When I was comfortable with the track, I was soon flying around the oval as if I belonged there. My straight, black hair would have been flowing in the breeze behind my head, if it had been as long as it was when I arrived at Stockwell. I didn't intend to have my hair cut again until it fell long enough to touch my shoulders. I never wanted another haircut like the one I got my second day in Stockwell, when no one asked me if I wanted my hair cut so short. The detention center's barber buzzed my head the same way he did all the inmates, or residents, as the corrections officers called us in front of visitors.
I didn't want to think about Stockwell, but no matter how much I tried to forget it, during that first summer, there were days when I couldn't go an hour without recalling something about my stay there.
It took a long time for me to rid myself of the overwhelming sense of injustice and disbelief that I could be so severely punished when I did nothing wrong. It was also hard to forget the feelings of fear, loneliness, and hopelessness I shared with hundreds of other kids.
***
As far as names used in Stockwell, I could remember very few times that the corrections officers referred to us as residents or even inmates. More often, the COs called us names such as asshole, retard, bastard, dickhead, fuckwad, dipshit, faggot, and shit-for-brains. The list was endless. To be fair, the COs' names for us were no worse than what we called each other at times, and nowhere near as bad as what we called the COs when they couldn't hear us. I only knew of one boy who was stupid enough to call a CO an insulting name to his face, and the kid ended up in the infirmary after having "fallen down the stairs." It didn't matter that his cell was on the first floor and that he never used the stairs.
There were a few of the COs who were fair, followed the rules, and treated us boys well. One of those COs took an interest in me and allowed me to call him Gabby. He speculated that I was equal parts of the same two races as he was, and some nights, during his rounds, he would visit me in my cell to tell me a story about his childhood. He talked about the two sides of his family, and told me how his Mexican father became a U.S. citizen and married a white woman. I enjoyed listening to his stories because they took me away from Stockwell.
I was very cautious when I first met Gabby, but he became the closest thing I had to a friend in Stockwell. When he was on duty, he looked out for me the best he could. He always encouraged me to make good use of my time so that I would be better prepared to face the outside world when I made parole. I only wish that he had been the senior CO, and that he had worked all three shifts each day. I knew I was safe for the eight hours a day when Gabby was on duty, and I lived in fear when he was not there.
As a good parent would, Gabby nagged me constantly about the importance of getting a good education. He deserved much of the credit for the fact that I was on the right grade level when I transferred to public school after my parole. It was state law that all of the boys had to attend the detention center school on site for six hours each weekday, and Gabby urged me to ask the instructors to allow me to work ahead of the class at my own pace. Gabby was right when he told me that many of the boys would hold back their classes because they would rather sleep in school than learn.
The instructors were pleased that I wanted them to challenge me with harder work, and Mr. Klein, my English teacher, gave some of his personal time each week to help me with my grammar, reading, and writing skills. I still had work to do when I left Stockwell, but I was very proud of my improvement. My grammar was much better, but I still had problems when I spoke without thinking. Mr. Klein said that, with time and practice, it would become natural to me.
Gabby explained how the prison's reading program worked, and made sure that I always had books. Stockwell had an agreement with the county library that allowed inmates to order books from an approved list, and he encouraged me to read as many books as I could from the detention center's small library and the county library. After I started using the system, I ordered books often, and by the time I left, I had voluntarily read more than sixty books in addition to the mandatory books for school.
One of the few recreational activities that we had was boxing, and often a boy who had a beef with another inmate would settle the issue with boxing gloves in the ring, providing they had not already beaten the crap out of each other in the pod. Gabby was one of the two COs who taught boxing, and he spent extra time with me. He often sparred with me or had me spar against another boy that he was helping, and eventually I became a decent boxer for my age. I'm not sure that teaching juvenile delinquents how to fight better was a good idea, but Stockwell was full of ironies.
Gabby taught me how to use the weight equipment and advised me on an age appropriate weight-training program. In addition to my running, using weights assured that I had a strong body when I finished my time. Gabby assured me that a sharp mind and a fit body worked well together, and with his encouragement, weight training became so important to me that I felt ill if I missed a single workout.
Gabby enjoyed teaching me, and the subject could be anything. One time when I forgot to place my order with the county library, he gave me the detention center guidebook, which he admitted was nothing but a public relations sham. The book promised all the liberal folks that they could sleep peacefully at night knowing that the staff treated all the juveniles with great care, as children should be. If I hadn't known better, I might have believed that every CO had the best intentions to rehabilitate the young residents they thought of as family. There were parts of the book that made me want to hurl.
One section claimed that we had a licensed dietician with years of food service experience. She was supposed to ensure that all the boys ate a balanced diet of nutritious food each day, but that may have been the most blatant lie in the book. Had it not been for Gabby and Miss Martin supplying me with fresh fruits and nutrition bars loaded with protein, vitamins, and minerals, I wouldn't have been as healthy as I was when I left.
