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Boot camps
are gone, but ... Tough love for troubled teens survives at the
Manatee Youth Academy
 For
years, teenage criminals got a second chance to clean up their
acts at military-style boot camps in Florida.
The tough love, in-your-face programs served as alternatives to
prison. But this year lawmakers got rid of the state's five
juvenile camps after guards at a Panama City camp beat up
14-year-old Martin Lee Anderson, who later died.
The law named in the boy's honor allowed sheriffs to replace
their camps with a softer program called STAR. Most sheriffs --
including Manatee County Sheriff Charlie Wells, who opened the
state's first camp in 1993 -- declined. They said the state did
not provide enough money to run the new program.
While the law threw out boot camps, it did not eliminate
military techniques at juvenile facilities.
In Manatee County, cadets at the Manatee Youth Academy march on.
For more than a decade, the academy and the boot camp shared the
same grounds, the same goal and some of the same techniques.
Like boot camps, the Youth Academy has marching, physical
training, cadence chanting and room inspections. But unlike boot
camps, the academy does not have formal platoons or drill
instructors. Plus, kids spend more time in the classroom than at
boot camps.
"The perception is that the Youth Academy is just another boot
camp, but it's not," said Manatee sheriff's spokesman Randy
Warren.
Down a two-lane road near Port Manatee, teenage boys in
black-and-white striped uniforms march across the Youth Academy
compound as someone hollers, "Left -- left. Left, right, left."
The cadets file into a lunchroom. The first group to get their
plastic trays heaped with mashed potatoes stands rigidly beside
their chairs until everyone is at a table.
Then they bow their heads and pray.
"Dear Lord, we thank you for this ... "
Since Manatee's boot camp graduated its final recruits in May,
the Youth Academy carries on their shared mission: to straighten
out young men by providing strict discipline and regimentation.
Cadet Rashad Standifer, 16, is thankful for the program, where
teens can receive counseling and learn skills like how to buff
floors and sand doorways.
Standifer ended up here last summer after selling crack cocaine
and violating probation.
"I'd prolly be on the streets, shot and killed, or going to
prison right now if I wasn't here," says Standifer, whose arms
are tattooed with "SOTA BOY" (he was born and raised in
Sarasota) and "2nd Lime" (the name of the projects where he grew
up).
This boy, who says he came into the program not caring about a
thing, now hopes to graduate from high school and become a
radiologist, like his aunt.
At the academy, the boys learn important life lessons.
One afternoon, Deputy Rickie Simmons sits on a desk in front of
the teens and leads a discussion on determination.
He listens, never preaches, and talks openly about his own
experience. Years ago, he says, he struggled to earn a degree
while working and raising a family. One day, he was so exhausted
he pulled over on the side of the road and cried.
Then he vowed to carry on. He graduated soon after.
"No matter what you go through in life, you've got to be
determined," he tells them earnestly.
"Sir. Yes, sir!" The teens reply.
"It doesn't matter what they call you," he continues. "You can
do anything you put your mind to. And if you do that, I promise
you'll reach your goals."
Simmons, who was called a role model by several of the teens,
later says: "A lot of them just need that nurturing ... to know
someone cares."
The teens wake at about 5 a.m. every day. Lights are out at 9
p.m.
Despite the tiring schedule filled with room inspections,
classes and exercise, cadet Eric Fletcher, 18, lies in bed at
night and his mind races.
He thinks about God -- "Does He really exist?" -- and his big
brother, who led him to this life of crime at age 9. (Fletcher
says they stole a car together.) Big brother is now serving
seven years in an Alabama prison.
Most of all, the soft-spoken boy from Fort Myers thinks about
hitting the real world again.
About two of every three teens re-offended within a year of
completing the Youth Academy in the fiscal year 2003-04.
Despite his doubts and worries, Fletcher credits the program
with giving him another chance.
"My whole life, I thought, I'm never gonna change. I'm always
going to be a street person ... a low-life," he says one
afternoon.
He's learned to read better and to try to control his anger. He
says the program's strict style keeps him in check.
He wants to stay straight on the outside. Graduate from high
school. Play football. Be a good father to his 8-month-old
namesake.
He knows he can do it. They told him he could.
"They never gave up on me here. They ain't never turned me
down," Fletcher says.
He gets out Sept. 12.
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How boot camps and the Youth
Academy differ
Boot camp
Moderate-risk
residential facility
"Recruits"
have mostly committed non-violent crimes, like stealing a car
Average
length of stay: six months
30 beds
Intake:
Up to 15 recruits enter the program at the same time as a
platoon. They have their hair cut short and fall immediately
into rank and file
Deputies
are referred to as drill instructors and use "in-your-face"
techniques
Recruits
on average spend five or six hours in class
Youth Academy
High-risk
residential facility
"Cadets"
have mostly committed serious violent crimes, like armed
robbery, and are typically repeat offenders
Average
length of stay: nine months
25 beds
Intake:
New cadets enter the program on their own as a bed becomes
available
More
emphasis is placed on education than at a boot camp. Cadets can
spend up to seven hours a day in class
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