by Wayne, Jimmy
On the way I stared out the window, and Officer Hamerick talked. But he spoke about only one subject: Jesus. “You know that Jesus loves you, Jimmy,” he said. The officer didn’t try to ram his faith down my throat, but he knew he had a captive audience, so he shared freely about God’s unconditional love for me. “No matter what we’ve done, He loves us,” Officer Hamerick said. “There’s nothing you have done or ever could do that would keep God from loving you, Jimmy.”
I wasn’t convinced. “If He loved me, I wouldn’t be sitting in your squad car right now,” I replied caustically.
Officer Hamerick drove to the Gaston County Detention Center in Dallas, North Carolina. He helped me out of the car and into the facility. He unfastened the handcuffs, checked me in, and said good-bye.
In complete contrast to Officer Hamerick’s kind professionalism—Officer Hamerick later went on to become a psychotherapist, a clergyman, and a military chaplain—the officer on duty at the detention center was an older man, overweight, and unnecessarily mean. “Get in here, boy,” the officer growled at me. I stepped into the processing area he had indicated.
“How many tattoos and scars do you have, kid?” he asked, as he moved around me, writing notes on a clipboard. He noted the gash on my finger where I’d hit myself with the ax. The cut had gotten infected, and my finger looked awful. The officer scribbled more notes. “Strip,” he said.
I looked at him in confusion.
“Take your clothes off, all of them,” the officer roared.
I hesitated, “Huh?”
“Take your clothes off,” he yelled, “or I’ll take them off for you.”
“I don’t think you will,” I said under my breath.
The officer stood up, looming largely over me, and looked as though he was about to move across the room toward me.
Oh, crap! I said to myself and pulled off my shirt. The officer glared at me as I removed the rest of my clothes. I stood there in front of him, naked and humiliated.
He curled his lip and rubbed his nose, sniffing. “Boy, how long has it been since you’ve taken a bath?”
“Two weeks,” I answered sincerely, thinking he really wanted to know.
“Bend over, spread your cheeks, and squat,” he ordered. This crass, demeaning technique was intended to reveal or loosen any contraband I may have tried to conceal before entering the facility. To me, it simply decimated what little dignity I had remaining.
The officer slowly walked around my naked body. Satisfied that I had nothing to hide, he ordered me to go over and stand in the shower but not to turn it on. I obeyed and tried not to cower as he walked toward me holding a bottle of disinfectant. Without warning, he sprayed it all over my body then poured some other substance, I assumed to be lice-killing shampoo, on my long hair. Once I was lathered up, he turned on a water hose and doused me again from across the room.
I felt like one of those men I had seen in civil rights films being hosed down with fire hoses by police officers. Any resident racism I may have had remaining from my KKK-surrounded childhood went down the drain along with the suds from the disinfectant.
The officer then ordered me to take a shower under the shower heads, and he watched me the entire time. Despite the horrendous humiliation, the hot water felt wonderful on my body.
“That’s enough,” the officer called.
I dried off with a towel he handed me and put on some clean, prison-issued clothes, including a pair of pants, a T-shirt, and a pair of pink socks. Inmates were not allowed to wear shoes inside the facility, so I was issued rubber sandals, similar to shower shoes, instead.
I was then led to the dayroom, where all the other boys were detained till bedtime. These were the bad boys, not the Faith Farm boys. In that room were kids who had killed their parents; others were in for committing rape, and still others had pending drug charges.
I, on the other hand, was a runaway—a small, skinny kid runaway—and I was scared to death.
In the dayroom I sat at a table and ate the peanut butter crackers the detention staff had given me, topped off by a glass of milk. About ten other boys were in there, watching television. I spoke to no one and tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone. I was nervous, but it was warm in the room, and I was thrilled to have the crackers and milk and a television.
