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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