As staff, we are constantly trying to teach the kids what it means to have appropriate personal boundaries. Basically put, we teach them when and where it’s okay to touch somebody. So, when I walk into the house to start a shift, a boy like Freddy, the door-humping sexual predator, may come running up, arms wide open, ready to give me a hug.

Instead of saying something like, “Get the fuck away from me you freak, why don’t you go screw the kitchen sink,” I demonstrate Appropriate Boundaries. I say,

“No, Freddy, a hug is not appropriate now. How about an elbow?” And we touch elbows.

I might give another kid a hand-shake. Or another gets a one-armed side-hug. You get the idea. We role model strict personal boundaries for kids who come from places where there are no limits at all. Otherwise, they can go from zero to sexual in no time.

All of this is everyday, common practice. So you can imagine my surprise when Jackson, a counselor from the unit next door, walked right in, past me and two other staff without saying a word and proceeded to give Freddy of all people, a full body hug complete with stroking hands up and down his back.

Now Jackson and I have already had a couple of run-ins. I had walked over to the unit next door which houses the campus’ youngest kids to borrow some eggs one morning and observed Jackson bouncing one of the boys on his lap. I asked one of the other staff on shift why he was allowed to do this and was told not to worry, he does it all the time. It’s okay, I was told, because the kids here are younger and don’t have the same issues. That may sound okay on the surface, but none of these are normal kids, not even the youngest ones.

On another occasion, I went next door to borrow some Band-aids, turned the corner to the staff office hallway and saw Jackson and a resident standing face to face, or more like waist to waist, and suddenly jump back, obviously startled to see me. I pointed in Jackson’s face and said, “You shouldn’t be anywhere near kids. I’m going to try my hardest to get you fired.” He said in his non-chalant drawl, “Aw c’mon man, you’re just being sensitive, man.” I informed his supervisor who assured me that she would talk to him about the incident. With this history, it was all the more shocking to see him brazenly walk in and feel Freddy up.

The other staff and I looked at each other and our jaws dropped. I couldn’t help but call out, “Hey, get your hands off of him!” When the other boys looked up to see what I was talking about, several of them yelled,

“Whoa!”
“Whoa guy!”
“Inappropriate!”
“I’m not like that.”
“Whoa guy!”

‘Whoa guy’ is a saying I’ve only heard in the group home. It means, “Something sexual is going on. Even though I’m pretending not to like it, I really do. So if anybody propositions me soon, I might not say ‘no.’” It is usually screamed while pointing at the offenders and staring at the staff in mock-disbelief.

I have learned to dread hearing the call of “Whoa guy!” because it usually means you’re in for a lot of work trying to keep the buds of romance from blooming. This night would be no different.

So there we were watching helplessly as Jackson the Perv mauled Freddy. In the span of 10 seconds he was undoing months of hard work on our part, keeping Freddy from touching other kids, teaching him to keep his masturbating within the confines of the bathroom and not during community group, teaching him that household objects are not romantic pleasure toys. I had the sick feeling you get when you hear chalk screeching the blackboard. It was like a cat getting rubbed backward.

“I need to talk to you right now,” I said as I separated the two like a referee pushing away two heavyweights who have locked up in the ring. I brought Jackson into the staff office. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

“Aw, man, what’s wrong with you now?”
“Freddy’s the most sexualized kid on this campus. You walk in here like you own the place, don’t acknowledge any of the adults and proceed to feel Freddy up. You don’t think that’s going to get him riled up?”
“Okay, fine. I acknowledge you. Hello.” He was waving. “Happy now?”
“Get the fuck out of here! Your supervisor’s going to hear about this.” Jackson scampered out.

I then noticed that the other staff had gathered around to listen to the confrontation. We were all there in the staff office. Nobody out on the floor!

We rushed out and sure enough, Freddy was gone. I told the other staff to check all the doorways while I go check the broom closet. No luck. I asked one of the staff members if he was sure he checked inside the Quiet Room. He said he looked in there but didn’t see anything. I rushed over to double check. The staff didn’t see anything because he just glanced inside, he didn’t check behind the door! Freddy was there alright. He was licking and kissing the wall, had his eyes closed, his hand down his pants. He was quickly mumbling, “C’mon baby, oh yeah just like that, you know you like it baby.”

“Hey Freddy, why don’t you go into the bathroom and do that?” I tried to say this calmly and without letting on that I was disgusted.
“Hey Stokie get the hell out of here!”
“No, really man. This is not the appropriate place to do that. If you need to masturbate, go into the bathroom and do it in private.” This is a recurring conversation with Freddy.
“I don’t do that anymore and you know it.”
“You’re doing it right now!”
“I am not. I just had an itch is all. Besides, when I do it in the bathroom I can’t go all the way.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t work right.”
“Have you tried using lotion?”
“Yes. Well, not really. Okay, how?”
“You just put some on your hand and use that same hand to masturbate.” We went to the hygiene closet, I gave him a bottle of lotion and ushered him to the bathroom. “Just give it a chance, Freddy, you’ll see.”

A couple of minutes passed and I figured Freddy was doing what millions of teenage boys were doing all around the world. In a weird way, I was glad that I could teach him something useful, something that may keep him from harming another human being in the long run. Perhaps, in this small way, I was helping Freddy to adjust, which would benefit the community, improve humanity.

Freddy burst out of the bathroom with a flourish. Shirt off, boner pitching a tent under his boxer shorts, he ran to the center of the living room, proud as a peacock. He held his lotion-covered hand high in the air. “Hey Stokie! Is this enough lotion?”
Up came the pitiful, yet predictable call of the wild.

“WHOA GUY!!”
“Inappropriate!”
“Whoa! I’m not like that!”
“WHOA!!”

Jackson left the agency about 2 months after that. Under increasing scrutiny from his co-workers, he said that he felt “hassled” and didn’t need to put up with our “Gestapo-like intrusions”. The thing that bothers me is that he is now the head teacher at another special education school.

The organization is in big trouble, financially. Like many non-profits, we have had to put up with our share of budget cuts, salary freezes and program reorganizations. We are situated on a huge chunk of protected, sensitive land which has been the center of a protracted battle between environmentalists and our own administration who want to sell parts of the property to developers to increase revenues. This is a fight that existed before I ever got there and will probably continue long after I am gone. For all I know, this issue may never be resolved.

In any case, one of the ways the organization has managed to generate income and services is through leasing out office and storage space at low cost to sympathetic and beneficial companies, like a certain contracting/construction company who then performs upgrades and
improvements to our physical plant at no cost. So while we staff continue to struggle through cuts in health benefits and overtime pay, we continue to see nice new gardens, white fences and newly paved roads sprout up all around the campus.

The crowning jewel is the restoration of a century old arboretum and courtyard, complete with fountain, fresh grass and cobblestones. Since we are a religiously affiliated organization with an adjoining chapel (freshly painted), many marrying couples hold a reception, for a fee, in the rejuvenated courtyard.

One such event happened to be taking place on a lovely spring morning when Michael (who you remember saw an image of Blue Boy in the wall) and Francis, another marginally developmentally delayed boy who incidentally looks just like Jughead from the Archie comic books, slipped out of the house, unnoticed.

