Some of the kids I enjoyed most were the ones with ingenious minds, good or bad as they were. They were intellectual masterminds -- high logical IQs, though perhaps low emotional IQs. Even though they were deprived in many ways, their intellect still found a way to express itself in spite of all the soul had been through.
One of these unbreakable spirits was Stewart. He loved his Legos and paper and whatever raw material he had to work with. He could build anything out of nothing. Like a Buddhist mind. He even had a buzzed head, almost bald -- the Buddhahead buzz cut common among white kids at the time.
I had a natural affinity to Stewart, whom we affectionately called "McGuyver." I loved to spend time with this kid. Building whatever. A Lego city of various colors. A set or origami creatures from paper -- I don't even know what now. I just recall that he could build things out of anything. He was a clever kid, sharp as a tack. But with just a snowball's chance in hell of a normal life that could channel his talents in any meaningful way.
I fell in love with that kid. Yearned for him to have a productive life that offered him happiness and enabled him to express his talents.
***
A couple of years after Stewart discharged I was able to visit him. He was living in one of our facilities in another city about 60 miles away. I went there with a case worker who was visiting another kid for some unrelated reason.
I found Stewart, hanging out at his cabin of sorts and playing with an R/C car. He remembered me, but as I reached out to hug him, his response was cold. As if he had been through this before -- the adult once in his life who was no more, the shoulder to lean on that withdrew its perch, the advocate just like all others who got lost in the shuffle, not really there for Stewart when it mattered most, but just a cog in the system that felt some pity but not enough to snatch him up and take him home. Why should he bother to hug me back? Why should he care? Essentially, no one else really cared about him.
And then I understood a great deal. A great deal. A goodly little bit about how meaningless even my empathy and sympathy and pity was to these tortured souls who'd endured so much. Unless I could do something to change their lives, what good was my presence in their lives? I crossed their paths -- so, what difference did I truly make?
I left Stewart with a heart broken in my chest. I have agonized about him to this day, as I have agonized about many of our kids. I wonder if he has done okay. I would love to know.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Friday, May 4, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Boy with an Ordinary Name
This first group of kids, of course, was a challenging bunch. Yet, over the years, I would encounter clients who would be even greater threats to my safety as well as my sanity.
During the following several weeks after my first day at the orphanage, in fact, the client composition would change dramatically. A few of the kids would discharge—and be out of sight and nearly out of mind forever—and others would take their place, others of a far more dangerous and disturbing nature.
One of these replacements was Mikey Smith, a boy with an unassuming, typically ordinary name. Mikey Smith—must be the football team's backup tight end … or glee club member … … or friend’s second cousin … or someone else mundane and harmless.
But Mikey Smith belied his name. Mikey Smith was a psychopath. An undersized, thirteen-year-old psychopath driven by circumstances to inflict torment upon others.
One day Mikey told me how he had literally stabbed his step-father in the back. In a raspy, soft, serene voice he said, "He was on a ladder cleaning the gutters. I ran up the ladder and stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife."
"What? What'd you do that for?" I asked.
"Because he deserved it."
“He deserved it?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
"Why did he deserve it?"
"'Cause."
"'Cause why?"
"Cause he is an evil man."
"Why do you think he’s evil?"
"He would whip me with a belt, call me 'stupid,' beat my mom. Punched my sister in the face once. I couldn't take it no more. So I stabbed him.” Mikey smiled
He continued: “It was funny. He has a fake leg, and after I stabbed him he tried to chase me. I ran away and laughed at him; he looked so stupid limping after me. He was yelling, "I'm gonna kill you, you little fucker!' But I just laughed at him."
"Gees.” I shook my head. “So … what happened later? I mean, didn't you have to go home and face him eventually?"
"Nah. My mom called the cops. And the ambulance came, and they took my dad to the hospital. The cops found me at a friend’s house and took me to juvie hall. Then I came here."
"Man." I didn’t know what else to say. I did know, however, from that day on to watch my back around Mikey.
***
One day, Mikey became aggressive and destructive in his room. I don’t recall exactly why, but it was likely because he didn’t get his way with something. Mikey often became aggressive simply when told ‘no.’”
What I do remember well is this:
A fellow staff member and I ended up having to physically restrain Mikey (manually hold him prostrate and face down against the floor, keeping his arms tight against his sides—for his and our safety alike) in his room. His neighbor on the RTU, a boy named Ronny Jones, started throwing pens and pencils into Mikey’s room. In spite of our firm prompts to stop, Ronny laughed and continued as if it were a game. Even from the floor, Mikey smiled and laughed heartily as if his restraint were part of some grand joke—whose punch line was his twisted life.
Mikey was a wiry, slippery, and tough kid. He managed to wriggle an arm free and grab one of Ronny's makeshift weapons. Just as he was going to stab me with it, I managed to snatch his wrist. He then bent his wrist and angled the tip of the pen against my skin and thrust as hard as he could: he managed to draw a short, crooked blue line up my wrist but fortunately did not pierce my skin.
Eventually my coworker and I were able to wrest the pen free from Mikey, and someone else helped out and was able to confront Ronny, forcing him to stop encouraging Mikey's frenzy and feeding him weapons. We collectively managed to take control of the situation and end the two thugs’ episode of terror. For the time being, anyway.
***
It wasn't long after that incident that Mikey and Ronny stirred an even greater, and comedic, madness.
One day I was on the RTU alone with Mikey and Ronny, as my two coworkers, Travis and Stacy, took the eight or so other RTU clients to the gym. Mikey and Ronny were prohibited from going off the unit with their peers because of earlier negative behaviors. So here I was, stuck in a small locked milieu with the two most volatile kids in our care. Naturally, the two took advantage of the situation to foment chaos.
They began running throughout the unit, climbing and overturning furniture, tearing down curtains and posters, and running into their peers’ bedrooms and taking their toys. I tried my best to keep up with them, but as soon as I got a hold of one, the other would be off pillaging; as I made for the other, the one would slip free.
Finally, I had an idea: I would toss one into a locked space called the Seclusion Room. The other, I would then be able to snatch up and control.
So, l captured Mikey and corralled him into the Seclusion Room. It was more or less a proverbial “padded room” in which we occasionally placed clients who were violently out of control and displayed little hope of calming down anytime soon. Except this room wasn’t padded: rather, it had concrete and steel walls, a hard tile floor, and a medium-sized thick-paned window on one side through which the staff could observe clients inside the room.
Very curiously, Mikey did not resist going into the Seclusion Room and actually smiled brashly as he entered it. I thought his response odd, but I attributed it to the insane psyche of Mikey Smith.
I tracked down Ronny and seized him by the arm, dragging him out of a peer’s bedroom and into the living room. I sat him down on a couch and firmly directed him to sit there quietly for a while. I then walked over to the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey.
Now, here’s where the story gets humorous.
I peered through the window of the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey. To my astonishment, inside the room with him was a podium that was usually kept just outside the Seclusion Room and used as a hard surface for staff to write on and keep up a log to document the use of the Seclusion Room. Somehow—through real magic or deception—Mikey had gotten that podium into the room with him.
Perplexed, I used my magnetic key to release the heavy electronic locks that secured the thick metal door of the Seclusion Room. With a gentle thunk the locks released and I opened the door and removed the podium.
“I don’t know how you did it, Mikey,” I said, “but don’t do it again. You need to stay in here until I let you out.” Mikey smiled mischievously. I shut the door once again, this time carefully observing to make sure the door was flush and the locks indeed fastened securely.
I didn’t know how he had done it. I thought perhaps the Seclusion Room door had malfunctioned or I had not shut it properly. Whatever happened, I didn’t feel comfortable at all being alone on the unit with Mikey and Ronny.
I then went into the staff office to call down to the gym for assistance. Ronny had remained on the couch as instructed when I had checked on Mikey, but now as I was on the phone, Ronny snuck away.
Suddenly, Mikey went running past the office window.
“What the—?” I said, then to my coworker on the phone: “Hang on, Travis, I got a kid on the loose!” I laid down the receiver and went chasing after Mikey. I was getting rather irritated now and was intent on getting Mikey back into that room. Then, I would find Ronny and give him a piece of my mind for wandering off.
I captured Mikey and then returned him to the Seclusion Room, but when I opened the door, inside stood Ronny.
“What the—?” I yanked Ronny out and threw Mikey back in, sat Ronny on the couch again, and then returned to the phone.
“Travis, you still there?”
“Yeah. What the hell’s going on up there?”
“Dude, you will not believe what has been happening. What the—?” Now, Ronny and Mikey were chasing each other in the living room, running in circles and giggling like carefree children. I dropped the receiver.
This time, as I threw Mikey back into the Seclusion Room, I checked his pockets and found a small, round piece of shiny metal in one of them. It was about the size of a dime and looked like a watch battery. It was the functioning component of a magnetic key! That’s how he was getting out of the Seclusion Room—using this key, which had obviously broken off the plastic housing of a fellow staff member’s key and which Mikey then found.
