Every once in a while, we are presented with unique opportunity to help a child develop some advanced skills outside of the agency, in the community. These events have to be highly structured and supervised, of course, but if a kid has really made a significant amount of progress, it is possible that we can sign him up for some community classes sponsored by the city, such as ceramics or drama classes.
One such opportunity presented itself in the person of Brian, my Special Kid who struggles with sexual identity. He had been with us almost 3 years and we were beginning to plan for his transfer to a lower level of care. He and I had made a lot of progress coming to terms with the fact that his hypochondriac, gay, fat mom who allowed her lovers to beat Brian just might not ever be available to him to just be a mom.
One hint was that she had converted Brian’s old room into a shrine for All Things Rainbow. Any painting, flag, window art, kite or piece of shit doo-dad that had a rainbow on it was crammed into the small room leaving no room for other things like, say, Brian’s bed. Brian’s dad was unavailable for the foreseeable future due to a previous commitment in a facility for the criminally insane. So, foster care seemed to be a good option for Brian, and he was accepting and moving in that direction.
For the entire time that he has been staying with us, Brian has had a penchant to add a little extra drama to whatever he did. His blowouts were peppered with rants such as
“What I need from you is a goddamn positive male role-model, not a fat, drunk idiot!”
or
“Who the hell do you think you are, my dad? I had a dad and look where he left me. With you!”
He returned from an outing to an amusement park one evening, and declared in a tortured yet resolved whisper, “I guess it’s just my fate in life to be hurt. I asked a girl for her number and after she gave it to me, she pinched my ass. Once again, staff left me alone to be sexually abused.”
When rewarded with public acknowledgement or praise, he would bite his knuckle and force a tiny tear out of his eye. So, as his Special Counselor, it was not rocket science to assume that he could benefit from and enjoy some community acting classes.
It was summer, I had gotten him all signed up and we were driving the van to the community theatre where the classes were being held. Brian was nervous and chatty, doing his best impersonation of a straight, normal 13 year old. He was wearing a brand new outfit we had purchased from Ross Dress for Less, a 2 sizes too big button down baseball jersey and some huge black jeans, and the ubiquitous-in-the-group-home, daily polished, sometimes black-marketed high topped basketball shoes with the one name: Jordans. In other words, he was wearing the outfit that screamed out “Hey everybody! I’m from the group home!”
I like to get to the community center early so that Brian and I can have “special time.” That is, we get to have some one on one time together in a much more relaxed atmosphere than at the House. This Special relationship has many benefits, one of which is the kids sometimes tell you things they’ve never told anyone else. This seemed to be one of those moments.
We were sitting in the van waiting for the class to begin. Brian took a sip from his Big Gulp and asked , “Do you ever wonder what it’ll be like after I graduate?”
I asked, “You mean like, will you ever come to terms with your true self?”
He said, “ You’re always kidding around, Stokie!”
I shook my head, “Not always, Brian.”
He continued, “ I mean, like, would you ever want to visit me just to see how I’m doing or just to hang out for a while?”
“ Oh yeah, of course I would. I’m planning on doing that anyway, and I’m glad you’re thinking about it too.”
Then he said, “ Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’m just wondering what you would tell everyone after you got back. I mean, I know you can’t keep a secret with the staff, but would you have to tell all the kids too?”
That was a strange question, I thought. “ I’m starting to feel uncomfortable with this conversation. I don’t like talking about keeping secrets. Why can’t you just ever say what’s on your mind? And no, I’m not keeping any secrets.”
“ Okay,” he said. “Here goes. Picture yourself coming to visit me and you’re kind of dressed up but not really dressy, just kind of better than you usually dress at work. Just looking really nice. And you knocked on the door and you knew you had the right address so you knew I had to live there. Then somebody opened the door but it wasn’t me. It was a really pretty lady with long flowing hair and a really pretty dress with flowers, the kind you can almost see through but not quite. And you said, ‘Oh excuse me, Miss, I thought Brian lived here.’ And the lady said, ‘I am Brian. But they call me Brianna now.’”
I winced. “ This disturbs me on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin.”
He unmoved. “ Sometimes I just think I’m more like a girl than a boy. And just
tell me the truth. Somebody told me that there was a way to turn boys into girls and girls into boys. Is that true? Have you ever done that for any of your old Special kids?”
“ I don’t think the county would appreciate my helping you in that way.”
“ Well I heard there was a way.”
I was curious. “Have you told your therapist any of this stuff?”
He frowned. “Why would I tell him? That’s my private business. We just play
board games.”
I wanted to change the subject. “Anyway, what else do you think you’d like to do when I visit, hang out at the mall?”
He perked up. “Well I don’t know. Do they have that kind of dress at Macy’s?”
He actually did quite well in the class. Sure he was nervous and overly-hyper, but he was enjoying himself, oblivious to the stares and smirks he was getting from his peers. The instructor had the kids go through all kinds of activities, miming, theatre games, improvisation. At one point, the group was acting out a scene where Brian ultimately got shot and he flung himself to the stage floor with a flourish. When it was all over, he and I were walking back to the van.
“Uh, Stokie, can I talk to you about something important?”
“Of course, that’s what I’m here for.”
“Well, remember that scene when I got shot? Well look.”
He lifted up his loose fitting jersey and just below his navel, where his pants should have been but weren’t because they were sagging far below his Pokemon boxers was a huge piece of wood about six inches long and an inch wide, sticking out from his belly. He said, “I think I got a splinter.”
“Jesus Christ, Brian, that’s not a splinter, that’s a goddamn spike. What the hell happened?”
“When I dove on the stage, a big piece of wood cracked off and stuck in me. You know,” he said with a quiver, “It’s really starting to hurt.”
“Why didn’t you say something, Brian? That happened about a half an hour ago.”
“I was embarrassed someone would laugh at me. I didn’t want to make everyone stop just because I got a piece of wood got stuck in my stomach.”
The whole time we were talking, all I was thinking was that I should distract him momentarily and yank the wood out when he wasn’t expecting it.
I said, “So, tell me about that scene again,” and at the same time grabbed the wood and gave it a stiff tug. I pulled the stick and Brian’s pudgy tummy bent out but did not release the stick. Brian screamed in pain.
“You motherfucker! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see I need professional medical attention?”
I felt terrible and sick to my stomach. However, I thought that it would be a favor to both of us if we didn’t have to sit around in the emergency room all day so I motioned toward him with a determined look in my eye. He yelled, “Oh hell no!” and ran.
I grabbed him from behind, spun him around. I blocked his hands with one arm and with the other, grabbed the stick again and yanked, much harder than before. Brian screamed and fell to the ground. The stick didn’t budge.
I said, “You know, I think you have a point about the medical attention,” and drove to the hospital.
In the emergency room, the nurses numbed up the area (lots of shrieking and knuckle-biting on Brian’s part) and pulled out the stick. Brian calmed down and I was standing at the nurses’ station gathering up some paperwork. One of the nurses pulled me aside and said, “You know, if anything like that happens again, you might just consider distracting him and then yanking it out yourself. Might save you a trip to the hospital.”
I nodded in mock interest. “Oh, yeah. I wish I would have thought of that.”
