To add to his problems, a few months earlier we were on our way back from Missouri when Nathan tripped on a motel carpet and knocked himself out. He crashed down so hard that one of his teeth fell out. He was rushed to the hospital by ambulance and treated for a concussion. But the effects were lasting. He was suffering memory lapses, and the teachers said he was no longer reading properly. At the request of the school, he was placed in a special-education class, and he was diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Now, bearing in mind that Marshall’s doctors wanted him institutionalized after DeAngelo Bailey had attacked him, I was overprotective with Nathan. I’d almost lost one son, so I watched Nathan like a hawk. After the O. J. Simpson beating, I took him to our doctor, who gave me a note to keep Nathan home until he recovered.
Nathan begged me not to send him back to that school. I agreed. Saint Clair Shores was now really rough. I wanted to get him out of the education district. I found a cute little place to buy in Casco Township and rented a temporary apartment nearby while I waited for the mortgage to come through. I told Marshall that he, Kim, and Hailie could have the Saint Clair Shores place as long as they promised to pay the bills. They moved in once the drama with Nathan’s school was over.
Then Nathan’s school accused me of truancy. I was given a court date in January, only to have it postponed the three times I went to court. The judge advised me to return with a lawyer. In the meantime a social worker knocked on my door. I had called protective services’ attention to the abuse I felt Nathan was experiencing from kids at his school, but it fell back on me when the kids refused to admit to hurting my son. At first I was relieved to see her, though later I would come to regret that feeling. She checked over the house, noting that it was clean and full of food. It didn’t matter that I had a doctor’s note for Nathan; the school wanted him back in class.
I decided maybe we needed to move out of the state. I sent Nate ahead to Missouri, and got my sister Tanya to enroll him in school there while I waited in Michigan for the truancy hearing in January. Sadly, my case kept being adjourned, and I would have to go and pick up my son.
I spoke to Nathan four times a day, and he begged me to come home. He’d never even gone to sleepovers at friends’ houses, let alone been parted from me for weeks on end. So I drove back to Missouri to collect him. My family refused to let him leave, so I called the police. It wasn’t a big deal, just par for the course with my family. After a cursory check, the officers let Nathan and me go on our way.
We arrived home in the early hours of the morning and barely had a chance to unpack before it was time for him to go to school. It was just after his birthday and he really didn’t want to go, but I said he’d soon make new friends.
After I’d dropped him off, I had a weird feeling that something was wrong, so I called just to double-check. I used the excuse of asking if he had his lunch money. The phone was passed to a child-protective services official, the same one who had visited our house. She told me that Nathan had been taken into state custody and that I had to be in court in thirty minutes. They even sent a policeman to my house to make sure I went.
Once at court, I met a longtime friend of mine, Pat, and her son there, and the officials allowed her into the room with me. It was packed with people. Some were squashed around a big circular table, while others lined the walls.
I kept asking, “Where’s my son?” But the court official ordered me to be quiet.
As the charges were read out I wanted to scream. I was accused of keeping Nathan away from school; of striking him with a belt or hairbrush; and of chasing him out of the house for listening to rap music.
I’d never raised a finger to Nathan, and he grew up listening to Marshall’s rap music. In shock, I stated that the charges were all lies. Again, I was told to shut up.
Then came the oddest charge: I was suffering from Munchausen by proxy. I looked at Betsy Mellos, my lawyer, to see if she knew what that was. She shrugged. I’m tiny, and so was Nathan’s father. I guess I was thinking of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz—that our genes had also made Nathan small for his age at the time. It had to be some form of dwarfism, I thought.
The case was adjourned. I begged that I wanted to be with my son, but the case workers refused to tell me where he was. I was only told that I was to go next door and sign some papers in case Nathan ever needed medical treatment while away from me. I wondered at how bizarre this situation was.