A new boy usually read only the main rules for inmates, as I did at first, but if a boy read the whole book and was stupid enough to believe the garbage, he would have had a reasonable expectation of his CO tucking him into his bunk at night and saying his prayers with him. That would have been comforting even though the bunk was only a two-inch thick, plastic and foam mattress slapped on a concrete pad. It was located three feet away from the open stainless steel toilet where his cellmate, if he had one, often suffered diarrhea from eating spoiled food from the center's filthy kitchen. There was no picture of that scene in the guide.
Some boys had a cellmate and others didn't. It depended on the inmate count in your pod at the time. When I first arrived, I had my own cell, and before we hit one of those crowded periods when another boy would have roomed with me, something happened that resulted in me living alone until I was paroled.
***
Coming to the end of my run on the old track in Harper Park, I was beginning to tire when I noticed a man watching me from the nearest bleachers. He was a white man, tall and tanned. Even with his brown hair turning gray on the sides, I guessed his age to be only in his forties. He appeared to be in good physical condition, and he shifted a football from hand to hand in a way that made me think that he might have been an athlete when he was younger. He was dressed casually in a plaid shirt, jeans, and boots. When I glanced around the park, he was the only adult I saw, and yet he fit well there as if he belonged with the bleachers, the track, and the fields.
As I slowed for my cool-down laps, I kept my eyes on the man and saw him wave to some of the kids who were playing football. They returned his greeting. The kids obviously knew him well, and their friendly exchange was an indication to me that the man was not dangerous.
It had become my habit to study a stranger and guess his game. I not only watched him, I watched other peoples' reactions to him. Sean taught me to see through peoples' layers of bullshit to who they really were, and I gained experience from dealing with the likes of Mr. Carver, the Ackers' cops, the boys
home staff, and the Paulsons. In Stockwell where a boy's well-being depended on his awareness and instinct, I got my masters degree in recognizing liars, predators, and others with malicious intentions.
I had learned some valuable life lessons by the age of thirteen. One important truth was that overconfidence could get me in trouble because there would always be someone smarter, stronger, and better than I was. I understood that people always had a reason for what they did, and if they did something for me, I needed to know why. I think the most sobering fact I gathered was that even when they fought them, and even when they knew they could lose everything that mattered, some people were incapable of controlling their own demons. Unfortunately, many state kids learned their lessons from firsthand experience rather than from the cautionary tales of others.
To say, at that point in my life, that I trusted no one is not true because I did trust people. I trusted them to follow their nature. For example, if I saw someone in the park give money to one of the homeless drunks who begged money for a meal, I trusted that as soon as his benefactor was out of sight, the drunk would spend most of the money at the nearest liquor store. I would trust the drunk in the sense that I knew his game, and I could depend on him to do something for me if he knew that I would give him a pint of whiskey. I would trust him much more than I would a man who promised to do me the same favor out of the goodness of his heart.
Needing to rest and cool off for a few minutes after my run, I took a seat on the other end of the bleachers from the man with the football. The morning had grown much warmer and my sweaty tee shirt and gym shorts clung to me. As I sat cooling and drying in the slight breeze passing through the park, I was aware of the man's movement in my direction. I maintained my seat and posture, but I slightly shifted my feet towards the open end of the bleacher so that I was ready to hit the ground running. Although the other kids' reactions to the man were positive, I was still wary of the stranger. Before I relaxed, I had to know what his story was and what he wanted from me.
The man's deep voice boomed large and friendly. "Hello, young man. My name is Ray Long, but most people call me, "Papa" or "Papa Ray.'"
I imagined that his voice could be intimidating to some kids, but I wasn't intimidated, just cautious with a man physically superior to me. I was confident that I could win a fight with any boy my age, and even with many older boys, but I sensed that the man before me was not anyone I wanted to fight. Gabby told me that it was smart to know my limits, and my guess was that a physical confrontation with the man would not go well for me.
Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I glanced up at Papa and squinted because the sun was directly behind him. I nodded my head slightly but said nothing.
"I've never seen you before," said Papa. "I work with a lot of youth sports programs, so I know most of the boys in the park."
I kept my head down and didn't respond but that didn't discourage the man.
"I watched you running the track, and I'm impressed. You're fast and fluid. I can tell that you work out too."
I shielded my eyes from the sun and peeked under my hand to read the man's face. There was something very familiar about him, but I couldn't place him. He could have been at one of the open houses or the fundraisers at the boys home. He might have sponsored little league baseball or peewee football. Before Stockwell, I had managed to play a season of each one on teams comprised mostly of foster boys.
Papa tried to get a reaction from me. "Yep, you're fast and well-developed for a twelve-year-old boy."
I took Papa's bait and replied before I thought. "Thirteen. Actually, thirteen and a half, dude."
"Oh, sorry. My mistake." Papa smiled.
I was pissed that I allowed the man to trick a response from me because I should have known better. I was proud that I was tall with a good build, and I knew that most people thought I was closer to sixteen years old than to thirteen.
I glared at the man. I thought he was gloating over tricking me, and I decided that I would wipe the smile off his face. "What the hell is it you want, man?"
