First Letter
April 1993
Hey Buddy!
It’s your old man. I here your really fucking cool. COOL!!! Hey write back and give it to Darren. He’s okay. You remember him. Thats alright man!!!!! I’m politcal man. yeah your old mans been in trouble but I hear your not so innocent yourself. I like that. Not perfect like Barbara. don’t let her read this or you no what they say. yor ass will be grass because I won’t tell. I won’t let on that I even know you. I know you understand. Hey I love you son. Darren says you and him skip class sometimes to get down and party.
Thats fine but dont let your mom no. And don’t let her fool you if she does find out. Just bring it back to her face. She’ll know what i mean. I can score some weed if you want some. Come over to my pad with Darren when you can. You know any chicks? If you have a girl friend make sure she has class. That’s important in any mans life to have a chick with class. gives a good impression to the other guys. A display of power is what you fucking need. If you don’t that’s cool. you are young but when I was in junior high I had chicks surrounding me begging me if you know what I mean. Then I met your mom in high school. Wow!!! Tobad she changed. Good thing my old lady isn’t here or she’d bitch at me until I put her in her place if you know what I mean. She knows I still care a lot for Barb. She has a place in my life and will always because of you son. Even if she is fucked up she has my protection. you all have my protection. She tries to make my life miserble but she still has my protection. Bitch. You do to man because you are my son. If you need anything, smokes, a place to party anything man just let darren let me know.
Over my shoulder I could hear Mr. Vander struggling to find the right words. “Ms. Holland,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know what to say and even worse, I’m not sure if I can help.” Mr. Vander turned to his custodian and asked if he had ever observed anything out of the ordinary between Darren La Wyn and Mike Shorewill. As I stood watching the two men converse, I excused myself before nearly missing the trash can with vomit. My whole body trembled refusing to comprehend the horror my eyes had just witnessed. Mr. Vander insisted that he drive me home after he called for the nurse who had already left. I managed calmly to thank him for his concern, but I only lived three blocks away; I could walk; I needed to walk, I’d come back for my car tomorrow. I don’t remember walking past familiar gardens and driveways, just finding myself standing at my front door.
I cracked open a bottle of Merlot and carried it to the backyard. My favorite chaise lain where I left it, but unable to feel its usual comfort, I focused on the barber sign pour of burgundy; its essence that whirl pooled inside crystal. I sipped its richness, but for once the usual pleasing aroma dreamed up a flavor of nothing. My thoughts, or lack of them, took focus toward my garden; a place where I could easily lose myself. But not today. Memories took me back to just a week before when I listened to my friends during our Girls-Lunch Wednesday: My daughter is still breaking curfew and refuses to clean her room; Mayra died her gorgeous blond hair black. Yes, but Theresa refuses to finish her first semester of college... I could not share their frustrations. Any comprehension of transgressions so simple was impossible for me to grasp.
Resentment. I felt it crawl through my body as I listened over Tortilla soup, salad, and hot pumpernickel. Away from conversation I wondered where my friends were keeping their heads. I could not own such banal problems. I couldn’t even call those problems. To me breaking curfew or failing math was a matter-of-course in a family with teenagers. Those were not problems, those were blessings disguised as opportunities to strengthen relationships, stories to laugh at years later complete with embellishments, exaggerations, smirks and grins. Years later, on occasion that I did share a memory or blessing, it was met with pity drawn smiles and thundering blows of silence.
Problems find good parents when their good children slip into drug traps. And in one moment, I became one of those good parents. I sought help from friends whose children were of the same age. I quested advice from my parents, grandparents, from teachers, school counselors, child psychologists, other parents who shared similar challenges, and local assistant organizations. I refused to turn a blind eye even when help was met with a plethora of shaking heads and shrugging shoulders. Finally when nothing else worked, I employed help from those whom I believed to have insight: professionals who worked as judicial and law enforcement agencies. What I found was pity, or worse, contempt for my situation and me. My plea for help was met with mute incoherence that screamed from headlight eyes, It’s your fault that your child is messed up. Stay away! You’re contagious. Too many meetings left me drained and sucked into currents of filth with no way to escape. When a glimmer of hope crept into my soul, false promises that required piles of paperwork and unrealistic waiting periods, laughed at my self-assurance.
During the 1990’s, it was almost unheard of for health insurance companies to offer, or cover a portion of costs concerning drug abuse issues. And if they did, the financial burden was enormous. I know because I searched, researched, phoned, wrote letters, borrowed money from credit cards for counseling and more counseling. I begged local behavioral health service centers for information and help. One Drug Rehabilitation advisor suggested that maybe my son would stand a better chance at recovery if I skipped all the nonsense, and spent a mere seven to ten thousand dollars and month on rehab, depending on the program.
