class.
The bell rang, the boys filed out quietly and I
headed to my car, having made an arrangement
with my principal to leave as soon as my students
had left for the day. I drove to the detention
center and found a spot to park in the packed lot.
From the look of the lot, first shift was still
working, and it looked like all of the second shift
28
people had arrived as well. I let myself in the back
door, and as I approached the secure entrance,
the door opened, and I was face to face with the
Lieutenant. He was a jovial and pleasant man. I
had only met him a few times during the hiring
process, but he seemed nice enough. He said my
name like he was singing a song in a deep
southern drawl, “Greg Love,” he changed his
tone but it was still pleasant, “we gotta talk.” He
motioned for me to follow him into an office area.
“Who are you?” he asked with a Cheshire cat
grin.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sir. What do you
want to know?” I was sincerely confused. When
he hired me there had been some confusion with
another Greg Love that had shown up when he
did my background check but that had been
cleared up when the picture came back and the
Greg Love with a criminal history looked nothing
like me at all, aside from all of our information
29
being different. My face contorted and I waited
for his response.
“Man,” he began in the same sing song tone he
had before, “I been hearin your name all week.
‘Mr. Love, Mr. Love, Mr. Love’, you have every
kid in this place talkin’. These boys have done
nothin’ all week but ask everyone about you and
if you really work here. What I get from the kids
is that every one of them is afraid of you. Now I
need to know who you are and if you’re gonna be
a liability.” He smiled but I felt his solemnity.
“Sir, I’m just a teacher.” I started in, but he held
up his hand and interrupted.
“Man, stop this ‘Sir’ shit, Antwan, my name’s
Antwan, call me Antwan.”
“Yes Sir, like I told you before, I know a lot of
these kids, or I know their families. I’ve been in a
lot of their homes. I do a lot of home visits, and I
get involved in their lives beyond school. I take
my job very seriously, and when kids screw up at
school, I go to their houses and speak with their
30
folks or whoever takes care of them at home. I
don’t play when it comes to school and
discipline.” I found myself getting nervous and I
began to sweat as I defended myself.
“You ever hit a kid?”
“No Sir!” I replied without hesitation.
“You sure?” he asked again.
“Yes Sir!” angrily this time.
“Then why they all so afraid of you?” he asked,
seemingly not understanding my rationale.
Now that I understood what he wanted to know,
I instinctively switched to a more confident stance
and tone, “I’m very strict, and I always do what I
say I’m going to do. I have high expectations for
my kids and myself, and I follow through to make
sure we all meet those expectations. When they
don’t meet expectations or if they break an
agreement, I do whatever I have to do to get
through to my kids, even if that means going to
their house, calling their probation officer, or
31
even visiting them here, which I’ve done several
times in the past as a teacher.”
“Cool, as long as you aint gonna kill anybody.
You come in here for one weekend and the whole
place is turned upside down talking about you, ya
know I had to make sure you were all right. Now
you’re sure you don’t wanna work full-time? Cuz
I could use you.” He smiled again, as I denied his
offer.
“All right, Mister Love, you need anything let me
know. Your forty hours of training will be up
Saturday night, so make sure you’re ready to go
Sunday morning. They’re gonna need your help;
we’re a little short. You smoke?”
“Sometimes”
“Let’s go have a cigarette, then I’m outta here.
You sure you don’t wanna work full-time?”
smiling broadly he put his hand on my back and
led me out the way we had come and out the
secure door.
32
The weekend went on without incident, and I
kept to myself as I had before. Each night I
shadowed Tre and became more comfortable
with my duties. On Sunday I jumped right in and
got to work. I followed the orders I was given and
did my best. As I began interacting with the
detainees I introduced myself to each child I dealt
with.
“Good morning Sir. My name is Mr. Love. You
can call me ‘Mr. Love’ or you can call me ‘Sir’. If
you need anything, let me know.”
After one such introduction, I began shackling a
child to bring him out of his cell when I heard a
voice from an adjoining cell that I recognized.
“Excuse me,” the voice cracked, the speaker
clearing his throat, “Mr. Love, Sir, aint you
writing a book about child abuse?
“Yes Sir, I am,” I responded politely.
“See I told you I knew him. I was in his class last
school year,” the kid declared to his cellmate in a
snarky tone. “When you’re done Sir, can we read
33
it?” He went on, cementing the notion that he did
in fact know me.
“Well, it’s pretty rough. It’s definitely not
appropriate for young people.”
“Come on Mr. Love, we already locked up. You
the one always telling us to read everything we
can.”
I smiled; he was using my own argument against
me. But before I could answer him, a smal voice
to my left asked, “Sir, are you really writing a
book about child abuse?”
“Yes Sir, I am.”
“I was abused for a long time. I’m in state’s
custody now. My parents don’t even know I’m
here. Do you need to interview people for your
book, cuz I’ll do it.” I looked at the young man,
his voice meeker than his appearance would
suggest.
“No Sir, I’m not interviewing anyone, but if you
need to talk my name is Mr. Love; I’ll be
around.”