At bedtime I was led down the hall to my cell, the last door on the right, and was glad to discover that each boy was housed in a separate cell. The cell was sparse, with nothing but a bed bolted to the floor, a pillow, a wool blanket, and a small pocket Bible lying on the bed. The windows were barred and screened. Oddly enough, once the solid steel door slammed behind me, I felt much safer than I had in the dayroom among the general population.
Periodically throughout the night the officer on duty raised the flap covering the window on the cell door. He looked in, checking to make sure I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, made a few rude, salacious comments, and then let the window flap loudly slap shut, smacking against the door as he walked on to the next cell.
I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. Happy birthday, Jimmy! I said to myself. It was definitely a birthday I would never forget.
Twenty-four
BUMPING INTO ANGELS
AROUND MIDMORNING, OCTOBER 27, 1987, A UNIFORMED detention center staff member came to my cell. “Come with me,” he ordered, and I quickly complied. By that time I was convinced that some of the staff members were angels, and some were devils—and it seemed that the devils had the angels outnumbered. I had been repeatedly cussed out and referred to by every derogatory name I had ever heard and some that I didn’t even know the meaning of. Granted, there were several dangerous characters passing through the detention center on their way to more secure facilities, so I understood why the staff couldn’t be buddies with the boys. But why did they have to demean and denigrate everyone merely to keep order? Why did they purposely attempt to make everyone feel like trash, simply so they could maintain some sort of mental or emotional leverage? Most of the boys in detention weren’t hardened criminals—yet. But if they were moving in that direction, little about the detention experience would stop or prevent them from spiraling downward. There has to be a better way, I thought.
The staff member escorted me to the front office, where I saw Lawrence Spicer sitting in a chair beside his brother-in-law, Maurice Edwards. Was I ever glad to see them! The surprise got better. Lawrence explained that they had come to get me out of the detention center and planned to take me to live with his family until Maurice and his wife, May, could be certified as foster parents. I would then go to live with Maurice, May, and their son, who was close to my age.
I didn’t know the Edwards family, and I had no idea how they arranged these details so quickly, but I was ecstatic and tremendously grateful when we walked out of the detention center and went to Lawrence’s trailer. I stayed with the Spicer family, they enrolled me in school, and we planned for me to eventually move in with Maurice and May.
My hopes soared. The Edwards family lived in a nice house in Chapel Grove, a quiet, suburban neighborhood. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I was finally going to have a real family. Throughout the month, as Maurice and May prepared to become official foster parents, I visited with them in their home, spending lots of time with them and their son.
Imagine my disappointment when I learned that after my few visits with the Edwards family, they decided not to follow through and become foster parents. The official reason given had something to do with Maurice’s health. Whether it had to do with me personally, the family situation, or something within the system, I never knew for sure. But I couldn’t help thinking it must be some defect in me.
I couldn’t blame the family. They didn’t know me; they were simply operating on Lawrence’s recommendation, so their willingness to try taking me in was commendable. Compatibility between foster parents and foster kids, as in any relationship, depends a lot on chemistry; sure, it can be developed, and the Bi
ble says “love covers over a multitude of sins” (1 Peter 4:8), but it helps if you have some things in common. Moreover, you can’t “try on a kid” to see if he will fit with your family, as you might try on a pair of shoes to see if you like them.
That’s why it takes a special person to be a great foster parent, someone who realizes that the child he or she is receiving isn’t perfect and probably is carrying a lot of heavy emotional baggage and bad habits. But that understanding and acceptance are essential if foster parents truly hope to bring any sense of normalcy to the child living with them in their home. The rest is all uphill from there.
Regardless of the reason, on December 7, 1987, my new DSS case worker, Carla Moore, arrived at my friend Phillip Spicer’s grandmother’s house, located across the dirt road from Lawrence and Duty Spicer’s trailer, where Phillip and I had been hanging out and goofing off. I recognized the young case worker and understood the implications of her showing up. My spirits plummeted immediately.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Carla greeted me kindly. “I’ve come to take you back to the receiving home.”
