“My name is Stokie Jaye and I work in a group home for severely emotionally disturbed boys…”
Those are the words that began my first website describing what it is like to enter the world of group home living, mental instability, horror, shock, sick humor, stress and strained emotions. I described a unique language, living conditions and rules. I described our beloved “Dysfunction Junction.”
Since that first website appeared, I have heard from many different kinds of people, literally from all over the world, who wrote in for many various reasons. Some wrote to thank me for shedding light on a difficult and overlooked segment of our society. Some wrote in disbelief, accusing me of making everything up. Some wanted to know how they could get a job like mine. Some were former group home residents themselves who wanted to tell me their own stories. Others were current and former group home counselors who told me that I was telling all too familiar stories of craziness and seat-of-the-pants child-rearing.
I really enjoy hearing from my readers, and I try my best to write all of them back. And although so many of them have such different backgrounds, there seems to be one common denominator to all of the messages I receive: “We want more!” So,
“My name is Stokie Jaye and I work in a group home for severely emotionally disturbed boys…”
To those of you who are new readers, you should start at the stories at the bottome of this page. These are the first three introductory stories about how I first got the job and my first few days working in the group home.
For those of you who are return readers, thank you so much for being patient and sticking with me for so long! You will find new stories and many of your old favorites. I will be updating regularly. Welcome back!
Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?
My name is Stokie Jaye and I work in a group home for severely emotionally disturbed boys. As I drive into work every day, I pass an old, battered road sign that was erected long ago when the facility was built. To me, it means nothing about traffic, but only signifies what I have come to know as the God-awful truth about the boys I work with: It says:
I am responsible for the health and well-being of ten boys who have had the misfortune of being born into the families of crack-whores, carnies, sexual predators, white trash and gang-bangers. There are five units (cottages, houses) on campus and I work in the sub-acute (level 12) unit which means that the residents in my care are just one step away from being hospitalized in a psychiatric ward. This is not a half-way house, it is more like a three-quarters of the way house. The boys have been removed from their families, with or without the families’ consent and have come to live with us to not only escape an abusive environment, but to unlearn the patterns of behavior that got them here. These boys are the All-Stars of bizarre behavior. They are the Hall of Famers of their grotesque art and living with us is usually their last, best chance at making it in the world.
That said, I should say that the last thing these guys want to do is change. They do not trust the staff who are there to try and help them. They have been born into abuse, violence, sex and mistrust; that is their “normal” life. As staff, we try to identify and stop the cycles of dysfunctional behavior. And the boys resist us like the plague. This conflict leads to situations that are at once shocking, sad, and sometimes very funny.
I’m trying to illuminate a very dark world that is rarely seen or talked about. Working here, we experience the full range of human emotion; anger, disgust, horror. But we sometimes see some glimmers of beauty, hope and the resilience of the human spirit in those rare instances when a child tries to overcome his past and repair his life with our help.
I have been a counselor for over a decade in an occupation with incredibly high rates of staff turnover. Yes, I do sometimes wonder if something is wrong with me, having stayed here for so long and having put up with so much anguish and stress. I have been here so long that I’ve begun to see some disturbing parallels between our charges and the “normal” people who take care of them. I really believe that if I couldn’t find a way to laugh at all of this, I would break down and cry.
—
The typical group home counselor is a college student or a fresh college graduate. Because most of us had never heard of group homes, we also come in with high expectations and ideals. Some think, like I did, that it would be like working at a summer camp. For these staff, it is a quick learning experience in discovering how quickly those ideals can be sullied, how much lower those expectations can become after working here for just a couple of months. I have seen many staff members quit after just one day, or even after just a couple of hours.
—
The organization I work for is a religiously-affiliated non-profit which means that the people in charge are very well-meaning idealists, with little knowledge of how to run an actual business. We rely on grants, donations and tax-payer dollars from the state and county. With all of these factors in play, program consistency is a problem. Everybody thinks that their slice of the pie is the most important. There are communication breakdowns, egos to be stroked, grudges kept, in-fighting, secret liasons, and heavy drinking amongst all involved: counselors, house supervisors, therapists, administrators and even donors.