Mikey struggled with me as I took the key away from him, but I managed to seize the key and to shove him deep into the Seclusion Room as I slammed the heavy metal door shut before he could get his footing and try to dash out. His affect had changed, and now he was livid and belligerent. He began banging on the door, cussing me out, and spitting on the window. My, how the tables had turned.
Ronny came running toward the Seclusion Room when he heard the commotion, but I cut him off and told him in no uncertain terms to “Sit down!” on the couch. At that moment, the main door to the milieu opened up, and Travis and Stacy walked in with the other kids.
“What’s going on?” Travis asked.
“Dude,” I said, shaking my head, “you simply won’t believe it.”
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
During the following several weeks after my first day at the orphanage, in fact, the client composition would change dramatically. A few of the kids would discharge—and be out of sight and nearly out of mind forever—and others would take their place, others of a far more dangerous and disturbing nature.
One of these replacements was Mikey Smith, a boy with an unassuming, typically ordinary name. Mikey Smith—must be the football team's backup tight end … or glee club member … … or friend’s second cousin … or someone else mundane and harmless.
But Mikey Smith belied his name. Mikey Smith was a psychopath. An undersized, thirteen-year-old psychopath driven by circumstances to inflict torment upon others.
One day Mikey told me how he had literally stabbed his step-father in the back. In a raspy, soft, serene voice he said, "He was on a ladder cleaning the gutters. I ran up the ladder and stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife."
"What? What'd you do that for?" I asked.
"Because he deserved it."
“He deserved it?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
"Why did he deserve it?"
"'Cause."
"'Cause why?"
"Cause he is an evil man."
"Why do you think he’s evil?"
"He would whip me with a belt, call me 'stupid,' beat my mom. Punched my sister in the face once. I couldn't take it no more. So I stabbed him.” Mikey smiled
He continued: “It was funny. He has a fake leg, and after I stabbed him he tried to chase me. I ran away and laughed at him; he looked so stupid limping after me. He was yelling, "I'm gonna kill you, you little fucker!' But I just laughed at him."
"Gees.” I shook my head. “So … what happened later? I mean, didn't you have to go home and face him eventually?"
"Nah. My mom called the cops. And the ambulance came, and they took my dad to the hospital. The cops found me at a friend’s house and took me to juvie hall. Then I came here."
"Man." I didn’t know what else to say. I did know, however, from that day on to watch my back around Mikey.
***
One day, Mikey became aggressive and destructive in his room. I don’t recall exactly why, but it was likely because he didn’t get his way with something. Mikey often became aggressive simply when told ‘no.’”
What I do remember well is this:
A fellow staff member and I ended up having to physically restrain Mikey (manually hold him prostrate and face down against the floor, keeping his arms tight against his sides—for his and our safety alike) in his room. His neighbor on the RTU, a boy named Ronny Jones, started throwing pens and pencils into Mikey’s room. In spite of our firm prompts to stop, Ronny laughed and continued as if it were a game. Even from the floor, Mikey smiled and laughed heartily as if his restraint were part of some grand joke—whose punch line was his twisted life.
Mikey was a wiry, slippery, and tough kid. He managed to wriggle an arm free and grab one of Ronny's makeshift weapons. Just as he was going to stab me with it, I managed to snatch his wrist. He then bent his wrist and angled the tip of the pen against my skin and thrust as hard as he could: he managed to draw a short, crooked blue line up my wrist but fortunately did not pierce my skin.
Eventually my coworker and I were able to wrest the pen free from Mikey, and someone else helped out and was able to confront Ronny, forcing him to stop encouraging Mikey's frenzy and feeding him weapons. We collectively managed to take control of the situation and end the two thugs’ episode of terror. For the time being, anyway.
***
It wasn't long after that incident that Mikey and Ronny stirred an even greater, and comedic, madness.
One day I was on the RTU alone with Mikey and Ronny, as my two coworkers, Travis and Stacy, took the eight or so other RTU clients to the gym. Mikey and Ronny were prohibited from going off the unit with their peers because of earlier negative behaviors. So here I was, stuck in a small locked milieu with the two most volatile kids in our care. Naturally, the two took advantage of the situation to foment chaos.
They began running throughout the unit, climbing and overturning furniture, tearing down curtains and posters, and running into their peers’ bedrooms and taking their toys. I tried my best to keep up with them, but as soon as I got a hold of one, the other would be off pillaging; as I made for the other, the one would slip free.
Finally, I had an idea: I would toss one into a locked space called the Seclusion Room. The other, I would then be able to snatch up and control.
So, l captured Mikey and corralled him into the Seclusion Room. It was more or less a proverbial “padded room” in which we occasionally placed clients who were violently out of control and displayed little hope of calming down anytime soon. Except this room wasn’t padded: rather, it had concrete and steel walls, a hard tile floor, and a medium-sized thick-paned window on one side through which the staff could observe clients inside the room.
Very curiously, Mikey did not resist going into the Seclusion Room and actually smiled brashly as he entered it. I thought his response odd, but I attributed it to the insane psyche of Mikey Smith.
I tracked down Ronny and seized him by the arm, dragging him out of a peer’s bedroom and into the living room. I sat him down on a couch and firmly directed him to sit there quietly for a while. I then walked over to the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey.
Now, here’s where the story gets humorous.
I peered through the window of the Seclusion Room to check on Mikey. To my astonishment, inside the room with him was a podium that was usually kept just outside the Seclusion Room and used as a hard surface for staff to write on and keep up a log to document the use of the Seclusion Room. Somehow—through real magic or deception—Mikey had gotten that podium into the room with him.
Perplexed, I used my magnetic key to release the heavy electronic locks that secured the thick metal door of the Seclusion Room. With a gentle thunk the locks released and I opened the door and removed the podium.
“I don’t know how you did it, Mikey,” I said, “but don’t do it again. You need to stay in here until I let you out.” Mikey smiled mischievously. I shut the door once again, this time carefully observing to make sure the door was flush and the locks indeed fastened securely.
I didn’t know how he had done it. I thought perhaps the Seclusion Room door had malfunctioned or I had not shut it properly. Whatever happened, I didn’t feel comfortable at all being alone on the unit with Mikey and Ronny.
I then went into the staff office to call down to the gym for assistance. Ronny had remained on the couch as instructed when I had checked on Mikey, but now as I was on the phone, Ronny snuck away.
Suddenly, Mikey went running past the office window.
“What the—?” I said, then to my coworker on the phone: “Hang on, Travis, I got a kid on the loose!” I laid down the receiver and went chasing after Mikey. I was getting rather irritated now and was intent on getting Mikey back into that room. Then, I would find Ronny and give him a piece of my mind for wandering off.
I captured Mikey and then returned him to the Seclusion Room, but when I opened the door, inside stood Ronny.
“What the—?” I yanked Ronny out and threw Mikey back in, sat Ronny on the couch again, and then returned to the phone.
“Travis, you still there?”
“Yeah. What the hell’s going on up there?”
“Dude, you will not believe what has been happening. What the—?” Now, Ronny and Mikey were chasing each other in the living room, running in circles and giggling like carefree children. I dropped the receiver.
This time, as I threw Mikey back into the Seclusion Room, I checked his pockets and found a small, round piece of shiny metal in one of them. It was about the size of a dime and looked like a watch battery. It was the functioning component of a magnetic key! That’s how he was getting out of the Seclusion Room—using this key, which had obviously broken off the plastic housing of a fellow staff member’s key and which Mikey then found.
Mikey struggled with me as I took the key away from him, but I managed to seize the key and to shove him deep into the Seclusion Room as I slammed the heavy metal door shut before he could get his footing and try to dash out. His affect had changed, and now he was livid and belligerent. He began banging on the door, cussing me out, and spitting on the window. My, how the tables had turned.
Ronny came running toward the Seclusion Room when he heard the commotion, but I cut him off and told him in no uncertain terms to “Sit down!” on the couch. At that moment, the main door to the milieu opened up, and Travis and Stacy walked in with the other kids.
“What’s going on?” Travis asked.
“Dude,” I said, shaking my head, “you simply won’t believe it.”
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
"Interlinear"
A few things to keep in mind as you read on:
- The memory is an unreliable thing; I have recollected these events to the best of my abilities.
- I’ve kept true to the events but have embellished a detail here or there for dramatic effect.
- It's becoming increasingly difficult to maintain an accurate chronological sequence of events; apologies if I begin to skip around in time.
- Unless you were present for these events, you probably wouldn't have noticed any of these issues anyway.
- Enjoy the remainder of the narrative.
David
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
- The memory is an unreliable thing; I have recollected these events to the best of my abilities.
- I’ve kept true to the events but have embellished a detail here or there for dramatic effect.
- It's becoming increasingly difficult to maintain an accurate chronological sequence of events; apologies if I begin to skip around in time.
- Unless you were present for these events, you probably wouldn't have noticed any of these issues anyway.
