“I never was fond of teenagers, even when I was one.”

My beloved cousin’s candid observation resonated with me and put words to what I felt during my mid to late-adolescence, though both of us were in our 20s for this particular conversation. I would never forget it; neither, maybe unfortunately, would I find this personal sentiment changing as I grew older.

What has changed is that I’ve been a parent to teenagers for the last four years. And not just teenagers, mind you, but a couple of the female variety. What’s the difference, you ask? Go ask another parent with two or more. They get it. As further proof that it’s a “thing,” my wife once came across a t-shirt with the bold words emblazoned across the front, “You don’t scare me. I have two teenage daughters.” Nobody creates a t-shirt unless there’s a sizeable market out there who identify with the message.

The only thing potentially worse than the raging hormones and insufferable emotions are, perhaps, the foolish decisions they have a tendency to, or not to, make. And this, more often than not, is what keeps me up at night or wakes me early in the morning. Some of these decisions have a way of impacting one’s immediate and even distant future, and for whatever reason, teenagers tend to regard poorly consequences either near or far due to their undercooked brains. Waiting around for this to change can feel endless, as if they will always be this way. The stress is enough to drive you to despair, if you don’t recall that you were once a teenager yourself. Moreover, you made plenty of regrettable mistakes, in word or in deed, and you likely recovered from all of them, leaving them far into the past.

Which brings me to the curious tale of William Powell.

Once upon a time, young William was a teenager, like the rest of us, but uniquely erudite. He also possessed a bit of angst about the society in which he found himself in the late 1960s/early 1970s, and thought that he ought to apply his talents to addressing the problems of government. So, at 19 years of age, he decided it would be a great idea to research and write what would become one of the most infamous and subversive texts both then and now, cherished only by those who have the most pronounced distrust of the law of the land and are thereby inspired to act nefariously: “The Anarchist Cookbook.”

The book would find an audience and enjoy reputable sales, though most in possession would admit it would remain idle on their dusty bookshelves. A select disreputable few, however, in the decades to follow, found the misguided courage to employ its “recipes” and commit violence upon innocent parties, either as the last act of an alienated school shooter or in the “cause” to upset corrupt government, as they perceived it. By this time, however, William had moved on with his life, which resembled anything but the extreme views and instructions professed in its pages.

A few short years after its publication in 1971, William would find faith, pursue formal studies, and eventually, along with his wife, embrace a passion for educating children with learning disabilities. He would sell the rights to the publisher and then spend the remainder of his life doing his best to distance himself from the book, advocating at times for its removal from publication, even going so far as to declare it “rubbish.” His association with the book would cost him employment on more than one occasion, in spite of his demonstrated expertise and the fact that he never, once, performed any of the researched “recipes” in his book.

While more can be said about the unfortunate William Powell, there is in his story a ray of hope, I think, for the careworn parents of foolish teenagers. That is, even a teenage anarchist of the highest order can effect a turnaround. Teens would seem anarchists at heart, in spite of their often unrecognized subconscious need for security. Young William had a depth of understanding of its concepts and a remarkable facility with words at 19 years of age, enough so that his book continues, regrettably, to influence others today. Yet, there he is at the end of his life, having positively affected many more lives than his book would seem to have claimed in blood.

Few of us now resemble who we were at 19. No need to prove it; we all know it. That’s good news for us parents. The teenager we love, we also find ourselves prepared occasionally to shove out of a moving vehicle for their enfuriating impertinence, laziness, and/or brazen stupidity. And as much as these unpleasant characteristics stubbornly stick around day-to-day, it’s not likely to last forever. They just might turn into decent human beings, though there still may be a few bumps in the road to endure on the way there.

So, let’s take heart, parents. I need to hear this as much as anyone else. Even the little punk who penned, as a teenager, the veritable textbook on sowing discord can, in fact, change for the best. There’s hope for us all.