As I exhausted all resources, I finally took some well intentioned advice, and sought help from the police and juvenile systems. After a year of their aid I had to look up the word judicial. Needless to say, the common definition lacked any resemblance to what I had encountered. Interestingly enough, I found it’s meaning to be involved with dolling out justice through the process of going to court. So as a parent, when I asked for justice to be dealt, why wasn’t it? My son needed help and he deserved their protection. So why didn’t the cops help me? And more importantly, why didn’t they protect my child? After all, I did the foot work. I had names, dates, and even addresses where one could find crystal meth for sale. They couldn't care less. I was just another hysterical mom trying to blame everyone else for my problems. I wonder still, why do they claim to work within the judicial system. I’m curious. What exactly is their definition for what they do?
I trusted the police and I trusted too many lawyers and judges I met along the way. Big mistake. And because I refused to believe that those people could be anything but decent, I ignored, for a very long time, how I had placed my son in dangerous hands. When I set out to enforce tough love I didn’t realize I was drafting bullies and cowards who hid under robes, inside three piece suits, some in black and tan uniforms. I didn’t know that so many of them secreted behind shinny gold and silver badges; the emblems of cowards who avoid the bad guys so they look tough pushing around children who are visited by trouble contrived by drug pushing ADULTS. They were ugly; the cops, lawyers, and judges. Evil and ugly. They were not interested in protecting my son, but they had little problem protecting the poison spewed by drug selling ADULTS. I suspect that some who hung a shingle were drug toter's themselves. I know some were badge heavy cops who had each other’s back. They were protected; my son was not. In fact he became their prey.
My misfortune and my son’s nightmare, is just two of many. Hundreds and thousands of parents with their children, own a place in the “Drug War.” I’m not alone. My battle housed all the flair and fireworks most families in trouble encounter, but with an added bonus. Beyond the bullies and cowards the main terror - the most despicable pusher of all - the poison pen pal - was none other than my son’s own father and his pedophiling girlfriend. While his passion to sell drugs continued from behind the walls of the Arizona State Prison system, a web of deceit and another kind of terror was being weaved half-way across the state by the demented girlfriend, and her victim? My son’s vulnerable heart.
My suspicions fell on deaf ears; nobody was interested in the truth; not our local politicians, not our judges, and most disappointingly, not even our local police force. Thankfully though, I did have some allies - my mother, who desperately tried to protect me, and my son’s step-father who was quiet and patient while I did what was necessary, my son’s juvenile probation officers, two Arizona police officers (who trust me to this day to keep their identities protected), a California Highway Patrolman, a Southwest Border Alliance agent, and a prison mail clerk who simply had had enough.
April 1993
Hey Buddy!
It’s your old man. I here your really fucking cool. COOL!!! Hey write back and give it to Darren. He’s okay. You remember him. Thats alright man!!!!! I’m politcal man. yeah your old mans been in trouble but I hear your not so innocent yourself. I like that. Not perfect like Barbara. don’t let her read this or you no what they say. yor ass will be grass because I won’t tell. I won’t let on that I even know you. I know you understand. Hey I love you son. Darren says you and him skip class sometimes to get down and party.
Thats fine but dont let your mom no. And don’t let her fool you if she does find out. Just bring it back to her face. She’ll know what i mean. I can score some weed if you want some. Come over to my pad with Darren when you can. You know any chicks? If you have a girl friend make sure she has class. That’s important in any mans life to have a chick with class. gives a good impression to the other guys. A display of power is what you fucking need. If you don’t that’s cool. you are young but when I was in junior high I had chicks surrounding me begging me if you know what I mean. Then I met your mom in high school. Wow!!! Tobad she changed. Good thing my old lady isn’t here or she’d bitch at me until I put her in her place if you know what I mean. She knows I still care a lot for Barb. She has a place in my life and will always because of you son. Even if she is fucked up she has my protection. you all have my protection. She tries to make my life miserble but she still has my protection. Bitch. You do to man because you are my son. If you need anything, smokes, a place to party anything man just let darren let me know.
XXXX000
Keep strong and free
Big Mike (your pops)
My head hurt and pulsated with every beat of my heart. My chest felt ripped open. In that moment all confusion about my son’s dubious and delinquent behavior fluxed and was beginning to make sense.Keep strong and free
Big Mike (your pops)
Over my shoulder I could hear Mr. Vander struggling to find the right words. “Ms. Holland,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know what to say and even worse, I’m not sure if I can help.” Mr. Vander turned to his custodian and asked if he had ever observed anything out of the ordinary between Darren La Wyn and Mike Shorewill. As I stood watching the two men converse, I excused myself before nearly missing the trash can with vomit. My whole body trembled refusing to comprehend the horror my eyes had just witnessed. Mr. Vander insisted that he drive me home after he called for the nurse who had already left. I managed calmly to thank him for his concern, but I only lived three blocks away; I could walk; I needed to walk, I’d come back for my car tomorrow. I don’t remember walking past familiar gardens and driveways, just finding myself standing at my front door.
