Tell Dr. Bob all about it

[Times photos: Scott Keeler] Dr. Bob Porter leads a therapy session at Fitzgerald Middle School in Largo. Among the participants are, left to right, Meaghan Deacon, 13, of Pinellas Park; Shane Arrant, 12, of Pinellas Park; and Paul Stewart, 14, of Clearwater.

By LANE DeGREGORY
© St. Petersburg Times
published February 20, 2003

At a middle school in Largo, troubled kids vent their frustrations and anxieties to a sympathetic ear.

LARGO -- They slouch into the room, shuffling slowly, wide bell-bottoms dragging over dirty sneakers. They hover, uncertain, behind a semicircle of plastic chairs. It's Tuesday, fifth period at Morgan Fitzgerald Middle School.

Time for group with Dr. Bob.

"All right, everyone. Let's take a seat and get started," he calls, sliding a chair to the center of the circle.

Paul and Shane drop their backpacks between their feet and pull up chairs across from him. Meaghan sits beside Shane. She knows him from last semester.

The two new guys study the floor. "It's okay," Dr. Bob says.

So the tall guy with red hair hoists himself onto a desk. He lies down on one side, propping himself on his right elbow. He might have to be here. But he doesn't have to sit with these kids . . . does he?

"It's okay," Dr. Bob says, nodding.

The other boy, the one in the gray hooded sweat shirt, slumps into the end seat, farthest away from everyone. He pulls his knees into his chest. Drops his head over his lap. Then he yanks his hood over his face, a turtle retreating into its shell.

"Okay, so what are we all doing here?" Dr. Bob asks brightly. The sullen students shuffle in their seats.

This isn't exactly easy.

They didn't ask to be here.

They were sent here by their counselors, their teachers, their parents.

They're part of a sort of Breakfast Club, like the one from that mid '80s movie where kids who had gotten detention had to go in on Saturday. (Only this group meets from 2 to 3 p.m. every Tuesday in a sort of anteroom to a vocational classroom, behind a wall of metal shelves.) And these kids aren't in trouble.

They're troubled.

They're members of the only group therapy program in Pinellas County public schools.

Popular kids sit next to outcasts. Smart kids get advice from slow ones. Bullies have to be kind to the kids they pick on. "We used to split these sessions up, separate groups for anger management and confidence building," Dr. Bob says. "But we found that kids with tough skins will encourage others to be more assertive."

So now the victims sit next to their aggressors. The accused face their accusers. And Dr. Bob calls the session, simply, Stress Management.

"Adolescence is a terribly stressful time," he says. "These kids need someone to acknowledge that their lives are hard."

Meaghan Deacon tells the group about a project in one of her classes. She thinks another student cheated on it.

Bob Porter is a psychologist and therapist from Directions for Mental Health in Clearwater. Three years ago, he got a grant from the Florida Department of Justice to help middle school students. Three times a week, students from four Pinellas County middle schools rode buses to his office on Belcher Road. He was seeing more than 50 students a week, in small groups.

Then the money ran out. So Dr. Bob contacted the Juvenile Welfare Board and got enough funding to continue at one school: Fitzgerald Middle. Now, he comes to the kids.

Paul Stewart has a friend who’s not speaking to him, and he’s not sure what to do about it.

Paul's friend told his friend Anna that he thinks she's annoying. Now Anna won't talk to him. He has no clue what to do.

Shane's friend swiped three Yu-Gi-Oh! cards from his backpack. They haven't talked for, like, two months. So he knows how Paul feels.

And this girl in Meaghan's class, she cheated on her Junior Achievement poster. Her grandpa helped her do the drawings. That's not fair.

"So I told my teacher. And she gave that girl's group first place anyway," Meaghan says. Tears tinged with charcoal eyeliner are streaking down her flushed cheeks. She swallows. Tries to smear them away. "But that's not what really upset me today," she says.

The five students take turns and interrupt each other, talking about being kicked in the cafeteria. Being thrown off the basketball team. Being stalked by a stranger outside Taco Bell.

It's all so scary. Everything is equally upsetting.

