For "Josh"

Maybe it's endemic to old Homeboys, but I always get a twinge when I see a kid -- especially the kind of boy ordinarily considered street-smart and/or a survivor -- huddled somewhere in a futile attempt to hide his tears. (Think back to the day you were enrolled at the Milt.)

It happened again yesterday. This time, the silent sobs came from one of the toughest -- some say scariest -- young residents at a juvenile facility where I teach on a substitute basis. He was standing behind a door I'd just opened. Suspicious cynic that I am, I assumed he'd been accosted by either a group of vindictive peers or an overzealous staff member.

"What's wrong, Josh?" I asked. "Is there something I can do?"

"No," he responded. "There's nothin' no one can do."

Josh [not his real name] wasn't in class today. He was in Philadelphia, saying goodbye to his brother -- among the latest of the more than 350 homicide victims so far this year in the City of Brotherly Love.

Let's pray someone -- anyone -- can do something soon. The Joshes of the world deserve the same opportunities we had.