Emily
Emily. Oh Emily. She was 19 years old when I met her at a mental hospital. I met her the morning after I arrived, in the common area. She introduced herself in a pleasant tone, “Good morning, I am Emily – you are new here – what is your name?” I told her my name and she continued to talk non-stop. I was a bit overwhelmed.
About thirty minutes into our conversation Emily was called out for an appointment – I had no idea what that appointment was, I assumed it was with the doctor. I didn’t see Emily the rest of the day.
The next morning, in the same common area, Emily approached me. “Good morning, my name is Emily – you are new here – what is your name?” I looked up at her and into her eyes that seemed to be black holes of nothingness. I said, “Emily, my name is Cory – I met your yesterday, we talked for a half an hour – or at least you did!” She looked away real quick and I felt bad because I seemed to make her feel bad. Shawn spoke up, another guy that sat with us every morning, “she gets fried every morning and forgets everything!” He said bluntly and laughing. “Shut up!” Emily screamed and went into an arm flapping rage and stomped off. “Fried?” I said to Shawn? “Ya – Fried!” he replied with aggression in his voice. Margaret, yet another of our morning group spoke up. “ECT – Electric Compulsive Therapy that is what he means by “fried”. “They do that!?” I said in complete horror! I had just been diagnosed two days prior and my mind went into complete overdrive and into a fearful world of “Girls Interrupted and One Flew Over the Coo Coo’s Nest!” A year ago I was having lunch in Paris and now I am in a line up with Shock Therapy? I have definitely lost my mind and certainly lost my life.
I was also still in that phase of “Nobody loves me; everybody hates me – why don’t I just eat worms!” Every morning I would sit in this common area, sipping coffee and smoking one cigarette right after another waiting for a nurse to say, “Cory – you have an appointment with the electric chair!” That never happened.
Gradually Emily started to retain my name – though for days, she would ask me who I was just after talking with her the day before. As with so many – Emily opened up to me. I don’t think it is any gift that I have really, it is just the fact that I am willing to listen to people that are never allowed to speak unconditionally without judgment or consequence. I find it sad that that is rare!
Emily grew up in a series of foster homes. She had a great deal of mental health issues and to this day, I am not sure what all her diagnoses were. What I did know was that her mental state was severe and her life story was tragic. Her mental illness (s) started at a very early age and with that – her family did not have the financial means or the tolerance to deal with all that Emily had to deal with. It always amazes me when people can’t “deal” with someone. We who have a mental illness don’t have that choice. But I digress. At the age of 18 Emily was pushed out of the foster care system and into a homeless shelter. The dynamics of a homeless shelter only compounded Emily’s problems and found her hospitalized after a serious suicide attempt that is still very visible on her scarred wrists. This lead to being institutionalized in a mental health facility.
Now let me preface the next paragraph with this: The foster care system is a beautiful thing. I admire so much, those that have taken in so many with so many issues. Our news media always seems to focus on the tragic stories of those who abuse this system and that is NOT what I want to do – however, in Emily’s case, tragedy was a part of her story.
While in one of the many foster homes, Emily was sexual abused. When you are mentally ill and have a hard time finding the difference between rational thinking and irrational thinking – sexual abuse doesn’t help matters. Having an irrational thought or feeling, manifest itself into a reality is simply horrifying. I speak from experience (not as a child victim, but an adult). Emily had gotten to the point where this is how she defined affection – being sexual abused.
So here she was, sitting in front of me. An overweight girl because of the enormous amounts of medication she was taking. A beautiful round face that so clearly defined that she was really no older than 9 years emotionally. And those eyes… I will never forget her eyes. They were like staring at a black wall. I could find nothing in them. I couldn’t find hope, I couldn’t any evidence of every having peace, love or stability. As I write this I can see her eyes as if I am looking at her right now.
Over the course of the month I spent with Emily, I did see progression with her ability to think more clearly. The ECT treatment that I was so terrified existed seemed to do wonders for her. I have since read much about ECT and believe that it is a useful therapy for those in a psychotic state and have noted in my Advance Directives that, if needed, I would undergo the treatment.
There is no great and inspirational ending to this segment. There is, though inspiration found within the journey itself. Emily loved to smile and laugh and she did so with every opportunity she had. She relished being listened to and it often reminded me of a quote I had once read, “If you allow someone to speak… they will discover more about themselves, from themselves.” We are a society that feels we always need to solve others problems when the reality is, more times than not – some, like Emily just need someone to listen.
Jason
He stood at 5’ 10” and weighed no more than 120 lbs. He looked as though he was about to graduate from 8th grade, yet instead he had entered my two man cell at Central Receiving for the Ohio Prison System.
You have got to be kidding me.