Adolescence can be so unkind.

Some kids come because they're having trouble dealing with their parents' divorce, or remarriage, or stepsiblings. Some come because their mom died or their dad's in jail. Or because they keep beating up other kids at the bus stop. Or because they keep getting beat up. Or just because.

"I get kids who are so quiet and depressed, they never say a word. And kids the school deputy keeps having to subdue," Dr. Bob says.

"I try to make them all feel safe here. I want them to feel free to talk about whatever they need to."

Guidance counselors at Fitzgerald Middle say that no stigma is attached to Dr. Bob's sessions. The students get out of class one period a week. But their peers seem to be envious, rather than ridiculing them, counselor Linda Carlson says.

"We've even had students come to us to refer their friends who they think might need help," she says. "They all know about Dr. Bob's group."

Paul is scared that this girl Anna might turn his other friends against him. Or, worse yet, jump him in the hall and pin him against the snack machine. "I don't want to resort to violence," he says, shoving his wire-rim glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But I don't know . . . "

Shane Arrant tells Paul he knows how he feels. He and one of his friends haven’t spoken in a couple of months.

The redheaded new guy rises slightly on his elbow. Wrinkles his forehead. "Well is she, like, a really good friend?" he asks hoarsely.

Paul looks at him. He answers slowly, staring at his sneakers. "Well, she's someone I hang out with sometimes," he says.

The sweat-shirt hood stirs. The turtle turning in its shell. "So, do you LIKE her like her?" a low voice asks from inside.

"Not like that!" Paul protests.

"Then I really wouldn't care about it," Shane breaks in. "Just ignore her. Find another friend to hang out with."

"Yeah," Meaghan agrees sagely. "I've had stuff like that that's lasted for years."

Dr. Bob nods from his seat in the center.

"Some people are like that," he says.

"Now, Meaghan, was there something else you wanted to share with us?"

They talk about what makes them mad. What they want from the world. They complain about teachers, parents and so-called friends.

They listen to each other. Say they've been there, too.

And in the tight semicircle behind the metal bookshelves, kids who would never acknowledge each other on the playground help each other learn life lessons.

"Middle school students tend to feel so isolated, so alienated. All kinds of little stresses are amplified and caught up with emotional issues," Dr. Bob says. "I try mostly just to hear them, really hear them, and make sure the other kids in the group do, too.

"Mostly what these kids want -- and need -- is to have other students affirm they're okay."

So after Meaghan told her teacher that this girl's grandpa had helped draw the poster and her teacher gave that girl an A anyway, Meaghan overheard that teacher talking to that cheating girl after class.

"She was saying, 'Don't worry about her. She's just jealous because you won,' " Meaghan says, sniffling. "She was talking about me, of course."

Meaghan glances around the room with wide, wet eyes. "I wasn't jealous," she protests. "I just know that's not fair. And that teacher really hurt my feelings."

"Teachers shouldn't do things like that," Paul says, shaking his head.

"That girl shouldn't have won," Shane sympathizes.

The newcomers don't say anything. Dr. Bob leaves a short silence. Then he turns to Meaghan. "Well, I guess maybe you shouldn't have said anything, huh?"

Meaghan's mouth drops open. She swipes at more tears.

Shane jumps up next to her. "No way!" he cries. He turns to the other students, scanning their faces for approval. "If it'd been me, I would've gone back and told that teacher off. She deserved it."

"Yeah," the redhead agrees.

Dr. Bob looks up, pleased with even that much participation. "Well, why do you think people do that? What makes people act like that?" he asks.

No one answers. For more than a minute, the room is quiet. Then the sweat-shirt hood stirs in the corner. "Because the whole world's rotten," the disembodied voice says.

Dr. Bob swivels in his seat. Rides this strange segue.

You never know what magic words might open shut shells.

"Is it?" Dr. Bob asks, scooting his chair closer. "Is that what you think? Is that why you're here?"

The sweat-shirt hood tips up. The boy's face is shadowed. But at least he's looking out now. "My family is boring," he announces.

"Well," Dr. Bob says sympathetically. "Boring can be stressful, too."

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