—
These stories are completely true, and I therefore have not used the real names of any people or places. These are the real adventures and revelations of a group home counselor.
Introduction, part one: The Interview
Graduating from college was the happy culmination of a six-year brain fart, and I was not prepared to join the workforce. I really didn’t know what I was doing there, why college mattered or where I was going next. I hadn’t lined up any internships and grad school was definitely not an option. I thought that just having a degree in hand would magically open doors and lead to a lucrative career. Well, bullshit. My new wife and I were using our diplomas as placemats in a one-room apartment with no heat. There was actually a time when each of us had three part time jobs. Six jobs just to pay the rent.
I had sent out my resume (Employment Goal: Anything!) ages ago and had been greeted with a resounding silence. During the summers through high school and college, I had worked as a camp counselor, which I really enjoyed, so I was applying for jobs dealing with kids: after school daycare, YMCA programs, and various counseling jobs including those in group homes. I have a fairly lily-white, upper-middle class background and in my somewhat sheltered upbringing, my liberal ideals of everyone just getting along had never really been challenged.
One morning, at long last, the phone rang. It was Flip Joseph, who introduced himself as the recruitment specialist from a group home for SED (Severely Emotionally Disturbed) boys, which was one of many programs run under the auspices of a very large and well-known religiously-affiliated, charitable organization. His Ebonic accent was so thick and he spoke so fast that I had to stop him several times to get him to repeat what he was saying. He said he was impressed with my previous work as a camp counselor and was wondering when a convenient time to set up an interview would be. I told him that any time around right now would be convenient.
He said, “I’m impressed with your flexibility. See you this afternoon.”
I now know that when Flip Joseph tells someone he is “impressed” with them, he really means that he is desperate for a body to fill an open shift. Anyone who can help the agency fill the minimum legal ratio of staff members to residents will do. The rate of turnover is so severe here that employess are quitting faster than the agency can hire them. Flip Joseph needed someone who could meet the agency’s exacting standards, which apparently are being able to breathe and stand up. Even if I did know this at the time, I wouldn’t have cared; I was desperate too.
Unaware of the agency’s disturbingly low standards for qualification, I was busy congratulating myself for impressing a prospective employer. Twice in the same conversation. I searched my closet for my best interview clothes, which at that point was a denim long-sleeved shirt and some khaki pants with a coffee stain on the crotch. No matter! There were kids to save and I felt needed already.
During the interview, Flip Joseph (everyone, including himself, calls him by his first and last name) asked me all the usual questions: experience, education and the like, but then the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Flip Joseph asked me, “Can you tell me what you’d say to a kid about your personal drug use?”
Although somewhat taken aback, I figured the answer required my taking the high road. “Of course I’d tell him not to do it. Say ‘No’ to drugs…”
“No!” Flip Joseph pointed at me. “I want you to tell me about your drug use. You must’ve smoked a few joints in your day, right?”
I was still trying to play it cool. “Uh, college presents a student with many challenges…”
“No!” He yelled and continued to point. “You like to get drunk, right? You get high, right? Tell me about it,” he probed.
“Um, well, everyone makes mistakes…”
“No!” The motherfucker kept interrupting me. Why wouldn’t he just leave this alone? I thought interviewers weren’t supposed to ask these kinds of personal questions. I couldn’t tell where he was going with this. Is he trying to bond with me? Is he trying to find a reason to not hire me?
He continued with his assault. “I’m really curious because I like you. I bet you smoked a lot of weed in college, right? You seem like you smoked a lot of weed.”
He was pissing me off now. What the hell does that mean, ‘You seem like you smoked a lot of weed’? I wanted to tell him to kiss my ass, but I needed a damn job. I decided to give in a little, give him what he wanted. But Jesus, couldn’t we get off of this subject?
