I've got at least one more "natural gas" story that I have to tell. I'll try to keep it short.
Al (referred to as "Alvin" in a previous post) and I one night were dealing with a kid named Chuck, a buzz-cut, pimply faced young teen who liked his rap music. Chuck was one hundred percent white, but apparently he was raised in a black family. I'm not absolutely sure what his circumstances were—I think perhaps his mother married a black gentleman and moved in, along with Chuck, with his family. I dunno.
Chuck was skinny and gangly, and with his short-almost-bald round head and pimple-littered face, he looked a lot like Gollum from "Lord of the Rings." So, Al and I—to ourselves, of course—referred to him as our beloved "Gollum." And sometime "Smeagol."
Anyway, this night was during a time when the clients were allowed to have boom boxes and CDs in their rooms (whoever thought this was a good idea surely had little foresight or imagination). And Chuck got really worked up whenever he'd listen to rap music. He would start pacing in his room, thrusting his fists into the air, rapping along with the CD, and generally becoming worked up into a frenzy of frenetic agitation. His behavior really affected Al and I, because we worked the overnight shift and Chuck's music would encourage him to stay up late into the night listening to it and becoming disruptive with his dance-stomping and sing-along rapping. When Al and I tried to make Chuck turn off his boom box and be quiet, he would throw a teenage tantrum of ample proportions. It was a significant headache dealing with him.
So this night while we were addressing Chuck in his room, threatening to take his boom box away if he couldn't be quiet, the urge emerged. And I let loose from my caboose. But it didn't have an effect Al and I could have predicted.
Chuck, a kid of minimal concern for cleanliness and manners himself—as evidenced by his poor personal grooming habits—reacted to my fart with utter offense.
"Why'd you do that!" he cried out, tearing up in anger. "Why'd you do that!"
He then tried to burst out of his room, and Al and I had to stop him by stepping in his way and holding him back.
"Chuck, calm down," I said. "I'm sorry, it was meant to be funny but I guess you didn't get the joke."
"I didn't think it was funny!"
"Obviously," Al said.
"Look, I'm sorry," I added. "I won't do it again if this is how you feel about it."
We managed to calm Chuck down—but, wow, his reaction was certainly unexpected. I learned to be a little more judicious from then on with which kids I could share a little friendly Bronx cheer.
(Not that I shared it often—it was really a rare occasion, in fact, that I saved for moments in which I thought it would lighten a tense mood or work as a disincentive for a kid to behave in a way that required such an "intervention.")
But Al and I to this day have a good laugh over this incident. Who knew Gollum could be so offended over just a little bio-methane? Who knew.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Big Brother is Watching (or, Weapon of Gas Destruction)
Sometimes a kid would simply tick you off so much that you just wanted to put him in a headlock until he begged for mercy and promised never to do anything bad again. Seriously. If you've worked in direct care for some time—or even if you're just a parent—I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about.
But alas, we live in a society that has its limits and controls and affords us a semblance of freedom only if we refrain from doing bad. And so for moral as well as practical reasons, we must regulate our impulses. Else, we be no different from the anarchic kids I served, who made the ruffians in "Lord of the Flies" look like pansies.
To compensate for not being able to act on one's impulses, however, those who work in direct care with mega-hyper, mega-disrespectful, mega-obstinate, mega-aggressive kids necessarily develop certain strategies for handling the stresses of the job. Also known as "coping skills," these methods vary in their self-destructiveness: some of us take up drinking excessively, some take up smoking, some develop tics, some take prescription sedatives, and some take up chronically cussing and venting to their coworkers. And some take up all of the above.
Anyway, one coping skill I spontaneously discovered one day was to pass gas on a kid who deserved it. Here's how it all began.
Lara and I directed a client to take a time out because he was being rude and disruptive during a therapeutic "team building" group (aka, kickball) that Lara was running. This client, a challenging (to put it mildly) fifteen-year-old named DeShawn, refused to serve the time out.
DeShawn was a challenging (again, an understatement) persona all around, the kind of kid only a mother could love. Except, even his mother didn't love him, else he wouldn't have been in residential placement for the reasons he was.
