extraordinarily sad, as I left my peaceful room for
the last time. His face brought my pre-hospital life
clearly into focus in my mind. We looked at each
other in silence, and he trotted alongside the
beautiful Karen as she wheeled me out of the
hospital.
360
Meeting the Mattisons in March of 1980 was a
difficult experience. They were an older white
couple with a house full of foster children and a
daughter of their own. The foster children were
of all ages and races, except black. I felt very
strange not seeing any black people around. The
Village and the hospital were full of black folks,
and I rarely saw other white people. Living in a
nearly all-white house in an all-white
neighborhood was very unnerving. I spent the
first few weeks hiding in the bedroom I shared
with Matthew. Hording the magazines and
comics I had gotten from the hospital staff, I kept
to myself and out of everyone’s way . . . until I
smelled marijuana.
One day, one of the other foster kids came
upstairs reeking of marijuana. Though it had
been months since I had smoked any, the minute
I smelled it I wanted to get high. My fondest
memories of Debbie were of the times we got
high together. I followed the girl downstairs and
361
into the kitchen where I eagerly asked the
teenaged girl for a joint. Mr. Mattison overheard
my overt request and went ballistic. Though I
thought nothing of it, the girl became very angry
with me and denied being high.
Mr. Mattison ordered me upstairs, and he
followed close behind as we climbed the steep
stairway to his bedroom. He told me to drop my
pants, and I became suspicious of his intentions.
He pulled his belt from his pants, though not as
quickly or easily as Bobby had. With his thin
black belt, he beat my bare bottom several times.
I could not help it when I started laughing.
Though he was a large, heavy man, Mr.
Mattison’s lashes did not compare to the beatings
I suffered from Bobby’s iron-fist. As my laughter
got louder Mr. Mattison was caught off-guard.
He dropped his belt where he stood and ordered
me to pull my pants up. He slapped me once
across the face and called me crazy. Whether he
meant I was crazy for asking for the joint or for
362
laughing, he didn’t clarify, but he mentioned
them both in his flurry of reprimands. As I zipped
my pants, he ordered me to my room. I walked
off confidently, but realizing I had a lot to learn
about being in a “normal” family.
After a couple of months of “protective custody”
at the Mattisons, Karen showed up at the house
and told Matthew and I that we would have to go
with her to court. She warned us that we would
be seeing Debbie and Bobby, but that she would
be there to protect us. Matthew cheered at the
mention of seeing Debbie and Bobby. On May
23, 1980 she drove us to the courthouse on
Golden Hill in Bridgeport. Debbie and Bobby
were already waiting outside like a happy couple.
Matthew ran to Bobby immediately. Bobby lifted
him up and put him on his shoulders and walked
him down to the edge of the street and bought
him an ice cream from a street vendor. Making
his way over to Debbie and me, Bobby looked as
mean as I remembered. He bent down with
363
Matthew still perched on his shoulders. He spoke
to me quietly, but loud enough for Debbie to
hear.
“You gonna get in there and tell deez people that
yo mother did all dis shit to you. If you say
anything else I’m gonna kill all a’ya. Ya
undastan?” He growled. I understood that his
threat was real, and I knew what I had to do.
I nodded my head and clung to Debbie’s leg, as
she gripped me tightly around the shoulders. She
looked down at me and told me to do as I was
told. Bobby put Matthew down on the ground,
and the four of us walked up the stairs to the
courthouse, Matthew still happily eating his ice
cream.
We waited in a hall for a while, as Matthew
finished his ice cream. After some time, Matthew
and I were escorted into the judge’s chambers by
a bailiff. We were seated directly in front of a
judge where we were to testify. The judge
explained the process and asked Matthew several
364
questions. He answered honestly, which he could
do since he had never been hit. When it was my
turn to speak, I told the judge exactly what Bobby
had told me to say. The judge listened intently
and dismissed Matthew and I as soon as I was
done talking.
We were allowed to hug Debbie one last time
before the bailiff took her away. Matthew hugged
Bobby as I stood beside Karen waiting anxiously
to leave. On the ride back to the Mattison’s, the
guilt of sending my mother to prison began to set
in, though I knew I had saved her life, and my
own. For the first time I felt at peace, knowing I
would never have to see Bobby again.
365
“Last night I told my sister I was going to kill her
father,” I thought to myself. The words rang in
my head, as I stood in front of my students. Had I
made a mistake? Would she talk to me again?
How would I get through to her? How would I
get through this day? My heart pounded, and I
felt myself beginning to sweat, despite the 60
some-odd degree temperature of my classroom.
As I stood before my students, my brain raced,
and I was having trouble focusing.
“Guys, go ahead and open your laptops and type
this into your search browser.” It was a simple
instruction. I turned to the white board and wrote
a few words. With my back to the class, I
instructed the boys to read what I was writing on
the board.
“Type in CT DOC inmate search.” My face was
getting warm, and I wondered if they could sense
my anxiety.
366
“Go ahead and hit enter. Now click on the first
item that appears. Now type in this number in the
box that says Inmate Number, and hit enter.” I
looked down at the envelope in my hand and
read the number from the return address to the
boys, sitting attentively in front of me.