Michael and Francis have had a history of secret, sexual escapades. Once, Francis was caught sitting on Michael’s lap, pants off, in Michael’s laundry basket. They said they were playing “Santa Claus.” Another time, Francis attempted to get Michael in trouble by revealing what a lying cheat Michael really is. He told me, “I hate Michael. He’s such a liar. He said he’d give me four batteries for my radio if I booty-bumped him. But when I did, he only gave me two, the bitch.”

A hillside overlooks the courtyard where the wedding party was taking place. Michael and Francis decided to use this as a staging area to launch their attack. At first it started as a raid to steal food and provisions for a longer and, no doubt, sexually motivated escape to calmer environs, but when the caterers caught them in the back of their van and demanded that they stop eating the pate and baguettes they had found, it became a more serious battle involving larger armies.

The boys retreated to the hillside to recoup the honor they had lost in being caught by a caterer. Their identities discovered, they began to throw rocks and sticks at the lovely couple, as well as a hundred or so stunned guests. Francis began a war-cry of “Fuck all you neegers! Heeee!” When he said this he stuck his jaw out and closed his eyes in a retard-style proclamation of self-satisfaction. Michael ad-libbed his own running commentary, “That bitch is gonna get fucked tonight just like my mama!” all the while jabbing his pointer-finger in his eye to slow the uncontrollable twitch that causes it to roll around in its socket.

They tore branches off the trees and held them out in front of their waists like giant, leafy penises, all the while screaming, “Wedding balls are ringing! Take it all, you ho! Look, I got a woody, get it?” Some of the braver male guests threw off their tuxedo jackets and attempted to scramble up the hill to intervene but quickly backed off when they were hit with dirt clods and spit.

The warriors continued their assault until two deputy sheriffs arrived. The officers moved through the wedding party to the edge of the hill. Emboldened by the sight of the law, the boys defied all demands that they surrender and put down their weapons. The officers climbed the hill and approached, commanding that the boys put their hands on their heads. Michael picked up a large branch and cracked the cop over the arm.

From the bottom of the hill, the wedding party, agency administrators and a half a dozen counselors watched the gentle orange mist of pepper spray rise above Michael’s head after it slammed into his face. The cop held the screaming and gagging Michael with his
billie-club over his neck.

Francis saw this, interlocked his fingers on top of his head and calmly turned to the other officer, “You mean like this?”

I’m driving to Juvenile Hall today. Not the nice one up the road from us, the one they call “the Country Club.”  Not the suburban Juvenile Hall where, if you’re lucky enough to be there during Halloween, they let you trick or treat from cell to cell. Not the nice Juvenile Hall.
I’m driving to the nasty, thug-ridden decrepit Juvenile Hall, the one called “Metro”. The undesirable Juvenile Hall. I’m driving to pick up J’Michael.

I’m driving three jurisdictions away because one of our star residents was upset over a perceived slight during his birthday party, snuck out in the middle of a rainy night and hasn’t been heard from for the last three days. That is until now.

For most of these guys, birthdays and holidays are the worst times of the year. They remind the boys just how unreliable and unstable their families really are, constantly letting the kids down with empty promises of lavish gifts, parties and better days. Every year the kid struggles to resolve the tension between these promises and the reality of their family situation.

J’Michael’s 13th birthday was a great chance for his special counselor, Toby to work on their relationship. If Toby could come through with a good party and gifts, he could take a step closer to earning J’Michael’s trust, getting J’Michael to open up more to Toby, clearing the way for good communication.

See, in addition to being sexualized at a very early age, J’Michael is also a notorious kleptomaniac. For months now he has been getting caught with other kids’ toys, books, toothbrushes, Gameboys, socks, food, the TV remote control, silverware – just about anything that can’t be bolted down has been discovered either in J’Michael’s room or stuffed in his clothes. He says he takes this stuff just because he can. I guess when you’ve never had anything, you steal stuff to what it feels like to own it, to control it. He says that even when he gets caught, which is often, it’s still worth it.

So for this last week, Toby has been making preparations for the party. J’Michael has been making his desires very clear: Gameboy Advanced. Mind you, Gameboys and their game cartridges are like currency here, much like cigarettes are used for bartering in prison. We make the rules very clear to the boys: No Lending or Borrowing. If someone lends you something, that means they expect something in return, and you won’t always think that “something” is nice. The things you can get when you barter in the Group Home depends on who you are. The fat kid barters for food. The sexualized kid barters for favors. Other items up for trade at any given time include hair gel, shoelaces, batteries, and candy.

When the big party finally came, we were all there. Counselors, therapists, program supervisors, and administrators. We all showed up for this kid’s birthday party to help prop up the illusion that he has some semblance of a family. We were trying to create a sense of normalcy.

With balloons all a-flutter and the table decorated with our best, used Spiderman swag, J’Michael opened up what we all assumed would be a new Gameboy Advanced. When he opened it up, however, he discovered merely a brand new Gameboy Color. (Toby told me later that he didn’t know there was a difference and frankly didn’t care). There was an audible gasp from everyone in the room. With this act of discovery, all of our illusions faded. Gone was the illusion of family. Gone was the illusion that Toby and J’Michael would become good buddies. Gone was J’Michael’s illusion that he was going to get to barter for sex.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. “I told this dumb-ass niggerachi that I wanted a fuckin’ Gameboy Advanced, goddamit!”

It was clear that Toby really had his work cut out for him now. Later that night, J’Michael put on his black sweatsuit and slipped out into the pouring rain, in pursuit, no doubt, of his very own Gameboy Advanced.

The next two days were filled with the usual Sheriff’s Runaway Report, a call to his family to see if he wound up there and even a search of the local community. This last bit culminated in a 2-hour search of Starbuck’s over a couple of mochas and a newspaper.

Finally we got a call from “Metro”. They had our boy and they told us that he was caught red-handed shoplifting from the downtown Toys R Us. There was no doubt in my mind what it was he was trying to steal. When I finally arrived at “Metro,” I asked him about the Gameboy. He was filthy and looked like a wet, stray dog.

“Taking the Gameboy wasn’t no problem,” he said. “It was when I got outside that I seen it didn’t have no batteries was the problem. So I went back inside and they caught me stealing the batteries.”

J’Michael was tired, dirty and sullen. The ride back was quiet except for my occasional chuckle at J’Michael’s explanation.

When we got back to the group home, I told J’Michael to take a shower. He argued, “I don’t need to. I just took one on Monday.”
“That was three days ago and you stink,” I said. Get in.”

It was then that I discovered his real prize. He had stuffed a bright yellow Juvenile Hall jumpsuit into his pants and gotten away with it.
Imagine the infinite bartering possibilities with a trophy like that!

Hank is another cube-headed kid. Originally from Guatemala, he looks as if he has had his head put in a vice to flatten out each of it sides. He is short, stocky and speaks with an unnaturally deep voice. He sounds just like one of those Budweiser frogs who croak, “Bud.”

During the middle of the morning shift, the team was working on getting the house clean when we got a phone call from the school. One of the counselors was calling to inform us that Hank had been caught eating his teacher’s lunch. During the discovery, Hank decided to throw a tantrum and now had to come up to the house for a “cool-off.” The team consisted of Bill, the ultra-mellow deadhead, Toby, the milataristic neat-freak, Rachel, the big-boobed and lazy college student we all hate to work with, and me.