Papa continued to smile and took a seat near me without invading my personal space. I didn't budge and faced forward, pretending to focus on a group of boys playing football. I was determined to show the man that I had no fear of him, and that he didn't even rate my attention, but I did listen carefully to what he said.
"I was supposed to meet a young friend here to help him with his passing, but he's late. He said that he wanted to play junior high football, and I promised that I would help train him. I suppose he couldn't make it, or he isn't serious. So here I am with this football and no one to train."
I cut my eyes towards Papa. The man was well over six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds with no signs of fat gathering as it did on many men his age. Considering the man's appearance, the way he moved and spoke, and the way he handled the football, I believed that it was very possible that he coached kids in sports. I hoped that I was in his shape when I was his age.
"You ever play any football?" Papa showed an easy smile. "You remind me so much of a young boy I knew a long time ago. He was a good athlete."
"I played peewee a few years ago," I answered.
"Well, if you ever want to take up football again, you sure have the body for it. You're tall, well built, with large hands and feet. You move with the grace of a natural athlete." Papa paused a moment as if he were forming a final judgment. "Yep, you're surprising for thirteen, and if you continue to work at it, you'll be an amazing high school athlete. Maybe good enough for a college scholarship."
"Yeah?" I tried not to take the man's words too seriously, but I was proud of my body, and I enjoyed his praise. I think I stuck my chest out just a little farther.
Papa appeared to scan the boys that were playing football before turning back to me.
"I've always done well with judging young athletes and young horses, and I think both are either born with what it takes to be champions or they're not. Of all the boys playing on this field right now, I don't see anyone comparable to you. I truly think you're a special boy."
It was as if the man had slapped my face.
There was always a trigger. All it took was a few key words to bring on my storm.
You're a special boy.
My body grew rigid. My breathing turned rapid. My vision blurred. I was lightheaded and nauseous. I was going to be sick.
You're a special boy.
I leaned forward over the grass and violently hurled the acidic crap that had rushed up my throat. I wretched again. One more time. Then I took slow, deep breaths and struggled to calm the rapid pumping and pounding of my heart. I squeezed and squeezed to chase the bastard from my head.
I heard Papa's voice, as from a distance, growing ever closer. I spit one last time, relaxed my muscles, and regained control of my body. I took more deep breaths, and when my vision cleared, I saw Papa studying me as if I were a unique specimen of insect. I thought he might be concerned, but I didn't care.
I was embarrassed, and I was pissed.
I hated him for making me think of it. For exposing a weakness and making me afraid again. For ruining my first real day of freedom. Son of a bitch. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to fuck him up. I stood to face him where he sat on the bleacher. I did my best to crap on his day, the same as he did mine.
"So, I'm special, huh?" My face contorted, a nasty smirk twisting my lips. I was loud. I was out of control. I didn't care. "Fuck you! Whatever you want, you ain't gettin' it from me. You hear me, asshole!" I pointed to the kids who waved at him earlier. Some of them were looking our way. "Go play your bullshit games with one of your little friends. Just leave me the hell alone."
I expected Papa's smile to fade with his anger and indignation over my assault. To promise, as most adults would, that he would report me to my parents before he furiously stomped away from me. But he did nothing I thought he would. He remained seated on the bleacher, and his face shifted to an expression that was almost foreig
n to me. I had rarely seen what appeared to be a genuine look of sadness and concern from an adult, especially one who had just suffered a vile and profane verbal attack from me. It confused me. What was he playing?
"Young man, I don't want anything from you. I enjoy kids, but I don't have any of my own, so I volunteer my time in youth sports programs and in a mentoring association that helps disadvantaged youth."
"I don't need no help, so you can leave. I got here first." I sat back down on the bleacher, a few feet from Papa, and crossed my arms.
Papa ignored me. "Someone has obviously betrayed your trust, and hurt you about as bad as a kid can be hurt. You have every right to feel like you do, but it'll be a shame if you never find out that there are just as many good people as bad."
Papa was compassionate, not angry. He read me as easily as he would a page from a child's first storybook, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I only knew that I still didn't trust him, and I let him know it.
"I guess you help kids just cause it's the Christian thing to do, and you don't get nothing out of it. I've heard that shit before." I was amazed that he was still talking to me, and more amazed that I was still sitting there.
"I get plenty out of it," said Papa. "Every time I help a kid, it helps the community where I do business with my horse farm and my fitness center. When our kids are involved in wholesome activities, it keeps them out of trouble, which cuts the cost of the juvenile crime. It makes our town a more desirable place to live, raises property values, and attracts more businesses. Plus, I simply enjoy working with young folks. Do I make sense?"
"I'm not too stupid to follow you." I kept an edge to my tone even though I was embarrassed by my earlier outburst. I knew I was probably wrong to disrespect the man, but apologizing was a punk thing to do, and it showed weakness. I was anything but weak, and I didn't do something for nothing. Instead, I asked him a question.
"How come people call you Papa? You can't be more than forty-something, and that name makes you sound like a grandpa."
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