No matter how dark and scary the world might be right now "There Will Be Light"
Prologue
This inspiring and unexpected tale of motivational transformation depicts the challenges faced by a 14-year-old boy when he is admitted to a juvenile detention center for a crime that, despite all evidence pointing against him, he is not entirely guilty of.
Alexander Cuomo is a 14-year-old boy living with his parents and four younger siblings in Perth Amboy, United States. Upon returning from the Christmas and New Year holidays, he resumes school where he encounters Raoul, a boy his age expelled from another school for misconduct. From their first meeting, Raoul threatens Alexander with harm to his younger siblings if he does not comply with his orders.
Several months later, Alexander becomes a target of bullying from classmates and loses his lifelong friends, Sedrac and Mesac, who now align with Raoul's group. Fearful for his siblings' safety, Alexander reluctantly follows Raoul's commands, leading to him placing homemade bombs in their school's library.
The explosion causes physical and emotional damage, resulting in Alexander's trial where he is found guilty. His mother suffers a heart attack, and his father rejects him for bringing such turmoil to the family, endangering their custody of his younger siblings.
Upon release on probation, he is cast out of his home, navigating a whirlwind of emotions as he confronts Raoul's hatred and faces the challenges of adulthood, clinging to the hope that "no matter how dark and terrifying the world may seem at this moment, there will always be light."
Chapter I. "There will be light!"
Miss Marten, were you able to contact Alexander Cuomo's parents?" The principal asked the psychologist at the Perth Amboy Study Center.
"I haven't called them yet, but I will do it today as soon as we finish our afternoon break."
"Well, I will try to contact some of them right now. This situation is alarming, and due to its seriousness, it cannot wait another minute."
On a quiet mid-week morning in early April 1995, my mother received a phone call about me that nearly shattered her life.
"May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Cuomo, please?" the caller asked. It was the voice of a man unknown to my mother.
"Hello, who’s that, please?" asked my mom.
"My name is Abraham Malone," said the man on the line. "Perhaps you don’t know me, but I am the principal of the high school where your children study."
Instantly, my mother recognized who he was. As a parent, this was the day she had prayed for, yet feared, all her life.
"Hello, Principal Malone, it’s me, Mrs. Cuomo. How can I help you?"
"Well, Mrs. Cuomo, I am calling you about a situation that arose this morning at the school. At this time, the police are questioning your son Alexander due to an explosion that occurred in the library earlier today, causing several injuries and damage to property. He is the prime suspect. Fortunately, there were no fatalities, as few staff members were in the library and students were still in their classrooms. However, there is more concerning news about your son. Alexander's teachers have been troubled by his recent behavior. Therefore, we are planning a meeting tomorrow morning, first thing, with one or both of his parents, should you choose to attend."
"Oh my God, Principal Malone, are you talking about a bomb? How are my children? Is Alexander alright?"
"Well, Mrs. Cuomo, Alexander and your other children are physically unharmed. The bombs were apparently placed in the library hours earlier to avoid suspicion. I need to know if you can attend a meeting tomorrow morning," stressed Principal Malone.
"Yes, I will be there. Principal Malone, I am deeply sorry for what has happened. Alexander’s behavior improved when his father was home last weekend, but it worsened when we had a guest in our home, my mother-in-law. I am considering whether he needs psychological help. Can you offer any advice? Also, what does the school psychologist say?" asked my mother, her voice fraught with disbelief.
"Firstly, Mrs. Cuomo, try to remain calm. The details surrounding your son are distressing to discuss over the phone. Let me transfer you to Miss Marten, who will also be at tomorrow's meeting."
"Hello, this is Miss Marten."
"Miss Marten, I am desperate about Alexander’s behavior. What can I do for my son?" my mother implored.
"Good morning, Mrs. Cuomo. As Principal Malone mentioned, we have a meeting scheduled tomorrow to address Alexander's recent behavior. Before then, I’d like to ask you two questions. Please answer as honestly as possible."
"Yes, I will do my best to be honest. What do you need to know, Miss Marten?" my mother replied.
"Did you notice any suspicious behavior from Alexander this morning before he left for school?"
"Well, Miss Marten, our upstairs neighbor mentioned something earlier this week about Alexander's behavior, but I dismissed it as a childish prank. As for this morning, I did observe him acting unusually. He seemed to be carrying something other than his school supplies in his backpack, but he left the house so quickly that I couldn’t see what it was."
"I understand, Mrs. Cuomo. The second question is: Has Alexander ever been diagnosed by a psychiatrist or psychologist? I ask because I’ve known Alexander since kindergarten, and while his behavior has generally been normal, recent events suggest either typical adolescent changes or possibly deeper psychological issues."
"No, Miss Marten, I haven’t had the opportunity to take him to a doctor recently. My husband is in the military, and I’m a full-time homemaker raising five children, including eleven-month-old twins. It’s been overwhelming for me," my mother confessed.
"I understand, Mrs. Cuomo. Please confirm your availability for tomorrow morning's meeting.
"Yes, 10:00 AM works well for me."
"Great, I’ll see you then."
"Excuse me, Miss Marten, before you hang up, may I speak briefly with my son? I need to hear from him."
"Yes, of course. Let me check if it’s possible. Please hold on."
"Mom, please, I am truly, deeply sorry. Please, don't let them take me to jail," I pleaded desperately.
"Why are you worried now, Alexander? I don't know what else to say. Remember what your father always told you: 'When you try to harm others, you ultimately harm yourself.'"
