Living in the Material World [View All]

(Note: Hello, DUers! I'm not able to post much at this time. However, I thought that I'd post something from one of my personal journals. I wrote it a while back, late one snowy night. Some of you might enjoy it, some might not. That said, I hope that people think about some of what is posted in this essay, in terms of some of the needless nonsense on DU these past few weeks. Peace, H2O Man)

There are times when I find this computer, and the access it provides to the internet, to be of great value. Tonight is one of them: I heard from a person that I used to work with, in the 1980s. He happens to be one of those individuals that I've wondered, from time to time, “What ever became of Frank?” Thus, tonight, reading a note from the forum “Face Book,” I have an answer.

As I write this, it is cold, windy, and a heavy snow is falling. The weather channel refers to the storm as a blizzard, and I am reminded of a night, when there were similar weather conditions, when I had a phone call from a police station about young Frank.

At the time I had his case assigned to me, Frank, 15, was viewed as the most troublesome of all the juvenile delinquents in Delaware County. Earlier in the week, his probation officer – an individual who I always considered unstable – had knocked the crap out of Frank. That, of course, ended the brute's career with probation. It also served to entrench the problems that this teenager was experiencing.

I remember reading through the referral, and thinking that it was little wonder the young fellow had so many problems. His biological father was someone I had been familiar with since my own childhood. When he began “hanging out” in our rural neighborhood, my own father had warned my siblings and I to make a point of avoiding him completely. I was too young, at that time, to understand exactly why, and my father wasn't the type of person who provided details. As I got older, and became familiar with Howard's extended family, I had a pretty good idea that he was a creep.

The dysfunction that defined Frank's childhood was not limited to his father. Frank's mother was a prostitute, and her substance abuse clouded her already limited capacity for insight. Her ability to parent was, at very best, minimal. The first time that I made a “home visit,” she was more interested in discussing her own issues, than her son's. She did provide some information: for example, the large scar that covered over one-half of her face was the result of Howard's throwing a pot of boiling water one her, during an argument. He had also sexually abused their three children, to “punish” them when they had “misbehaved.” I also remember the impression of an unhealthy home setting was reinforced when, having accepted an offer of a cup of coffee, I noted a cockroach floating in it.

Frank made frequent, unsupervised visits to his mother's apartment, even though he was not supposed to. He was rebellious in his foster home, in school (which was less than a block away from his mother's place), and in the community. The foster parents were far above the average in terms of the quality I had encountered over the years. They were gentile ex-hippies, who had their hearts in the right place. That helped overcome the lack of experience they had, in terms of dealing with a teenaged hustler.

I found that Frank preferred to try con people when he was in formal situations, than to engage in serious efforts to improve his lot in life. (Of course, I was fully aware that this behavior was not unique: most of us find our best potential more cause for anxiety and resistance, than our current situations, whatever they may be.) This was true in school, “family,” and agency meetings. He certainly invested a good deal of energy in attempting to con me, when we first worked together. Little did he realize that not that many years before, I had been the angriest, meanest, and most problem-prone teenager in the universe. I did not hesitate to call him out on his bullshit.

Instead of meeting with him in a stuffy office, with me sitting behind an enormous desk, I liked to get together with Frank in the great outdoors. He was interested in archaeology, and so I would sometimes walk the plowed cornfields with him. Because he took obvious pride in his growing artifact collection, I would take him to the library, and encourage him to read about the region's “pre-history,” and to record his finds. I'd also take him to local colleges and universities, to see their museums, and to talk to the professors. In time, we would bring him on archaeological excavations. It was a very different world than the one he was used to.

Late one winter night, when the wind and snow was blowing heavily, as it is blowing heavily outside now, I had a call from a local police station. Frank was there, in handcuffs, as the result of a confrontation that took place in the neighborhood of his foster home. He had been involved in a shoving match with another teenager. That teen's father, who was viewed as a “community leader,” had come out on his porch, armed with a handgun. The situation was tense when the police arrived.

From the police station, the foster parents had opted to call me. I had a good working relationship with the officers involved, and they were open to having me drive the 15 miles to the station if I wanted to. But, of course, the weather made it an uninviting drive. Still, I decided to make it. I was glad that I did, because things worked out.

I remember the foster mother sending a letter to my supervisor, saying how much she and her husband appreciated the work that I did. She explained that they had attended a couple of the public presentations I had participated in, even before Frank had come to live with them, and that they had been impressed with my message. I liked that. Sometimes, when I present ideas – be it at a public meeting, in an op-ed in a local newspaper, and even on the internet – the lack of response makes me wonder if anyone is listening. Is the problem my poor communication skills, the topic, or is it something else? It was nice to know that some people were indeed hearing what I was saying.

She also noted that the teenaged hoodlum was having his eyes opened to a new type of strength – gentleness, reason, and understanding. He had learned from others that this curious man he worked with was a retired boxer of some note …..and he was surprised that I had never attempted to use that in order to influence his behavior. When Frank and I talked about that later, I told him that if you really are tough, you don't need to advertise it. Knowing yourself is all that counts.

Life does not stand still, of course, and over the years, all of us moved in different directions. Yet there were times when something or another reminded me of that job, and that kid. So, I was happily surprised to get a note from Frank, now an adult, living across the country. He wanted me to know that he lives a quiet life, with his wife and children. He has a job that allows him the time to still do some artifact-hunting, and he enjoys reading. Plus, he said, he hasn't been arrested since he was a teen.

I'm glad that he is doing well. His life could easily have continued on a very different course, and he might have ended up a flint-hard inmate, or dead. But he's doing well, including working full-time. I think of this, at a time when the economy is doing poorly. The local, state, and federal government will continue to look for areas in which to cut spending, and “social” programs that benefit groups such as the poor and “at risk” teens have too few advocates. It seems as if compassion has gone out of style in government. And reason and common sense, as well.

No social program gets immediate, all-encompassing results. The problems we face in our communities didn't happen in a day. It's taken generations, in many instances. Thus, while these problems cannot and will not be resolved with quick solutions, they can be dealt with. Even an angry teen, whose acting out disrupts his school and community, can be reached. This, I do know.