In first grade, Dylan was fortunate to have a teacher who worked with his “high spirits.” Her classroom didn’t have rows of chairs. Instead, there were work and play stations, with micro-environments for artwork, storytelling, numbers, writing, and music. Often, children worked together at one table. When she found that Dylan often got distracted from his task by being overinvolved with other kids, she separated him for a while so that he could do the work on his own. Then, she’d allow him to rejoin the group when he had finished. At a parent/teacher meeting in the middle of the school year, I remember her telling us that she was encouraging Dylan to focus on his work, even when he was with a group, so that he wouldn’t have to be separated. Eventually, towards spring, she reported that he was able to do this, and we were reassured. Meanwhile, he was learning well; his worksheets and drawings came home with high praise. But I doubt we fully appreciated at the time all the skill this teacher deployed to bring our wayward son into the fold.
In second grade, things were different. By this time, we had moved into town, and Dylan entered the city elementary school. It had a great reputation, but the classroom atmosphere was not as easygoing. His teacher, Ms. Scoffield, with twenty years of experience under her belt and structured expectations, found that Dylan was a bit over the top, a bit hyper—yes, we did know that already. In her classroom, that meant he frequently forgot to raise his hand before speaking; he jumped out of his seat to talk or, being irrationally exuberant, didn’t stay in his seat because he wanted to move around instead. Worse yet, he sometimes failed to turn his work in on time. She recognized he had some abilities but was not pleased with his lack of self-control. Yes, lack of self-control—that was the crux of it. He could be a tough kid to keep on track. The list of his infractions became longer as the year progressed. His weekly star sheets came home with frowny faces marked in red, even though the quality of his work was still high. I found a note Mike had written one day when the dreaded star sheet came home one Friday. Dylan had turned from smiles to tears when Dad asked for the folder he’d brought home, saying he felt “he couldn’t be good.” He knew there would be more frowns on the page, more infractions to account for. The problems were behavioral, the teacher emphasized. She thought he probably had ADHD, and had we ever thought of having him checked out by a psychologist for that? Maybe he could take Ritalin to stay calmer.
Mike and I discussed this, but we weren’t too eager to have our child take a medication all the time, especially if it wasn’t easy to determine whether he actually had a condition like ADHD or not. We knew this was a huge topic in the magazines of the time; it made the headlines. Lots of boys, in particular, were diagnosed, and many were taking the medication. We were dubious about all this—it seemed more like a fad than something to be worried about. And even if he DID have something like ADHD, weren’t there other, less medicated ways to deal with the situation? By then, we had found that keeping Dylan on a regular schedule of waking and sleeping, letting him get lots of outdoor exercise so he could blow off steam, and keeping him away from too much stimulation could keep him on a more even keel.
As proof of that, we’d noticed how having the grandparents visit and take charge with loads of new toys and constant fun attention would have a high impact on all of us after they left. Instead of making Dylan happier, he’d be driven over the edge of his energy level, not to mention his expectation level. It was hard when we tried to explain this to my doting parents. “Look, we need to keep him calm, within bounds. He just needs a few things, not a lot. There’s too much of a contrast after he comes back home and has to follow the rules again.” They didn’t get it; it was their civil right to spoil their grandson, they said. We parents were being too severe and should lighten up.
Instead of Ritalin, Mike and I decided to seek out a counselor. We were less worried about Dylan’s behavior at school than we were about blow-ups at home with us. That’s where the real frustrations were coming out, especially after a long day of Dylan trying to meet classroom expectations, or conversely, being with doting grandparents who granted his every wish. Mike asked around and found Kevin Oakland, who worked well with children. He was easygoing, had a good rapport with kids, gave us advice, and talked with Dylan. As the year went on, the blow-ups became less frequent. Despite the second-grade teacher’s comments, our perception was that our son was actually doing better now, not worse. From what she said, though, it was clear that the expectations were getting higher for what he was supposed to be able to do. And the penalties for lacking self-management skills would only get stiffer down the road, she warned us. We were determined to work through the difficulties as best we could. We just wished the teacher would ease up a little and see the glass half-full like we did. But one truth we found out as parents is this: by the time you learn how to handle your child in one phase, they’ve moved into a new one, and you have to figure things out all over again.
CHAPTER 7: CIRCUIT BREAKERS
By late August, John had gone back to his own home and responsibilities across the state. Dylan was glad about the prospect of a diversion to avoid being sentenced for charges. It’s just that he didn’t want to do this here in town where he’d been living the past year. Instead, he wanted his possible diversion transferred to Cincinnati, where he would follow court orders, take substance abuse–recovery classes, and resume his college work. According to him, the defender didn’t say that this was impossible; she listened and took this alternative seriously. Not so the family. To us, Dylan’s going back to Cincinnati could only spell trouble. Drug Court in town sounded like a far better option: easier to get around without a car, easier to keep appointments and go to AA meetings. More family support, too—fewer dubious pals like Keith Birchen. Eventually, he could re-enroll for classes at the college.
