Entry 31: Oscar the Crack Baby

I remember in the first couple of years after the drug Crack started becoming popular, many news agencies ran stories about crack-babies, kids born addicted to crack. Brought into this world by an array of hookers, addicts and dealers, the news media could only soberly guess what the future would hold for these unfortunate souls.

Well, I know what happens: crack-babies grow up, they become crack-kids, crack-teens and crack-adults. If you are born addicted, your teeth will grow in at all kinds of crazy angles and you will have an unusually large, oblong or small head. You will be really skinny and your limbs may grow in at different lengths and sizes. You will have a really hard time concentrating and may suffer profound irritation and mood swings. And, since your parents are idiots, you will be placed in some agency for care and grow up there.

Oscar is a crack-baby who grew up. At 14 years old, he has the build of a skinny 8 year old, a long, thin, oblong head, sleepy eyes and teeth sticking out from all over. He is black and comes from a notoriously gang-infested area of town. He peppers his speech with threats and ghetto slang. He feels that talking this way helps build his stature amongst his peers who can't believe that he is actually a teenager. He screams in a slurry rasp, "I'm from the Westside, sucka! You don' know me, muh-fucka! You bes' back off, part-nuh!"

His peers, of course, love to provoke him (which is a group-home term for tease) and Oscar will attempt to hit them with his belt. He always wears a belt because he is too skinny for any pants that are long enough for his legs. This is a painful process to observe because he can't really run; he engages his peers in a slow speed chase, right arm halfway outstretched for balance, looking like a drunken butler stumbling over an invisible flight of stairs. He marches toward his intended victim while fiddling with his belt. If he does manage to get his belt off, he waves it around his head with one hand, holds his pants up at the crotch with the other hand and screams, "I'm from the Westside muh-fucka, an' we gon' hoo-ride! Hoo-Ride! Westside! You know!" The entire process is excruciating in its futility and takes long enough in its build-up for staff to intervene before any serious injury can occur.

"Hoo-ride," like "whoa-guy," is another term I've only heard in a group home. Apparently its origin goes back to prison life and is the term for "riot." It is universally recognized as the call to blow out in instances of the staff's systematic, oppressive prejudices and unfair practices, like making the kids take a shower or eat their vegetables.

Katrina and I were lucky enough to be the ones to take Oscar and three other boys on an afternoon of miniature golf. The park is a good thirty-minute drive up the freeway, which is the perfect amount of time to provoke your peers. Jesse started in with Oscar.

Jesse: Hey Oscar, I bet you really suck at miniature golf. You can't putt right because your head is all long and crooked.

Oscar: Back off part-nuh, I'm from the Westside! You don' know me, I'm gonna hoo-ride that golf-place, watch!

Jesse: Oh that's true, Oscar, I forgot. You gonna crack that ball. When you hit that ball, you really crack it, don't you?

Oscar: Watch out, muh-fucka, I'll beat yo ass wiff my belt!

Jesse: Okay, Oscar, I know all about your slow-speed chases. You're flustered, you're flustrated, don't get shmad, so mad, so sad, too bad. Calm down.

When we arrived, the kids opted not to play golf at all. The lure of candy and video games was too strong. After draining their money in about 10 minutes, they stood around and posed. This is important on any outing because this is the part where they pretend to talk to girls and get their phone numbers. When they get back to the group home they will brag to their peers about how they would really call a girl if only it were allowed.

On the ride home, I realized that it was Monday, and tonight we would be able to watch Monday Night Football. I asked the guys if they were interested in the game. Jesse piped up, "Ah yeah, boy, football is hecka-tight! I loves me some football. 'Are you ready for some football?'"

He was singing the Monday Night Football song. I happily chimed in, glad that we could be relating a common interest together. These rare bits of togetherness mean so much to these kids who find it so hard to bond with adults. All they've known is that most adults can't be trusted, or that they should be manipulated, so I was happy to lend my positive energy. I was singing the Monday Night Football song with the guys! All my rowdy friends are here on Monday Niiiight!

I heard Oscar's raspy voice above the din, "You bes' step back muh-fucka, I'm from the Westside!" Fucking Oscar was always so irritable. I just marked it down as a case of not being able to keep up with the song.

"Are you ready for some football?" we sang as we sped down the freeway.

Then suddenly a sharp pain in my shoulder. "What the fuck!" I yelled. I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, there was Oscar, swinging his belt over his head, other hand holding his crotch, standing up, albeit hunched over. The other kids ducking on the floor. "I mo light you up muh-fucka! Dis how we do it in the Westside!" He cracked me again on the arm.

Katrina yelled at him to stop and tried to grab him but she couldn't get close enough due to the swirling belt. The slow motion crack-baby had finally caught his victim: Me! But why?

I slammed on the brakes and pulled to the shoulder. Katrina jumped out and opened the side door while I climbed back and shoved Oscar out and onto the ground. We put him in a prone-restraint right there on the side of the freeway, cars rushing by, belt lost somewhere under the van, Oscar's pants halfway down. While he struggled in the gravel, I realized why he had become so upset:

The other kids were now chanting, "Football-head, football-head!"

And I realized that I had fallen prey to a clever attack on Oscar. The kids had me unwittingly singing the football(head) song to Oscar. They weren't just mocking him, they were laughing at me too.

I was so fucking pissed off. I sent them all to bed and gave them each a month of outing restriction. My supervisor told me not to be so over-reactive, but I still feel conflicted wondering if they got what they really deserved.