The overhead mall lights are bright and twinkling, illuminating the passersby with the colors of the merchandise in the various stores. Two brilliant colors interrupt the tranquility of the shopper's paradise. Fast, shattering images rush by. The sounds of running footsteps fight for attention against pleasant background music. Streaks of blue and silver on gray. A thief is on the run.... a kind of tag team race with police. A child has been caught shoplifting.

In the ringing sounds of the clutter is a bit of prose for the thief child. " Can you see the pennies shine in the eyes of a beggar child and will they spend for toys or tears? Hey pennies, hey nickels, a dollar too. I can see you, feel you, touch you light and if I wish oh so long, I can have you."

As we look at the history of stealing by children, we recognize a child taking what doesn't belong to them is a part of the want to have. This can be derived from the most fundamental elements of the needs hierarchy, the need to survive. Forget the fairly tale "Old Mother Hubbard's Cupboard"- this is real life and the cupboard is bare!

Stealing is discussed in therapy sessions as a social ill, but it is decided in a court of justice, for it is a crime. What kind of crime is it when a child steals money from a parent?

I know the answer, for I robbed the pockets of my father. I robbed him of his weekly paycheck before he forfeited it to the man on the other side of the bar. My father was an alcoholic and the thirst for the drink outweighed the conscience of providing for family.
Theft by children is a national issue and it did not stop forty years ago at the doorstep of our modest house in a southern Illinois oil town. And, it does not discriminate in size, shape, race or creed. Stealing is a "rush", a "high", equal to the blood chilling euphoria of drugs or alcohol. There is the respect from peers for the "gift of hot hands". You "belong". You are "in" - a tough cut kid. But, if you are caught, you are alone - long forgotten by the crowd who gathered and applauded your successes.

Theft raises the margin of cost on every item we purchase and angers the business community and the consumer. It clutters the malls with the uniforms of security guards - mall patrols and plastic snaps on hangers that ring shrill alarms when a product is removed. There are security cameras cleverly mounted in obscure corners of department stores. This epidemic is the genesis of the sign posted in neighborhood shops saying, "no more than two children in the store at one time".

Theft also robs children of their innocence and hammers accountability and punishment down on the bandit. These children are the mites in the wood, eating away at civilization.

The age of the child who steals ranges from tikes to teens. The baby fat of youth weaves in with the hard-core lines of every day life - life in a cycle of anger, poverty or simply an attraction to the forbidden. Some come dressed in costly black, low-hipped jeans and signature jackets while others come to the party bare of anything but the essentials. There are bright eyes of hope and dim eyes of despair. Hard words roll off their tongues as if they had worked at adulthood all their lives.

I was fortunate in that I did not look different than most other kids so there was not a physical label that called attention to me. Actually, I was quite ordinary. I was a "thief of sorts", somewhere between a thief who steals for the high it brings and those who steal in a spontaneous moment of fear or need. My story is different from those who steal for the "big hit" - "the high". I only took what my father would not give during alcoholic binges that occurred over most of my childhood.

My act was not made public, a matter of record. A record that could have stained my childhood and altered my adulthood. I did not carry the stigma of "juvenile delinquent" but my act was not much different from those who do.

And, this is how it all began: For years, before my introduction to the role of thief, my mother would pass idle time in the kitchen, well past our bedtime, waiting for my father to come home. There were many of those nights when he came home drunk, swaying, too drunk to stand.

He would land, long legged and long armed, on a tattered sofa in our living room. His drunken form cast frightening shadows on the worn flowered wallpaper that hung by slender, fragile threads.

Many times, this night would be the beginning of a drunken binge that could weave itself in to days. After he fell asleep, my mother would pick his pockets, like a scavenger - digging for scraps. In this case the scraps were money. She had learned the hard way that if she did not take the money, there would be none for food or shelter. My father worked in the oil field business as a "roughneck" and when the work was steady, he made a modest living. Most of the time what he earned barely covered the daily needs of six kids and a wanting wife. But, when he was drinking, he spent money like the banker with access to the vault.

Often the sleeping giant would wake and catch my mother in the act. He would strike out at her with long powerful arms and clutched fists, causing her to run for safety. There were good times where he would stumble and fall and she would make her way out of his path. But there were as many bad times when she would fall and be struck down, curled in to a ball to protect herself from the strikes of punishment. She became so worn with fear that her hands began to shake and she was pulled out of service.

When my mother first explained that I would need to take her place in this family drama, I felt frightened. I did not want my father to strike out at me as he had my mother so many times.

But like many children who steal, the thought of living on the edge became exciting. I was so caught up in the game that I forgot it's serious consequences.

I accepted the role as if I had been selected for a special part in a play. A play filled with drama and heroics -a cocky role that my brothers or sisters could not play. I was the special child, the selected one. I developed an arrogant confidence - not much different than the confidence exhibited in other children who steal.

