when the gang men starts and the children ends

Today I revisited, through a video, a neighborhood in Lisbon. A place marked by struggle — where survival often takes harsh shapes and where many young lives have been swallowed by the streets. Watching it again reminded me not only of how far I’ve come, but also of how crucial it is to keep showing up for those still trapped. Now based in Dallas, TX, I work as a counselor in a Judicial Treatment Center that holds a contract with the Dallas Jail. Recently, I was urgently called to support one of our residential units. The situation was serious. The unit had been taken hostage by gang members. No one could go in, and no one could get out. The police were outside with dogs, surrounding the building. But instead of launching a full intervention, my mentor — the center’s director — had a different idea: “Call Ivone. Let her go in.” When I walked through the door, I immediately felt it. The energy was tense, charged. The men sat in silence, but it wasn’t the silence of calm — it was the silence of control. Their posture, their eyes, their stillness… Everything screamed resistance and power. They stared me down. One even asked: “Why are you here?” I kept moving forward. And I asked for a therapy group session. As we sat in a circle, I observed carefully. I could see who had influence, who others looked to for cues. I found the leader. So I turned to him and said, “Tell me about your childhood.” He looked at me coldly and said, “I’m not going to talk.” I felt the air shift. For a moment, I was thrown off. But I also knew — sometimes the breakthrough isn’t in pushing harder… it’s in meeting someone where they stand. I leaned in gently and said, “But I’m asking you for help. That’s why I asked you to go first — because as a man, as the protector, I know you're capable of leading others into something deeper.” It worked. He started talking. And within three minutes, he was crying. His voice cracked. His walls fell. And just like that, the group dynamic began to shift. One by one, the other men began to share. Stories of lost childhoods. Pain. Trauma. That gang atmosphere? It started dissolving into something human. Something honest. And all I could think was: How had this gone unnoticed for so long? How had no one stepped in before it got this far? I've always believed transformation begins with presence — with truly seeing people beyond their hardened surfaces. If more staff were present — fully present — they’d notice the patterns. They’d see who is connected to whom. They’d sense which loyalties are still active in silence. When I work with individuals from gang backgrounds, I challenge the outer behaviors — the way they walk, talk, hold themselves. These aren’t just habits. They’re armor. And if we want healing to happen, we have to make room for something else: Vulnerability. That day, I remembered something my mentor once told me — a tool I now believe is essential. Each man should call home and ask their family to send photos. Photos of themselves as children. Photos of their own kids, if they have any. And I would have them wear those images around their neck. Why? Because they currently see each other as gang members. I want them to start seeing each other as lost children. To reconnect with the innocence that once existed — and maybe still lives deep inside, waiting. Wearing that photo would make many of them deeply uncomfortable. And that’s exactly the point. Discomfort is the first crack in the mask. That’s where truth seeps in. Because before they were gangsters, they were children. And many of them still are — just hiding, hurting, searching for something to hold on to. They don’t need to keep proving they’re tough men. They need help remembering the child they’ve forgotten. That’s where healing begins. 04/09/2008 (Revisited, remembered, and still relevant.)