“I guess there’s a time and a place for everything, but of course I would never let it interfere with my work performance. I’m always very punctual…”
“No! Goddammit, I want to know if you like smokin’ weed! You got a bong at home? You get high and listen to Dark Side of the Moon? Led Zep? I know people like you. You smoke pot, right? C’mon, boy, tell me what you’d say!”
That’s it. This dude’s an asshole. He can take my bong and shove it up his ass. I don’t need a job this bad, and I don’t need to work for a pushy, intrusive dickhead.
I finally snapped. “I’d tell him it’s none of his motherfuckin’ business, just like it’s none of yours!” I stood up to leave, thoroughly pissed off. Flip Joseph stood up too, but to my surprise, extended his hand.
“I’m very impressed with the way you set limits. You’re going to use that a lot here. When can you start?”
What the hell just happened? What kind of sixth-grade psychological bullshit was that? I had just landed a job by cussing out the guy who hired me.
Little did I know, this was just the beginning of a long career filled with not just anger, but frustration, violence, insanity, and, at times, great joys and triumphs. A career where I was to discover that somehow, I am one of those rare people who possesses an infinite reserve of patience.
Now, what the hell is a “group home” again?
Introduction, part two: Observation Day
A week later, I arrived to begin my 24 hour “Observation Shift.” Here’s what I’ve come to know as the agency’s philosophy for training new staff: if the new employee makes it through his first 24 hours without running out the door screaming or hitting a kid, that staff may, at some point in the future, merit some kind of agency-sponsored training seminar. So, usually from the first shift on through the first several weeks, the new hire is not trained on topics such as who these kids are and what their special needs may be, how to legally and appropriately physically restrain a kid, how to know when a kid is showing signs of stress or acting out, the daily schedule and what is considered proper communication between staff.
The new hire is thrown into a sink-or-swim situation where he or she must rely on instinct and split-second judgment, and believe me, I have seen many more staff sink than swim on their first day.
So when I pulled up to the group home, tucked away among the quiet foothills of an immense piece of property, I was filled with an honest sense of pride that I was going to help the helpless and, by doing that, become stronger myself. I would give the kids a strong hand up, enhance their creativity, stimulate their intelligence, solidify their spirit.
Looking back now I think Flip Joseph may have had a point. Maybe I did smoke a lot of weed in college because I was totally deluded and unprepared for what I was about to encounter.
The agency is situated on an extraordinary piece of property, literally hundreds of acres from the low hills on the west out to the grasslands and bay to the east. It has it’s own exit off of the freeway and you must drive about a quarter mile up a long eucalyptus-lined road (called, creatively enough, “Tree Lane”) before you get to the main agency parking lot. To the right of the parking lot is the main church, still used today. Behind the parking lot is the main administration building. This structure was built in the 1850’s and was run by nuns as an orphanage for children during the gold rush. It is beautiful, elaborate and is surrounded by gardens and quiet paths. Behind the administration building is the outdoor chapel, swimming pool, a “special school” for our residents which is run by the local school district, and the bay is about another half mile beyond that.
Turining left at the main parking lot, you start driving up the hill toward the five residential cottages, or houses. Along the way are riding stables and horse barn, run-down basketball courts and a football field sized, grass coverd recreation area.
As I approached the group home, I saw three boys and one staff outside. One boy of Chinese descent was trying to ride a bike with a flat tire and no chain. This didn’t seem to be discouraging him. When he walked, it appeared as if his legs were fused to his hips (this turned out to be true) because he would waddle, his ass gyrating and twisting side to side.
The other two boys, both black, were having a nice game of three flies up using a wadded up ball of duct tape and an old tennis racquet. Whenever the Chinese boy turned his back, the other two would suck their bottom lip in and stick out their top teeth and mimic the sexy ass-gyration of the Chinese boy.
The staff was one large black man, about forty, wearing a caftan, necklaces and had four little beaded braids dangling from the back of his afro. He sat quietly on a picnic table and smoked, apparently oblivious of the boys’ teasing. I approached with my hand held out.