Toby, latex-gloved, as always, was in the laundry room washing some kids’ clothes. He called out, “Stokie, you should go get him. If he gives you any trouble, tell him he’ll have hell to pay when he sees me.”

“Gee, thanks, Toby,” I said. “You go ahead and hone in on those laundry cleaning skills. Don’t worry about learning how to talk to the kids. We’ll be fine.”

I drove down to the school and picked up Hank who was waiting in the counselor’s office. Our drive up to the house was uneventful and Hank seemed pretty calm. I did notice that he had some remnants of what looked like a tuna sandwich stuck in his notoriously disgusting, yellow and unbrushed teeth. We parked and walked into the house.

Immediately upon entering, Hank grabbed an orange from the fruit basket on the kitchen counter and threw it across the room at the opposite wall. It left a huge splat as it exploded on the wall.

Rachel was the first to speak to Hank. “Hank, what are you doing? Can you calm down? What’s going on with you?”

“Yugoddagap!” Hank shouted, pointing at Rachel. He reached into the fruit basket and chucked another orange which left a similar splat on a different wall, “Yugoddagap!”

Toby stormed out of the laundry room and yelled, “Hank, you better calm your ass down before you get dipped!” Toby, in fact all of us, had begun calling getting put in a prone-restraint on the floor “getting dipped” ever since Toby dipped Rasmus in his own urine. “Now what the hell are you saying?”

Hank had stopped throwing the fruit for the moment and was laughing at Rachel. His manner of laughing was wheezing “hhheh, hhheh, hhheh” in that breathless squeak you get when you run out of air. He peeled back his lips to reveal his yellowed and tuna splattered teeth. He had two thin lines of spittle connecting his lips. “Yugoddagap! Yugoddagap! Hhheh, hhheh, hhheh.” He was pointing at Rachel’s crotch. He threw another orange.

Bill, Toby and I all turned to look to see what it was that Hank was pointing at. All at once, we realized the target of his ire. Rachel’s jeans were hiked up high enough to give her a most obvious camel-toe. Toby began laughing hard and walked back to the laundry room. “You got that one, Rachel? Go ahead, help him calm down.”

Bill attempted to calm Hank down. “So she’s got a gap, Hank, no use in getting upset about it. Let’s just move on.”

Hank reached into the fruit basket once again, but this time he pulled out two bananas and held them together in front of his crotch. “Your shit look like this!” he croaked. “Yugoddagap! Hhhheh, hhheh, hhheh.” I could hear Toby screaming with laughter in the
laundry room.

In the instant that I saw Rachel’s split labia through her pants and recognized how upset Hank was getting, all I could think of was, “Why? Why me? Why do these crazy things always have to happen on my shifts? What do you tell a kid about camel-toes when you can’t understand them yourself? How could this woman put on a pair of pants, yank the seam way up her vagina and go to work like it is a normal thing? It can’t be comfortable, can it? Is it an accident or does she like the feeling of it? Is it so hard to find a pair of pants that fit you without de-flowering yourself?” I stared in disbelief.

Rachel said, “Hank! That’s not nice! I don’t have a gap! Stop pointing at me!”

“Yugodda great big puthy! Look!” he was looking at Bill and me now – “Look, shegodda great big puthy. She showin’ it to everyone today. She wanna fuck somebody. Hhhehh!”

Toby called out from the laundry room, “Is that right Rachel? Is that what’s going on?”

I could see that Rachel was about to cry. I said, “Hank, yugodda get to your room right now. Either go there or to the bathroom and go handle your business. But there’s nothing to do out here except get in trouble.” I started shepherding him to his room.

“Okay, dude,” he said. “But that bitch wanna fuck somebody today. I can tell. She goddagap.”

“Alright, Hank. Let the staff take care of it. You just calm down.”

As I walked back out to the kitchen, I overheard Bill talking to Rachel. “So we were all talking about your vagina, no sense in getting upset over it. If we just all move on, we’ll all feel better about it.” Toby was pounding the washer in hysterics. I walked over
to him.

“Toby, who’s stuff is in the dryer?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s fat-ass Rusty’s stuff. It’s just about done.”

“Lemme see that,” I said, and opened the dryer. “Here we go.” I pulled out Rusty’s pair of faded green sweatpants and walked over to Rachel. “Here. Put these on. They’re baggy, so you won’t be disturbing the kids when you come to work. They should fit you just
about right.”

She protested. “Hell no, Stokie. I’m not wearing Rusty’s shit covered sweats.”

I shrugged. “Well it’s either that or walk around with your gap hanging out in front of 10 disturbed boys. Your choice.”

She took the sweats and put them on over her jeans, without another word. Toby was now on the floor of the laundry room, tears streaming down. Nothing else was ever said of this incident.

That was about a year ago. So now whenever a new staff comes in and notices the huge splats which are permenantly implanted into the walls, they invariably ask, “What happened there?”

There is only one response. In my deepest baritone voice, I say, “Yugoddagap!”

I Read the News Today, Oh Boy

I have been working here long enough to have the dubious privilege of reading about some of our former charges in the newspapers. And as you can imagine, the stories are never for something good like winning awards, getting elected or making a pro sports team. So you can imagine my reluctance when, as I walked into work one day, one of the a.m. staff members held up the local paper and asked, “Have you seen this yet?”

I really dreaded what I was about to read. Thoughts came rushing in of the other newsworthy events that our “graduates” have committed during my career here:

-A black kid from the worst part of the ghetto was placed here, swore for 4 years that when he was discharged he was going right back home to sell crack. He said he wanted to get rich just like his big brother. The newspaper reported that he was shot to death right outside of his house a week after he was discharged.

-Another kid, placed with us after being sexually abused for years by his mother and sister wound up strangling his sister to death after leaving us.

-Another kid was found drowned in a creek with toxic levels of meth in his blood.

-Another kid tied up an 84 year old woman and beat her with her own cane until she told him where her credit cards were. He was arrested an hour later at the mall trying to buy cd’s with her card.

So, yes, it was with some trepidation that I picked up the paper to read “Two Group Home Boys Hold Off Police for Hours, Suffer Hypothermia in Lake.”

I sighed in relief.

Stokie “Well that’s not too bad,” I said. I looked around the house. “Am I to assume that Michael and Francis will be needing to be picked up from the Hall?”
Staff “Francis will, but Michael’s still at the hospital. You have to pick him up there.”
Stokie “Well, fine. But how the hell did they get out to the lake?” I wondered.
Staff “They slipped out last night right after dinner. We had half the campus looking for them. We searched everywhere: the freeway, the school kitchen, Toys R Us, everywhere. Maybe when you see them, you can ask them.”
Stokie “Yeah, maybe I’ll just work some of that Stokie Jaye magic.” And that’s just what I set off to do.

Wouldn’t be a good idea to pick them both up at the same time. Unless you have several staff with you, the kids will get right back into their bravado routine and probably try to escape or do something equally as stupid. I decided to first pick up Francis at the juvenile hall we call “The Country Club,” bring him back to the house, then go get Michael at the hospital.

