I say.

"But I'm not even close to being done," he tells me. "I got 9th grade credits. I'm behind."

That's tough, I say. But if you're serious about it, you can do it.

"You really get more money if you got a diploma?" he asks.

I think it will be much harder to find a job without one, I say. What kind of jobs do you think are available without a high school diploma?

He shrugs. I talk about tutoring my agency provides, job development, the differences between a job and a career. I can hear the group home staff shouting at the other boys about doing their homework.

"You ain't talking about math! You think I'm dumb? I said no talking until you're done!"

I ask Ernesto if he has a goal for himself.

He doesn't pause. "To be a dad."

I look up. To be a good dad? I ask. You have a child?

"Nah, not yet. But me and my girlfriend, we been talking about it. We're gonna have a baby real soon."

I've never had a teenage boy tell me his goal is to have a baby. I ask him if he and his girlfriend have discussed what it takes to be ready for a baby.

"Yeah. Like, you gotta have a job," he says. "That's why I asked you about that."

I ask him how much money he would need to make to support a child.

"Like, eleven dollars a week?" he asks.

A week? I repeat.

"Uh, or like, eleven dollars a month or something?"

More than that, I say. Much more than that.

"Alright, that's cool. I can make more than that."

I run through a list of items: car seats, diapers, strollers, baby food, changing tables. I ask if he knows how much each costs.

"Nah, but I got really good connects, you know? Like, I already know where I can get a free stroller. I got all the connects."

I press him. What if the baby gets sick? Can you afford medical insurance?

"Yeah, but I'm gonna be so protective of my baby. I'll take really good care of it, so it won't never get sick."

I ask him to think about the last time he got sick. Did you choose to be sick? Sometimes it just happens.

"Well, I haven't been sick in like, almost 2 years," he says.

I'm getting nowhere with him, so I decide to continue with the paperwork. I look down at the papers on my lap, and ask him where he sees himself in a year.

"With a baby by then," he says. "A baby is the only thing that's gonna make me happy."