BOYS FROM THE HILL: PART ONE

The Wasteland Years

There's a hill in every town. Maybe it's real, maybe it's not. It's the place where the boys gather after they've stopped believing there's a future waiting for them. You've seen them—hoods up, eyes blank, something burning behind the silence.

These boys aren't evil. They're not lost causes. But they are drifting—fast. No one asks much of them, so they stop asking much of themselves. Some fade. Some fight. Some disappear into the kind of trouble that eats years of a life.

This is about them. The boys from the hill. The ones we stopped seeing. The ones we sometimes used to be.

Here are seven things we don't talk about—but should.

1. The world gave up on them first

Before they gave up, the world gave up on them. Teachers saw them as problems, not people. Parents were there, but not present. Society offered them screens and slogans, not guidance or real encouragement. The message was clear: You don't matter. And eventually, they believed it.

2. They carry rage they can't name

It's not always loud. Often it's cold. A silent, buried fury. At fathers who weren't there. At lives that feel too small. At themselves, most of all. They lash out, or shut down. They fight authority, or they fight each other. But mostly, they're just trying to feel something.

3. They have no rites of passage

Where are the trials that tell a boy he's becoming a man? Not trophies. Not parties. Something real. Something hard. Most of them drift into adulthood with no transition—just more bills, more numbness, more escape. No one encouraged them to rise. So they stayed where it was easy to fall.

4. They live in a fog of addiction and avoidance

Vape. Weed. Pills. Porn. Games. Anything to kill the silence. Anything to make the nights shorter and the mornings blurrier. We call it laziness. It's not. It's pain management. It's anesthesia for lives they don't know how to live—and no one ever encouraged them to try.

5. They crave truth, not comfort

They won't say it out loud, but they're starving for someone to tell them the truth. Not sugar-coat it. Not yell it. Just speak it—with honesty and respect. Real truth is encouragement—because it says, I believe you can handle this. I believe you're capable of more.

6. They hide how much they still care

You think they don't give a damn? Look closer. That anger, that sarcasm, that slouch—it's all armor. Underneath, there's still a flicker of hope. Of dreams they don't admit to anyone. Not even themselves. What breaks them is thinking no one sees it—or worse, that no one ever encouraged it.

7. Some don't make it back

Let's not pretend. Some boys never come down from the hill. Overdosed. Locked up. Vanished. The system's too slow. The love wasn't strong enough. The encouragement came too late. They ran too far. And we feel the loss, even if we don't say it out loud. Because we know—we could've been them. Or still are.

Conclusion: See them before it's too late

You don't save a boy with slogans or pity. You save him by seeing him—clearly. By calling him to more. By refusing to give up.

Encouragement isn't empty praise. It's the brave act of saying: I see you. I expect something from you. I won't let you waste away. It's uncomfortable. It's confrontational. And it can save a life.

The boys from the hill are not gone. They're waiting—for meaning. For someone to believe in them. For a reason to climb down.

Some won't. But some might.

And that's enough to keep trying. (Cont on thursday Part 2)

Raymond and Ken