My Name Is River Blue (12 page)

CHAPTER
SIX

The morning
following my meeting with Jenny and Hal, I walked alone to Harper Park. As
usual, my foster brothers also went, but I waited until they were far ahead of
me before I left. I was happier than I had been in over two years because I was
finally free to spend an entire day outdoors in the summer sun and fresh air until
I was due back to the house for dinner. I intended to explore the park, watch
the other kids play ball, and take my imagination anywhere I wanted. I didn't
plan to join in any games, because I knew it was the best way to avoid trouble.
More than anything, I wanted to enjoy my new freedom alone.

With the morning
sun warm on my face, I strolled casually along the sidewalk that led to the
park and enjoyed the sounds, sights, and smells as if it were my first time. In
the trees that lined the road, there must have been hundreds of songbirds flitting
from limb to limb and performing for everyone passing by them. A breeze blew
towards me from the trees and bushes to my left, and I knew from smelling the
sweet scent that somewhere in all the growth, there were honeysuckle vines full
of blooms. After the recent rains and warm temperatures, trees and shrubs on
both sides of the street were the greenest I could ever remember seeing, and the
assorted flowers growing in the wide median popped with brilliant colors.

The closer I
came to the park, I heard kids' voices sounding happy and natural as if they
lived there, and I wondered if they knew how lucky they were. When I thought of
my daily runs in Stockwell's clay exercise yard, I knew exactly how lucky
I
was.
Every day I had devoted thirty minutes of my hour of yard time to running laps,
and thirty minutes to weight training. Each time I took my run around the inside
perimeter of the prison yard, I focused my sight on the woods that were just
across the graveled road on the other side of the fence. I fantasized about running
across that road and disappearing within the thick stand of trees where no one
could find me. My spirits lifted with every outdoors hour I completed because I
knew I was another day closer to life beyond the prison yard.

At the first
entrance to Harper Park, I saw a small sign stuck in the ground that marked the
beginning of a jogging trail that led around and through the wooded part of the
park. I took the trail and jogged slowly at first, gradually picking up speed
until I was running at a steady pace. I ran up and down hill, around curves,
through tunnels of dense growth, and then into small clearings with concrete
benches. I didn't slow until I saw that I was approaching the old ball fields
where two or three dozen kids were playing pickup games of baseball and
football. There were ancient aluminum bleachers positioned halfway between the
baseball field and the asphalt track.

The track needed
repairs and while I jogged around it, I dodged potholes and surveyed my
surroundings. The city cut the grass, trimmed weeds, and emptied trash barrels.
Other things needed work, including the baseball back screen and the shaky
aluminum bleachers that needed welding in spots. I was sure the new youth sports
complex was much nicer, but I was at home in the old part of the park, which was
far from perfect, just like me.

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.