MY CLAIM TO FAME

I had been assigned to working for two years in alternative service as a result of attaining status as a conscientious objector with the Selective Service and had found a job as a “child care worker” or houseparent at an institution for “emotionally-disturbed” children, called Greer, A Children’s Community, near Millbrook, New York. I was houseparent to ten young boys, ages four to ten, in a “community” consisting of perhaps fifteen home-like buildings housing boys and girls, ages four to eighteen, who were mostly children removed from homes for neglect and abuse but whose families were unwilling to put them up for adoption or into other foster care. Though the institution termed these children as “emotionally-disturbed,” they provided no counseling or mental health care whatsoever, except, of course, for the psychiatrists who prescribed medications to keep the children “obedient” and “stable.” When the boys attained the age of eighteen, they were turned out into the world by being given the choice of joining the US Army or Navy. The children lived on site and also attended a grade school on site, though I am unsure about whether or not there was a high school on site.

          “My kids,” mostly from Harlem, had been removed from homes due to severe drug use and violence by parents, which also included neglect; in once case, their baby brother had starved to death in the same bed with them. Some of the children from other places had parents who had died and either no family to care for them or family that was fighting over custody, in the case of one brother and sister, very well-educated, and used to having servants take care of them. All the children, having had severe trauma in their lives, could fit into a category of being “emotionally-disturbed,” often with violent episodes of PTSD. They sometimes behaved quite viciously as if they were little feral creatures. But they were not “disabled” physically, were verbal and could be “age appropriate” in their social responsiveness and behavior, while also easily be pushed or provoked to aggression, including aggression towards adults.

          The institution had weekly meetings attended by administrator, a social worker, a psychiatrist, the “child care workers” (houseparents), and anyone else they deemed necessary. At this particular meeting, which occurred when I had just begun my job, there was also a school teacher from the on-site school that the children attended. She was fresh out of college (as I was too) and quite inexperienced in teaching children who were to be considered “abnormal” for many reasons, including trauma, death of a parent or sibling, physical abuse, neglect, and absolute lack of formal education. The teacher was white and very soft-spoken—not authoritative whatsoever. I note that she was white because most of these little boys were African-American and had never dealt with a white woman as their teacher. She was in tears because the children were utterly “disobedient, disruptive, and disrespectful.” She couldn’t even get them to sit down, much less listen to anything she had to say. When I started caring for them, I found them to be so distracted and restless that I had to use a much louder voice and also “bribe” them with food they liked to get them to behave and be manageable. I suggested as much to the teacher but she just didn’t feel confident enough to believe it could work. I have to wonder if she was even being paid, and that this was some kind of “apprenticeship” for the acquisition of “teaching credits” on her part.

          Everyone at the meeting, except for me and the other houseparent, at the suggestion of the psychiatrist and administrator, decided that all the children should be “put on Ritalin immediately,” since this would allow the teacher to assert some authority and establish adequate control in the classroom. They said they would “revisit” the medication for the children once they “settled down.” That same night I was provided with the Ritalin and told to give a dose to each child before school the next day. I hadn’t even heart of Ritalin and what it was for, so I thought it might help the situation and gave it to each boy the next morning. When they got home from school that day, they were like little zombies and immediately went to bed and didn’t wake up until I woke them up the next morning. I knew this was bad and that I was not going to give them any more Ritalin. I was expected to give them Ritalin daily. At this point I knew that the boys and I would have to “make a deal” to save them from zombietime.

          The next day was a Friday, a school day. After getting them up, I told them all that I would let them stay up to watch Creature Features on Friday night, would get them pizza, make them ice cream sundaes, give them hot dogs anytime from now on if they would simply keep the secret and behave well in school and be nice to the teacher. “But she’s a honky lady (indicating, I surmise, their dislike of white, young, women social workers from the Department of Social Services),” they complained, to which I said, “Well, if you want Creature Features (which was past their bedtime), pizza, ice cream sundaes, hot dogs, and other good stuff, being nice and obedient to the white teacher isn’t such a big deal, is it?” So we made the deal and I dumped the Ritalin in the toilet—every day for the next almost two years.

          The following week, at the next staff meeting, the young teacher attended, this time with tears of gratefulness, at the “profound expertise” of the psychiatrist and administration, who soundly patted themselves on the back at that meeting, and at every single meeting for the next almost two years. Once or twice, soon after this meeting, I brought up the idea of “revisiting” the continuing necessity for the medication and was told not to “rock the boat,” since “what is working is working.” It was approximately twenty-two months later, as, once again, the psychiatrist and the administrator were crediting themselves for “having done such a fine job” in medicating the children so as to produce such “consistently excellent behavior,” I said, “In truth, the kids immediately attained all that excellent behavior on their own with only a kind suggestion on my part and their overwhelming desire to show respect to their teacher and, of course, to me.” They all stopped congratulating themselves and stared at me in utter silence. “And just what do you mean when you say ‘on their own’?” I said, “After the first day, when they returned home like little zombies, I dumped the Ritalin in the toilet, and they promised me they would behave well, which they have—for the last almost two years. They just decided, as a group, to behave, and knew nothing about the Ritalin they were supposed to be taking.” By the next moment, everyone, except the other houseparent, whose cooperation I had also engaged (but who was not suspect because I took full credit for dumping the med), was in an absolute rage, screaming at me that they would call the police and have me arrested for “endangering the children.” My response: “You’re the ones who endangered the children. Obviously, the results speak for themselves. And I would love to tell this story to the Poughkeepsie News. So go ahead and arrest me.” I was fired immediately and told to leave on the spot. 

There are lots of other stories within this one. I'll share one. The boys had to attend a music class with old Mrs. Parks, who made them sing a song when they got to class, which went like this: "Hello Mrs. Parks, Mrs. Parks, Mrs. Parks. Hello Mrs. Parks, how are you today?" The three older boys refused to sing. It may have been one more racial thing and they may have simply felt humiliated having to sing such a silly "honky" song. And so Mrs. Park's smile cracked and she sent them to the Principal's Office, who then sent them home to me, telling me to "deal with them." When they sang the syrupy sweet song to me, I understood their dilemma, even with the promise they had made to me. So I started thinking about what we might do to alleviate the situation. I had a solution but it had to be their solution and they had to arrive at it. So I suggested that they find way to sing the song perhaps with more "suitable" words. I started singing it very slowly with them. Very slowly, after mentioning that they could use words that rhyme with the words in the song. Very quickly, on their own, they were singing, with big smiles on their faces, "Hello Mrs. Farts, Mrs. Farts, Mrs. Farts. Hello Mrs. Farts. How are you today?" The very next day, I received a call from Mrs. Parks in which she praised the boys and praised me for "talking some sense into their heads." And I noticed that Mrs. Parks was also a little hard of hearing. "Praise Jesus," I thought.

Since we're on the subject, one of my other favorite bumperstickers: BEJESUS LOVES ME!