- Enjoy the remainder of the narrative.
David
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Ugly Kid
Vejee was a huge University of Kentucky sports fan. Well, a huge basketball fan; the football team's enduring struggles kept Vejee lukewarm about the pigskin program. (Indeed, everybody loves a winner.) Vejee was so crazy about UK, in fact, that he asked another staff and I to shave the letters "UK" onto his head.
It was a routine event for us to cut the kids' hair from time to time. We would get out a set of Wahl clippers and go to work -- on the boys. The girls required hairdressers of superior skills to ours. But the boys would get our standard clipper cuts with fades.
So, when another staff and I got out the clippers for the present round of hair cuts, Vejee begged us to shave "UK" onto his head.
"Please, please, please, Mr. Brent," he implored
"Are you kidding me, why would you want that trash on your scalp?" asked Brent, my coworker, fellow Purdue University alum, and longtime friend who actually got me hired at the orphanage (which is a long story and to be addressed at a later time in this narrative).
"What are you talking about? UK is the most awesomest team in the world."
"No way. Purdue is."
"Purdue sucks."
"UK sucks."
"Whatever. UK rocks."
"Whatever."
"Just do it, please?"
"Only if you say Purdue is the best team in the world and UK sucks."
"No way."
"Okay, sorry then. No UK in your head."
"Oh, alright." Vejee rolled his eyes.
"I'm waiting."
Vejee rolled his eyes again, then whined, "Purdue rocks, UK doesn't."
"That's not exactly what I said," Brent replied, at which Vejee sighed. "But it's good enough."
***
"Ha, ha, ha!" I laughed and pointed at the back of Vejee's head when Brent completed his haircut. (Brent and I had planned a little trick on Vejee.)
"What? What are you laughing at, Mr. Dave?" Vejee implored. "What did Mr. Brent do?"
"Well, he didn't shave UK in the back of your head, that's what he didn't do."
"What? Are you kidding me? What did he put? What did he put?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes I do! What is it?"
"Um, it looks like 'PU' to me, for Purdue University."
"What? Are you joking? Mr. Brent, what did you put on my head?"
"What do you think I put? I put PU there, just like Mr. Dave said," responded Brent. "I couldn't let you go around with that other crap on your head. That just wouldn't be right."
"Yeah, Mr. Brent did you a favor, young man," I added. "You'll get your butt kicked with that UK crap. Now you'll walk around with dignity and respect from others."
Vejee looked like he was about to cry.
"Here, take this mirror and go into the bathroom and check it out," Brent told Vejee. "You'll like what you see. I promise you."
***
"You guys are not funny!" Vejee shouted at us as he returned to the main living area, where our makeshift barber shop was set up.
We busted out laughing. Brent had actually shaved "UK" onto the back of Vejee's head. We just wanted to torture him for a bit.
"Yeah, but I still didn't shave the University of Kentucky into your head," said Brent.
"Yes, you did."
"Nope. It doesn't stand for that. The UK stands for 'ugly kid.'"
"Shut up. No it doesn't."
We laughed and pointed at Vejee. "Ha, ha, ugly kid, ugly kid!"
"Shut up."
"What?" asked Brent. "No 'thank you' for your haircut?"
"Yeah, Vejee," I chimed. "You at least owe Mr. Brent a 'thank you' for your haircut."
"Whatever."
"Geesh," I said. "You do these kids a favor and they just disrespect you. What a shame."
"No matter," Brent responded. "If you're not man enough to thank me for your haircut, at least I'll be man enough to say, 'You're welcome ... ugly kid.'"
And we laughed some more.
***
We played this game a few more minutes before Brent and I finally reassured Vejee that we were just kidding and that the UK indeed stood for the University of Kentucky. Vejee had a good sense of humor, so it really didn't bother him. We picked on him like a little brother, and he enjoyed it, in spite of his ostensible protests.
In fact, to this day Vejee, at age 22, still keeps in touch with us, calling Brent and I each nearly every day. And we still dish out the insults to one another. Vejee frequently jokes that he's going to buy my four-year-old son a UK jersey; I joke that I'll burn it. We laugh. It's all in good fun.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
It was a routine event for us to cut the kids' hair from time to time. We would get out a set of Wahl clippers and go to work -- on the boys. The girls required hairdressers of superior skills to ours. But the boys would get our standard clipper cuts with fades.
So, when another staff and I got out the clippers for the present round of hair cuts, Vejee begged us to shave "UK" onto his head.
"Please, please, please, Mr. Brent," he implored
"Are you kidding me, why would you want that trash on your scalp?" asked Brent, my coworker, fellow Purdue University alum, and longtime friend who actually got me hired at the orphanage (which is a long story and to be addressed at a later time in this narrative).
"What are you talking about? UK is the most awesomest team in the world."
"No way. Purdue is."
"Purdue sucks."
"UK sucks."
"Whatever. UK rocks."
"Whatever."
"Just do it, please?"
"Only if you say Purdue is the best team in the world and UK sucks."
"No way."
"Okay, sorry then. No UK in your head."
"Oh, alright." Vejee rolled his eyes.
"I'm waiting."
Vejee rolled his eyes again, then whined, "Purdue rocks, UK doesn't."
"That's not exactly what I said," Brent replied, at which Vejee sighed. "But it's good enough."
***
"Ha, ha, ha!" I laughed and pointed at the back of Vejee's head when Brent completed his haircut. (Brent and I had planned a little trick on Vejee.)
"What? What are you laughing at, Mr. Dave?" Vejee implored. "What did Mr. Brent do?"
"Well, he didn't shave UK in the back of your head, that's what he didn't do."
"What? Are you kidding me? What did he put? What did he put?"
"You don't want to know."
"Yes I do! What is it?"
"Um, it looks like 'PU' to me, for Purdue University."
"What? Are you joking? Mr. Brent, what did you put on my head?"
"What do you think I put? I put PU there, just like Mr. Dave said," responded Brent. "I couldn't let you go around with that other crap on your head. That just wouldn't be right."
"Yeah, Mr. Brent did you a favor, young man," I added. "You'll get your butt kicked with that UK crap. Now you'll walk around with dignity and respect from others."
Vejee looked like he was about to cry.
"Here, take this mirror and go into the bathroom and check it out," Brent told Vejee. "You'll like what you see. I promise you."
***
"You guys are not funny!" Vejee shouted at us as he returned to the main living area, where our makeshift barber shop was set up.
We busted out laughing. Brent had actually shaved "UK" onto the back of Vejee's head. We just wanted to torture him for a bit.
"Yeah, but I still didn't shave the University of Kentucky into your head," said Brent.
"Yes, you did."
"Nope. It doesn't stand for that. The UK stands for 'ugly kid.'"
"Shut up. No it doesn't."
We laughed and pointed at Vejee. "Ha, ha, ugly kid, ugly kid!"
"Shut up."
"What?" asked Brent. "No 'thank you' for your haircut?"
"Yeah, Vejee," I chimed. "You at least owe Mr. Brent a 'thank you' for your haircut."
"Whatever."
"Geesh," I said. "You do these kids a favor and they just disrespect you. What a shame."
"No matter," Brent responded. "If you're not man enough to thank me for your haircut, at least I'll be man enough to say, 'You're welcome ... ugly kid.'"
And we laughed some more.
***
We played this game a few more minutes before Brent and I finally reassured Vejee that we were just kidding and that the UK indeed stood for the University of Kentucky. Vejee had a good sense of humor, so it really didn't bother him. We picked on him like a little brother, and he enjoyed it, in spite of his ostensible protests.
In fact, to this day Vejee, at age 22, still keeps in touch with us, calling Brent and I each nearly every day. And we still dish out the insults to one another. Vejee frequently jokes that he's going to buy my four-year-old son a UK jersey; I joke that I'll burn it. We laugh. It's all in good fun.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
That's Liposuction!
"That's liposuction!" exclaimed D.J. out of the blue, perfectly illustrating his penchant for non sequiturs.
"What?" I said.
"I said that's liposuction!"
"Uh, okay. Where'd you learn that word from?"
"From T.V. There was a show about it one time. They suck the fat out of your butt. And then they stick it in your forehead. I saw a guy on T.V. get that done."
"Are you talking about Geraldo Rivera?"
" I don't know his name."
"Probably was. Anyway, what's liposuction -- I mean, what do you mean by, 'That's liposuction'?"
"This toy." D.J. held out a remote control car.
"What's liposuction about it?"
"It sucks. Like liposuction."
I laughed. "Okay, so what's so liposuction about it?"
"It doesn't work right. I think it needs new batteries."
I got D.J. a new set of batteries, which indeed solved the problem.
***
A couple of weeks later, D.J. had a new expression.
"That's colonial village!" he exclaimed.
"What?" I responded.
"I said, 'That's colonial village!'"
"Okay, D.J. ... What's colonial village?"
"I can't have any Flaming Hot Cheetos." The kids were being served small bags of these spicy delicacies for their afternoon snack.
