Every once in a while, we are presented with unique opportunity to help a child develop some advanced skills outside of the agency, in the community. These events have to be highly structured and supervised, of course, but if a kid has really made a significant amount of progress, it is possible that we can sign him up for some community classes sponsored by the city, such as ceramics or drama classes.
One such opportunity presented itself in the person of Brian, my Special Kid who struggles with sexual identity. He had been with us almost 3 years and we were beginning to plan for his transfer to a lower level of care. He and I had made a lot of progress coming to terms with the fact that his hypochondriac, gay, fat mom who allowed her lovers to beat Brian just might not ever be available to him to just be a mom.
One hint was that she had converted Brian's old room into a shrine for All Things Rainbow. Any painting, flag, window art, kite or piece of shit doo-dad that had a rainbow on it was crammed into the small room leaving no room for other things like, say, Brian's bed. Brian's dad was unavailable for the foreseeable future due to a previous commitment in a facility for the criminally insane. So, foster care seemed to be a good option for Brian, and he was accepting and moving in that direction.
For the entire time that he has been staying with us, Brian has had a penchant to add a little extra drama to whatever he did. His blowouts were peppered with rants such as
"What I need from you is a goddamn positive male role-model, not a fat, drunk idiot!"
or
"Who the hell do you think you are, my dad? I had a dad and look where he left me. With you!"
He returned from an outing to an amusement park one evening, and declared in a tortured yet resolved whisper, "I guess it's just my fate in life to be hurt. I asked a girl for her number and after she gave it to me, she pinched my ass. Once again, staff left me alone to be sexually abused."
When rewarded with public acknowledgement or praise, he would bite his knuckle and force a tiny tear out of his eye. So, as his Special Counselor, it was not rocket science to assume that he could benefit from and enjoy some community acting classes.
It was summer, I had gotten him all signed up and we were driving the van to the community theatre where the classes were being held. Brian was nervous and chatty, doing his best impersonation of a straight, normal 13-year-old. He was wearing a brand new outfit we had purchased from Ross Dress for Less, a 2 sizes too big button down baseball jersey and some huge black jeans, and the ubiquitous-in-the-group-home, daily polished, sometimes black-marketed high topped basketball shoes with the one name: Jordans. In other words, he was wearing the outfit that screamed out, "Hey everybody! I'm from the group home!"
He actually did quite well in the class. Sure he was nervous and overly-hyper, but he was enjoying himself, oblivious to the stares and smirks he was getting from his peers. The instructor had the kids go through all kinds of activities, miming, theatre games, improvisation. At one point, the group was acting out a scene where Brian ultimately got shot and he flung himself to the stage floor with a flourish. When it was all over, he and I were walking back to the van.
"Uh, Stokie, can I talk to you about something important?"
"Of course, that's what I'm here for."
"Well, remember that scene when I got shot? Well look."
He lifted up his loose fitting jersey and just below his navel, where his pants should have been but weren't because they were sagging far below his Pokemon boxers was a huge piece of wood about six inches long and an inch wide, sticking out from his belly. He said, "I think I got a splinter."
"Jesus Christ, Brian, that's not a splinter, that's a goddamn spike. What the hell happened?"
"When I dove on the stage, a big piece of wood cracked off and stuck in me. You know," he said with a quiver, "It's really starting to hurt."
"Why didn't you say something, Brian? That happened about a half an hour ago."
"I was embarrassed someone would laugh at me. I didn't want to make everyone stop just because I got a piece of wood got stuck in my stomach."
The whole time we were talking, all I was thinking was that I should distract him momentarily and yank the wood out when he wasn't expecting it.
I said, "So, tell me about that scene again," and at the same time grabbed the wood and gave it a stiff tug. I pulled the stick and Brian's pudgy tummy bent out but did not release the stick. Brian screamed in pain.
"You motherfucker! What's wrong with you? Can't you see I need professional medical attention?"
I felt terrible and sick to my stomach. However, I thought that it would be a favor to both of us if we didn't have to sit around in the emergency room all day so I motioned toward him with a determined look in my eye. He yelled, "Oh hell no!" and ran.
I grabbed him from behind, spun him around. I blocked his hands with one arm and with the other, grabbed the stick again and yanked, much harder than before. Brian screamed and fell to the ground. The stick didn't budge. I said,
"You know, I think you have a point about the medical attention," and drove to the hospital.
In the emergency room, the nurses numbed up the area (lots of shrieking and knuckle-biting on Brian's part) and pulled out the stick. Brian calmed down and I was standing at the nurses' station gathering up some paperwork. One of the nurses pulled me aside and said,
"You know, if anything like that happens again, you might just consider distracting him and then yanking it out yourself. Might save you a trip to the hospital."
I nodded in mock interest. "Oh, yeah. I wish I would have thought of that."
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