CHAPTER 3

Sage has been quiet since our lunch was delivered, and I'm just eating my paella when she asks, "Peter, what does it mean to be successful?"

"You know, someone who's successful is rich or famous," I respond.

"Am I rich or famous?"

"Uh-uh, I don't think so."

"That's right. So you'd say I'm unsuccessful. Do I understand you correctly?"

"Huh?" She caught me by surprise. "Uh-uh, I didn't say that."

"But it's the logical conclusion of your definition of success. First you said successful people are rich or famous, and then you confirmed that I'm neither rich nor famous. Logically that means I'm not successful, doesn't it?"

I had to think quickly. "I don't like these questions. What do you call this again?"

"The Socratic method," she reminds me. "Named after the Greek philosopher Socrates, it's a method of determining a logical answer to a question."

"Learned that in law school?" I ask.

She hesitates before answering. "Yeah," she says.

"Well, I haven't gone to law school," I remind her, "so you can stop picking on me now."

She pauses a few seconds before responding. "It doesn't matter that you didn't go to law school, and I'm not picking on you. Questions are the engines of thought. Answering questions forces you to think for yourself." She pauses again. "But to prove I'm not picking on you, instead of asking I'll give you the answer. OK?"

I nod my head. Sage takes advantage of teaching opportunities whether I want to learn something or not. At first I just pretended to listen, but now I actually listen, although I don't always understand right away.

"A successful person is someone who's happy with her life. In other words, a successful person is employed doing those things she likes to do that provide a source of fulfillment and satisfaction. Now that's the correct definition of success. Got it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Then let's give my questions another try."

I groan my response.

"Peter, do you think I'm successful?"

"Uh-huh," I answer.

"Why?"

"Because you've gone from foster care kid to lawyer."

"Thanks for the compliment, but that's merely an accomplishment. Let's try again: Am I successful?”

I delay, trying to think of an answer. Finally, remembering the definition of success, I reply, "Before I can answer, I have to know if you're happy being a lawyer."

"Excellent answer!" she booms, slapping the table and rattling the glasses. "Now you're thinking. Of course you need to know if I'm happy, because, like I just explained, that's the definition of success. So to answer your question, yes, I'm happy with the choices I've made."

"Then," I state confidently, "you're successful."

"Most excellent. See, thinking isn't so difficult. Now let's try another question." No groan this time, so she presses on. "How'd I know I'd be happy as an attorney? In other words, why'd I pick law as my profession?"

I think for a moment. In fact, I think real hard. But an answer doesn't surface. "I don't know how a person decides what will make them successful," I finally say.

"Understandable," she replies. "I really didn't expect you to know. Few adults I've spoken with have what I think is the right answer. Some time ago, I realized that many unhappy adults in the world don't know the answer to that question." I hear her take a few bites of her paella before continuing.

"I tell you what," she says, gaining momentum. "We need to get you home by seven o'clock. On the ride back, I'll explain a method by which you can determine the direction for your life, the direction that will provide you with success."

"Uh-uh, not so fast," I stall. "I'm just now in high school, remember? I'm only fourteen, and I have lots of time before I have to make those kinds of decisions."

She quickly jumps me: "No you don't, Bucko." She is usually fired up or I'm in trouble when she calls me "Bucko."

"The last thing you need is to age out before you graduate high school. I bet you never logically thought about this, have you?"

"Logically, thought about what?"

"Aging out."

I hesitate before responding. "Uh-uh, I don't guess so."

Sage's Journal
Age 17
Roselle Park, NJ

One day you're in high school hanging with your friends and dreaming large. The next day -- shit! You've turned eighteen, and you've aged out of the system. You're now on the streets and your bed has been given to a younger foster kid just as scared as you. … Maybe the laws will change some day, but right now I feel like a virgin the village elders are sacrificing to their stone idols.