Betsy and I sat in her office for hours going through the paperwork, trying to decide what to do next. We also looked up Munchausen by proxy. It did not make for pleasant reading. Munchausen syndrome itself is a psychological disorder. Sufferers deliberately harm themselves for attention. Munchausen by proxy is rare and far more serious. It is one of the most harmful forms of child abuse. Sufferers are usually female and have probably been abused themselves as kids.
I shook as I read the diagnosis. It said that the mainly female sufferers exaggerated, fabricated, and even induced illnesses in their children, often fooling doctors into carrying out unnecessary tests and surgeries on the child. There were instances of mothers scrubbing a child with cleaning fluids to create rashes, or deliberately reopening wounds so they would not heal. It was said that sufferers wanted attention from doctors.
A British doctor, Sir Richard Asher, father of the actress Jane, named the self-harming disease in 1951, after the seventeenth-century pathological liar, Baron von Munchausen. In 1977 the British pediatrician Sir Roy Meadow added the words “by proxy” to include parents who hurt—and even killed—their children.
“I’ve never hurt a child,” I sobbed to Betsy. “The school’s just saying this because they’ve been abusing Nathan.” Betsy was so sweet and supportive. She had twins herself and knew I would never hurt my son.
I knew the Munchausen by proxy charge was a trumped-up one—an easy way of taking Nathan away into foster care—but I had to prove it.
After I left the court building, I went into the youth home to sign the papers. As I started to sign, I ripped through the paperwork when making a large X on it; I was screaming for Nathan. The staff refused to let me see him. I ran out of there in shock. My friend Pat, who’d been with me throughout the day, and her son yanked me into their car.
Pat had just lost her husband. In the courtroom, as the charges were being read, she had said, “I thought my husband dying after fifty years of marriage was bad, but it’s nothing compared with this.” She was told to keep quiet.
On the way back I couldn’t even talk, I was sobbing so hard. Back at the house, it was even worse. Nathan’s bike was propped up in the kitchen. His toys were on the floor. I could only imagine what he was going through. He’d be trying to sleep in some stranger’s house or the jail-like youth home. I couldn’t even phone him. I had no idea where he was. Questions kept filling my head: was he really at a youth home? Did he know I was trying to help him? Dear God, how could they do this to me and my son? I thought I was on the verge of a breakdown. I hoped and prayed for my son to come home. So did he.
The next month went past in a blur. I continued working, studying at pharmacy-tech school, and looking after Hailie whenever I could. She was blossoming into a beautiful little girl, but my heart ached for Nathan. Finally, it was agreed I could have a supervised visit at a youth home.
It was freezing cold, but Nathan was dressed in short-sleeved pajamas. I’d been warned I couldn’t hug him, but I reached out to touch his arm. A social worker shouted at me. He was blue with cold. I couldn’t stop crying. Nathan begged me over and over to take him home. It was heartbreaking. I had to explain to him that the authorities wouldn’t even tell me where he was living.
A few days later, I received a letter saying I could not see Nathan again. Betsy and I fought for two weeks until I was allowed another supervised visit. It wasn’t any easier, but at least I saw him.
For the next four months, I was allowed to visit every other week, then on
ce a week, and finally I was allowed to see him alone. We sat in a little cubicle, surrounded by other parents and kids in identical cubicles. Several social workers stood nearby, listening to everything we said. They hovered menacingly every time Nathan tried to tell me about his foster parents being cruel to him. He drew pictures of himself and wrote the word help in speech bubbles. I knew I had to get him away from foster care, whatever it took.
Nathan’s father was asked if he wanted to see his son. I ran into him in the parking lot and he asked me if I’d sever his rights to Nathan. I couldn’t believe it. How dare he say that? I would have run him over if I could have gotten away with it. I told him no, and to leave us alone. I asked the assigned social worker to please allow Marshall to see Nathan in place of Nate’s dad. She talked to Marshall and finally agreed.
So Marshall was allowed visits. Now he was almost twenty-four and a father himself. He was busy, but felt obliged to spend time with his little brother.