“Hi, Carla,” I answered despondently. I had no beef with her; she was a good person trying to do a difficult job. But seeing her reminded me of everything that was wrong in my life, and depression swept over me. We were standing in the living room, and I told her I needed to use the bathroom before we left.
I was extremely saddened and angered by the news that I had to leave. Maybe something deep inside me hoped that even if I couldn’t live with Maurice and May, at least I could stay with my friend Phillip and his family. I was tired of being tossed from one place to another. I was mad, and I was depressed. More than that, I was done.
When I walked into Mrs. Spicer’s bathroom, I opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the first bottle of pills I saw. I stared into the mirror. Good-bye, Jimmy Wayne Barber. I opened the bottle of pills and swallowed every last one of them. I closed the bottle, placed it back in the cabinet, and returned to the living room. I got in the white DSS vehicle, and Carla drove me back toward the receiving home in Dallas, North Carolina.
I stared out the passenger window and waited to die. We finally arrived at the receiving home, and I began unloading my belongings. I kept thinking to myself, Any minute now, I should pass out, start bleeding out the mouth, or something.
Nothing. Not even a headache.
About that time the Spicers frantically called Carla. “We think Jimmy has taken a bottle of pills!” Carla raced back to the receiving home and found me.
“Jimmy, did you take a bunch of pills when you went to the bathroom at Grandma Spicer’s?”
“Yeah, I did,” I replied, embarrassed that she had found out before I was dead. “But they haven’t seemed to work yet. I feel fine.”
“Oh, Jimmy!” she groaned. “Come on, we need to get you to the hospital right away.”
“Why? I’m okay. Really, I am.”
“Do you know what you took?”
“No . . .”
“Neither do I,” Carla said. “Come on, get in the car.”
Carla raced to the hospital and guided me into the emergency room. Meanwhile, the Spicers gathered up all of Grandma Spicer’s medication bottles and brought them to the hospital. The doctors examined me inside and out.
After a few hours an emergency room doctor returned with his report. “There were a lot of dangerous medications in Mrs. Spicer’s cabinet, Jimmy,” he said with an ominous tone in his voice. “At least ten different pills in that cabinet are lethal in large dosages.” The doctor paused and glanced down at his chart on which he had some notes. “But fortunately for you, and all of us, you grabbed the one bottle filled with antibiotics. The medications you ingested are not lethal.”
“Does that mean I’m going to live?” I asked.
“Yes,” the doctor replied. “You’re going to live. In fact, you’re going to be fine. Since you took a bunch of antibiotics, you’re going to pee an awful lot tonight because we need to flush your system, but you are going to be perfectly well. You were lucky this time. Please, don’t let me see you in here for this reason ever again.”
While Carla and the Spicers were elated that I was going to live, I was furious. God! You’ve got to be kidding me. Why are You doing this? I don’t want to live like this anymore. I hate my life. Please stop this madness.
I was such a loser. I couldn’t even kill myself right.
I LIVED AT THE RECEIVING HOME THROUGHOUT THE MONTH of December, but I told Carla, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to stay here. I don’t want to be here. I’m gonna run. You know that.”
Carla nodded. She understood. “Let me see what I can do, Jimmy.” Carla made some overtures to Patricia, asking her if I could live with her and Steven for a while. “You don’t want your brother living in a home, do you?” Patricia was more than willing to have me close because, although I didn’t know it at the time, her husband had been abusing her and knocking her around.
The DSS found an address for my mother, so it seemed natural that they would approach her, too, letting her know that I needed a place to stay. But although Mama was living only a few miles away, she made no effort to get me out of the receiving home. Finally, after sixteen days, Carla worked out an arrangement with the county and with Patricia and Steven for me to stay with them for a while. Two days before Christmas 1987, Carla picked me up at the receiving home and took me to Patricia and Steven’s trailer in Gastonia. Although it wasn’t the best environment for me, it was better than being illegally on the run.