Dylan didn’t agree at all. Not to mention, he had other advisors. Over the phone, he told me that a couple of guys sharing the same cell had told him that Drug Court was really strict: endless drug tests, rules, meetings to attend. One had even been in it once, then got kicked out.
“They tell me it’s extremely unlikely that I’d make it through,” he told me. “They say as soon as you mess up even slightly, you’re out.”
I wondered about that.
“Well, maybe that means it’s a good program with high standards,” I said. Dylan didn’t see it that way.
Classes were starting up again, so I had a lot on my mind. One Saturday morning, while drinking my coffee, I flipped ruefully through the collected mail I hadn’t gotten to yet, some of it forwarded for Dylan with ominous addresses like Kentucky Motor Vehicles, Progressive Auto Insurance, etc. All bad news, I was sure. Lately John and I had had long, drawn-out discussions about Dylan and all the unexpected expenses I’d been incurring. There would be many more, too. With the second DUI, there would be court fees and fines, the cost of substance-abuse counseling sessions, and more jail time, which would also be charged to Dylan (read, “to the family”), since he hadn’t been sentenced yet.
John told me, “Fine. Tally up what Dylan owes. You don’t pay it; he does. I’ve heard in Traffic Court how the judge asks the defendants about a payment scheme, usually $100 a month. If they can’t handle that, the defendant can ask for something different, but that’s the going rate.”
“Yes, I should have had Dylan pay at least half of his first fine last fall,” I admitted.
John knew I tended to make excuses for my son. I’d say things like “He’s a student; he doesn’t have enough money.” Or, “With his mental health issues, I’m afraid to put too much pressure on him.”
“No, he should have paid for ALL of it,” John said. “Next time in court, I’m going to put duct tape over your mouth so you can’t say you’re going to help with fines.”
I made a face but realized the truth of what he said. I did help—too much—the first time around. I’ve always been on the side of wanting to smooth things out, not increase the load on an easily stressed-out person. But then, what had he
learned about managing money, despite all the parental lessons? What would he ever learn if I kept paying like I had?
This morning, however, one of the envelopes attracted my attention enough to open it; it was from the college. Inside, a monetary miracle awaited me. I liked the blue tint and wavy lines imbedded in the paper: the refund check for fall tuition. I was amazed and thankful it had been processed so quickly—thanks to the registrar who responded to my plea. Still, I had to shake my head. Once again, John was right; there was no way Dylan was going to get out of his legal difficulties in time to resume coursework at the college for fall semester. John had thought I was crazy to pay any tuition money this summer, even though Dylan had been tentatively scheduled for classes since last spring. My hopes had gone up after all that talk about a diversion and Drug Court, but now they were down again. All was uncertain.
At that moment, the phone rang; it was John. I confessed to him my avoidance mechanisms coming out—all that unopened bad news set aside—then … hurrah! The good news of the refund check.
“Hope you have a reality check in there, too,” he said.
“Yeah, I need one of those at least twice a day,” I laughed. All too soon, I realized I had only ten more minutes to get ready and out the door because it was visitation day. There was business to discuss at the jail.
For one thing, I needed to have Dylan sign the check over to me, because even though I’d paid, the tuition refund was made out to him. However, the correctional officer on duty in the lobby informed me that if any money came for Dylan in the form of a check, the jail would take half of it for his expenses. Well, at least he warned me. I decided to wait until a court date; I could pass the check in a folder to the public defender for Dylan to sign then, and Ms. Pulaski would return it to me. I wondered what state Dylan would be in today, if he would open up and talk or be in a funk. It didn’t matter; I had to be there. I had to be the steady lighthouse.
As it turned out, Dylan was talkative. He nodded as I passed by the booth window. Taking a seat, I picked up the phone receiver. First, I commented on his new buzz haircut and asked how he was doing. He let me know: he was hungry and would like to be able to buy more food at the commissary. According to him, the meals were really small in there, like what a kid would eat at elementary school lunch. He’d had money earlier in his wallet but that was long gone. Out of the $20 I’d paid to commissary each week, only $10 remained for anything he wanted to buy: cans of tuna, peanut butter, shampoo, toothpaste. Can you believe this jail siphons off 50% of every bit of money family or loved ones pay into commissary? And most family paying for this are not people with plump bank accounts or loose cash lying around. In jail, the corporate kiosk selling peanut butter charges $4.50—at least $2 more than at a supermarket—so $10 doesn’t go far at all.
I asked him if his meds were still holding out; didn’t he have to get them renewed?
“No, I’m doing OK. I don’t want to take them while I’m in here,” he said.
“Why not? Don’t they help?”
“I don’t like the way they make me feel,” he said. “As if I’m more detached from my emotions, as if I’m detached from the world. That’s not me.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d said this.
“Well, keep an eye on how things go,” I said. He knew I didn’t like this at all, but he was in one of his brash bulldozer periods. He wouldn’t be listening to me about meds. He would just say I didn’t understand, and that would be that.
“Hey, Mom, I’m going to need some new clothes. The sweatpants and shirt you bought last time shrunk a size in the wash. A buddy loaned me this one,” he said, pointing to the roomy gray sweatshirt he was wearing. “Please get me pants and a sweatshirt, the XL size, so it’ll fit like this.”
