So I spent some (nearly two years) of my teenage-hood in juvi. Girls only. I’m going to tell you now, it’s not like in the movies. There’s nothing sexy about an agglomeration of delinquent females playing cards all day in their over-sized pajamas. There’s nothing “cool” about it, and it’s nowhere near funny. I mean yeah, a couple of brawls here and there, drug smuggling whores and group-flirting with the 50 year old janitor, but really, overall, a huge bummer filled with the biggest weirdos and most fucked-up bitches I’ve ever met.

I was 14 and “innocent.” Didn’t know what weed looked like and the reason why I ended up there is fucking retarded compared to everyone else’s. I was skipping school and sleeping with an older guy, my parents were always away for work and I was constantly shoplifting and getting caught. One of my teachers called youth protection services and they decided to ship me to L’escale, where I wouldn’t be able to wear shoelaces or shave my legs — all for my protection. Some of the girls were mentally challenged (pour vrai), some of the girls had been raped by their entire family, and some of them, just like me, were nerds who shoplifted on a daily basis and had good parents who just didn’t have time for supervision. It made me fucking crazy there. If you yelled or had aggressive behavior, you were sent to isolation and really, everyone tried to avoid that.

FUCKED UP FACTS
1. The only footwear we were allowed were slippers. Not so tough, eh? A bunch of law-breaking chicks sporting slippers and x-large t-shirts provided by the center that read ”Take my advice, I don’t use it anyway.” Almost hilarious.
2. We had bow and arrow shooting classes. Think about it for half a second: BOW AND ARROW CLASSES IN JUVI. The real kind. The non-plastic kind. The kind that kills people. Once, this one girl held the entire class hostage and nearly killed our teacher by shooting right at her chest. She was sentenced to two years of prison. The real kind.
3. No razors, no pencils, no matches, no hair ties, no belts, no earrings, no necklaces, no foreign food, no talking, no yelling, no drowning people in swimming class, no visits, no coffee, four cigarettes a day, no nail polish, no hugging, fucking hell.
4. 30 phone minutes allowed per week. Ten minutes with your parents (for those who had them), ten minutes with your city-provided careless lawyer, ten minutes with a “friend.”
5. No music — this one drove me fucking nuts. NO MUSIC. Ever. Unless it was the radio we were forced to listen to in the morning.
6. No talk of the “outside,” so we had to assume why everyone ended up there and rated each other on a scale of one to ten, one meaning “not dangerous” and ten meaning “murdering, child molesting freak.” I was a two and got beat up a lot. Peeing in my roommate’s shampoo bottle prevented me from being a one.
7. The center was located in Cap-Rouge, a really wealthy neighborhood. Once, a friend and I escaped during gym class and ran to the nearest house (in our slippers), barged in and stole some shoes from their hallway. We were caught hitchhiking four minutes later.
8. Some of the staff was hot.
9. The food was amazing and there was no limit as to how much you could eat. Bulimics were in heaven.
10. Lots of suicides. Most of them in the shower.

One day, this girl was sent to our unit because she had murdered her boyfriend with a seven inch long kitchen knife. I was sharing a room with her and never slept. She was nice and just a tiny bit neurotic and didn’t talk much. A thing that tends to characterizes most murderers, they are silent. Although I was curious about why she had brutally ended someone’s life, I didn’t ask any questions. This entire piece was supposed to be about her, then I realized there’s nothing to say. It was fucked up. I shared a bedroom with a murderer for eight months of my life. She was nice. I guess I still don’t know why she did it. Maybe it was self-defense? Maybe she was on drugs? Maybe he was a fucking asshole? Maybe Charles Manson did it? Maybe it was an accident? Yeah, I’d like to think it was an accident.

-MARIE-ELAINE GUAY

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