ALTHOUGH I DIDN’T KNOW IT, CARLA HAD SIGNED ME UP for the Salvation Army Angel Tree, a program that gives Christmas presents to needy children. Before leaving Patricia’s, Carla presented me with a special gift from the Salvation Army. It was a guitar! I was ecstatic. I’d had a toy guitar as a five-year-old, but this guitar actually played. It was small and inexpensive, made of reddish-brown wood, with white keys and a black pick guard. The action was set high, almost like a dobro, and it was almost impossible to accurately tune it, but I didn’t care. It was a guitar, my first guitar!
Carla started to get in her car to leave, but I asked her to wait a few minutes. “I’ll be right back,” I promised. I ran inside the trailer and wrapped a small gift for her. I hurried outside and sheepishly handed it to her.
“You’re probably going to laugh when you open it,” I said.
She did. The look on her face was priceless. She laughed first, and then to my surprise, tears trickled down her face as she thanked me over and over for the gift.
It was a bottle of men’s cologne—used, and only half full—but it was all I had to give her. Carla knew that, and she kindly and appreciatively accepted my gift.
CARLA GENUINELY CARED ABOUT ME, AND IT SHOWED BY the attitude with which she did her job. She worked tirelessly, trying to secure a better living arrangement for me. Although she wasn’t happy to hear it, she believed me when I told her that I would resist any further efforts to place me in another family within the foster system. “Wherever they put me, I’m gonna run,” I told her. I had no clue where I would go or what I would do; I was just tired of being a ward of the state.
Carla could tell I was serious, so rather than wasting time trying to get me placed with another family, she worked to formalize a relationship with Patricia and Steven in which they might be able to receive a few dollars from the Gaston County Department of Social Services for keeping me. For that to happen, Patricia and Steven had to have full custody of me, though, so that’s where Carla directed her efforts—no small challenge, considering that Patricia was only a year older than I was. The program, Aid to Families with Dependent Children, was similar to those found within most state or county foster care systems. The foster parents won’t get rich, but hopefully, they will receive a small amount of money for food and other essentials to help care for the child living with them. Most counties are willing to do this because, in the long run, it is much less expensive than housing, feeding,
and caring for a child in a group home.
On April 6, 1988, the Gaston County DSS vacated my custody indefinitely. That meant I was out of their system—they no longer took any responsibility for me. I was still six months away from turning sixteen, so until then my sister and her husband would be my legal guardians.
But not for long.
Twenty-five
FAMILY AFFAIRS
FROM THE TIME I WAS A LITTLE BOY, VISUAL ART—SKETCHING, drawing with colored pencils, or painting with watercolors—had always been my way of escaping reality. Even when circumstances were horrible, living with Mama and Tim, with noise and nonsense swirling all around me, I often sat at the kitchen table and immersed myself in my artwork. Writing poems was a similar outlet for me. But now, with a guitar, I found another doorway into the artistic world. Although I was an awful guitar player, I enjoyed playing, and the music became a heartfelt means of expressing my inner thoughts and feelings.
My brother-in-law, Steven, was an amateur guitar player, too, but rather than being a point of connection between us, the guitar became a point of contention. I wasn’t good, but I learned everything he knew on guitar within the first week of having my own. That’s not saying much because Steven never excelled past “The House of the Rising Sun” and the introduction to “Smoke on the Water.”
When Steven heard me playing those songs, he walked from the living room into my bedroom and told me to stop strumming the guitar because it was too loud.
Okay, I thought, maybe I’m making too much noise. After all, trailer walls are mighty thin.
I strummed the guitar lightly so Steven wouldn’t hear me, but within minutes he was back in my room. “I told you to cut it out,” he said.
“Sorry,” I answered. “I didn’t mean to bug you.”
When Steven left the room again, I continued practicing but without strumming the guitar; I simply laid my fingers on the strings, forming various chords from songs. Steven must have been listening with supersonic, high-powered antennae or something because he heard even those muted sounds of my fingers on the strings and the occasional squeak of my hand changing chords. Within seconds he was back in my bedroom doorway; he stood there glaring at me angrily.