I realized how cold it must be in there. On the visitor side of the glass, I was wearing light summer clothing, as were all the parents, wives, girlfriends, and little kids around me. The gray guys on the other side were wearing several layers of clothes, as if it were Siberian winter. I assured him I’d find some and bring them over. Suddenly, a new topic came up.
“Someone named Darlene Winchester from Drug Court came to see me,” Dylan said. I waited expectantly for Dylan’s reaction. Apparently, she’d come to talk the day before, Friday.
“Yeah, Drug Court is probably my best bet. It’s not what I want, but I can do the program and take courses at the same time. I can finish in two years probably; that’s what she said. Still, that’s a long time to be stuck in one place.”
I listened, gave him space, hoping he would see the advantages. I felt glad to have this new ally on the diversion front.
Ms. Winchester said that addictions have family histories, so as a member of Drug Court, he’d have to find a place to live on his own, detach himself somewhat from his parents. This resonated with Dylan. She stressed that he would have to be accountable to the group for himself.
“That’s what I want,” he said. “To be independent.”
I nodded, pushing back the memory of having heard this before many times.
“If you’re rich, you can go to one of those spa-like treatment centers to get a new lease on life, but me, I’m going to have to take whatever the state offers.”
“Yes, that’s right,” was all I could reply, holding back tears, frustrated by this prince-or-pauper mentality. Why can’t you just be a regular, middle-class guy? Why is that so hard?
He knew the special advantage of Drug Court: it could help release him from the felony charges—that is, if he could complete the program and then continue to do well later on. Darlene Winchester must have presented the case in the way most likely to grab his attention now. According to Dylan, she spelled out in detail how much more difficult your life can be with a felony charge: it’s harder to find a job once you have to check that box asking, “Have you been convicted of a felony?” And it’s harder to find housing, too, since many apartment applications have a similar box to mark. Having a felony charge scares people. Then, too, in today’s internet world, it’s so easy to do a background check on someone and find out exactly this type of information. Your computer can automatically pop them right up for you, like bread out of a toaster. As a felon in our state in the year 2011, you’d also lose your right to vote, to bear arms, and to travel abroad because you wouldn’t be issued a passport.
“Ms. Winchester said I could be a half-citizen the rest of my life, if I don’t watch out. She said taking charge of my recovery in Drug Court would help me avoid that.”
“Yes,” I nodded. “Hope you’ll be able to sign on.”
For a moment, I could imagine the director leaning in to speak to twenty-three-year-old Dylan with her steady gaze: “I have to tell you, having a felony on your record severely limits your options.”
But soon I heard a rustle around me as people started packing up and saying their goodbyes. The guard motioned everyone away from the booth windows. Our half hour had slipped by. Jumping up, Dylan pointed to his sweatpants. “Please, Mom, big like these,” he said into the phone. “And don’t forget the commissary.”
That was my next stop. Along with other family members pushing cash in envelopes, I put in $40 dollars this week; with the jail taking half, that meant he’d get $20 for extras—like tuna and peanut butter. “Prison is a business,” Tupac said, and that was over twenty years ago. Commissary, clothes, phone time—all cost money. Not to mention the myriad court fees, medical expenses for nurse visits, pharmaceuticals. Most jail products and services were outsourced, too, so that meant there could be an extra layer of fees you’d be forced to pay on top if you couldn’t pay cash. This system made it easier for the jails, but not for families.
And now I’ve learned for sure it’s mostly family members who literally pay for crimes, not the inmates, because inmates don’t work for actual wages. Why the hell not? It seems to me that allowing inmates to work, earn, learn, and manage their own funds would do them all—and us—a world of good. Let’s
just say, most incarcerated folks have a ways to go in the personal-responsibility department before they can manage well on the outside. Apparently, citizens and elected officials haven’t seen the light on that yet. But here’s the truth: while buying stuff is a necessity for all, working at a job to earn wages is rapidly becoming a privilege for the few. And whereas in the Old Testament the sins of the father can be visited on the son, in today’s American jail economy, good ol’ Mom can pay out the wazoo for the sins of her son.
By my next talk with Dylan, the winds had shifted. He stated he was not necessarily leaning in the direction of Drug Court. He hadn’t decided against it yet, but he was at the moment not inclined to take that option.
“Well, what else will you do?” I questioned, trying to control my exasperation.
He mentioned a six-month treatment program in nearby Parksville, after which he could be released on probation. What he really didn’t like about DC is that it would keep him dependent on family the whole time—that, and the 10:00 p.m. curfew. Then, too, he couldn’t take a trip anywhere else, except maybe to Cleveland in northern Ohio for a few days at Christmas to visit his dad. He would essentially have to give up his freedom and be here for two whole years, an eternity.
“Well, it’s better than being locked up during that time,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but there must be other options. You know, I don’t have access to the internet in here, so I can’t look up anything for myself. I have to rely on what I hear from other guys with me, which is limited. Or I have to rely on you and my dad to find things out. What I need, Mom, is more information about other state-run programs I would be eligible for.” He asked me to look some up, ones he’d heard about.
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