“Hi, my name’s Stokie and Flip Joseph said to come here and do the 24 hour thing…”
He bellowed, “LET’S HUDDLE UP!” I looked at the kids but they just carried on about their business. To say that this man avoided eye contact would be misleading. He looked through me, a thousand yards away, as only a Vietnam vet or a Death Row inmate can.
As I stepped toward him to shake his hand, he quickly squatted down, ignoring my hand and perched his elbow on his knee. He took a long drag on his cigarette. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to actually squat down with him. He wasn’t saying anything yet. I bent over and put my hands on my knees in a tenuous half-squat, hoping this would satisfy his call for a huddle.
Then, he whispered, “They call me Guru. You can call me what you want. But if you listen, you’ll find that the name is not unwarranted. If you listen, you won’t get hurt. If you communicate with your team, you won’t get hurt. Always check in. Never do anything on your own. You don’t mean shit right now. See how these boys are testing you already?”
I looked but could not see the boys doing anything differently. Guru continued his whisper. “Here are three boys who take a loyalty oath any time someone different cooks dinner. Here are three boys who haven’t learned the difference between love and a cold-cock. Here are three boys who are testing you already.”
He paused. Then he boomed, “I’VE BEEN HERE 13 YEARS!” He stared at me and slowly widened his eyes to emphasize this last point. He paused again and whispered, “Choose your battles carefully.”
I thought, this is nonsense. But it’s intimidating nonsense.
I entered the house and met my other two teammates, a woman named Katrina and a big white guy with a flat-top named Toby. He looked like a Marine. I walked around the house and introduced myself to the boys. Most were waiting on their beds. One of them yelled to me.
“Staff, Staff! I need help. There’s a big-ass spider in my room and I don’t know what to do.”
I asked him, “Where is it?” He pointed to the far corner of his room.
I walked over to step on the spider but couldn’t see it. I bent over to look.
Then I heard, “Now I gotcha! I wanna see you bouncing on my dick!” He was standing in his doorway with his hands blocking my way.
“C’mon, man, let me through.”
“Not until I see you bouncing on my dick!”
I panicked. All I could think of to say was, “That’s not right, that’s not right!” I lowered my shoulders and ran. I hit him full force and knocked him to the ground and ran out into the middle of the living room, panting. The kid was laughing like it was fun.
Toby, the staff, said, “Hey, Stokie, I was looking for you. Make sure you tell the other staff where you are all the time. You never know what these guys are gonna do next. Now, your assignment this afternoon is to help Guru run ‘community group.’ Just sit there and do what he does.”
I sat on one of the two chairs, which was placed in front of three couches arranged in a semi-circle. Guru sat beside me. He hollered, “COMMUNITY GROUP!” Then whispered, “Have a seat on the couch.”
Nine of the boys sat on the couches. For some reason the tenth boy sat in a chair all by himself about 12 feet away from the rest of the group. I asked him if he could come join us here in Community Group. He said, “I have to sit on station.”
The other boys all murmured, “sexual…whoa guy…booty-buster”. I looked at Guru. He sat stone-faced, staring at something a thousand yards away. The boys continued to titter and make hand gestures at the expense of the isolated boy.
The boy looked at me and asked, “Can you tell them to stop provoking me?”
I didn’t know what he meant. “Provoking you? Provoke you to do what? What are you talking about?”
The other boys started with a chorus of “Serve it…syrup…serp, serp, serp.”
Guru sat like a statue but started to whisper, “That’s not what I’m looking for, that’s not what I’m looking for…” until the boys began to quiet down. As Guru went over the schedule for that day, one of the boys, sitting with his hands in his lap, was looking at me while pointing at something. He kept wiggling his index finger up and down. I kept looking around to see what he was pointing at. Finally, I realized that he was pretending to be waving around his dick. I couldn’t believe it and I started to laugh.
Guru stopped and looked at me, stone-faced. I fumbled for words, “That kid right there…he’s doing something…what are you doing…he’s making penis gestures!”
The offending boy yelled, “Whoa guy! I’m not like that. That new staff gots issues. He’s sexual.”