34
He smiled shyly and went back to his bunk. I
finished shackling the young man I was bringing
out and walked to the top of the block to open the
cell door. The giant cell keys clanged, as I
unlocked and opened the large metal lock box
that contained the antique levers that operated
the cells. Trying to distract myself, I thought
about the Detention Center and how it was built
in the late 1800’s. The cells and their mechanisms
had never been updated. The cells operated by
ratcheting large levers, one for each cell, up and
down. The cells moved on an enormous chain-
driven track. It was important to make sure no
one had their hands on the bars, as the force of
the cells opening and closing could easily break
bone. After releasing the operating lever and
closing the heavy lock box door, the young man
shuffled into the hall, and I realized that, more
than ever, I had to finish my book. I had to tell
the story.
35
The welfare office was across town from the
projects. Debbie and I walked there every few
weeks to confirm our continued need for services.
Even at five years old, Matthew didn’t have to go
because he was allowed to stay home with Bobby,
or alone waiting for Bobby, whenever Debbie and
I had to go out. That’s how Bobby wanted it.
When we arrived at the welfare office, one of the
workers saw my blackened, shoeless feet and
reprimanded Debbie for my condition. Debbie
attempted in vain to defend herself. Declining to
argue, the social worker walked away and
returned quickly back to my chair with a pair of
clean socks and bright new sneakers. She gently
massaged them onto my feet. Debbie cried in the
office and along the entire walk home. When we
got to the block before our building, she made me
take off the shoes and socks, which she stuffed in
her bag and later presented to Matthew. For
36
months Matthew wore the name brand shoes
with pride. Debbie and I never said a word about
how they had been given to me. As usual, Debbie
did not mention the encounter at the welfare
office to Bobby. Bobby was too proud for welfare,
and as long as he was around, he said, we didn’t
need it. He made all of his money from an array
of illegal businesses, but Bobby’s absence for days
at a time, combined with Debbie’s uncontrollable
drug habit, left us without money or food, so
welfare was our only true means of survival.
Today as Debbie and I walked back home, our
arms full of bags, I knew I had new shoes I’d be
allowed to call my own. Debbie had bought new
shoes at the supermarket for Matthew and me.
She had let me pick out my own shoes from the
bins lining the aisle of the grocery store. I had
picked out the cleanest looking pair with the
fewest scuffmarks. I sat down on the cold floor in
the middle of the aisle and tried them on. The
snug fit felt simultaneously like a warm blanket
37
and a kind embrace. I had spent most of the
spring and summer wearing cheap dollar store
flip-flops. Each pair was kept until they were
completely worn out or broken beyond repair.
Much of that summer, like all summers, I had
gone barefoot, burning the soles of my feet on the
hot asphalt as Debbie and I walked the streets of
Bridgeport. Bobby refused to let Debbie spend
any money on me specifically. I grew giddy as I
thought ahead to the time I would be allowed to
wear them. In the meantime, they swung inside
one of the bags I lugged back to the apartment.
Debbie’s keychain jingled as we ascended the
dark rancid stairwell with the groceries and, most
importantly, our new shoes. She pushed open the
thick apartment door with unease. When the
door opened without resistance from the chain
lock, we both knew immediately that Bobby was
not home. When we entered the tiny apartment, I
immediately noticed Matthew lying comfortably
on the couch watching
Gilligan’s Island
on
38
television. He lay there, silent and unmoving,
until at Debbie’s suggestion, he got up to help put
the groceries away. As we unpacked the bags, he
saw the new shoes and instantly started begging
to put them on. Reluctantly, Debbie permitted us
to put them on, and to our surprise, after more
prodding from Matthew, she said we could wear
them outside. “Wear them outside” meant I
could go outside. Bobby didn’t let me out of the
apartment often because I was always bruised and
cut up, and he thought I might talk to someone
about what went on inside the apartment.
Additionally, when he did allow me outside, I
typically attracted a crowd of other children
because of my appearance, being white and
perpetually bruised.
Instantly forgetting the threat of the outdoors, I
raced after Matthew as he flung the door open
and careened down into the dark stairwell,
leaping down the stairs, just careful enough not to
touch the graffiti and urine soaked walls. We
39
quickly made it to the bottom floor and exploded
from the door-less entranceway into the sunshine,
where we went our separate ways. Matthew had
friends in the surrounding buildings that he ran
off to play with. I had no friends to run to, so I
ran to the deserted playground alone. Matthew
and I were brothers, but not friends. We were
friendly only in cooperative situations.
Matthew and I had different fathers, and we
knew this early on. We were told that Matthew’s
father was dead and mine was in prison. Matthew
was older than me by just under a year; we were
the same age for one day, and that fact made him
very angry. He told me that life had been better
for him before I was born, but he was too young
to remember any of that. He was Bobby’s
favorite, and we were often pitted against each
other for Bobby’s amusement. When we were
locked in our room for hours at a time, we would
play together out of boredom, but otherwise we
avoided each other.
40
I ran directly to the abandoned monkey bars that
lay between the buildings in clear view of the
street and the apartment. From here, I could
have some warning of Bobby’s return. Reaching
the hot tangle of metal, I saw that I had the
monkey bars to myself. I immediately climbed to
the coveted spot at the top. In later times, I would
play “King of the Mountain” on these same bars,
but now I was alone and friendless. I swung down
onto the bars and reached from bar to bar,
enjoying the freedom of the outdoors. Without
warning, a loud echo rang inside the monkey