…it should be no mystery why so many of us drop out of high school, earn poor salaries, and struggle through life: We're ripped from high school and drop-kicked into adulthood without the confidence, resources, or skills to succeed and prosper. … Yesterday we at least had food, shelter, and a chance at a high-school diploma. Today we're standing hungry, cold, and stupid on the street corner. It's obvious to me that no one can afford to age out without at least a high-school diploma.

Sage's Journal
Age 27
Decatur, GA

…new foster care laws granting an extended stay in the system after teens turn eighteen are intended to help avoid the aging-out problem. While the average foster teen wants nothing more than to escape foster care and start a new life, they better not try it without a high school diploma in hand. … In many states, they can now remain in foster care a while after their eighteenth birthdays if they're in their senior year and it looks like they'll graduate. And in many states, they can get help with transitional living, and get vocational training or go to college. … Talk about a sweet deal; finally some lawmakers are beginning to pay attention!

Sage's Journal
May 13, 1988
Decatur, GA

The other way to avoid the aging out/dropping out problem is the path I took: graduate from high school in three years instead of four years. That means an accelerated schedule-which anyone can do if they put forth a little effort. … No matter which route one takes, a successful transition out of foster care requires making a plan that includes an intelligent career choice, even if it's a short-term choice, during the freshman or sophomore year of high school.

Sage's Journal
May 20, 1988
Decatur, GA

…by knowing what kind of vocation or profession they should pursue, the foster teen can plan their high school schedule for college or vocational training. Also, they can figure out how to get all the class credits they need to graduate before they age out. Most of their classmates don't yet have to worry about these adult decisions, but foster teens are in a situation that's only reversed by getting the jump on a system that frequently has them set up to fail.

I try to soak in what she's telling me, but it feels too big. "I'd rather deal with this later."

Sage responds in a tone delivered with a heavy heart. "So would everyone else in your situation, and most live long enough to regret the delay. I'm sorry, Peter, but you can't stop the fact that in just a few years you're going be on your own. That's every foster teen's reality and nightmare. Those who aren't prepared are going to get crushed by life. Just look at all the runaways and eighteen-year-olds fresh out of foster care who are prostitutes, stoners, or prisoners, have kids of their own they can't take care of, or are dead. On the other hand, if you're prepared, you're golden."

Sage's Journal
June 5, 1988
Decatur, GA

…he didn't say anything; he just looked scared. I didn't intend to frighten him, but neither am I going to lie just to protect his emotions. He needs to understand he can't hide or run from his fate. … Instead, like a boxer in the ring, he has to defeat his attacking opponent before it defeats him. When I saw his fear, that's when I knew I had my opportunity.

"I'll make a deal with you," she proposes. "Let's call it an experiment. If you'll trust me to help you, I'm certain I can guide you through aging out as smoothly as I steer you on the tandem."

I'm confused. "What do you mean an experiment?"

"Just that," she replies. "Although I made a long and difficult transition into a successful adulthood, along the way I figured out how to make the transition faster and easier. But since I haven't yet helped someone else make the transition, I'd call guiding the first person through an experiment. If it works, then we can call it a path to success."

"Supposing you screw…"

She barks her answer before I finish. "First, it won't be me, it'll be us. What if we screw up? If we screw up, we'll fix whatever problem pops up just like we do when we're on the tandem."

At least she didn't call me "Bucko".

"When we started riding the tandem," she continues forcefully, "we were terrible. Frankly, I wasn't the problem. I could ride just fine by myself, thank you very much. The problem was us together. But remember that as you became more confident, we rode better. Once you trusted me, we suddenly became very good together. Now we easily hammer through traffic at thirty miles an hour. Hell, crashing at fifteen could kill both of us. We both know you already trust me on the road; otherwise, you'd never clip in. After trusting me to steer you through city traffic for over a year, when you literally can't see where we're going, trusting me to help you make a successful transition into adulthood should be cake. I think you've got nothing to lose and everything to gain."