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"His mom won't let him have any," Drew spoke up. Drew was one of my shift coworkers. He was a large man with a lumberjack beard and a wolf tattooed on his hairy chest. He usually wore a flannel shirt and a tattered tan canvass baseball cap.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because it apparently makes his lips break out in cold sores."
"That's colonial village!" D.J. responded.
I laughed. "Okay, now what's up with this phrase, 'colonial village'?"
"It's what it is. It's colonial village," said D.J.
Drew added, "We took them on an outing to this place called Colonial Village the other day after school. He's been saying that name ever since."
"Oh, I see," I said.
"What's a matter with you, son?" I said to D.J. "You got Tourette's or something?" I was joking.
"Yes."
"What? You do?"
"Yup, I've been diagnosed with a slight case of it."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Mr. Dave, you're colonial village!"
"And you're liposuction, D.J."
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
"What?" I said.
"I said that's liposuction!"
"Uh, okay. Where'd you learn that word from?"
"From T.V. There was a show about it one time. They suck the fat out of your butt. And then they stick it in your forehead. I saw a guy on T.V. get that done."
"Are you talking about Geraldo Rivera?"
" I don't know his name."
"Probably was. Anyway, what's liposuction -- I mean, what do you mean by, 'That's liposuction'?"
"This toy." D.J. held out a remote control car.
"What's liposuction about it?"
"It sucks. Like liposuction."
I laughed. "Okay, so what's so liposuction about it?"
"It doesn't work right. I think it needs new batteries."
I got D.J. a new set of batteries, which indeed solved the problem.
***
A couple of weeks later, D.J. had a new expression.
"That's colonial village!" he exclaimed.
"What?" I responded.
"I said, 'That's colonial village!'"
"Okay, D.J. ... What's colonial village?"
"I can't have any Flaming Hot Cheetos." The kids were being served small bags of these spicy delicacies for their afternoon snack.
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"His mom won't let him have any," Drew spoke up. Drew was one of my shift coworkers. He was a large man with a lumberjack beard and a wolf tattooed on his hairy chest. He usually wore a flannel shirt and a tattered tan canvass baseball cap.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because it apparently makes his lips break out in cold sores."
"That's colonial village!" D.J. responded.
I laughed. "Okay, now what's up with this phrase, 'colonial village'?"
"It's what it is. It's colonial village," said D.J.
Drew added, "We took them on an outing to this place called Colonial Village the other day after school. He's been saying that name ever since."
"Oh, I see," I said.
"What's a matter with you, son?" I said to D.J. "You got Tourette's or something?" I was joking.
"Yes."
"What? You do?"
"Yup, I've been diagnosed with a slight case of it."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Mr. Dave, you're colonial village!"
"And you're liposuction, D.J."
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Just Give Her a Barbecue Sandwich
Donika was a rather obese girl who was diagnosed as suffering from schizoid episodes. She'd have moments in which she'd tune out, fall back against a wall, slide to the floor, and start to shake. Her eyes would become wild and glazed as they took on a "thousand mile stare." Donika's skin was very dark, which accentuated the whites and craziness of her wide open eyes during her schizoid episodes. Moreover, the fact that her hair was usually a wild mess, like a patch of tangled weeds zigzagging frantically, made her appear even more mad.
My shift coworkers and I would handle Donika's schizoid episodes by allowing her to just ride them out. She responded to nothing else we tried, so we just let her episodes run their course, usually after about 15 minutes or so. That was our approach -- that is, until one day one of our coworkers on another shift told me to offer Donika a barbecue sandwich.
"A what?" I implored.
"A barbecue sandwich," my coworker, Teri, answered.
"Huh?"
"You heard me. She fakes those so-called 'schizoid episodes.' They're nothing but for attention."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Just try it the next time she has one of those schizoid episode. You'll see."
"Okay."
***
The next time Donika had a schizoid episode, I took Teri's advice.
"Donika, are you okay?" No response. Donika just shook and gazed vacantly as she sat on the floor with her back against a wall. "Donika, I've got a barbecue sandwich in the fridge. Would you like it?" Donika slowly looked at me with her wild saucer eyes. "Would you like a barbecue sandwich?" Donika gently nodded her head. "Well, come on then, let's go get it."
With a hand from me, Donika slowly rose from the floor and followed me to the unit fridge. There was no barbecue sandwich in it. There never was.
"Oh, sorry Donika, I must have eaten it and forgot. How about something else."
"Okay," Donika grunted.
I gave her a granola bar, which she proceeded to wash down with a small carton of milk.
"So, it appears that food snaps you out of your schizoid episodes, eh?"
"Sometimes."
"Of course."
***
At some subsequent point in the future, one of my coworkers confronted Donika with the irony that food can cut off her schizoid episodes. After that, we simply ignored her schizoid episodes as much as possible. They escalated for awhile, but soon receded when she received no further edible sympathy from us. And to this day, I can't eat a barbecue sandwich without thinking of Donika.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
My shift coworkers and I would handle Donika's schizoid episodes by allowing her to just ride them out. She responded to nothing else we tried, so we just let her episodes run their course, usually after about 15 minutes or so. That was our approach -- that is, until one day one of our coworkers on another shift told me to offer Donika a barbecue sandwich.
"A what?" I implored.
"A barbecue sandwich," my coworker, Teri, answered.
"Huh?"
"You heard me. She fakes those so-called 'schizoid episodes.' They're nothing but for attention."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Just try it the next time she has one of those schizoid episode. You'll see."
"Okay."
***
The next time Donika had a schizoid episode, I took Teri's advice.
"Donika, are you okay?" No response. Donika just shook and gazed vacantly as she sat on the floor with her back against a wall. "Donika, I've got a barbecue sandwich in the fridge. Would you like it?" Donika slowly looked at me with her wild saucer eyes. "Would you like a barbecue sandwich?" Donika gently nodded her head. "Well, come on then, let's go get it."
With a hand from me, Donika slowly rose from the floor and followed me to the unit fridge. There was no barbecue sandwich in it. There never was.
"Oh, sorry Donika, I must have eaten it and forgot. How about something else."
"Okay," Donika grunted.
I gave her a granola bar, which she proceeded to wash down with a small carton of milk.
"So, it appears that food snaps you out of your schizoid episodes, eh?"
"Sometimes."
"Of course."
***
At some subsequent point in the future, one of my coworkers confronted Donika with the irony that food can cut off her schizoid episodes. After that, we simply ignored her schizoid episodes as much as possible. They escalated for awhile, but soon receded when she received no further edible sympathy from us. And to this day, I can't eat a barbecue sandwich without thinking of Donika.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Saturday, February 24, 2007
And the Oscar Goes To ...
Like many of the children, Mariah loved attention. She craved it, sought it in any way she could. If the focus wasn't on her, she did whatever it took to seize the spotlight, from screaming to belching to crying.
Once, she complained of a headache and begged for a bag of ice for her forehead. When the staff ignored her, she began screaming, "I need a bag of ice! I'm about to faint because of the pain!" Instead of a bag of ice, however, she earned a trip to the calming room, an area where out-of-control kids were placed until they usually did one of the following: 1) calmed down, 2) escalated until they became violent and had to be physically restrained on the floor, or 3) escalated until they were placed into the electromagnetically locked "seclusion room" until they calmed down.
Mariah wept and complained uneventfully until she calmed down.
***
Another time, Mariah complained of being possessed by a demon. So, a couple of the staff took her to her room and left her there alone. A loud commotion soon emanated from her room, so I went to check on her. I found her thrashing about on her bed and screaming wildly; when she paused for a moment and saw me, she escalated her undulations and shrieks. I simply stood in her doorway and watched the performance.
Gradually, other kids gathered around me to observe the show too. It went on for a couple of minutes until Mariah wore herself out. She stopped and then looked up at us, evidently caught off guard that such a big crowd had gathered to witness her dramatic display. I started clapping, and the rest of the audience joined in to give Mariah a rigorous standing ovation. Her face turned ruddy and she smiled sheepishly, and for the rest of the day her behavior was rather good.
***
Mariah never again was possessed by a demon during her time on the RTU. Who knew that social humiliation was so effective at exorcising demons?
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Once, she complained of a headache and begged for a bag of ice for her forehead. When the staff ignored her, she began screaming, "I need a bag of ice! I'm about to faint because of the pain!" Instead of a bag of ice, however, she earned a trip to the calming room, an area where out-of-control kids were placed until they usually did one of the following: 1) calmed down, 2) escalated until they became violent and had to be physically restrained on the floor, or 3) escalated until they were placed into the electromagnetically locked "seclusion room" until they calmed down.
Mariah wept and complained uneventfully until she calmed down.
***
Another time, Mariah complained of being possessed by a demon. So, a couple of the staff took her to her room and left her there alone. A loud commotion soon emanated from her room, so I went to check on her. I found her thrashing about on her bed and screaming wildly; when she paused for a moment and saw me, she escalated her undulations and shrieks. I simply stood in her doorway and watched the performance.