I checked in at the front desk of the hall, and waited until they led Francis out. As he opened the door and limped toward me, I could see that he was caked in mud, clothes ripped beyond use. He was wearing county issued paper slippers.

Stokie “Where are your shoes?” I asked.
Francis “Fuck if I know. If I had them I’d still be running. ‘Stead these fuckin’ neeger cops made me lose ‘em.”

The guard, a large man of the “neeger” persuasion stepped up. “Apparently, your boy here lost them in the mud on the shores of the lake. That mud there is about 4 feet deep.”

Francis “The bastard cops made me lose ‘em and now I got this!” He took off his paper wrap and showed me cut and bloodied toes and soles.
Guard “Oh yeah, and them reeds can be awful sharp can’t they, boy?”
Francis “Shut the hell up neeger wardie bitch, before you get sued!”

I could see that Francis might not be in the best mood to talk about the previous night’s exploits. In the van, I decided to give it a try, “Gosh Francis, I’m glad you’re okay. The whole campus was looking for you last night. You guys are really good AWOLers. How’d you do it?”

Francis liked it when you told him he was good at something. “Hee! I knew it. Everyone was looking all over the place, so we didn’t go nowhere. You know that metal circle down by the school basketball courts?”

Stokie “You mean the sewer?”
Francis “Yeah, that. We got in it and just stayed there til morning. Then we walked to the lake.”
Stokie “So you two spent the night in the sewer.”
Francis “Whoa guy, why do you have to say it like that? I’m not like that. And I’m not gay, either. Plus, we really fucked up those cops. That’ll teach them not to mess with us.”
Stokie “Oh God, what did you do?”
Francis “Well they seen us on the road near the lake and they tried to get us, but we had too many rocks and then we ran through all them bushes — that’s where we lost our shoes–and they couldn’t see us and we got in the lake.”
Stokie “Wait a minute. You guys can’t swim, what do you mean you got in the lake?”
Francis “We walked out up to our noses so we could still breathe and they couldn’t do nothing cuz they couldn’t get in the water. They’re all bitches, anyway. That’s why they got that fuckin’ boat, cuz they’re bitches.”
Stokie “Oh Jesus Francis! You mean they had to get a boat?”
Francis “And a fuckin’ helicopter cuz the boat couldn’t see us neither. That’ll teach them not to mess with us hoo-riders. It was only cuz the helicopter seen us that they grabbed us with the boat. But I’m calling Johnnie Cochran and suing cuz that’s police brutality and they can’t put hand cuffs on you and throw you on the floor of a boat.”

I thought about that for a while, taking it all in.

Stokie “Francis?” I said, staring very seriously.
Francis “Now what?”
Stokie “You know I already talked to Michael,” I lied.
Francis “Goddammit! We didn’t have sex in the sewer! Plus it wasn’t my idea. He’s the one who said it already smelled like shit. Besides, I ain’t no fag. Just because you have sex with boys doesn’t mean you’re a fag, goddammit!”
Stokie “Never said you were, Francis. Never said you were.”

As you are by now well aware, all of us group home counselors are completely professional, always focused on the well-being of the kids. Ok, so maybe that is a slight exaggeration.

The truth is, like in any profession, the mind begins to wander sometimes. During the times we are with the kids, there is usually too much going on to lose focus. However, our weekly staff meetings can be some of the more mundane activities we face, so it is no wonder we need to find distractions to keep ourselves occupied.

At the moment, our staff is equally balanced between males and females – six of each. One of the inside jokes we males like to mention to each other is that it’s very important to balance out the staff between guys and girls because not only can we exhibit proper family role models for the children, but it also gives us something interesting to look at as the shift wears on. And believe me, in an atmosphere where at any time you run the risk of getting assaulted, peed on, cussed at and spit on, just about anything that meets the minimum requirement of being the opposite sex qualifies as being interesting to look at.

Every Tuesday is staff meeting day. While the kids are at school, every staff who works on every shift comes in for 4 hours to discuss important issues, work on treatment plans, listen to social workers present new clients and examine our own effectiveness on the floor. (”On the floor” means working out in the open with the kids. The House Supervisor might use it like this: “Staff, please try not to cuss when you’re out on the floor,” or, if you’re like Toby, you might say it while unlocking the door to the staff office, “Staff, I’m going to be off the floor for a few minutes,” which means you’re about to go take a dump.) Staff meetings are held at the large kitchen table around which
we are all seated.

Just before one of the staff meetings, I was talking to Mel, one of my favorite teammates, in the staff office. Mel was closing his eyes and shaking his head, “Dawg, I’m not saying I’m gonna try to set the kids off so they blow out, but damn, dude, have you ever proned some kid with Trixie? (Trixie is a hot red-head) Blood, when that hottie bends over, just take a look back. Her pants sag down and her thong and all her shit is hangin’ out for the whole world to see. Me and her proned Freddie’s stupid ass this morning and I’m telling you…damn!” Mel didn’t need to remind me, it’s not like I never noticed this job’s little rewards. Mel went on, “Dude, everybody’s sitting down. Call me in two minutes.”

“Mel, you’re a fucking pervert, plus you’re making me late.” Actually I didn’t mind.

Mel cringed and laughed as he walked out of the staff office and off to the staff meeting. After two minutes, I used the staff office phone to call the phone line in the kitchen. When it rang, I heard Mel jump up, “I’ll get it!” I hung up just as Mel answered, “Hulla? Oh, let me check.” He walked in to meet me in the staff office.
“Oh, man, blood, you gotta go out there to staff meeting!”
“Yeah, well that’s the general idea, Mel,” I laughed.
“Dawg, it’s not just Trixie’s thong, that crazy-ass bitch
Leslie got one too, only leopard stripe, plus Katrina’s wearing her lace red one.”
“Mel, you’re fucking crazy but I love you. We better go out.”

As we walked out to take our places, I walked behind the women he was talking about and noticed that everything he described was true. Sad, but true. Life’s little pleasures are amplified in this kind of environment.

Mel mentioned “Crazy-ass Leslie.” She came aboard at Trixie’s recommendation, but Trixie soon renounced her allegence to Leslie. Trixie said she thought Leslie was cool at first, but she soon found out, as we all did that Leslie is a little unbalanced. Trixie told me that she started getting worried when they went out one night, went bar hopping and Leslie wound up dropping her pants and taking a piss out in the middle of a busy intersection. Later, Trixie would find Leslie in her house, univited, when she would come home from work. Now that Trixie has told Leslie that she’s not allowed in her house uninvited, Leslie has taken up driving by the group home, slowing down and giving Trixie the evil eye, and driving off. And this is on Leslie’s days off!

I had noticed that something was amiss with her when I pulled into work one afternoon and she burst out of the house yelling, “Stokie! My favorite person! I love you!” She ran up to me sat on my foot and hugged my leg. This woman was actually humping my leg. I thought for a second that it was nice that she had a crush on me and I felt a bit of an ego stroke. After all, she is kinda cute. But that thought was overcome by my next thought that this person thinks it’s ok to greet someone by humping his leg, and not just that, but
in public. “Oh Stokie, thank you so much for being you!”

