The Good, the Bad, and the Gwen | ✔️

32 - The Promise House

The Promise House is a giant box of a building sitting just outside the French Quarters. It reminds me of a high school art project; every inch of the exterior covered in intricate, hand-painted images less creative types might call graffiti.

An enormous jester decorates the wall on one side of the entrance, a three-pronged hat jutting away from his laughing face in shades of red, gold and blue. Meanwhile, the portrait of a white-masked woman—her hair adorned with exotic flowers—graces the opposite side. And just inside the massive doorway reads the mission statement: We promise to provide a safe and nurturing environment for at-risk and homeless youth, giving them the love and encouragement they need to reach their greatest potential.

Pride for Bastian and all he's accomplished surges through my entire body. Once an at-risk youth himself, he's now using his tumultuous past to relate to and care for troubled kids. It makes me love him even more.

Even Sully looks impressed. "Lady Bijou did all of this?"

I smile at the stage name. "It's Bastian," I tell him. Hopefully, after our visit, Sully will see Bastian the way I see him: as a thoughtful and amazing human being.

Bastian crosses the gray tiled floor toward us, a wide grin spread across his handsome face. "Welcome to The Promise House. I'm thrilled you all could make it!" He looks confident and comfortable dressed in khaki shorts and an untucked button-up shirt rolled half-way up his forearms. "First things first: I cannot take credit for the amazing artwork." He gestures around us. "It was created by some of the wonderfully talented kids who have come through our program."

"Even the outside?" Hartley asks, scanning the many framed paintings that trim the indoor brick walls.

Bastian nods. "All of it. Our community produced everything you see here. Incredible, isn't it?" He looks around affectionately. "What people are capable of when they're given the chance to shine?"

Given the chance to shine.

I like the way that rolls off his tongue.

"Community service usually refers to volunteering for causes in need," Bastian says to us, "and I'll make sure you get some hands-on experience before you leave. But what I'd really like to focus on today is education. Because the more informed you are, the bigger help you can be. Understanding how our work transforms lives and then taking that knowledge to teach others is the greatest gift you can give to us."

"Do all of the kids you help live here?" I ask. So far, I haven't seen any teenagers roaming around, just a smattering of casually-dressed adults behind a large counter, scurrying from one task to the next, while two others are stationed on a brown leather sofa in the lobby. There are notebooks perched on their laps, their pens racing across the pages.

Bastian nods. "Some of them, yes. But we offer so much more than safe housing. We're a full-service shelter, providing 24-hour emergency crisis care, counseling, education, and when they're ready for the next step, assistance enrolling in schools and universities. We also teach life skills and job readiness. And most recently, we've incorporated an outreach program to help fight against human trafficking."

A gasp escapes my lips. "Human trafficking?"

Bastian's expression grows serious. "Homeless youth are the easiest targets for traffickers. A child that's already been labeled a 'problem' or 'runaway' is likely to be written off as just that. By the time someone realizes they're involved in something dangerous, it's usually too late."

My eyes must be as round as ping pong balls, but that term—human trafficking—is something I've only heard of on TV. I know it's a real problem, but I always assumed it was something that happens in faraway countries. Not here, in the states.

My stomach folds in on itself.

Bastian drapes a sympathetic arm over my shoulders. "Don't feel bad. Most people aren't aware of the problem it's become—even when it's happening in their own backyards. Never be embarrassed by what you don't understand. Instead, make an effort to learn all you can about the world around you. It's a scary and wonderful place, full of joys and sorrows. Find your cause and make your mark. Be an advocate. That's the legacy we can leave behind."

As Bastian leads us through the central hub of the building, the ceiling vaulted above our heads, Hartley's gaze bores into him like a question mark. "How are homeless teens at a greater risk? Wouldn't they be more streetwise than the average kid?"

He pauses, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Traffickers take full advantage of the fact that there are not many shelters available for troubled youth. All too often, teens are forced to choose between sleeping on park benches or going home with strangers who are offering food and shelter."

"Does it happen to boys, too?" Sully asks.

"Boys can be victims, too. And they're less likely to reach out for help when they need it."

We exit the main room and enter another. This one isn't as large as the first but it's filled with recreational items: A plush denim couch in front of a large screen television, a pool table sitting off to one side. There's a long bookshelf along the back wall, its shelves spilling over with paperbacks, hardcovers, and magazines, and parked nearby is a table with four chairs, an incomplete puzzle arranged on top. Several desks line another wall across the room, each with their own computer and printer, and there's an area of several squat chairs nestled close to one another where I can almost picture a group of kids socializing. But right now, the room is empty.

"Where is everyone?" Hartley asks.

Bastian stops in the center of the room. "Some are in classes while others are still at breakfast. And we have a small group who're putting together bagged lunches for staff members going out this afternoon."

"You go out and find them?" I ask. "I can't believe all the different things you do here."

Bastian nods. "We go out every day searching for kids in need. Sometimes, they find us on their own, but there are others who are unaware that we're here or too afraid of taking the first steps."

"But if they're out there all alone, why wouldn't they want help?" Sully glances at me before going on. "Why would they choose to be homeless?"

I'm wondering the same thing. The homeless animals I volunteer with back home have no choice. Either they're born with no home or are abandoned by selfish owners who don't want them. But a person has the ability to seek help. Why would they go without?

"Because most of these kids have been through the ringer," Bastian says. "They all have different experiences under their belts and reasons why they've run away in the first place. And many have trust issues because of the adults in their lives. When they see other adults trying to get involved, their defenses go up. It's our job to connect with them first, hoping they'll eventually trust us enough to allow us to help." He smiles. "Come on, let's move on."

As we wander through the building, Hartley is unusually quiet. It's not until we reach a sort of cafeteria where some of the residents are finishing breakfast that she finally speaks.

"They look so normal," she says, her gaze locked on a girl wiping down a table. She looks about our age. "Like, if you saw them at a restaurant or out shopping you'd never know they were homeless."

I give her a funny look. "What did you expect them to look like?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe—" She readjusts the cardigan covering her sundress, her voice growing into a whisper. "They're lost. Just like me."

Her words needle the skin on the back of my neck. "You're not lost. I've got you." I wrap my arm around her waist and give her a squeeze.

I can't tell if she believes me. But when she turns away, something like sadness shadows her face.