I become introspective, just like everyone whose experience has taught that the promise of an extended hand often disappears at the first sign of actual need. But Sage might be right. She has proven herself with the tandem, so I should not be afraid to give her a chance with another area of my life, especially an area I know nothing about, an area in which she has proven herself successful.

"All right," I mumble. "Just please don't be wrong."

She tries to assure me. "Believe it or not, I want this to work even more than you want it. I want all of us to be success stories." We shake hands to seal the deal, but finish our lunch in silence.

We walk back to the parking lot. As I start to put on my helmet, something catches my attention. I stop and sniff the air, feeling kind of silly because I know I look like a dog checking for some distant barbecue. "Where's that smell coming from?" I demand.

"What are you talking about?"

Slowly inhaling, I turn in a circle. "I'm not sure, some kind of spice. Cinnamon maybe?"

"Probably incense wafting from Junkman's Daughter. The door is open, and it's about forty feet at nine o'clock." Whenever she tells me where something is, it's in terms of distance and direction. She tells me the approximate distance in feet, and the direction as if my arms were hands of a clock and whichever direction I face is twelve o'clock. From that shorthand description, I know the front door of Junkman's is a quarter-turn to my left and forty feet away.

"Uh-huh. I want to buy some," I announce.

"OK. Why?"

"For Suzanne," I reply. "I'm going to the concert with her and Mike tonight. I think incense would be a nice gift -- it isn't as serious as flowers."

"OK, you know the routine."

We walk over to the store. I stay with the tandem while Sage goes in to get a salesperson. When we are out riding, one of us always stays with the tandem. If I want to go into a store, she goes in first to find a salesperson and explain to them that I will need some extra attention. Everyone is always great about helping, and Junkman's is no exception.

Sage's Journal
June 5, 1988
Decatur, GA

…the sales clerk I found was named Maia. She looked no older than eighteen, although she tried to hide her age behind dyed green hair, a pierced nose and eyebrow, and black platform boots with a red leather mini-skirt/halter top combination. The dragon tattoo on her back looked fresh. Her eyes were such a translucent blue that I wondered if she wore colored contacts. She followed me outside, where I introduced her to Peter, who explained what he wanted. Wasting no time, she hooked her arm through his, and the two of them retreated to the store.

It took forever before they emerged, still linked by the arms and laughing. Maia was carrying a white bag with the purple and black Junkman's logo. When they reached me, she smoothly unlocked their arms and rested his right hand on the rear bars of the tandem, as if she'd made that move a thousand times, then placed the bag in his left hand.

"So pleased to meet you, Peter," she said in her sultry voice. "Come back soon. I'm always here on the weekends." Me? I was invisible to both of them. "Bye now," she said, slinking back behind the veil of music and incense.

"Bye," he stuttered back. Finally he remembered to yell "And thanks." I let him stand there, following her with his imagination, before interrupting his fantasy.

"Yo!" I hear Sage. "Anybody home?"

"Where are you?" I reply.

"Down here, Romeo. Sitting on the curb waiting for Your Majesty to return. Did you get what you wanted?"

I think for a minute. "Yes and no. I think that place might be a portal to another world."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'm not sure. Just different vibes in there."

"How much did they charge you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" she said, surprised.

"Uh-huh. She said, 'no cost because you're so cute in cycle shorts.'"

Sage's Journal
June 5, 1988
Decatur, GA

…I ran my gaze over him. Cycling had helped him develop muscular legs and a butt that, I suppose, looked good in spandex. But that's not for me to tell him. Better that news comes from someone closer to his age. "I don't want to know any more, thank you," I said. "Let's get moving."

He slipped the bag of incense into one of his cargo pockets and clipped in. The twenty-plus-mile ride back to his foster home passed quickly as I explained the method by which he, or any other teenager, can correctly choose a successful direction for his life.

Socratic Method questions for Chapter 3

Understanding the Guide