“Leslie, you need to get the fuck off my leg. This isn’t how normal people act. Get the fuck off.”
“But you’re my favorite person…” I shook her off my leg and she lay there in the street. “God, Stokie, you don’t have to be like that…”

I walked into the house. Scott, a big, good looking baseball player was at the stove cooking what he liked to call “Sloppy Scotts,” his version of Sloppy Joes.

I said, “Scott, I think that Leslie’s fuckin crazy, man. Or she has a crush on me or something.”
Scott put down his spatula and looked at me. “Aw, man! Don’t tell me she humped your leg, too! I never had someone do that to me til now!”

It is in this context that after the staff meeting, I found myself with Mel and Toby discussing the Ultimate Group Home Counselor.

Mel was holding court. “Ok, if you put Trixie’s ass together with Katrina’s tits, that would be so dope.”
“No!” said Toby. “Katrina’s too damn lazy. Put Stephanie’s ass with Trixie’s tits.”
“Yeah,” said Mel. “She’s got a nice little backyard. But she got to have a head, dawg.”
Mel said, “Leslie’s head, dude. Listen. Trixie’s tits, you can’t beat those. Stephanie’s ass and Leslie’s head. Stokie, how ’bout that? Leslie’s head, what do you think?”
I said, “As long as it keeps it’s fucking mouth shut, I’m ok with it.”
“Cool,” said Mel. “Then we got it. The Ultimate Group Home Counselor.”

Later that afternoon, I was sharing the shift with Mel, Trixie and Leslie. It was our recreation hour and Mel and I were watching the activities from the back porch while Trixie was playing frisbee on the rec field and Leslie was watching a group of boys play basketball at the adjoining courts. We both happened to be watching as Leslie got up and walked over to a heavy, wooden baseball bat that had been left on the field. I thought that it was a good idea of her to remove it and keep it safely from the boys. She picked it up and walked over to a basketball that had also been left on the field. She picked up the ball, tossed it up in the air and swung at it. She missed. Undeterred, she tossed it up and swung again.

This time she hit it. The ball didn’t move. The bat ricocheted back and slammed her in the side of the head. Mel and I ran down as we watched her lose her balance and fall to her knees. When we arrived she was bleeding from her ear.

She was taken by ambulance to the hospital and I heard that she had sufferred a concussion. As time went on, I also heard that she had some kind of lack of balance condition and chronic headaches. I also heard that the worker’s compensation payout for her was enormous.

I’ve always said that in this environment there is one thing that is completely predictable: the unpredictable outrageousness of the kids. If there is one thing you can rely on, it’s
the variability of insanity. Anyone who has worked in this type of group home for any length of time can tell you that there will be at least one crazy event a day. You just accept it.

That said, the things that are less acceptable are the varying reactions and behavior modification strategies of the staff. Even less acceptable is the incompetence of the therapists who try to work out their own issues by projecting them onto their clients. However, the most unacceptable reality we as group home counselors face is the absolute, uncompromising lack of support by the administration.

Every month the administration hosts an “in-service.” That is, the administration is credited money from the involved counties for holding an in-service. Whether or not an in-service is actually held every month seems to be dependent on whether anyone in the administration is actually prepared to present one. They usually occur about once every 3 months, give or take.

An in-service is basically a training meeting meant to keep the counselors, house supervisors and therapists up to date on issues such as behavior mod, medications, issues and trends in the psychology world. One of my favorites was when a nutritionist was invited to talk about healthy eating habits and we were treated to donuts and punch as refreshments. Talk about being unclear on the concept! Donuts and punch are provided at pretty much every in-service.

One of the nice things about the in-services is that the responsibility of taking care of the kids falls on the school staff. No matter what the circumstances, the school staff is expected to handle anything that comes up. It is the one time when the group home counselors will not be relied upon to handle the problems that come up at school, which is usually the case.

From the very beginning of this particular in-service, you could tell something was different. For one, all of the upper management administrators were there, and they all had very concerned looks on their faces. Not only that, as we filled the second floor conference room which overlooks the newly renovated arboretum and fountain, everyone noticed the head honcho himself, Ryan Brayhill, front and center, preparing to speak. I had never actually seen or met Mr. Brayhill,I had only seen his picture in our newsletter, usually dressed in his suit and tie. His conspicuous absence was generally interpreted as an indifference to the lowly group home counselors and their concerns. Here, he was dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket, obviously dressing down to more easily relate with us lower-category workers. This must be bad news.

The presentation was carefully staged. Ricky Kingsley, the head of the Recreation Department stepped up to speak. I had known Ricky from way back, when he started off as a group home counselor, like me. In fact, everyone knows him pretty well, he is very personable and well-liked due mainly to the fact that he could relate to us because he actually was one of us. It was a good plan, if not an obvious one, to have him start off this meeting to help us ease in to whatever the difficult news would be.

He began, “I just want everyone to know that the decisions that have been made in the last several meetings were very difficult and we have had nothing but your well-being as counselors and as people in mind.” I know how hard it is to do your job and I totally sympathize with your concerns, but I’m afraid we have had to make some tough choices due to budget cuts. If anyone wants to talk about it after the meeting, I’ll be available and open to any of your thoughts. With that, I’d like to introduce Ryan Brayhill, who is the CEO of the organization. Mr. Brayhill?”

“Oh, great,” I thought. I was sure he was going to announce a reduction in the food budget, or how we couldn’t afford outings anymore, or some such ridiculous decision.

He stepped up, flanked by all the higher ups of the administration. “These are hard times for all the non-profits across the state and country. We are really at the mercy of the bureaucrats at the state capitol when it comes to our annual budget. Not only that, but being a non-profit, we rely on donations to a large extent, and they are drastically down. So I wanted to come down here myself to let you know the kinds of cuts we’re making. It’s painful to announce, but after a lot of deliberation, I think it’s the right decision. What will be happening is that we are going to make an adjustment in your benefits package. From now on, we will be making cuts in your medical coverage; we will ask you to contribute to half of your coverage, and we will no longer be covering care for your dependents…blah, blah, blah.”

I looked around the room. I thought about what these cuts would mean to the people here. Many of these counselors and House Supervisors have kids. I have two kids myself. The room was silent for a moment, everyone letting the news sink in. Then Yolanda, our House Supervisor, was the first to speak.

“So Mr. Brayhill, I want to make sure I’m understanding this right. What you’re saying is, you expect us to take care of somebody else’s kids, but you’re not going to help us take care of our own kids. That’s what you’re saying, right?”

Mr. Brayhill looked annoyed. “No, that’s not what I’m saying, I’m saying this whole process has been very difficult…”

“But not as difficult as it will be for us to get our kids coverage. Is it any wonder that staff turnover is so high? It’s decisions like this that make staff want to find other jobs. I mean, I love working with these kids, but I won’t be able to do it unless I can get coverage for my own.”

Yolanda had made an excellent point, one I completely agreed with. I felt compelled to speak, as well.

“Mr. Brayhill, how can you come down here and tell us this stuff while, during the last month, we’ve sat and watched that nice new white fence go up around the horse stables? I mean, couldn’t you have used that money to help us out? And what about the horses? Why would you choose to improve the lives of animals over the humans who actually do the work?”

