A juvenile justice center is an odd place to look for hope, but Lane County's is oriented toward treatment, which is an approach completely based on hope, the hope that kids can change.  The building itself looks hopeful. Although Serbu rests in the evening shadow of the University of Oregon's Autzen Stadium, the building glows. It is made of gray sandstone that shines white in the morning sun.  It has columns, a facade, and a forty-foot bank of windows that illuminate the atrium. Inside, the ceilings are lofted, and even the lampshades face upward.

            Detention center manager Viriam Khalsa counts on John Crumbley and his colleagues to help train the counselors who work there in the arts of affirmation and redirection, rather than punishment.  Khalsa, like Crumbley, has a Ph.D. in counseling psychology. Every day, Khalsa wraps his head in a white turban and carries his Sikh belief that God made all people for a reason, to his work in the detention center.

            As beautiful as the Juvenile Justice Center is, Khalsa likes to point out that pretty walls and windows do not build programs. In fact, of the 96 beds in the detention wing, only 36 are now in use because of funding problems. Youth who need to be in lock-up facilities in order to break severe drug addictions are still on the streets.  The program doesn't have enough staff to work with them. Youth who need time with therapists like Crumbley don’t get it until they hurt someone or are deemed dangerous enough to warrant access to the slim resources.  The building was funded with a $39 million county-wide levy back in 1996, but since then all levies for operation costs have been voted down. Maybe, Khalsa surmises, this is because people think operating means running precisely the kind of jail-and-punish model he, Crumbley and their colleagues oppose. Maybe they don't know that in Lane County, kids in detention do not spend most of their time in their cells. In fact, they spend most of it in skill-building group sessions, in school, on visits to their homes or in meetings with group therapists. They may even request to see their intake therapists, like John Crumbley.

            During his therapy sessions with kids, whether next to the overflowing stack of papers on the desk in his small office, with Clint Eastwood's cutout looking on, or in one of Serbu's larger meeting rooms, Crumbley is more interested in hearing what young people tell him than in imparting words of wisdom. Recently, a boy told him the reason so many homeless youth in Eugene take methamphetamines, a problem that has long perplexed social workers and therapists in the area.  If you are homeless and it's wintertime in Eugene, the boy said, you can go three days without food or housing if you have enough meth to get you by. On meth, you aren't hungry and it won't bother you to walk around for days. It is common knowledge in Crumbley's line of work that kids on the street tend to walk around all night to keep warm and prevent people from attacking them. With or without meth, they don't sleep much.

            Once Crumbley told a girl that someone had stolen his maroon Toyota Camry from Serbu's parking lot. She responded with an outpouring of guilt, because this was exactly the color and make of her favorite car to steal. She had been in detention when the vehicle was taken, but she knew that if she could have stolen his car, she would've. She didn't want to steal cars from people like him. The therapist suggested that it might be hard for her to know whose cars she took.

            Crumbley views therapy as a form of teaching, and he tends to teach with guesses and questions instead of answers. "I'd hazard a guess that...", he likes to say, instead of "you need to..." or "the answer is..." He suggests that, thinks maybe that, and does not pretend to know. When he teaches large groups of people, Crumbley's humble language breaks down barriers.

"I curl my toes when I get angry, and it's not very good for my socks," Crumbley says to a group of kids, parents, parole officers and other members of the public who are court-ordered or otherwise inspired to take an "Options to Anger" class from 6 to 8 pm on a Thursday night.  He’s offering the first response to his own question:  What happens when you get angry?  There are about forty people in his audience. They sit at tables in rows, parents next to their kids, parole officers by their charges. After Crumbley's remark, it's hard for participants to feel embarrassed about anything they might say.  They call out answers:

            "My hands shake."

            "Grind my teeth."

            "Make a fist."

            "It's in my jaw."