Gradually, other kids gathered around me to observe the show too. It went on for a couple of minutes until Mariah wore herself out. She stopped and then looked up at us, evidently caught off guard that such a big crowd had gathered to witness her dramatic display. I started clapping, and the rest of the audience joined in to give Mariah a rigorous standing ovation. Her face turned ruddy and she smiled sheepishly, and for the rest of the day her behavior was rather good.
***
Mariah never again was possessed by a demon during her time on the RTU. Who knew that social humiliation was so effective at exorcising demons?
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
I Like Chocolate Milk
The collective character of the RTU was an organic thing, with the client and staff populations perpetually fluctuating. Kids came and went according their individual treatment schedules, and if a staff member made it six months in the trenches without quitting, he was a veteran. And so the unit "organism" was always in flux, with but brief periods of consistency.
After several years of working at the orphanage, I came to notice the cycling of certain phenomena. Patterns emerged in the flux. On the RTU, one of these phenomena was the presence of a charismatic teenage African American boy who kept the staff in stitches and the younger kids following him like a pied piper. Like clockwork, one of these teenagers showed up on the RTU about once every couple of years. In the initial group of kids I worked with, this person was Calvin.
***
Calvin was an entertaining kid who didn't walk but rather cooly strolled everywhere, with head slightly tilted and mouth smiling ever so faintly. An afro pick, alternating its perch from his back pocket to the back of his head, accompanied him wherever he went (which wasn't far on a locked unit). When he wasn't cooly meandering, Calvin could be found shuffle-running, jeans bottoms dragging on the floor, to one of the couches; he would then blare out a high-pitched "Whoop! Whoop!" before crashing onto the couch and drooping into his seat, leaning back with an "oh, yeah" smugness on his face and burrowing his hands into his pockets or raking his pick across his 'fro.
Calvin's afro pick wasn't his only constant companion. Marky followed the older Calvin like his shadow: Wherever Calvin went, Marky was sure to go. (For every Calvin on the unit, there was always a Marky sidekick.) Calvin didn't seem to give Marky much special attention; he just more or less tolerated his presence. Occasionally he would goad Marky into doing something for him that he was too lazy to do himself, like retrieving a remote control car that got wedged against a chair ... or calling another kid a bad name.
Marky was a cute little sucker with bright eyes and a big smile, happy-go-lucky and pleasant to be around. He enjoyed board games, individual time with staff, and bedtime stories and being tucked in at night. But when Marky became upset, he would often lose control. Like the preponderance of kids who passed through our doors, he had trouble with anger management.
***
One Saturday morning, Marky became distraught over discovering himself on level two. The RTU program employed a point system in which the kids earned various levels, from one to three, based on their behaviors the day before; if a kid was really bad, he ended up on a level called "restriction," which resulted in, of course, restricted privileges. Clearly, level two was a good level and nothing to rationally poo-poo about. However, Marky had somehow gotten the impression the night before that he would wake up in the morning to find himself on level three. What was actually said to him was, "If you don't lose any more points tonight, you should be on level three tomorrow." Well, he did lose some more points because he came out of his room several times -- without adequate excuses -- after bedtime. In his mind, however, Marky had heard, "You'll be on level three tomorrow," and, of course, his selective recall either didn't remember the post-bedtime behavior or didn't want to acknowledge it occurred. In any case, Marky blew out.
"That's bullshit!" Marky shouted when he saw the glaring "2" next to his name on the white dry-erase board.
"What did you say?" inquired Miss Chevon, a slightly overweight twenty-something African American staff member with baggy eyes and figure, as if she wore an aura consisting of a heavy burden.
"I said, 'That's bullshit!'"
"Boy, who are you speaking to like that?" Miss Chevon asked, approaching Marky.
"I'm not speaking to nobody!"
Miss Chevon glared down at Marky, who glared at the floor. "Boy, you better calm down and get yourself together before you get yourself in even more trouble. What's your problem?"
"My problem is that I'm on level two when I was told I would be on level three."
"Unball your fists, and then we'll talk about it."
"I'm supposed to be on level three!"
"Marky, unball your fists."
Before Marky unballed his fists, however, he swung at Miss Chevon. He missed -- and probably wouldn't have hurt her anyway if he did connect, because of his diminutive size. But in the tussle that occurred next, Marky grabbed a fistful of Miss Chevon's shirt -- and a bra strap -- and pulled both articles of clothing down over her shoulder, exposing her right breast. Cooly, Miss Chevon yanked Marky away and pulled up her shirt. After regaining his balance, Marky stopped in his tracks and looked up in shock at Miss Chevon. A collective gasp reverberated among the other children and staff, who quite legitimately feared for Marky's life.
"Little boy, you just signed your death wish," Miss Chevon growled through clenched teeth.
Calvin bravely chimed in: "Marky, you're my boy! Whoop! Whoop!"
"You shut up, Calvin, or I'm coming for you next," warned Miss Chevon.
"Whoop, whoop?" Calvin chimed again, this time under his breath.
Marky scampered out of the vicinity of Ms. Chevon.
"Little child, I'm not running after you. But I want you to know that not only are you not on level three, but now you're on restriction. And I'd suggest you go straight to your room and stay in there until I tell you to come out. Otherwise, I will run after you. And when I catch you, you'll beg for a quick and painless death."
Marky bolted for his room.
"And Calvin, one more word from you, and you're on restriction too."
Calvin dropped his jaw and lifted his arms to wordlessly suggest, "What did I do?"
***
Later that day, after things had settled and the "booby incident" was all but completely forgotten, the kids and staff settled into the couches for an event called Community Group. It was a time when the kids took turns standing before the group and discussing some issue or other that needed resolving. The talk may have focused on something that happened that day, something happening in their lives on a broad scale, an incident from their past, whatever. Usually, the kids were reticent to talk and couldn't wait for the group to finish. The staff's official role in Community Group was to facilitate the discussion and prod the kids into developing some insight into their problems; but the net effect was usually that the kids simply learned to say what the staff wanted to hear. These were street-hardened kids, and they were experts at manipulation and survival ... but tragically short on introspection -- probably because they wanted to suppress the past as much as possible.
As Marky took his spot in front of the group, Calvin, sitting next to Miss Chevon, let out a weak "Whoop, whoop." Marky tried to, but couldn't, stifle a smile. Miss Chevon glared at Calvin, who cast a sheepish grin, stuck his afro pick on the back of his head, folded his arms, and sunk into his chair. Miss Chevon then instructed Marky to begin addressing the group.
Instead, Calvin spoke up again, dropping a bomb. Cooly nodding his head, he declared in a lazy voice: "Oh yeah ... I like chocolate milk."
Smack! -- Miss Chevon slapped Calvin across the back of his head so hard, his afro pick went flying.
"Ow!"
"That's what you get!"
Calvin smiled as he rubbed the back of his head and gathered up his pick. "I know, I know. I couldn't help it."
"You never can, that's your problem." Miss Chevon tried to glare at Calvin, although even she had to crack a smile at Calvin's funny remark. "Marky, just sit down. We're skipping you today."
"Alright, that means I'm next," Calvin eagerly said and started to get up.
"Oh, no -- you sit down," Miss Chevon snapped. "We're skipping you too."
"Aw, man," Calvin responded. Miss Chevon glared sternly at him. "Alright, alright." Calvin sunk back into his chair.
"You better watch yourself the rest of the day," Miss Chevon said. "And you too, Marky."
"Does that mean group's over?" inquired Calvin
"Yes, it's free time."
"Yay!" a collective cry resounded from the kids, who scattered to begin various activities.
Calvin raised an eyebrow and smiled at Marky, then stuck his afro pick on his head. Abruptly, he shot up and bolted toward his room, but not without leaving a departing last jab: "Whoop! Whoop!"
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
After several years of working at the orphanage, I came to notice the cycling of certain phenomena. Patterns emerged in the flux. On the RTU, one of these phenomena was the presence of a charismatic teenage African American boy who kept the staff in stitches and the younger kids following him like a pied piper. Like clockwork, one of these teenagers showed up on the RTU about once every couple of years. In the initial group of kids I worked with, this person was Calvin.
***
Calvin was an entertaining kid who didn't walk but rather cooly strolled everywhere, with head slightly tilted and mouth smiling ever so faintly. An afro pick, alternating its perch from his back pocket to the back of his head, accompanied him wherever he went (which wasn't far on a locked unit). When he wasn't cooly meandering, Calvin could be found shuffle-running, jeans bottoms dragging on the floor, to one of the couches; he would then blare out a high-pitched "Whoop! Whoop!" before crashing onto the couch and drooping into his seat, leaning back with an "oh, yeah" smugness on his face and burrowing his hands into his pockets or raking his pick across his 'fro.