“Hi, my name is Jason – you got a smoke?” he said with a chipper attitude. “Are you old enough to smoke?” I said in dismay. “I’m in prison ain’t I?” Jason said bluntly. I couldn’t argue that.
“My name is Cory and what in the hell are you doing in here – you’re a kid!” I said as I stared at him. “What the hell are you doing in here – you look like GAP ad!” He said with a smirk on his face.
Great – a kid with a mouth and wit, questions and answers. I am locked in a cell with a kid - OY
I looked up and Jason was staring at me with a very ornery look on his face. I said, “What?” “You don’t like youngins’ do ya old school!” Did he just call me old school as in, I am old? “Seriously Jason, how old are you?” “Just turned 18 last month – they bonded me over so I couldn’t get juvy.”
Now the one thing you don’t want to ask someone when you are going to be locked in a cell for 23 hours a day and for months is ‘what are you in for?’ I learned this the hard way. You don’t want to know!
Jason was what they called a hustler. He had hustled his entire life. Growing up a white boy in the inner city of Cleveland, Jason learned how to navigate the streets. Many consider this a career and you will hear this reference “hustler” throughout the Voices series often. A hustler is generally buying and selling and stealing and selling pretty much any product you can image.
Through the weeks Jason’s young attitude and comic behavior kept my spirits up. He was quite resilient and I looked forward to the time that he would start feeling comfortable enough to open up about his life. I have never been a person that had to force someone to open up, they just do – and I knew that time would come with Jason. In the meantime we played cards.
One night we were lying in our bunks and the cell block was dark with the exception of the correction officer’s flashlight shining into the cell every 30 minutes. Jason said, “So what was it like Cory?” I said, “What was what like?” “Growing up like you!” He said in an almost whisper. “How do you know how I grew up?” I questioned. “Dude, you talk all proper and shit. You use manners and you have everything in the cell ‘neat’!” he said, almost laughing at me. I started telling Jason of my peaceful and nice life growing up. He was very silent and I thought he had fallen asleep, so I said, “Well, good night kiddo!” “Good night old school – you gave me something nice to dream about” he whispered. That gave me something to really think about. My life was his dream… a kid, never knowing what it was like to be a child.
For the next few weeks it was a barrage of questions while playing and sitting around the cell. I shared my photos with Jason and shared parts of my life and stories of my family. He was consumed by my life – you could see the peace that would come over him when he would look at the pictures that I shared.
Finally, after about three weeks, one night in the darkness, Jason whispered – “my life is nothing like yours…” and so began Jason’s Story.
Jason was born to a young woman of 18 years of age and conceived from a one night drunken stand. He never met his father and didn’t know who he was – nor did his mother. The pregnancy lead to his mother being tossed out of her parents home and into the world at large. Before Jason was ever born, he lived from couch to couch in drug invested neighborhoods throughout the city.
When he did come into this world, Jason got to know many “fathers” a couple a year actually. Drug dealers and pimps were his father figures. He always lived in the projects because that was all that his mother could afford. The projects were predominantly African American and the inner city culture was all he ever knew.
By the time Jason was 9 years old and in the fourth grade, he was well versed in what to do when his mother was passed out for days from crack cocaine. He also carried a gun by that age; a gun his mother had and never realized was missing until she needed to sell it for more drug money. Getting to school without being beaten was a bit of a task, the gun afforded him the ability to get there safely.
School was easy for Jason – he didn’t find it a bit challenging. He is a very smart kid and I don’t think the inner city public schools challenged his intellect. Unfortunately so many schools in these neighborhoods have to be more concerned about safety than education.
When Jason turned 12, he became tired of not having food at home, tired of relying on the one meal at school. The typical peer pressure played a part. Few clothes, no toys and hygiene came from the local shelter in a brown bag once a month. As the young years were passing and the teenage years were approaching, Jason was losing what protection he had by being “young”. He explained to me:
“There were a number of gangs – if I didn’t join one, I would have to fight them all. If I joined one, then I at least had a fighting chance every day.” Not only did the gang affiliation provide protection, it would provide income. Adults are subject to severe consequences for breaking the law (and rightfully so) but juveniles, on the other hand often slip through the cracks or suffer mild ramifications for their criminal behavior. Kids are used to transport and deliver drugs, break into homes, steel cars and car stereos etc… everything has value on the streets and anything is subject to being stolen and traded for money. “I joined the gang and felt as though I sold my soul – what I knew of a soul anyway.”
Meanwhile his mother had found a man that stuck around for a little longer than most. He brought a little money into the house and a lot of drugs. “Mom was always high.” Jason stole his school supplies when he needed them from the local convenience store along with snacks and such. Shoplifting became second nature at that point. He explained to me: “In the hood, everything is about what you show – your clothes, jewelry, gun, car etc… There was no way I could afford to buy anything, but I could steal it – I was smooth that way.”