Mr. Brayhill was turning red with frustration. “Hey! Let’s get one thing straight. That fence was paid for by a private donor who specified that it go to the horses. I would have loved to use that money for you all…”

I interrupted, “Then it should be your job to explain to that donor that there are greater needs around here than a nice new fence for the horses when the front line staff who do all the work are suffering. Why didn’t you tell the donor that, Mr. Brayhill?”

“I’m not going to stand up here and let some group home counselor tell me how to do my job. At least you should appreciate the fact that I’m telling you personally. I didn’t have to do that, you know.”

Sloppy Scott spoke up. “You know what I heard? I heard that we’re the only ones who are getting cut like this. Is that true? Why aren’t the administrative staff getting their fair share of the cuts?”

Apparently that was enough for Mr. Brayhill. He turned and yelled at Scott, “I think it’s a fucking shame that you counselors keep getting injured on the job, which is costing us hundreds of thousands of dollars!”

The room was once again silent, most of our jaws had dropped at Brayhill’s outburst. Just then, heavy, stomping, and sloshing footsteps could be heard on the steps. Then, a familiar sounding voice exclaiming, “Aw, fuck yeah! Donuts!” We all turned to look and saw Kyle, shirtless and soaking wet pounce on a donut box and pull out an eclair. He then turned and saw the room full of staff just as he was about to stuff the eclair into his mouth. He was momentarily stunned, but quickly composed himself.

“What’s up, bitches? I’m fuckin’ AWOL, now what?” He began to run around the room, expecting someone to chase him. No one moved. He stopped at the front of the room, next to Mr. Brayhill. He waved his soaking shirt in the air and pointed at various staff. “Fuck you, fuck you, oh yes, and fuck you, and especially fuck you…” He then held the eclair down at his crotch, squeezed out the custard and jammed the whole thing in his mouth. Still, not one counselor flinched or moved a muscle.

Janette Stankin, the Clinical Supervisor agitatedly said, “Well someone has to stop him!” and approached Kyle. Kyle ran out of the back door, out on to the veranda and disappeared down the breezeway. Janette ran after him, oblivious to the fact that no one else was participating in the chase.

At that moment, more footsteps on the stairs. Then, “Oh, shit, dude, there’s donuts!” Two of the school staff walked into the room. Seeing that there was a meeting in progress one asked, “Oh! Yeah, we’re looking for Kyle. He ran out of class and took a dip in the fountain.”

Half the room pointed to the back door. “Thanks man, he’s probably going back for another swim.” The two left out of the back door and disappeared.

All eyes returned to Mr. Brayhill.

“Typical group home bullshit,” he said as he turned and exited down the stairs.

I don’t think any 15 minutes in the history of the organization did more to lower staff morale than that meeting.

After that fated in-service, we all made our way back up to our respective units to resume our staff meetings. Echoing in all our heads were Mr. Brayhill’s final words, “Typical group home bullshit,” which made us realize that neither the group homes nor their employees were anywhere near the Administration’s top priorities.
As we settled into our seats, our unit’s House Supervisor, Yolanda said, “So, someone from the Administration is supposed to come up and join us to help us talk about our feelings regarding the cuts in benefits. I think it’s Pete Post who’s coming to join us.”
Gus said, “Talk about our feelings? What does that mean? Does that mean we get any say in the budget cuts?”
“No,” said Yolanda. “All that’s a done deal.”
“Is anything we say gonna make any difference at all in the decision making process?”
“No.”
“Then can we tell him to kiss our black asses and get the hell outta here? I mean, we got important work to do and he wants to come up here and waste our time talking bout, ‘Oh you gotta talk about your feelings.’ What the fuck for, they don’t give a shit anyway.”
“Well, you can tell him to kiss your ass if you want, that’s what everyone’s thinking anyway.”
Pete Post was walking down the path to our unit. Pete Post is now in charge of hiring and training new staff. He’s a youngish guy, about 26. His typical work outfit, and this day was no different, is this: a blue or purple longsleeve button down shirt with a purple, squared off, knit cotton tie from the early 80’s, tight black jeans hiked up above his navel and revealing his black socks, and black Converse lowtops. Ever since he started doing the Clinical Director, Janette Stankin, his ass and his waistline has been expanding (Janette is known for her wonderful cheesecakes, and from the looks of things, Pete has indulged in more than a few.) Still, Pete wears the same pants as he did 5 years ago, so as his waist expands, his pants get tighter and higher. He is, in fact, working on his own male cameltoe. He can be seen during the lunch hour walking up and down our expansive driveway either talking or singing to himself, eyes barely open, with a half grin on his face. He has a way of talking to people which at once confuses them and also places him on the technical crew of his high school drama department, the kind of guy who probably repeated Monty Python skits ad nauseum in a bad British accent. In other words, Pete Post is a top-tier dweeb. He sat down with us and began.
“May I assume that there is a general feeling of negativity, which although understandable, and yet in my opinion possible to overcome, is pervasive, something to which the present company all subscribe?” He had is elbows on the table, tapping his fingertips together in a show of thoughtfulness.
Gus turned to me. “The fuck he say?”
Now I suppose one of the things that makes me a good counselor is my ability to understand many different forms of communication. I’m able to easily relate to many different types of people, from the MIT computer nerd to the hardened ghetto dweller.
I said, “He’s asking if everybody thinks the Administration is fucking us over.”
“Tell him we said, ‘Hell yes.’”
Pete went on. “These current changes are indeed lamentable, however, there are other program adjustments to which we can look forward in a positive light. I am referring to my own personal philosophy that the last thing our charges need is for us to repeat the abusive patterns to which they may account their tenure here. I, and a few other administrators are excited at the prospect of creating a program in which we no longer put hands on the kids unless it is an absolute necessity. Imagine the increased amount of respect the children would ascribe to us under such a program adjustment.”
Yolanda was irritated. “Pete, you been talking about that for a year now, don’t no one agree with you and I’ll be damned if anyone in this room agrees with you now. If you want to make some positive changes, you should think about how you gonna recruit some staff members who are gonna stay long enough to learn the job and earn the kids’ trust. I don’t know where you be pickin up these new staff, but some don’t even speak English well enough to talk to the kids, some don’t seem to be trained to know when it’s time to put hands on. That’s one of the reasons staff be getting hurt on the job. Sometimes I think you be telling new staff to never put hands on, and putting us veteran staff in danger when you know some new staff not gonna help you out when things get physical.”
Pete said, “My ususal mantra regarding that kind of statement bears repeating, I think. And that is: I am always open to suggestions and ideas when it comes to recruiting new staff.”
I felt compelled to add my two cents. “Dude, do you ever go to those college job fairs? I’m sure you could find some competent psychology majors who could help us out. I live right near the University. I could totally help out and post some flyers or whatever.”
I thought I saw Pete’s goofy grin turn into an almost wry smile. “Thank you Stokie, I’m glad you said that. There is a job fair going on this Thursday at the University. Of course I would be happy to accept your help and invite you to put your money where your mouth is and accompany me there. If memory serves, this will not interfere with your work schedule.”
I looked around the table. Everyone was nodding and grinning at me, knowing I had opened my big mouth once again.
Gus turned to me again, “Now what?”
I said, “I’m going to a job fair with Pete Post.”
Gus just chuckled and shook his head.