Calvin's afro pick wasn't his only constant companion. Marky followed the older Calvin like his shadow: Wherever Calvin went, Marky was sure to go. (For every Calvin on the unit, there was always a Marky sidekick.) Calvin didn't seem to give Marky much special attention; he just more or less tolerated his presence. Occasionally he would goad Marky into doing something for him that he was too lazy to do himself, like retrieving a remote control car that got wedged against a chair ... or calling another kid a bad name.
Marky was a cute little sucker with bright eyes and a big smile, happy-go-lucky and pleasant to be around. He enjoyed board games, individual time with staff, and bedtime stories and being tucked in at night. But when Marky became upset, he would often lose control. Like the preponderance of kids who passed through our doors, he had trouble with anger management.
***
One Saturday morning, Marky became distraught over discovering himself on level two. The RTU program employed a point system in which the kids earned various levels, from one to three, based on their behaviors the day before; if a kid was really bad, he ended up on a level called "restriction," which resulted in, of course, restricted privileges. Clearly, level two was a good level and nothing to rationally poo-poo about. However, Marky had somehow gotten the impression the night before that he would wake up in the morning to find himself on level three. What was actually said to him was, "If you don't lose any more points tonight, you should be on level three tomorrow." Well, he did lose some more points because he came out of his room several times -- without adequate excuses -- after bedtime. In his mind, however, Marky had heard, "You'll be on level three tomorrow," and, of course, his selective recall either didn't remember the post-bedtime behavior or didn't want to acknowledge it occurred. In any case, Marky blew out.
"That's bullshit!" Marky shouted when he saw the glaring "2" next to his name on the white dry-erase board.
"What did you say?" inquired Miss Chevon, a slightly overweight twenty-something African American staff member with baggy eyes and figure, as if she wore an aura consisting of a heavy burden.
"I said, 'That's bullshit!'"
"Boy, who are you speaking to like that?" Miss Chevon asked, approaching Marky.
"I'm not speaking to nobody!"
Miss Chevon glared down at Marky, who glared at the floor. "Boy, you better calm down and get yourself together before you get yourself in even more trouble. What's your problem?"
"My problem is that I'm on level two when I was told I would be on level three."
"Unball your fists, and then we'll talk about it."
"I'm supposed to be on level three!"
"Marky, unball your fists."
Before Marky unballed his fists, however, he swung at Miss Chevon. He missed -- and probably wouldn't have hurt her anyway if he did connect, because of his diminutive size. But in the tussle that occurred next, Marky grabbed a fistful of Miss Chevon's shirt -- and a bra strap -- and pulled both articles of clothing down over her shoulder, exposing her right breast. Cooly, Miss Chevon yanked Marky away and pulled up her shirt. After regaining his balance, Marky stopped in his tracks and looked up in shock at Miss Chevon. A collective gasp reverberated among the other children and staff, who quite legitimately feared for Marky's life.
"Little boy, you just signed your death wish," Miss Chevon growled through clenched teeth.
Calvin bravely chimed in: "Marky, you're my boy! Whoop! Whoop!"
"You shut up, Calvin, or I'm coming for you next," warned Miss Chevon.
"Whoop, whoop?" Calvin chimed again, this time under his breath.
Marky scampered out of the vicinity of Ms. Chevon.
"Little child, I'm not running after you. But I want you to know that not only are you not on level three, but now you're on restriction. And I'd suggest you go straight to your room and stay in there until I tell you to come out. Otherwise, I will run after you. And when I catch you, you'll beg for a quick and painless death."
Marky bolted for his room.
"And Calvin, one more word from you, and you're on restriction too."
Calvin dropped his jaw and lifted his arms to wordlessly suggest, "What did I do?"
***
Later that day, after things had settled and the "booby incident" was all but completely forgotten, the kids and staff settled into the couches for an event called Community Group. It was a time when the kids took turns standing before the group and discussing some issue or other that needed resolving. The talk may have focused on something that happened that day, something happening in their lives on a broad scale, an incident from their past, whatever. Usually, the kids were reticent to talk and couldn't wait for the group to finish. The staff's official role in Community Group was to facilitate the discussion and prod the kids into developing some insight into their problems; but the net effect was usually that the kids simply learned to say what the staff wanted to hear. These were street-hardened kids, and they were experts at manipulation and survival ... but tragically short on introspection -- probably because they wanted to suppress the past as much as possible.
As Marky took his spot in front of the group, Calvin, sitting next to Miss Chevon, let out a weak "Whoop, whoop." Marky tried to, but couldn't, stifle a smile. Miss Chevon glared at Calvin, who cast a sheepish grin, stuck his afro pick on the back of his head, folded his arms, and sunk into his chair. Miss Chevon then instructed Marky to begin addressing the group.
Instead, Calvin spoke up again, dropping a bomb. Cooly nodding his head, he declared in a lazy voice: "Oh yeah ... I like chocolate milk."
Smack! -- Miss Chevon slapped Calvin across the back of his head so hard, his afro pick went flying.
"Ow!"
"That's what you get!"
Calvin smiled as he rubbed the back of his head and gathered up his pick. "I know, I know. I couldn't help it."
"You never can, that's your problem." Miss Chevon tried to glare at Calvin, although even she had to crack a smile at Calvin's funny remark. "Marky, just sit down. We're skipping you today."
"Alright, that means I'm next," Calvin eagerly said and started to get up.
"Oh, no -- you sit down," Miss Chevon snapped. "We're skipping you too."
"Aw, man," Calvin responded. Miss Chevon glared sternly at him. "Alright, alright." Calvin sunk back into his chair.
"You better watch yourself the rest of the day," Miss Chevon said. "And you too, Marky."
"Does that mean group's over?" inquired Calvin
"Yes, it's free time."
"Yay!" a collective cry resounded from the kids, who scattered to begin various activities.
Calvin raised an eyebrow and smiled at Marky, then stuck his afro pick on his head. Abruptly, he shot up and bolted toward his room, but not without leaving a departing last jab: "Whoop! Whoop!"
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Friday, February 23, 2007
Our Little Angels
My first week as a brand new direct care worker was spent in trainings and observing my coworkers on the unit. One of the trainings was held in the basement of the building by the head of maintenance, a man named Hank who sported a wicked handlebar mustache. He gave a talk on hazardous materials safety, emergency escape routes, fire extinguishers, and related topics, finishing up with a tour of the laundry and other maintenance facilities.
He opened up the training with a reference that has anchored my perspective of the clients ever since I heard it. Reminding us who we're working for, he said, "We're all here for the kids, who we affectionately like to call 'our little angels.'"
Our little angels. I liked the sound of that. It reminded me that these children were innocent victims, fallen angels, angels with broken wings. And it was our job to help them fly again. I was ready for that providential duty.
***
The first group of kids I worked with was a motley crew of nine Bad News Bears:
1. Marky, a cute little eight-year-old African American boy with a robust head and body and disarming smile.
2. Calvin, a witty thirteen-year-old African American boy with sleepy eyes and a sense of humor that constantly caught you off guard.
3. Mariah, a melodramatic eleven-year-old drama queen in cat-eye glasses who loved attention and whose milk-chocolate skin was an even blend of genes from her mother (white) and father (black).
4. Doug, an anxious, freckle-faced ten-year-old Caucasian boy who could build anything out of anything -- the McGuyver of the gang, if you will.
5. Donika, an overweight eleven-year-old African American girl with schizoid episodes and a ravenous appetite.
6. D.J., a thin nine-year-old African American boy with big lips and eyes and a penchant for verbal non sequiturs and Flaming Hot Cheetos.
7. Vejee, an East Indian boy, eleven years old, with a large head, very poor impulse control, and an obsession with college sports and touching females inappropriately.
8. Lakeisha, a laconic, dark skinned, sexually charged eleven-year-old African American girl who had ghonneria when admitted and who collected diaries although she could barely read or write.
9. Kim, a stocky ten-year-old African American girl with a laid-back, street-tough demeanor and a gritty-smooth voice like a blues singer.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
He opened up the training with a reference that has anchored my perspective of the clients ever since I heard it. Reminding us who we're working for, he said, "We're all here for the kids, who we affectionately like to call 'our little angels.'"
Our little angels. I liked the sound of that. It reminded me that these children were innocent victims, fallen angels, angels with broken wings. And it was our job to help them fly again. I was ready for that providential duty.
***
The first group of kids I worked with was a motley crew of nine Bad News Bears:
1. Marky, a cute little eight-year-old African American boy with a robust head and body and disarming smile.
2. Calvin, a witty thirteen-year-old African American boy with sleepy eyes and a sense of humor that constantly caught you off guard.
3. Mariah, a melodramatic eleven-year-old drama queen in cat-eye glasses who loved attention and whose milk-chocolate skin was an even blend of genes from her mother (white) and father (black).
4. Doug, an anxious, freckle-faced ten-year-old Caucasian boy who could build anything out of anything -- the McGuyver of the gang, if you will.
5. Donika, an overweight eleven-year-old African American girl with schizoid episodes and a ravenous appetite.
6. D.J., a thin nine-year-old African American boy with big lips and eyes and a penchant for verbal non sequiturs and Flaming Hot Cheetos.