"But Mom, I didn’t do anything wrong! Please, help me!"
"Alexander, if you are innocent, stand your ground. There will be light," were the last words I heard from my mother before the police continued their questioning.
"Mr. Cuomo, I’ll ask you once more: How do you explain being caught on camera placing these devices in three different locations? If you’re innocent, there must be an accomplice who instructed you to do this. Are you covering for someone else? If not, explain your actions. Can you cooperate to clarify these events?" the officer pressed.
The officers were patient, but my fear paralyzed me. I briefly considered confessing to the principal and police, but thoughts of my innocent siblings, Caroline and Leonardo, stopped me. The mere idea of them being harmed compelled me to remain silent. Seeing my reluctance to cooperate, they took me to the nearest police station. After an exhaustive two-week investigation, during which I had no contact with my family, I could only communicate with the public defender assigned to me. Despite my insistence on innocence, I was brought to trial. I watched as evidence from the school district and family members of the injured piled up against me.
My trial was set for April 18. I was certain I would return home that day; my lawyer assured me that, given my clean record, I might receive house arrest and periodic reporting to the police upon reaching adulthood. As I entered the courtroom, I scanned for familiar faces. I spotted my mother and Uncle Henry. My mother’s appearance shocked me—her face was drained, eyes heavy with sorrow and emptiness. The trial was swift; before I knew it, the jury pronounced me guilty on all seven counts: endangering six lives, property damage, and possessing deadly weapons on school grounds. The judge sentenced me to six years at the Union Regeneration private facility in northern Pennsylvania, eligible for parole upon turning eighteen. The case was closed.
Stunned, I approached my lawyer. "Remember when you assured me that none of this would go to trial? What happened to your promises? You said it would be house arrest. I can’t go to jail," I protested. My lawyer replied, "We did everything we could."
I glanced back at where my mother and Uncle Henry had been sitting, hoping for answers in their eyes. My mother had collapsed upon hearing the guilty verdict.
"Put the handcuffs on him," ordered an officer at my side.
"Mom!" I called out, pleading to see her. They ignored me, pushing me down the corridor. "Wait, please," I begged, but they continued. In the distance, I heard Uncle Henry shouting for a doctor. "Is there a doctor here?" he cried desperately, his voice fading as I was taken further away.
As they transported me to the penitentiary, my mother was rushed to the hospital. I anxiously awaited news about her, my thoughts consumed by worry. When I finally managed to call, I navigated through several wrong numbers before reaching the right one. The receptionist had no update on my mother’s condition, only that she was in intensive care.
Five hours later, Uncle Henry called with news no one ever wants to hear about someone they love unconditionally. My mother couldn’t bear the pain. She had suffered a heart attack that day and passed away while doctors tried unsuccessfully to revive her.
"It’s not true," I protested to Uncle Henry. "It can’t be true," I repeated, shouting. But it was true—my mother was gone. I wept for a long time in my cell, now shared with fifteen other inmates, strangers with whom I had to share a toilet and endure a daily shower with little privacy. The misery and sadness were overwhelming, compounded by the loneliness of my confinement.
The next morning, a jarring alarm woke me, connecting me to my new reality. At 6:00 AM, a blaring alarm reminiscent of a rooster’s crow echoed through the penitentiary. The noise persisted for hours, a relentless reminder of my surroundings.
I had no idea what adult prisons were like, but this juvenile facility for rehabilitation felt eerily like a military academy from movies. It was a prison, painted pink or playing soft music to soothe didn’t change the fact that it was a structure of violence and punishment for those who crossed society’s legal boundaries.
Prison life, its organization, inmate relationships, interactions with staff, rules, architectural layout—everything formed the fabric of my new reality. Freedom was confined, decisions controlled, and family and community connections socially isolated. These were harsh truths of life for those convicted; only those who experienced it firsthand could truly understand.
A month into my sentence, my father visited accompanied by the prison psychologist. Seeing him brought a fleeting sense of peace; finally, a family member to embrace and perhaps offer solace amidst my turmoil. But instead, my father’s presence brought reproach. The psychologist attempted to intervene, but my father’s words cut deep, hurling hurtful accusations at a fourteen-year-old enduring an unimaginable nightmare.
When given the chance to speak, I struggled to form words. A month in prison had aged me beyond my years. For a moment, I considered confessing to my father, believing he might help extricate me from this silent torment. Yet, his expression betrayed disillusionment with life. Raised in a strict military tradition, he saw the world in stark black and white, a worldview that offered no solace for my predicament.
"I am innocent of everything I’ve been accused of, Dad," I managed to say. "I was protecting Caroline and Leonardo from others."
My father interrupted, addressing the psychologist. "Do you hear this, Mrs. Rebollar?" He turned to me. "He lied to the principal, teachers, and psychologist, downplaying the danger he posed to the school, his classmates, and himself. Every newspaper called Alexander’s actions a betrayal of trust and safety. My other children couldn’t attend school for weeks due to bullying. You not only endangered everyone at school but also made your siblings suffer. How do you expect me to feel?"
"Please, Mr. Cuomo, give Alexander a chance to explain why he chose silence. I spoke with him recently; he told me he was trying to minimize panic caused by a classmate. Please, let Alex talk," the psychologist interjected.
"I’ve heard enough, Mrs. Rebollar. All I know is that Alexander’s actions cost me my wife, and now I may lose my children, unable to care for them as she did," my father concluded bitterly.
"Dad, please don’t leave me here!" I screamed as my father walked away down the long corridor.
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