Now, when I suggest he was hard to love, I'm sure there are people who could find it in their hearts to love this child, including when he crapped in his pants and then refused to shower, when he cussed you out, when he refused to follow your directions, when he spit on you, when he tried to hurt you physically—all on a moment-to-moment basis of every single day, for weeks on end. Yeah, there are surely some Mother Teresa types out there who probably could find a special spot in their heart for DeShawn. But, unfortunately, I just couldn't find this place in mine.
I have possessed overwhelming sympathy for virtually every single kid I have ever served. But DeShawn simply made the list of the one or two kids in over seven years whom I simply could not develop a fondness or feel sufficient pity for, because his behaviors were so aggressive, mean spirited, and intentionally infuriating. I knew his monstrous nature was not originally his fault, but he was a monster nonetheless, and he flaunted this persona by smearing it in your face every day.
Anyway, Lara and I forced DeShawn to serve his time out by grabbing him on each forearm and leading him to the time out area (a particular spot on the floor adjacent to a wall). He offered minimal resistance getting there, but once on the spot he kept trying to get up. So, Lara and I continued to hold each forearm of this rather large young man—nearly six-foot tall and about 235 pounds—and we held him down by pressing down on his shoulders with our other hand.
(This physical enforcement of time outs was standard practice at my place of employment at one time; however, any hands-on method of compliance was later prohibited—in my opinion, to the detriment of the clients. For, they then had the green light to be as disruptive, defiant, and oppositional as they wanted to be no matter the circumstance, as our only allowed response was to verbally encourage them to stop misbehaving. If they refused to heed our imploring, we were essentially powerless to do anything else about it. In fact, many of the staff resorted to bribes, which only made things worse, as some of the kids realized they could always demand more and more loot and keep getting these rewards for their escalating badness. So, the kids were empowered to run the show, and they simply learned that terrorizing others into yielding to their demands pays off—and pays well.)
So, as Lara and I held DeShawn in place, I suddenly felt the urge–as every human does at times—to pass gas. But instead of holding it in, as decorum requires, I got the brilliant idea to vent some of my frustrations toward DeShawn on DeShawn himself, in a relatively harmless yet potent way. Thus, I pointed my caboose at DeShawn's head and let loose.
Lara and I instantly groaned and croaked, trying to stifle our laughter, as we attempted to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But Latisha, sitting at the staff desk, cried out, "Mr. Dave! I can't believe you did that!" And we ached even more to explode in laughter.
Suddenly, the unit phone rang. Latisha answered it, listened for a moment, looked at us gravely, and then hung up. She then turned to Lara and I and said, "That was Brandt (our supervisor). He was watching on the cameras and just asked if Dave farted on DeShawn's head."
Lara and I looked at each other grimly. We thought we were in trouble ourselves.
"Dave, he said for you to be more subtle next time."
God, it hurt so much trying to hold back the tsunami of guffaws now trying to force their way out of my body and head—that I just couldn't do it, and I let loose in an explosion of laughter, as did Lara. And, man, it felt so darn good to finally adequately "vent" my frustrations with DeShawn. So good, that tears came to my eyes.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
But alas, we live in a society that has its limits and controls and affords us a semblance of freedom only if we refrain from doing bad. And so for moral as well as practical reasons, we must regulate our impulses. Else, we be no different from the anarchic kids I served, who made the ruffians in "Lord of the Flies" look like pansies.
To compensate for not being able to act on one's impulses, however, those who work in direct care with mega-hyper, mega-disrespectful, mega-obstinate, mega-aggressive kids necessarily develop certain strategies for handling the stresses of the job. Also known as "coping skills," these methods vary in their self-destructiveness: some of us take up drinking excessively, some take up smoking, some develop tics, some take prescription sedatives, and some take up chronically cussing and venting to their coworkers. And some take up all of the above.
Anyway, one coping skill I spontaneously discovered one day was to pass gas on a kid who deserved it. Here's how it all began.
Lara and I directed a client to take a time out because he was being rude and disruptive during a therapeutic "team building" group (aka, kickball) that Lara was running. This client, a challenging (to put it mildly) fifteen-year-old named DeShawn, refused to serve the time out.