As I look back on our house at the time, I realize how fortunate I was that we were poor and could not afford a rug on our living room floor. The floor was hardwood and smooth, so smooth that I could slide my thin child's frame under the old spindly-legged sofa without a rug to catch my clothing. Perfect, because soon I would do just that...slide beneath the sofa and lie in wait for my father to fall down, drunk and asleep - prey to my trained hands - the hands of a thief.

The sofa sat high off of the floor with a faded cotton throw that covered the space between the bottom of the frame and the floor. I could easily sit on the sofa and dangle my feet over the edge and not touch the floor. The only other occupants who ever shared my space were the dust bunnies that accumulated from weeks of housekeeping neglect.

There were mixed feelings among my brothers and sisters for my being selected for this role. We were a close- knit sibling group and fiercely protective of our mother. We knew our father had to know that money was being taken...it was only a matter of time when someone else would be caught. I was that someone else and the fear for safety transferred from mother to child.

Even though we were sure he knew, my father could not save face if he challenged us verbally. He would have to admit he was sorely lacking in providing for his family - he chose to give to the devil of drink. If he caught one of us "stealing" his money, he could strike out physically. That fit his style much better and it was easier to explain, especially to himself.

My older brother said he would have taken my place, but he was too big to fit under the sofa. Of course, my younger brothers and sisters were not old enough nor experienced enough for the responsibility. I was the recipient of an awkward kind of prized role. It was not exactly one to applaud, but certainly one that was respected because of the potential consequences.

I was nine years old when I took over my mother's role as a "thief of sorts". I was willowy with long slender fingers. My hands were dexterous and fine boned. I am certain my mother never realized these features would be assets in a tragic sort of way.

I had to learn the tricks of the trade quickly and face what could be very difficult complications. I was in line to make the same rush to the kitchen and up the back stairs if I woke the sleeping giant. But I tried not to focus on the fear and the consequences. I dreamt of the success of pulling off my personal challenge. While there were no rewards in the form of trinkets or bright colored clothes, there was not the emptiness that came with the hunger and fear of being on the street if the rent did not get paid.

When my father's snoring filled the air, it was my signal that alcohol had subdued him. I focused intently on the rhythm of his breathing, as timing was the most crucial part of my chance for success. I would crawl on my belly, around the corner of the kitchen and slide over on my back, under the sofa. I waited until he tossed on his side where his back pocket was exposed. Once he was settled in that position, I could ease my body up slightly near the edge of the sofa and slide my hands in his pants pockets slowly. My hand hovered near the wallet until I was sure it was at the right level. I could not chance more than one try. The leather of his wallet clung to my sweaty hands lightly enough to be moved.

My body was suspended in time and in motion during these events - my breathing was ragged - ragged with fear. I lost track of all other noises in the house. I could not afford to focus on anything else, not even myself in these moments of danger. My long blonde hair clung to my neck soaked with perspiration. The perspiration flowed down my childlike body in silken threads - adrenaline.

The bills were sorted so that the highest denomination was to the rear of the wallet flap. I took money from the back, the middle and the front. I prayed for more twenties and tens than ones. Of course I did not take it all, the idea was to not let my father know that his wallet had been invaded. I only needed enough to carry us over until his drunken binge subsided and he returned to the role of caretaker for the family

There were many times that my dad woke, tossed and rose from the sofa. I would press far against the wall beneath the sofa so that if a light were switched on, a shadow would not be cast over me. I was silent, obscure, and visible to no one. My brothers and sisters slept through the night jobs once the novelty wore off. My mother had stopped staying up on the nights she knew I was "working" so that my father would fall asleep earlier - taking no chances that he would be distracted by her. But, I knew she was awake - ready to strike if I was found out. She had not abandoned me, but her silence gave me the opening I needed for my work - her child laborer.

I kept up the "thief of sorts" until I was fourteen and too big to fit under the sofa. I was tenured in my service in that I had been in the role longer than my mother before me. Due to my unique personality and a very different physical and mental makeup, I was not replaced in my role after my fourteenth birthday. After all, I was a skilled artist.

Years later, sobriety overcame the alcoholism. Without the alcoholism, the money my father earned was shared willingly. There were no demons urging him to rob his family to feed the devil of alcoholism.

My role as a thief occurred over forty years ago and today, theft by children has grown in epidemic proportions. In my heart I wish for role models who will step forward to steer wayward kids on to the path of a proper citizen, to inspire and to motivate them to walk away from the crime trap. Without role models, children will be robbed of their right to be productive citizens. They will never contribute - only take. Materialism will pale in comparison to their lost youth and barren futures. Their stories will have no endings because their lives will have no beginnings.

A Professional Speaks - "TheftTalk"™

A " Thief of Sorts" is a real life event that forces us all to think through our own boundaries about stealing. Stealing from family is a major earmark of a developing antisocial personality. It becomes one of many triggers that help identify the most troublesome youth. In the field of youth counseling, it is important to gauge the commitment to criminal behavior by the willingness to victimize "real" human beings.