Two days later, there I was sitting at a booth with Pete Post at the University’s job fair. The administration had hired a professional photographer a couple of years ago so that we could have nice pictures of our kids looking appropriately cute and needy in a display for recruiting purposes. We had those photos displayed along with a big banner with the organizations name on it. There were a lot of students there looking for jobs and I felt really hopeful and upbeat about our chances.
As each student walked by our booth, Pete Post would be tapping his fingers together in his display of thoughtfulness and say, “Greetings, for what are you seeking?”
I sat and watched as each student would furrow their brows and keep walking. Still, each time someone walked up to us Pete would repeat,
“Greetings, for what are you seeking?”
“Greetings, for what are you seeking?”
I thought, ‘Jesus Christ, no fucking wonder.’ Pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. I said to Pete, “Dude, is that what you always say to people? You know, not everyone talks like that.”
A student walked up. I said, “Hi, do you like working with kids? You might enjoy finding out about our program, here’s our brochure, blah, blah, blah…”
Pete said to me, “This is an activity to which you seem well-suited.”
“Yeah, well I’m also well-suited to having a few beers when this is over.”
“Agreed. I would second that prospect and would enjoy sharing the experience with you.”
“Dude, I didn’t say you were coming with me. Now repeat after me, ‘Hi, do you like working with kids’…?”

I’m so tired of the Language of Therapy. I think part of my frustration with it stems from the way our therapists use it with the kids. They never seem to set any limits with the kid, they never say simple things like, “No. We’re not going to talk about Doritos again. We’re going to talk about your family.” They just engage the kid in any lame-ass fantasy, whim or accusation to discover the different ways the kids’ thought processes work, which is understandable, but they end up getting so caught up in the drama of it that they lend credence to the boys’ twisted thoughts.

It happens all the time. A kid and therapist return from therapy and the therapist pulls me aside and says, “Can I confront you? During therapy Freddy made some pretty strong accusations against you and I just wanted to find out if it was true. He said…” and then will list one of these things:

‘Staff is talking about his mama’ or
‘Staff is getting into bed with him in the middle of the night’ or
‘Staff is walking around naked in the middle of the night’ or
‘Staff lets him watch porno movies in the middle of the night’ or
‘Staff stole his allowance’ or
‘Staff won’t let him eat’ or
‘Staff is beating him up when no one is looking’ or
‘Staff is drinking whiskey during the shift.’”

The therapists hate me because I won’t even address the issue anymore. I always respond with the same answer, “I can’t believe you’re going to charge the county for 50 minutes of this shit.”

I suppose, at the very least, the house therapy groups lend some structure to the conversation and teach the kids the basic language tools to express themselves. It works like this: All the residents and staff will sit on the couches which have been positioned in a circle. The house therapist, in this case Nancy, will begin with a prompt. Imagine a skinny, meek looking woman with huge glasses from the 70’s and scraggly, multi-shades of grey long hair which hasn’t been brushed all week. She’s sitting on the edge of her chair, bent over her knees with her hands clutching her ankles. In a nasally, whiney voice she says, “I think now is a good time to honor ourselves with some put-ups. You know, instead of put-downs? Duane, can you start us off with a put-up for someone?”

Duane “Well I’m sick and tired of my roommate because I have to put up with his piss all over the toilet.”
Nancy “Mmm, uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. So, how does that make you feel?”
Duane “Makes me feel like kicking his ass.”
Nancy “Oh, mm-hmm, uh-huh, I see. I mean, what kinds of feelings do you get when you see pee-pee on the toilet?”
Duane “I feel inappropriate.”

A chorus of ‘Whoa-guy!’ from the audience of children.

Nancy “Oh, mm-hmm, yeah. So what I hear you saying is you don’t like to see pee-pee on the toilet because it makes you feel inappropriate. Mm-hmm, yeah, mm-hmm. Can you turn to Jim and tell him how it makes you feel when you see pee-pee on the toilet?”

Duane, feeling a surge of empowerment, embraces the opportunity to express his feelings to Jim, “Jim, if you piss on the toilet again, I’m gonna kick your ass. Say I won’t.”

Nancy “Um, well, okay. That’s a start.”

Jim raises his hand, “Scuse me? That wasn’t a put-up.”

Nancy “Mmm, yeah. You know something? I was thinking the same thing. And how does that make you feel?”

Jim “I feel like you should make Duane give me a put-up instead of kicking my ass.”

Nancy “Yeah, okay, okay. But what emotion comes up for you when he threatens you?”

Jim “Unsafe.”

Nancy “So what I hear you saying is that when Duane threatens you, you feel unsafe instead of safe. Good. Good. Good. Maybe you can turn to Duane and let him know how it makes you feel when he threatens you.”

Jim “Duane, if you kick my ass, I’m gonna tell everyone that you took the encyclopedia in to the bathroom and jacked off to that Statue of David thing.”

Chorus: “Whoa guy!”

And so it goes. Therapy groups often end in a fist-fight in which case the therapist will silently slip out while the house staff breaks it up, deals with containment, and tries to put the house back together.

The Language of Therapy isn’t just limited to the kids’ therapy groups. As staff, we have found ourselves relying on it during staff meetings to help us express our feelings toward our teammates, as well. It may start off with the staff gathering together on the couches and the therapist beginning with, “Can I make an observation? Would that be okay? I feel tense. I feel like there’s some tension, you know, that icky tense feeling? I’m feeling like if there’s something that needs to be put out there, then we should just go ahead and put it out there, you know? To talk about it so we can take care of our own selves, you know, to honor our own feelings. Because sometimes that’s lost. Am I off base here?”

In a shaky voice, Rachel, a short, heavy young female staff member with enormous breasts begins. “Well, sometimes I think that the tone of the house is too male-dominated, like when Toby grabs the kids and yells at them, I don’t think that’s nurturing.”

Toby is a big, muscular guy with a flat-top and looks like a Marine. He is clearly irritated. “These kids don’t respond to nurturing. They need structure and discipline. That’s the way my dad raised me. If I got out of line with him, he hit me, and maybe I didn’t like it but hey, it worked. I’d never talk back to an adult the way these kids talk back to me. And they need to keep the house clean, too. And Rachel, you never clean up after yourself. You leave your shit everywhere and I always have to clean up after you.”

Gus pipes up. “Oh yeah, that’s Toby alright. Walks around with his latex gloves on all day sprucing up the place. ‘Course, the kids are fucking each other, but the house smells nice and fresh.”

Toby continues, “Hey, you’d walk around cleaning all day too if you had to work with Rachel. At the beginning of her shift, she just walks in, plops her tits on the kitchen counter and goes, ‘Only 8 more hours to go, and I’m outta here.’ Every time you say that, Rachel, it makes me want to rip your fucking throat out.”

Rachel begins to cry.

Nancy interjects. “Mmm. You know, although I think it’s important that we get our feelings out there, I think we should also honor ourselves by not making obscene threats to each other. We wouldn’t want the kids to do it, right Toby?”