As I was trying to make sense of this, Guru began to wrap up group. “Now. Acknowledgements. Respectfully. Jimmy.”
Jimmy began. “I’d like to acknowledge Guru for being hecka-tight. I’d like to acknowledge New Staff, I don’t know why. I’d like to acknowledge myself for staying in group and not blowing out even though I want to.”
It was Jose’s turn. “I pass.”
It was Jesse’s turn. “I’d like to acknowledge myself for staying in group. And dinner. What’s for dinner?”
It was Richard’s turn. “I’d like to acknowledge Jesse’s mom for being HELLLLLLLLA-FAT!”
I wasn’t really sure what happened next. An explosion of boys, screaming, punching, crying and running. I jumped into the middle of the pandemonium to try to break up all the fighting but found myself rolling around at the bottom of the pile, getting hit, stepped on and elbowed.
Guru grabbed me and threw me on top of Richard. “Hold his arms and kneel on his legs like this.” He got on top of Richard and I grabbed and knelt on Richard the way he told me to. Guru’s side of Richard was perfectly still, secure. But Richard was really fighting on my side. I kept losing my grip of his arm and Richard would flail and punch me relentlessly.
Finally, I was able to secure him, but I was sweaty, panting, scared and mad. I wanted to kick the shit out of this kid. I was there to help him, not fight him. What the hell kind of job is this?
Richard never stopped struggling. During this marathon, he kept accusing me of twisting his arm, abusing him somehow. Every time I would try to talk to him, he would scream, “You motherfuckin sexual ape-man. I’m gonna sock you in the mouth, wardie, I’m gonna sock you in the mouth. Say I won’t wardie, say I won’t!”
Well, this went on for an hour. I was sick to my stomach and I wanted to kill Richard. I wanted to kill Guru. He wasn’t helping me! He just knelt down there saying nothing, kicking back easy as can be while I was fighting and sweating. I thought the kid was the biggest idiot on the planet. What’s he going to do, hit me while we have him held face down on the carpet?
“Say I won’t, niggerachi, say I won’t!”
I had it. Time to set a limit. Show him who’s boss. I yelled, “You won’t!”
Guru turned to me, looked me in the eyes and slowly shook his head.
“That’s it, shit-head, I’m gonna sock you in the motherfuckin’ mouth! You heard it! He said I won’t. He said I won’t!”
Richard struggled and fought for 2 more hours until he was exhausted. Hell, I was exhausted. I was sweaty, confused, and tired. I thought, as most of us think after our first shift, “This will last about three months. Then I’ll get a reference and get the fuck out of here.”
But at least I won. I wore him down. I said he wouldn’t and he didn’t. At least I had that small triumph.
Introduction, part three: Training Day
After I had been working there for about a week, I was just beginning to learn the language, the routines, the names, the schedule, basic protocol. I was helping Jimmy fold some towels that had just come out of the dryer. I took a stack of them in my arms and walked toward the linen closet. As I walked past Richard, I saw, as if in slow motion, his balled fist rear back and roar toward me. Richard stepped into the punch as it blasted into my mouth. Towels went flying. I stumbled backward with the force of the punch. I was dizzy. The numbness wore off in a few seconds and I felt loose teeth and two holes in my top lip. Blood was rushing out of it as it swelled.
Richard began screaming as if it were still the same afternoon a week ago when Guru and I held him down on the floor.
“Yeah, now what? You said I won’t! You said I won’t! Motherfucker said I won’t. Now what?”
I was stunned. I yelled to Guru. “He just assaulted me! We gotta prone him. We should call the sheriff and have him cited. C’mon, let’s put him in the Quiet Room!”
Guru didn’t move. He stared at me, or through me, and just whispered in his insane, cocky, smoke-infested voice, “You said he wouldn’t. If you say something to these boys, you better mean it. You didn’t listen. You’re being tested all the time.”
Richard went to bed. Guru silently wrote in his logs. I iced my face and contemplated just how seriously unbalanced I would have to be, anyone would have to be, to work here.