DeShawn was a challenging (again, an understatement) persona all around, the kind of kid only a mother could love. Except, even his mother didn't love him, else he wouldn't have been in residential placement for the reasons he was.
Now, when I suggest he was hard to love, I'm sure there are people who could find it in their hearts to love this child, including when he crapped in his pants and then refused to shower, when he cussed you out, when he refused to follow your directions, when he spit on you, when he tried to hurt you physically—all on a moment-to-moment basis of every single day, for weeks on end. Yeah, there are surely some Mother Teresa types out there who probably could find a special spot in their heart for DeShawn. But, unfortunately, I just couldn't find this place in mine.
I have possessed overwhelming sympathy for virtually every single kid I have ever served. But DeShawn simply made the list of the one or two kids in over seven years whom I simply could not develop a fondness or feel sufficient pity for, because his behaviors were so aggressive, mean spirited, and intentionally infuriating. I knew his monstrous nature was not originally his fault, but he was a monster nonetheless, and he flaunted this persona by smearing it in your face every day.
Anyway, Lara and I forced DeShawn to serve his time out by grabbing him on each forearm and leading him to the time out area (a particular spot on the floor adjacent to a wall). He offered minimal resistance getting there, but once on the spot he kept trying to get up. So, Lara and I continued to hold each forearm of this rather large young man—nearly six-foot tall and about 235 pounds—and we held him down by pressing down on his shoulders with our other hand.
(This physical enforcement of time outs was standard practice at my place of employment at one time; however, any hands-on method of compliance was later prohibited—in my opinion, to the detriment of the clients. For, they then had the green light to be as disruptive, defiant, and oppositional as they wanted to be no matter the circumstance, as our only allowed response was to verbally encourage them to stop misbehaving. If they refused to heed our imploring, we were essentially powerless to do anything else about it. In fact, many of the staff resorted to bribes, which only made things worse, as some of the kids realized they could always demand more and more loot and keep getting these rewards for their escalating badness. So, the kids were empowered to run the show, and they simply learned that terrorizing others into yielding to their demands pays off—and pays well.)
So, as Lara and I held DeShawn in place, I suddenly felt the urge–as every human does at times—to pass gas. But instead of holding it in, as decorum requires, I got the brilliant idea to vent some of my frustrations toward DeShawn on DeShawn himself, in a relatively harmless yet potent way. Thus, I pointed my caboose at DeShawn's head and let loose.
Lara and I instantly groaned and croaked, trying to stifle our laughter, as we attempted to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But Latisha, sitting at the staff desk, cried out, "Mr. Dave! I can't believe you did that!" And we ached even more to explode in laughter.
Suddenly, the unit phone rang. Latisha answered it, listened for a moment, looked at us gravely, and then hung up. She then turned to Lara and I and said, "That was Brandt (our supervisor). He was watching on the cameras and just asked if Dave farted on DeShawn's head."
Lara and I looked at each other grimly. We thought we were in trouble ourselves.
"Dave, he said for you to be more subtle next time."
God, it hurt so much trying to hold back the tsunami of guffaws now trying to force their way out of my body and head—that I just couldn't do it, and I let loose in an explosion of laughter, as did Lara. And, man, it felt so darn good to finally adequately "vent" my frustrations with DeShawn. So good, that tears came to my eyes.
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Saturday, March 1, 2008
"Come on, Mistah Dave!"
Yet another Brady—Brady Wyler—also developed a vigorous attachment to me. And I developed a commensurate fondness for him.
Brady W. was an African American boy about twelve years old who I believe was diagnosed with mental retardation, although he didn't have the characteristic physical appearance the term conjures up. He looked pretty much like a normal adolescent child—sans the encrusted snot perpetually caked from his nostrils to his upper lip. He also wore large and extremely thick plastic-framed glasses that distorted his eyes, magnifying them into disproportionately large and goofy orbs. His behavior was likewise goofy, particularly when he cocked his head like a Labrador and gazed at you with his mouth agape, seemingly preparing to say something to you yet not uttering a word ... just gazing silently and without an ostensible reason.