When Jason was 13 his grandparents came for the first time to see him. They picked him and he was to spend the weekend with them. What they actually did was take what trust Jason had left in his life away from him. His grandparents drove him 4 hours south of Cleveland to a small but nice town and they pulled into the driveway of a typical suburban home. Two people emerged that he had never seen in his life (mind you he had never seen his grandparent’s either). His grandparent’s explained that this was his new home and without ever going into the house – left.
Jason was 13 and completely aghast at what had just happen. In thirteen years, Jason and seen his grandparent’s once and it was for a 4 hour car ride to leave him with someone he had never known.
“They had an incredible bedroom made for me. A lot of clothes and games but I didn’t know who they were and I didn’t know what was going on until Dinner.”
It was explained to Jason that these people were now his mother and father and that he was to call them, “mom and dad”. This was his new home and this is his new life.
At this point of our many conversations, I leaned up and looked at Jason to find him staring at the wall with his back to me. I grabbed his shoulder and he looked up with tears pouring down his face. With his lip quivering – this little tough guy said with eyes full of tears, “They sold me – not even legally – they just sold me for 25 G’s”.
The conversation ended there that night. I didn’t know what to say and I knew that that was the first time Jason had ever verbalized and shown his emotions with regards to what happened. He needed to be in that moment and didn’t need any advice from someone that could not possible grasp what that was like.
The next night Jason and I were playing cards and he looked up at me and said, “I got the hell out of there – they made me where clothes that you’d probably where!” with a grin on his face. “That would terrible.” I said with a grin of my own.
Jason hitchhiked his way back to the city. He actually got back to his mother’s apartment and found a woman completely dismantled emotionally from not knowing where his son was for nearly a month. Mind you, his mother was not a good mother and was consumed by addiction – but she loved her son and considered him the only thing she had.
“I never went back to school, but I went back to the gang. That became my school and my job.” Jason told me with toughness in his voice. “I honored them and they honored me – that is the way it works.”
Still in that thirteenth year – Jason came home one afternoon to find the man that had been living with them beating his mother. “She was in blood on the floor in the kitchen and he was both punching and kicking her. I pulled my gun and got him to stop and I made him leave. He let me know that he would “get me and my B**** mother.” I said, then maybe I should just kill you now… and he ran out the door.”
Over the course of the next few years Jason supported his mother and himself with a life of crime. He got in trouble a few times, spent a month in a juvenile detention center at one point. He explained to me, “That turned out to be lucrative in my line of work!” Jason was nothing but honest!
He actually even managed to get his mom cleaned up. He said, “every time I had a “job” I always made sure to get my mom something nice. A dress, a piece of jewelry - something… to make her feel good about herself, ya know?” Jason’s mom finally got herself cleaned up enough to get a job as a leasing agent in an apartment complex located in the inner city. It was job and the job also provided free rent! It was that same year when Jason broadened his career. Jason and his crew crossed the tracks and went into a home in the “rich section of town.”
That didn’t go so well for Jason. Rightfully so, he was busted and he found himself in a prison cell – with me.
Jason and I had many conversations and this is simply an outline of all that had transpired in his life.
I did my best to convey how wrong his way of life is and how his upbringing did not justify his wrong doing. He actually agreed and said, “I know it is wrong but my life isn’t about right or wrong it is about survival.”
Jason has a two-year prison sentence. I do keep in contact with him and I do make sure that other inmates at his institution look out for him. What I am not sure of is how Jason will be able to break the cycle. He will be 20 when he is released from prison. He is a powerful kid. Smart, good looking and funny as can be. But he has no foundation.
Jason completed his GED and was pretty excited about it. His mother has since gone back to crack cocaine. Despite Jason’s attempts… Jason has not heard from her in six months. Jason always got teary eyed when he talked about his mom. He didn’t have one resentment towards her – he loved her dearly and was always (still is) very protective of her. I made attempt to try to find her for him – I couldn’t find her. I even searched obituaries.
I once asked Jason what he would like to do, if he could do anything in life. His response actually surprised me. “Get kids like me the hell out of that life!” I asked him if he regretted leaving the suburban family… his eyes turned cold as ice. “They sold me Cory!” His response actually gave me chills. It was quite clear the emotional toll that act took upon him.
I continue to write Jason. He doesn’t write often. He has never asked me for a thing, well just one. He said, “Cory, if you ever do become a famous author – will you write my story?” I said, “On one condition, you are there to write it with me!” "Can we call it "Kiddo?" he said. I said, "Why "kiddo" and he said - because that is what you always call me - Old School!