7. Vejee, an East Indian boy, eleven years old, with a large head, very poor impulse control, and an obsession with college sports and touching females inappropriately.
8. Lakeisha, a laconic, dark skinned, sexually charged eleven-year-old African American girl who had ghonneria when admitted and who collected diaries although she could barely read or write.
9. Kim, a stocky ten-year-old African American girl with a laid-back, street-tough demeanor and a gritty-smooth voice like a blues singer.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Apple Tree Orphanage
Apple Tree Orphanage was not a true orphanage anymore. At least, not the kind conjured up in ancient sepia tone photographs of little doll-faced cherubs in prim nineteenth century garb and attended by stern-faced nuns. Nor was it the kind of place you'd find little Guatemalan boys playing soccer in a dirt field, naked African children with swollen bellies and flies swarming on the crust at the corners of their eyes and mouths. No, Apple Tree Orphanage did not house real orphans anymore.
Sure, perhaps a kid here or there who passed through Apple Tree's doors really didn't have parents who were still alive. But the preponderance of them did. They just happened to not live with their mommies and daddies anymore, for one tragic reason or another.
Long ago in the days of horse-drawn carriages, and perhaps as recent as the Carter Administration, Apple Tree Orphanage was as its name implies. But as the times changed, so did the orphanage. The foster care system took over the housing of orphans, and Apple Tree, out of self-preservation, became a multifaceted treatment center for troubled youth, providing case management, after-school programs, outpatient therapy, and residential treatment, among other services. The agency kept the name, however, because it elicited sympathy in the community. Most people believed it was still an orphanage; they didn't know any better. The name was good PR, good for soliciting donations.
***
I worked on one of the two residential units of the "orphanage," the Residential Treatment Unit. (The other unit was the Crisis Treatment Unit.) The RTU was a locked unit that housed up to twelve children at a time. It consisted of a main living area, a staff office, a girls bathroom, a boys bathroom, a calming room, a seclusion room, a recreation room, a nurses' office, a storage room, and twelve bedrooms. It was pasted together in furnishings and decor of neutral, institutional tones -- mostly grays and off-whites. It was on the third and top floor of a large building complex, providing a stark view of wooded communities stretching to a large river in the distance.
The clients ranged in age from as young as five years old to about sixteen years old, all mashed together in a one-size-fits-all treatment milieu. They came to the orphanage from foster homes, group homes, other institutional facilities, and their own biological families' homes. Some were removed from their prior placements due to being the victim of some alleged or confirmed incident (e.g., physical or sexual abuse). Most, however, were removed due to their inability to play nicely with others; in other words, they assaulted their biological or foster parents or siblings, started fires, repeatedly broke curfew, ran away from home, vandalized property, inappropriately touched other children and adults, and so on. So they were sent to us to see if we could control them for the time being, and maybe even fix them a little bit.
They were broken children, shattered originally by the neglect or abuse their own flesh and blood inflicted upon them, then ground further into irreparable detritus by the system -- a system composed of well-meaning judges, guardians, case workers, therapists, direct care workers, foster parents (some of whom too often are not so well meaning), and others. And here they were in Apple Tree Orphanage, trying to put the pieces back together, trying to rebuild a city of hope from Lego pieces smashed by a sledgehammer into scattered flecks of splintered plastic. Good luck.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Sure, perhaps a kid here or there who passed through Apple Tree's doors really didn't have parents who were still alive. But the preponderance of them did. They just happened to not live with their mommies and daddies anymore, for one tragic reason or another.
Long ago in the days of horse-drawn carriages, and perhaps as recent as the Carter Administration, Apple Tree Orphanage was as its name implies. But as the times changed, so did the orphanage. The foster care system took over the housing of orphans, and Apple Tree, out of self-preservation, became a multifaceted treatment center for troubled youth, providing case management, after-school programs, outpatient therapy, and residential treatment, among other services. The agency kept the name, however, because it elicited sympathy in the community. Most people believed it was still an orphanage; they didn't know any better. The name was good PR, good for soliciting donations.
***
I worked on one of the two residential units of the "orphanage," the Residential Treatment Unit. (The other unit was the Crisis Treatment Unit.) The RTU was a locked unit that housed up to twelve children at a time. It consisted of a main living area, a staff office, a girls bathroom, a boys bathroom, a calming room, a seclusion room, a recreation room, a nurses' office, a storage room, and twelve bedrooms. It was pasted together in furnishings and decor of neutral, institutional tones -- mostly grays and off-whites. It was on the third and top floor of a large building complex, providing a stark view of wooded communities stretching to a large river in the distance.
The clients ranged in age from as young as five years old to about sixteen years old, all mashed together in a one-size-fits-all treatment milieu. They came to the orphanage from foster homes, group homes, other institutional facilities, and their own biological families' homes. Some were removed from their prior placements due to being the victim of some alleged or confirmed incident (e.g., physical or sexual abuse). Most, however, were removed due to their inability to play nicely with others; in other words, they assaulted their biological or foster parents or siblings, started fires, repeatedly broke curfew, ran away from home, vandalized property, inappropriately touched other children and adults, and so on. So they were sent to us to see if we could control them for the time being, and maybe even fix them a little bit.
They were broken children, shattered originally by the neglect or abuse their own flesh and blood inflicted upon them, then ground further into irreparable detritus by the system -- a system composed of well-meaning judges, guardians, case workers, therapists, direct care workers, foster parents (some of whom too often are not so well meaning), and others. And here they were in Apple Tree Orphanage, trying to put the pieces back together, trying to rebuild a city of hope from Lego pieces smashed by a sledgehammer into scattered flecks of splintered plastic. Good luck.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Little Emily
Truth is stranger than fiction, especially in the broken realities of broken children. Indeed, do these poor creatures have stories to tell! I am about to share but a handful of them with you now. Beginning with Little Emily.
***
On my first day on the job at the Apple Tree Orphanage, I found myself sitting on a couch in the main area, the living room, of a locked residential unit. I was naturally shy, and I had that nerve-wracking first-day-on-the-job anxiety that hovers in your throat and, from there, tenses your entire body. A pail, frail little five-year-old girl sat next to me. Her red hair was a tousled bob atop her head, her big blue eyes vast puddles of life. She wore a pair of pink shorts and a matching T-shirt, white ankle-length socks, and white tennis shoes. She seemed a normal little kid. Her name was Emily. In her hands Emily held a four-ounce milk carton embellished with multicolored shreds of tissue paper and clumps of dried Elmer's Glue.
"What you got there?" I asked quietly, timidly with my head slightly lowered. Emily handed the milk carton to me, and said it was a feelings box. Inside the feelings box were little tabs of paper with words handwritten in black ink on them. She reached into the feelings box and handed me a tab.
"What's this say?" Emily asked in a voice soft like fresh snow and just as melancholy.
I cleared my throat. "It says, 'Afraid,'" I answered.
Emily reached into the feelings box again. "What's this say?"
"'Anxious.'"
"'This?'"
"'Sad.'"
"This?"
"Scared."
And on went the exchange, until all the tabs were exhausted from the feelings box and they sat on the cushion space between us. "Let's put these back in," I suggested.
At first, we returned the tabs in silence. Then I uttered, "Cha-ching," while returning a tab. Emily smiled at me for the first time, revealing chalky, gapped teeth. She then returned a tab with a "cha-ching" herself. All the tabs returned with "cha-chings" and smiles. I then removed a tab and uttered the phrase in reverse: "ching-cha." And the activity turned into a game of "ching-chas" and "cha-chings" and lots of broad, unrestrained smiles.
"Emily, it's time to go. Get your stuff," a female voice punctuated our game. One of my new coworkers looked down at us with a faint, purse-lipped grin, the kind of grin that says, "I regret what I had to say, but it had to be said."
We returned all of the tabs with a finale of quiet "cha-chings." Emily picked up her feelings box and then jumped down from the couch, took a few steps, and stopped. She turned around and raised a pale hand. "Bye," she said quietly, and then walked out through the electromagnetically locked front door of the unit.
I never saw Emily again. That day -- my first on the job -- was Emily's last, the day of her discharge from the facility. I was with her for her final moments on the unit -- two strangers spontaneously connecting and forging an apparent friendship; but in actuality the exchange was as ephemeral as a dandelion clock blown apart by a child's breath. Poof! -- and the swiftly but solidly forged rapport was gone, water droplets embracing but then disbursed by some external force into the vast oblivion of disparate worlds forever. Paths crossed and simultaneously lost. There went Emily, strolling off into her unseen destiny ... While I sat on the couch in the orphanage, awaiting mine.
***
I later read Emily's file, which lingered a few days on the unit in a binder on a shelf in a closet. What I discovered was endearing. A psychiatrist evaluating Emily described her as "a very cute girl with large, wide-set blue eyes."