“Now click on the blue number. ” I looked up at
the boys, as they read the page displayed on their
screens.
“What you’re looking at is the Connecticut
Department of Corrections information on my
brother. A brother I’ve never met and have never
had contact with until yesterday.” With my
trademark honesty, I told the boys about my
search for my brother and the letter I had written
him a few weeks earlier during our weekly letter-
writing activity.
“I wrote a very simple letter explaining who I am,
what I do, and where I’ve been. I sent him one of
the few pictures I have of my biological mother to
prove that I am who I said I am. I didn’t expect
367
to get a response, but in case I did, I used the
school address - just to be on the safe side.”
Taking a deep breath, I held fast to the letter in
my hand and continued.
“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a letter from
him. When I went to my mailbox in the office, I
saw the letter and nearly fell over. I reached in
and felt it and realized that it was much more
than the one sentence response of ‘leave me
alone’ that I had expected.” I took another deep
breath and looked out to see the captivated faces
in front of me. They expressed more rapt
attention than I had ever witnessed from them
before.
“I sat at my desk and read the letter, and when I
was done I let the letter fall from my hands, and I
nearly threw up. Here was this person I had
never met, but after reading the letter, I felt like I
was reading something I would have written
when I was twelve. This man and I had shared so
much in our lives, and yet our paths had not
368
crossed. In his letter he wrote that our sister, who
I haven’t seen since 1995, was living in Delaware.
So I googled her name and Delaware and sure
enough her name, address and phone number
popped up. So I called her. I left a message and
put the phone down and re-read the letter.”
I looked from face to face, trying to keep my wits
about me, as I told these lost children my own
story of being a lost child.
“A few minutes later my phone rang, and the
voice on the other end said my name. I asked
who it was, and she said ‘It’s Ruby.’ I asked her
what had been the last thing we had done
together, and she replied quickly, ‘We went
shopping,’ and I knew that this was my sister. We
talked for a long time, and I told her the
abbreviated version of what I’d been doing since
I’d last seen her. She told me her own story, and
she told me about being at our mother’s side
when she had died. Throughout the conversation,
I noticed that she also did not refer to Debbie as
369
mom or mother or any of those words. Just like I
do, she referred to our mother by her name,
Debbie. Then we talked about her father. In my
random stream of speech, I told her that all of the
horrifying experiences I had with her father, he
had made me the man I am today. Then she said
something that I will never forget. Now, this is a
grown woman with two kids, living on her own,
far from any family. She said to me ‘my father
made
me
the man that I am’ and I knew exactly
what she meant.”
The boys were entranced by the story, and I
knew I had to go on. We talked for nearly 30
minutes about their own estrangement from
family members and how they would like to find
their own brothers, sisters, mothers, and/or
fathers one day, each young man telling his own
heart-breaking story.
I told the boys that I was having very hard time
keeping my mind focused. “I am a little
overwhelmed right now, and I was worse last
370
night. My brain would not shut off last night, and
I was up far too late thinking about all of these
new developments in my ‘family’ relationships.”
As I stood in front of them, I was excessively tired
and absent-minded. “All I ask of you is to give me
a little time to collect my thoughts, get my brain
together, and I’ll be good. If you guys do what
you need to do this morning” - I always give my
students the week’s lesson plans on Monday so
they know what’s expected each hour of each day
- “I’m gonna do some paperwork and try to get
my mind where it needs to be, and we’ll pick it up
in a little bit. Is that cool?” I asked, trying not to
sound too desperate.
“Yes Sir,” the boys said in a calm, collective
voice.
“Thank you. You all have your assignments. Let
me know if you need any help.” I walked to my
desk. Before I could get started on some long
over-due and all-consuming paperwork, one of
my boys raised his hand.
371
“Mr. Love, can I talk to you outside for a
second?” Scott asked.
“Of course Sir.” I answered as I got up and
headed for the back door with the young man
following me. When the door closed, the young
man began fidgeting with his hands, held his head
down for a moment, and then took a deep breath.
“Does every state have one of those inmate look-
up things?” He asked.
“I believe so. I haven’t checked all 50, but I have
used inmate searches in a bunch of them, and
I’ve never had a problem.” I answered honestly.
“Sir, my dad molested my sister and I when we
were kids, and he’s supposed to be locked up
somewhere. I don’t know where or if he’s still
locked up. Do you think I could find him online?
I’m always afraid that he’s gonna come and find
me and try to hurt me again. That’s why my
mom and I move all the time.” He spoke with a
mixture of sadness and confidence that made his
story believable. His behaviors that brought him
372
to me included a lot of bizarre sexual acting out
which is indicative of a child that has been
sexually abused, so his admission was not
surprising.
We spoke for a few minutes, and I explained how
he could look up his father. He told me that his
sister had been taken out of the home and placed
into foster care, and that he hadn’t seen her in
several years, and how much it pained him to not
know anything about her. He did not know that I
was already aware that his sister had been
removed from the home years before, but his
explanation made the story I had been told come
together to form a more clear family history.
“I go to therapy every week, but I never tell them
anything about how I really feel.” He confessed,