Toby said, “Hey, you said talk about my feelings and I’m talking about my feelings. Tell you what. I was out on the back porch shooting hoops with that little shit Stevie when he started mouthing off to me. I told him to go to his room and he spit on me. What the hell am I supposed to do? I picked him up by his collar and shoved him against the wall. I said, ‘Don’t you ever fucking do that to a grown man’ and I spit on him. And you know what? He hasn’t mouthed off since.”

I added, “Hey Toby, are you sure you want to be revealing your secrets of success so early on in your career?”

He says, “Hey, it’s what my dad did to me and look, I turned out fine.”

Nancy demurred, “Mmm, yeah, uh-huh.”

I pride myself on being able to get along with many different types of people, but I have to say getting along with Guru has been challenging from the very beginning. He has this very strange, “salt of the Earth” aura about him. He seems angry when he’s not. He always wears sunglasses, even indoors. He yells, or slams down his hand on a table to begin a statement, then whispers the rest. The kids are both afraid of him and attracted to his mystical weirdness.

Guru taught me the expression “tip the house.” If, say 4 or 5 kids are having tantrums at the same time, Guru would shout out, “Tip the house!” We would then know to bring all those kids into the Quiet Room together, as if we were tilting the house to one corner and the kids were marbles rolling into the Quiet Room, They would then receive the Guru treatment, which is about 2 hours of a silent Guru just staring as the kids would go through stages of yelling, fighting, and begging to come out and finally asking Guru if there was any way they could make up for their behavior as long as they could come out and relieve their overwhelming boredom.

Once, Guru was sitting with a few kids in the Quiet Room and I went to check in on him. I opened the door and found all the kids screaming and cussing at a seemingly oblivious Guru. Guru was wearing his “denim armor:” jean pants, denim longsleeve shirt, denim jacket, heavy black boots and a beanie cap.

I said, “Guru aren’t you a little warm in here? Do you want to take a break?”

He exploded, “I LIKE IT HOT!” and then whispered, “No breaks. The only way to know what you’re dealing with is when the kids are hot. It’s the most productive part of the day. NO BREAKS!” and he just stared at me, or through me, from behind his sunglasses.

At the time I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, but now, years of experience later, I do. For the most part, the kids repeat abusive behaviors that have been perpetrated on them, so when they have tantrums, or act out, it is usually a reflection of their previous abuse. When kids are “hot,” the experienced counselor may realize that the kid is telling a story, in a strange way, of his life. He is letting you see the core of his turmoil.

It was a particularly “hot” time for a lot of boys across campus, so there was a lot of extra staff on hand to help out with the many outbreaks and eruptions of anger and violence. There were even a few administrators making the rounds, checking in and helping out. On this particular afternoon, Pete Post had dropped in and, since we had become “buddies” at the job fair, had decided to hang around with me as I prepared the boys a snack of chocolate pudding. Most of the boys were standing around the kitchen counter waiting as Pete Post was casually conversing with me.

“I think, to a large extent, that these fellows would respond in a much more healthy way during crises if their caretakers would display care and respect to them. Specifically, why do we put hands on, restrain and hold the kids down in order to teach them that fighting is wrong? Aren’t we just perpetuating a cycle? These boys aren’t unintelligent and if approached with intelligent and caring adults, they will respond in kind.”

I said, “Okay Pete, but how long will the learning period be before the kids realize you are showing respect? Because that’s the length of time that staff is going to be risking injury.” I grabbed a banana. “Here, hand this to Richard.”

Pete handed the banana to Richard. Richard was incredulous. “Why I gotta eat this? Gimme some pudding.”

I said to Richard, “You know you have a week of snack restriction for stealing that box of Klondike bars and hiding them in your laundry basket.”

Richard yelled at me, “I told you I didn’t do that. My roommate set me up!”

“Next time you steal ice cream, eat it before it melts. That way next time staff does your laundry, we can’t catch you with melted ice cream all over your clothes.”
Richard exploded, “All y’all staff be lying bitches. I’monna hoo-ride this banana upside yo head, mutha-fucka!”

He was approaching Pete, banana held high. The rest of the boys quickly grabbed their puddings and got out of the way.

Pete said to Richard, “I think even you could agree that I cannot be the target of your ire.”

Richard was about to hit Pete with the banana when, with a swiftness not seen in such big men, Guru appeared behind Richard and grabbed him by the arms.

“Not on my shift, not today.” He looked at Pete. “Supervisor’s office.”

Pete followed Guru and Richard, who was flailing and trying to kick Guru, into the supervisor’s office and shut the door.

One of the boys, Brian, said to me, “Stokie, have you ever been assaulted by a banana?”

Freddie, the sexual predator yelled from his permanent station, the living room table, “Whoa guy!”

Brian mumbled under his breath, “You fuckin’ faggot, I didn’t mean it like that.”

I heard the door of the supervisor’s office open up. It was Guru. He clapped his hands once, with surprising volume. “MR. JAYE!” He then spoke very softly, “I need some help with a problem. Can you assist me in here?”

I thought that they needed more help in restraining Richard, after all he was a pretty big kid. I ran over to Guru. “Let’s go,” I said as I opened the door and walked in.

I saw Pete Post and Richard both sitting on the couch. Pete sat with his legs folded with a smug, half-grin on his face. Richard was livid, red with anger. He had squashed the banana in his hands and had banana bits all over his hands and arms. He was yelling at Pete Post, “I’monna fuck you up bitch!” He hawked a loogie and spat in Pete’s face.

I stepped forward in anticipation of Guru and I taking Richard and placing him in a prone restraint on the floor.
Just as soon as I moved, I heard Guru from behind me, “UH-UH. Come here.”

He was in his familiar squat position. I was confused as to why Guru seemed uninterested in Richard’s violence toward Pete. I though he liked it hot. I stepped over to him and turned to look at Richard and Pete Post.

Pete said to Richard, “You see Richard, I realize that you aren’t really angry at me, are you?”

Richard scooped some banana bits from his arm and flung it into Pete’s hair.

“I respect the fact that you are angry, however, spitting and throwing fruit at me will not address the issue.”

Richard hawked another loogie and spat at Pete. It landed on Pete’s purple, knit 80’s tie.

“What I’m hearing you say is that you don’t want a banana for snack.”
Richard spat at Pete, hitting him in the face.

“I hear your anger, Richard, and I respect it.”

Hawk, ptew. Another face shot.

“This is no way to engage an adult Richard. Now spit and banana can wash off easily. What’s more important is that you know I care about you.”

I said quietly, “What the fuck…?” I looked down at Guru who stared blankly at the proceedings. I looked at Pete Post who was being covered in spit and banana bits. I slowly squatted down with Guru. I whispered, “Looks like our hands-off approach still has a few bugs to be worked out.”

Guru said, “You’ve already spent too much time off the floor. You got important things to do. Please inform our teammates that Pete Post is leading a seminar on the hands-off approach in here. I’m sure they would appreciate the education if you would ask them to rotate in here.”

“It would be less than supportive of me to block our teammates from a teachable moment. I’ll let them know right now.”

It was a rare moment when I was able to appreciate Guru’s subtle display of charm.