Part 2: Life without a father

Second in the series

Thursday, March 2 - Fourteen-year-old Benjamin Jones has never told his classmates - or anyone else - how he feels about his father.

Like nearly a third of the students, Benjamin has had little contact with the man who gave him life. Now, he's put down the words in his diary, but can't muster the courage to read them.

So Vanessa Taylor, 14, whose own father died when she was 7, agrees to help.

She opens Benjamin's journal and begins to read aloud: "Growing Up Without a Father."

"I wish he was dead. When I was born, he was there, but after a while, he just left. He would come in and out of my childhood life... . My seventh birthday he was supposed to come. He promised me weeks before. I was so surprised and hurt at the same time."

Benjamin, a quiet boy in class who likes to dance to hip-hop and play football, remains seated and looks straight ahead as Vanessa continues.

"But I got older. I learned it would be better if he was not around... .

"But thanks to my mom and my sister, I'm a very smart, handsome and crazy but a good person without my father."

The 30 other eighth graders in the classroom at Grover Washington Jr. Middle School, in Philadelphia's Olney section, clap loudly.

Sitting at a desk among the students, teacher Michael Galbraith compliments Benjamin, who grins, revealing blue-tinted braces.

"That was most like the stuff in the Freedom Writers' book," Galbraith says, referring to the intensely personal California diary project that had prompted struggling students to love writing, and on which he based much of this class.

"It seemed to have that flavor," he says.

Seven of the 16 students who read aloud this March morning talk of growing up without a father.

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Trey McCloud, 13, a tall, broad-shouldered boy with glasses who rarely talks in class, agrees to read his piece, "Man Enough."

"You don't care about me or mom," McCloud begins. "You say you're a man yet... " The boy's voice trembles. He loses his place, and for a few seconds his words can't be heard.

"You don't even know my voice," he says, again finding his own.

"... When I become famous and have a family, don't you ever come and say you're a father. You don't deserve to be called a human, yet I will forgive you because I'm man enough."

"Wow, Trey!" Galbraith says. "I'm surprised you could read that. Very powerful."

Galbraith, who came to Grover Washington from a teaching job in Vermont, continues to be amazed at how different his own life has been from that of his students.

"The only experience we share is these four walls," says Galbraith. "After six years, I understand little."

Hanging over his classroom desk are his family pictures: Galbraith standing on a sunny beach with his oldest daughter on his shoulders; Galbraith and his wife in a pile of autumn leaves holding that daughter. There's also a card with "I Love Daddy" scrawled in red crayon.

Jelissa Jones, 13, steps up.

"Growing up without a father, it was hard. I remember when I was at least 5 years old, looking at my mom's picture albums, seeing pictures with my mom and this guy that's supposed to be called my father."

Her father had gone to jail for beating her mother when Jelissa was a toddler. She's seen photos of the bruises.

"I remember when I was seven, he wanted to be in my life, but that didn't last for long. The next day it was my birthday. He was supposed to take me shopping, but he only bought me one thing. After that, he didn't call to check if I was OK. He didn't even call the week after or the next month, but he calls five years later, saying that he has his mind right."

Galbraith looks at Jelissa and decides she is strong enough to handle a few questions.

"How do you treat this guy who has treated you poorly?"

"I treat him like he was one of my mom's male friends."

"Do you ever hope he rejoins the family?" Galbraith asks.

The girl shakes her head, no.

"That's probably a safe place to be," Galbraith says.

Jelissa later spoke of the relief she felt sharing her piece. "I'm not holding it back no more. I'm letting my feelings out."

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Writing about a traumatic event, illness or other troubling issue is a form of therapy called journaling. Dozens of studies have shown that writing has helped patients with a variety of ailments.

"Writing helps you to put something in perspective, move past it," says James W. Pennebaker, chairman of psychology at the University of Texas at Austin.

Less well understood, says Denise Sloan, who directs the psychopathology and emotion laboratory at Temple University, is the effect of reading diaries aloud to classmates, though she believes it has a lot of promise.

"One of the real advantages is the kids get a sense they're not alone in this. The social support network that can come out of this, that's a good thing."

Inviting deep feelings to bubble up can be a tricky undertaking. Erin Gruwell, the California teacher who pioneered the diary project in the 1990s, would sometimes refer students to counselors - something Galbraith also does.

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As his classmates read their essays, Jeremiah Robinson awaits his turn.

For the first time, the 13-year-old has signed up to read his diary, though he made sure he was near last, holding out the possibility that there wouldn't be time.

On his own in elementary school, he had poured his sadness into a diary, but worried about burdening his mother should she find it.

"I got rid of it, hoping all the problems would go away, but it doesn't seem like it," he says.

He has changed schools more than once after being beaten up, and at Grover earlier in the year, a student put a "kick me" sign on him, prompting several to kick him.

The bell rings, leaving unspoken in Jeremiah's diary:

"If there was one thing I wish I wanted was a father. Not money, a bike, or toys but a father."

ONLINE EXTRA

For multimedia shows of Trey McCloud reading "Man Enough" and teacher Michael Galbraith discussing the transformation of his class, go to http://go.philly.com/writing