Brady stayed for some time on the crisis unit, and one of his favorite pastimes was to play catch with a Nerf football. I think nearly every night that I worked while Brady was a resident, during free time we played this game of toss-and-catch. It was the main process by which we bonded.
This game was a great deal of fun. Brady would cock his head and look at me out of the corner of his glasses—his comically enlarged eyes opened up wide—and then fling the ball at me in a spasmodic two-handed flick, like he was impatiently swatting at a fly with both hands at once. His throwing motion would make any quarterbacks coach cringe, but somehow it was effective. The ball would fly at me with an incredible amount of thrust, and Brady's accuracy was formidable: More often than not, the ball would be on-target and reach me with an ample degree of velocity.
Catching the ball was a different story for Brady. Usually he would lunge at the ball and abruptly cross his arms in an attempt to cradle-snatch it, the ball ricocheting off of his chest and bounding away. Brady would then chase after the ball with an extreme sense of urgency as it flipped and flopped away, pouncing on it when he finally caught up with it.
The most memorable thing about our game of toss-and-catch was this: Whenever I would throw Brady an errant pass that was out of his reach, he would cock his head and peer at me out of the corner of his glasses with his magnified fish eyes, and cry out, "Come on, Mistah Dave!" His voice would screech out in a high pitch and had a slur to it reminiscent of a drunkard.
His little shout out—"Come on, Mistah Dave!"—was so emphatic and frequent (I guess my aim must have been pretty bad), that it earned a sort of infamous status on the unit, eliciting frequent laughs from my coworkers as well as mocking repetition from them on many occasions. And so, I recall that phrase now with much vividness, as it is inseparable from the source. It will always be Brady's trademark slogan, the sound image married indelibly to the visual image of him, the icing on his endearing cake.
"Come on, Mistah Dave!"
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
Brady W. was an African American boy about twelve years old who I believe was diagnosed with mental retardation, although he didn't have the characteristic physical appearance the term conjures up. He looked pretty much like a normal adolescent child—sans the encrusted snot perpetually caked from his nostrils to his upper lip. He also wore large and extremely thick plastic-framed glasses that distorted his eyes, magnifying them into disproportionately large and goofy orbs. His behavior was likewise goofy, particularly when he cocked his head like a Labrador and gazed at you with his mouth agape, seemingly preparing to say something to you yet not uttering a word ... just gazing silently and without an ostensible reason.
Brady stayed for some time on the crisis unit, and one of his favorite pastimes was to play catch with a Nerf football. I think nearly every night that I worked while Brady was a resident, during free time we played this game of toss-and-catch. It was the main process by which we bonded.
This game was a great deal of fun. Brady would cock his head and look at me out of the corner of his glasses—his comically enlarged eyes opened up wide—and then fling the ball at me in a spasmodic two-handed flick, like he was impatiently swatting at a fly with both hands at once. His throwing motion would make any quarterbacks coach cringe, but somehow it was effective. The ball would fly at me with an incredible amount of thrust, and Brady's accuracy was formidable: More often than not, the ball would be on-target and reach me with an ample degree of velocity.
Catching the ball was a different story for Brady. Usually he would lunge at the ball and abruptly cross his arms in an attempt to cradle-snatch it, the ball ricocheting off of his chest and bounding away. Brady would then chase after the ball with an extreme sense of urgency as it flipped and flopped away, pouncing on it when he finally caught up with it.
The most memorable thing about our game of toss-and-catch was this: Whenever I would throw Brady an errant pass that was out of his reach, he would cock his head and peer at me out of the corner of his glasses with his magnified fish eyes, and cry out, "Come on, Mistah Dave!" His voice would screech out in a high pitch and had a slur to it reminiscent of a drunkard.
His little shout out—"Come on, Mistah Dave!"—was so emphatic and frequent (I guess my aim must have been pretty bad), that it earned a sort of infamous status on the unit, eliciting frequent laughs from my coworkers as well as mocking repetition from them on many occasions. And so, I recall that phrase now with much vividness, as it is inseparable from the source. It will always be Brady's trademark slogan, the sound image married indelibly to the visual image of him, the icing on his endearing cake.
"Come on, Mistah Dave!"
********
© 2008 David Lee Cummings
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