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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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“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

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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

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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.

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“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

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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,