I had a hunch: I’d read somewhere that Native American children weren’t allowed to be taken into foster care. They had to go to extended-family members. Through my father’s family, I was part Cherokee. I’d grown up hearing stories from Nan about our famous ancestor Betsy Webb on the Trail of Tears. I went to the library and also made several phone calls to investigate further. Sure enough, I found the proof I needed.
The Indian Child Welfare Act of 1978 was designed to stop Native American families from being broken up and children adopted by non-Indians. The law decreed that if a child was a tribe member or eligible for membership, he or she could not just be taken away into foster care. The child had to be placed with relatives or tribe leaders.
The protective-services people were indignant. Nathan has dark eyes and an olive complexion, but I’m fair with blue eyes.
“Oh, bullshit, you’re no American Indian,” one case worker said. I just smiled.
With Nan’s help I tracked our history back to the Echota Tribe of Alabama. Then I called the tribe. They couldn’t have been more helpful. We did lots of research and, sure enough, we were eligible. Nathan and I were issued with tribal membership cards. Marshall said he didn’t want one—he preferred to hang onto his Scottish heritage. He also believed he was part Irish, because my half-sister Betti Renee’s father, Ron Gilpin, was. It didn’t matter how many times I told him that wasn’t the case; he insisted on celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day.
I was fascinated by the history of the Echota Cherokee. They’d lived peacefully alongside the first English settlers, but by the end of the seventeenth century had been forced into war over land. In 1838, during federal removal, they’d been ordered to join the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma. But a handful managed to remain, living secretly, denying their heritage. In the 1910 U.S. census, just nine Cherokees were listed as living in Alabama; today there are twenty-two thousand. The tribe was not officially recognized until 1980, and then only in state but not federal law. The name Echota was chosen because the word means sanctuary. It was something the tribe now offered Nathan and me. If the court wouldn’t let me have Nathan back, the tribe would take Nathan. We had a safe haven; all we had to do now was prove it in court. And thank God that the American Indian Association and Faye Gibbons encouraged me to fight on.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marshall and I agreed that Christmas 1996 was the lowest point for our family. Nathan was still in foster care, and I was trying desperately to get him back. Kim and Marshall stayed at my house in Saint Clair Shores, while I moved to the new place in Casco Township, where there were better schools for Nathan. My lawyer suggested I stay away from Marshall; otherwise he too could lose his visitation rights to Nathan. We weren’t to speak to each other, even when he brought Nate to the house in Saint Clair Shores the couple of times they allowed Nate to stay overnight there.
I remember going by there just to watch through the front window as Nate sat on the floor playing with Hailie. My heart was broken. I felt I should be in there with them. Marshall once caught me and told me I had to leave, or he’d lose his visits with Nathan. I was shattered. I cried all the way home.
Then Marshall lost his job at Gilbert’s Lodge, and his debut solo album, Infinite flopped. He reckoned he’d sold maybe 500 copies, and the only mentions he got on local radio were mocking. The disc jockeys said he was a phony just like Vanilla Ice. They even laughed at him for thanking Kim and me for our support.
I loved Infinite and felt so proud of Marshall. He’d written about his struggles to support Hailie, his feelings for Kim, and his rap battles at the Hip-Hop Shop, where he now had a regular Saturday night gig.
He got one positive review. Underground Soundz noted, “His mastery of the English language allows him to write coherent stories, not just freestyle ramblings that happen to rhyme.”
I tried to cheer him up, saying he’d proved his teachers wrong when they’d given him C grades in English. But Marshall just shook his head in despair. One of the tracks, “Searchin’,’’ got occasional airplay in Detroit, but he knew it wasn’t enough to gain national attention. He kept on writing, but he no longer showed me his lyrics.
Marshall was subpoenaed by the State of Michigan to testify against me. He had no choice in the matter but was deeply unhappy about it.