However, the file was also shattering, transforming me, giving me a new purpose. It told of Emily's stunted cognitive development and of her vicious abuse: alleged, but unconfirmed, sexual molestation by her father. During a recent therapy session, the file disclosed, this six year old stripped the clothes off of a Barbie doll, pretended to shackle it to a bed, and placed Ken on top. (Unconfirmed? What other evidence was necessary?)
The pain I felt for this poor child was overwhelming. How could anyone do such horrible things to such an angelic little girl? The depraved psyche capable of raping a child -- no less one’s own flesh and blood! -- was unfathomable.
These children suffered so tremendously. My heart bled for them. I wept over the horrors they had to endure at the perverted hands of others. I ached to heal their wounds, mend their worlds, and change them from tragic victims into triumphant victors.
I knew, from that moment on, that this work was my destiny.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
***
On my first day on the job at the Apple Tree Orphanage, I found myself sitting on a couch in the main area, the living room, of a locked residential unit. I was naturally shy, and I had that nerve-wracking first-day-on-the-job anxiety that hovers in your throat and, from there, tenses your entire body. A pail, frail little five-year-old girl sat next to me. Her red hair was a tousled bob atop her head, her big blue eyes vast puddles of life. She wore a pair of pink shorts and a matching T-shirt, white ankle-length socks, and white tennis shoes. She seemed a normal little kid. Her name was Emily. In her hands Emily held a four-ounce milk carton embellished with multicolored shreds of tissue paper and clumps of dried Elmer's Glue.
"What you got there?" I asked quietly, timidly with my head slightly lowered. Emily handed the milk carton to me, and said it was a feelings box. Inside the feelings box were little tabs of paper with words handwritten in black ink on them. She reached into the feelings box and handed me a tab.
"What's this say?" Emily asked in a voice soft like fresh snow and just as melancholy.
I cleared my throat. "It says, 'Afraid,'" I answered.
Emily reached into the feelings box again. "What's this say?"
"'Anxious.'"
"'This?'"
"'Sad.'"
"This?"
"Scared."
And on went the exchange, until all the tabs were exhausted from the feelings box and they sat on the cushion space between us. "Let's put these back in," I suggested.
At first, we returned the tabs in silence. Then I uttered, "Cha-ching," while returning a tab. Emily smiled at me for the first time, revealing chalky, gapped teeth. She then returned a tab with a "cha-ching" herself. All the tabs returned with "cha-chings" and smiles. I then removed a tab and uttered the phrase in reverse: "ching-cha." And the activity turned into a game of "ching-chas" and "cha-chings" and lots of broad, unrestrained smiles.
"Emily, it's time to go. Get your stuff," a female voice punctuated our game. One of my new coworkers looked down at us with a faint, purse-lipped grin, the kind of grin that says, "I regret what I had to say, but it had to be said."
We returned all of the tabs with a finale of quiet "cha-chings." Emily picked up her feelings box and then jumped down from the couch, took a few steps, and stopped. She turned around and raised a pale hand. "Bye," she said quietly, and then walked out through the electromagnetically locked front door of the unit.
I never saw Emily again. That day -- my first on the job -- was Emily's last, the day of her discharge from the facility. I was with her for her final moments on the unit -- two strangers spontaneously connecting and forging an apparent friendship; but in actuality the exchange was as ephemeral as a dandelion clock blown apart by a child's breath. Poof! -- and the swiftly but solidly forged rapport was gone, water droplets embracing but then disbursed by some external force into the vast oblivion of disparate worlds forever. Paths crossed and simultaneously lost. There went Emily, strolling off into her unseen destiny ... While I sat on the couch in the orphanage, awaiting mine.
***
I later read Emily's file, which lingered a few days on the unit in a binder on a shelf in a closet. What I discovered was endearing. A psychiatrist evaluating Emily described her as "a very cute girl with large, wide-set blue eyes."
However, the file was also shattering, transforming me, giving me a new purpose. It told of Emily's stunted cognitive development and of her vicious abuse: alleged, but unconfirmed, sexual molestation by her father. During a recent therapy session, the file disclosed, this six year old stripped the clothes off of a Barbie doll, pretended to shackle it to a bed, and placed Ken on top. (Unconfirmed? What other evidence was necessary?)
The pain I felt for this poor child was overwhelming. How could anyone do such horrible things to such an angelic little girl? The depraved psyche capable of raping a child -- no less one’s own flesh and blood! -- was unfathomable.
These children suffered so tremendously. My heart bled for them. I wept over the horrors they had to endure at the perverted hands of others. I ached to heal their wounds, mend their worlds, and change them from tragic victims into triumphant victors.
I knew, from that moment on, that this work was my destiny.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Introduction
I am still working on an acceptable introduction. I suppose it will surface after the completion of the entire tome. For now, just accept that it will say something profound and contemplative, maybe even melodramatic.
Also understand that names, places, and other details in these stories have been changed, for obvious reasons.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
Also understand that names, places, and other details in these stories have been changed, for obvious reasons.
********
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
A Priori
Six years I have worked in the service of orphans. Perhaps four I have longed to tell their stories.
This blog attempts to fulfill my grand ambition, as I've had numerous false starts and tangible stops when writing in the lone and incorrigibly unsatisfied company of my self. My hope is that by sharing my raw voice with an immeasurable and potentially vast ether of readers, I will suffer the obligation to keep on going, despite any trite drivel potentially spewing forth, and I will finally complete what I have been compelled, but so far too unfocused, to put down in print.
It's worth a try, anyway.
We do love to indulge ourselves in these online formats. Something about them encourages us to soliloquize copiously. We gush on and on ... At least, that is what I have observed. For practical reasons, I hope to become inflicted with the same disorder as many millions of good people; although until now, I have never been a "blogger." This blog, therefore, is an experiment to discover if I too will suffer likewise, and thus consequently complete something substantial in length. My hypothesis is that I will gush on like my newfound blogosphere compatriots, and I will subsequently amass an ample enough inventory of anecdotes to somehow add up to ye old standard-length book. And then I hope the prose quality is adequate enough to warrant publication by a respectable publishing house.
We'll see.
*******
In case you were wondering ... The title of my tale, "Our Little Angels," comes straight from the mouth of the maintenance supervisor in the facility where I am employed. (People -- unexpected people -- say the darnedest things.) I will reveal more about the title in the narrative to come -- be on the lookout!
For now, I hope in advance you can forgive any banality, clutter, incompleteness, or lack of polish to my writing. Hopefully this blog will someday make its way into a published, distributed, and mass-marketed form, fully edited and polished by professionals. And the underlying blog will be relegated to the status of historical artifact, a rudimentary catalyst of something grand, a testament to the power of simply doing what your heart desires and letting the pros make you look good. And if you've read this blog and felt compelled to buy the book, I hope you will have enjoyed everything you read authored by me.
With deep appreciation,
David Lee Cummings
February 23, 2007
********
Please note: All material published in this blog (www.ourlittleangelsonline.blogspot.com) is the sole property and copyright of David Lee Cummings of Cincinnati, OH.
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
This blog attempts to fulfill my grand ambition, as I've had numerous false starts and tangible stops when writing in the lone and incorrigibly unsatisfied company of my self. My hope is that by sharing my raw voice with an immeasurable and potentially vast ether of readers, I will suffer the obligation to keep on going, despite any trite drivel potentially spewing forth, and I will finally complete what I have been compelled, but so far too unfocused, to put down in print.
It's worth a try, anyway.
We do love to indulge ourselves in these online formats. Something about them encourages us to soliloquize copiously. We gush on and on ... At least, that is what I have observed. For practical reasons, I hope to become inflicted with the same disorder as many millions of good people; although until now, I have never been a "blogger." This blog, therefore, is an experiment to discover if I too will suffer likewise, and thus consequently complete something substantial in length. My hypothesis is that I will gush on like my newfound blogosphere compatriots, and I will subsequently amass an ample enough inventory of anecdotes to somehow add up to ye old standard-length book. And then I hope the prose quality is adequate enough to warrant publication by a respectable publishing house.
We'll see.
*******
In case you were wondering ... The title of my tale, "Our Little Angels," comes straight from the mouth of the maintenance supervisor in the facility where I am employed. (People -- unexpected people -- say the darnedest things.) I will reveal more about the title in the narrative to come -- be on the lookout!
For now, I hope in advance you can forgive any banality, clutter, incompleteness, or lack of polish to my writing. Hopefully this blog will someday make its way into a published, distributed, and mass-marketed form, fully edited and polished by professionals. And the underlying blog will be relegated to the status of historical artifact, a rudimentary catalyst of something grand, a testament to the power of simply doing what your heart desires and letting the pros make you look good. And if you've read this blog and felt compelled to buy the book, I hope you will have enjoyed everything you read authored by me.
With deep appreciation,
David Lee Cummings
February 23, 2007
********
Please note: All material published in this blog (www.ourlittleangelsonline.blogspot.com) is the sole property and copyright of David Lee Cummings of Cincinnati, OH.
© 2007 David Lee Cummings
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