Somewhere in the range of half of all adolescents admit to stealing at least once in their lives. Most did not get caught and yet, they had a feeling; something internally triggered by crossing this boundary, that later facilitated a self-correction. While this self-correction does not come as a tightly packaged "guarantee", it can and does occur.

On average, a person is likely to steal seven times before getting caught by the police or security personnel. However, about five percent of those caught have stolen over 300 times before getting caught. The five percent groups are the chronic thieves and seem to make a clear statement about their value system. The remaining ninety five percent are in the midst of an internal churning process - choices.

Unfortunately, because the thief obtains free items, (when successful), stealing is also a self-rewarding behavior. This combination of self-rewarding behavior and the internal punishing emotions of guilt or shame typically stimulate conflict within the offender. This conflict results in an internal churning of self-talk, "I want, I want, I want." "It's wrong, It's wrong, It's wrong. They have an internal turmoil begging for resolution. The thief asks, "will I succumb to my selfish greed or will I do what is "right"?

This internal turmoil typically occurs during the adolescent years. The answer to this question ends with the foundation for each persons value system and these values form decisions about what is right and wrong, good and evil - and what are we willing to do in order to satisfy the inherent self serving desires "to have".

Though most people eventually come to an acceptable conclusion, about half of all adolescents will steal a second time within one year of getting caught. Many seek out counseling to help them work through their values, reducing this re-offense rate to only fourteen percent.

Concern grows as the relationship between the youth and victim closes. Hence the rule for most thieves - "You don't steal from friends or family". It is an uplifting fact that most thieves have this behavior boundary, revealing some redeeming qualities.

People who steal from human beings are very different from those who steal from stores or businesses, etc., - the faceless victim. As a consequence, when an adolescent persistently victimizes family, the parents must guard themselves as if they had invited a packrat to live in their home.

The family is wise to "run", to protect themselves to the best of their ability. They must find shelter from the very child they promised to provide for until able to fend on his or her own. Of course these kids, those who continually steal, who are persistently hurtful, destructive and disrespectful of others are the exception. These are the rare ones who get all the attention and give "kids" a bad name.

Being a kid is a trying and very difficult time. Many people think the juvenile justice system is, for the most part, a system designed to help adolescents get through a rough time (called the teen years) that they would eventually get through on their own. But since we do not live in a fairy tale world, the truth comes out in it's own time. -time that often is a slow ticking clock of pain to parents and guardians of the child who steals. Even though a parent may feel helpless, they can have a positive influence on their child.

It is a mistake for parents to feel guilty when their child steals. If they carry any responsibility for their child's misdeeds they have relieved the child of their need to assume that responsibility and have opened the door for the child to blame them for their poor choices.

Though holding the child accountable is important and necessary, "punishment", and the threat of punishment, has proven to be an ineffective way to correct behavior. Stealing typically results in delayed consequences because a person does not get caught at every theft. The consequences are intermittent, but a parent must look for natural ways to hold the child accountable.

A child who steals is a child who can't be trusted. A parent should not unconditionally trust
their child. A child who steals needs increased supervision, less free/unsupervised time.

Parents must talk to their child about the struggles they had when they had to work through this same battle between self and others. The bottom line is that a child needs to find a balance between selfishness and an "otherness"

A child must be made fully aware of his victim and the effect he had on the victim. This step requires a child to identify each person that was affected by their actions of thievery- to "see" the victim, face-to-face and talk to them. The child must listen to the victim. An apology can't be forced; it must come as the result of the conclusion to the internal churning process.

While real guilt is good, the child must not be made to feel guilt. Guilt is one of the byproducts of the internal churning process. When a parent sees real guilt, they can let their guard down somewhat and watch for continued improvement

When kids steal it is common that they have misconceptions. These misconceptions are called "thinking errors". When talking with a child listen for these misconceptions and correct them. If a child tells us two plus three equals six we would be quick to correct this math error. We must be sure to use the same corrective methods when a child says, "Nobody was hurt!"

Parents cannot sit back and depend on the legal system. Going to court, having charges filed, being on probation, doing community service work alone will not be enough. Juvenile department staffs commonly are not trained on most effective practices and struggle to find an effective response much in the same way a parent does. A child is a parent's responsibility, they have more time to commit than the juvenile justice system, they have more to lose, and who really wants government officials and lawyers helping us raise our children?

There are countless stories, like a "Thief of Sorts" though different, that exemplify the resilience and inherent goodness of human beings - whether children or adults.

Others can benefit from real life experiences to apply the principles to their own individual challenges, by reaching out and touching those who have had similar experiences -. A child who steals does not have to grow to be an adult of wrongdoing - a thief of any sort.

Steve Houseworth is a juvenile court counselor of 20 years and Executive Director of "THEFT TALK™" Counseling service, a Portland, Oregon based nonprofit organization which specializes in counseling people who steal. Steve can be reached at "THEFT TALK"™ Counseling Service, Inc.,
3530 SE 52nd Avenue, Portland, Oregon 97206, (thefttalk@pmug.org) (503) 771-2542.