The trial date was set for April 15. I was charged with neglect and abuse of Nathan. My lawyers, Betsy Mellos and Mike Friedman; were working with the Macomb County prosecutors on a possible plea bargain, but I wanted a jury trial. I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. Almost a 150 people, including medical experts for both sides, had been called to give evidence. I had seen three psychiatrists, enrolled in good-parenting classes, and enlisted the help of our local media. The headline in the Macomb Daily on the day of the trial read, MOTHER ACCUSED OF HARMING HER CHILD FOR SYMPATHY. It went on to explain Munchausen syndrome by proxy.
Marshall was one of the first witnesses to take the stand for the prosecution. The court officials sniggered at his big baggy pants. They pulled faces behind his back.
The state lawyers asked him about our house in Saint Clair Shores, where he was still living with Kim. They hadn’t paid the bills, and the house was being foreclosed. The lawyers tried to make Marshall look like an ass because he didn’t understand the difference between cancelled checks, which had been paid, and duplicate ones, which were merely copies.
Then he tried to explain how he thought Nathan might have drunk from a baby bottle until he was six or seven. The lawyer asked, “So did he take it to school with him?” Many people chuckled as Marshall said “No.” He pointed out that Nathan had always been fed proper food.
When asked if I was a good or bad mother, Marshall didn’t hesitate in answering, “She’s a good mom.”
He also said I’d never hurt Nathan, that I had never done anything wrong beyond maybe striking Nate on his rear end once when he was a five-year-old. For a witness called by the opposition, he’d done a great job for my defense.
They also asked him, “Do you love your mother?” He did not reply.
Other witnesses were called. The school claimed I’d taken Nathan to nine or ten different doctors. I could prove otherwise. Our lovely longtime family general practitioner, Dr. Sal, said that wasn’t the case. When asked what sort of a mother I was, he made me—and the judge—smile when he referred to June Cleaver, the perfect mom in the popular TV series Leave It to Beaver.
“She may not be June Cleaver,” he said. “but she’s awfully damn close.”
Nathan had been to the doctor eight times in nine years. I worried that the judge would say that wasn’t enough. Also, in the sixteen months he’d been in foster care, he’d had numerous accidents and needed medical treatment after breaking several fingers and hurting his collarbone. He’d also been badly hurt when someone hit him in the eye with a golf club.
Three days into the trial, the case abruptly stopped. My lawyers and the prosecution had reached a plea bargain. If I agreed to cooperate fully with social workers visiting o
ur house, take parenting classes, and give an assurance that Nathan would go to school, I could have him back. Nathan begged me to agree, and of course I said yes.
We still had to wait a few more weeks before Nathan was finally allowed home. He had to finish school first. I organized a big welcome-back party, decking out the house with balloons and ribbons. All the neighbors and their children came along. The local newspaper took a beautiful photo of us being reunited.
I’d worked very closely with the American Indian Association. One of the staff, Faye Gibbons, had become a friend. She always remarked on my fighting sprit.
“You’re not a survivor: you’re an overachiever,” she said. “Even that’s an understatement. If there were four of you, you’d be running the country.”
I told her I was going to fight on, using the Indian Child Welfare Act to make sure no other Native American would be removed from a family member. She encouraged me totally and was as delighted as I was when Michigan’s Children’s Ombudsman ruled that Macomb County hadn’t complied with state law or Family Independence Agency policy when they removed Nathan. The letter said that the FIA was now working with tribal members to revise and update their policies. I’d set a precedent; I knew it would help countless families in the future.
Meanwhile, Marshall was going through another off-episode with Kim. He moved in with us—Nan was living with us too. Marshall was allowed to have Hailie stay sometimes for days at a time. I was thrilled. Hailie was such a bright little thing. Every evening after she’d brushed her hair, she’d spin around in a nightdress in front of the mirror and ask, “Am I beautiful?” We’d all chorus back that she was. I nicknamed her Fuss Bucket; she called me Mama.
“Don’t ever let Kim hear her call you Mama,” Marshall warned. I agreed. Kim still flitted in and out of our lives, creating havoc.
My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem: Setting the Record Straight on My Life as Eminem's Mother Page 9