I cracked open a bottle of Merlot and carried it to the backyard. My favorite chaise lain where I left it, but unable to feel its usual comfort, I focused on the barber sign pour of burgundy; its essence that whirl pooled inside crystal. I sipped its richness, but for once the usual pleasing aroma dreamed up a flavor of nothing. My thoughts, or lack of them, took focus toward my garden; a place where I could easily lose myself. But not today. Memories took me back to just a week before when I listened to my friends during our Girls-Lunch Wednesday: My daughter is still breaking curfew and refuses to clean her room; Mayra died her gorgeous blond hair black. Yes, but Theresa refuses to finish her first semester of college... I could not share their frustrations. Any comprehension of transgressions so simple was impossible for me to grasp.
Resentment. I felt it crawl through my body as I listened over Tortilla soup, salad, and hot pumpernickel. Away from conversation I wondered where my friends were keeping their heads. I could not own such banal problems. I couldn’t even call those problems. To me breaking curfew or failing math was a matter-of-course in a family with teenagers. Those were not problems, those were blessings disguised as opportunities to strengthen relationships, stories to laugh at years later complete with embellishments, exaggerations, smirks and grins. Years later, on occasion that I did share a memory or blessing, it was met with pity drawn smiles and thundering blows of silence.
Problems find good parents when their good children slip into drug traps. And in one moment, I became one of those good parents. I sought help from friends whose children were of the same age. I quested advice from my parents, grandparents, from teachers, school counselors, child psychologists, other parents who shared similar challenges, and local assistant organizations. I refused to turn a blind eye even when help was met with a plethora of shaking heads and shrugging shoulders. Finally when nothing else worked, I employed help from those whom I believed to have insight: professionals who worked as judicial and law enforcement agencies. What I found was pity, or worse, contempt for my situation and me. My plea for help was met with mute incoherence that screamed from headlight eyes, It’s your fault that your child is messed up. Stay away! You’re contagious. Too many meetings left me drained and sucked into currents of filth with no way to escape. When a glimmer of hope crept into my soul, false promises that required piles of paperwork and unrealistic waiting periods, laughed at my self-assurance.
During the 1990’s, it was almost unheard of for health insurance companies to offer, or cover a portion of costs concerning drug abuse issues. And if they did, the financial burden was enormous. I know because I searched, researched, phoned, wrote letters, borrowed money from credit cards for counseling and more counseling. I begged local behavioral health service centers for information and help. One Drug Rehabilitation advisor suggested that maybe my son would stand a better chance at recovery if I skipped all the nonsense, and spent a mere seven to ten thousand dollars and month on rehab, depending on the program.
As I exhausted all resources, I finally took some well intentioned advice, and sought help from the police and juvenile systems. After a year of their aid I had to look up the word judicial. Needless to say, the common definition lacked any resemblance to what I had encountered. Interestingly enough, I found it’s meaning to be involved with dolling out justice through the process of going to court. So as a parent, when I asked for justice to be dealt, why wasn’t it? My son needed help and he deserved their protection. So why didn’t the cops help me? And more importantly, why didn’t they protect my child? After all, I did the foot work. I had names, dates, and even addresses where one could find crystal meth for sale. They couldn't care less. I was just another hysterical mom trying to blame everyone else for my problems. I wonder still, why do they claim to work within the judicial system. I’m curious. What exactly is their definition for what they do?
I trusted the police and I trusted too many lawyers and judges I met along the way. Big mistake. And because I refused to believe that those people could be anything but decent, I ignored, for a very long time, how I had placed my son in dangerous hands. When I set out to enforce tough love I didn’t realize I was drafting bullies and cowards who hid under robes, inside three piece suits, some in black and tan uniforms. I didn’t know that so many of them secreted behind shinny gold and silver badges; the emblems of cowards who avoid the bad guys so they look tough pushing around children who are visited by trouble contrived by drug pushing ADULTS. They were ugly; the cops, lawyers, and judges. Evil and ugly. They were not interested in protecting my son, but they had little problem protecting the poison spewed by drug selling ADULTS. I suspect that some who hung a shingle were drug toter's themselves. I know some were badge heavy cops who had each other’s back. They were protected; my son was not. In fact he became their prey.
My misfortune and my son’s nightmare, is just two of many. Hundreds and thousands of parents with their children, own a place in the “Drug War.” I’m not alone. My battle housed all the flair and fireworks most families in trouble encounter, but with an added bonus. Beyond the bullies and cowards the main terror - the most despicable pusher of all - the poison pen pal - was none other than my son’s own father and his pedophiling girlfriend. While his passion to sell drugs continued from behind the walls of the Arizona State Prison system, a web of deceit and another kind of terror was being weaved half-way across the state by the demented girlfriend, and her victim? My son’s vulnerable heart.
My suspicions fell on deaf ears; nobody was interested in the truth; not our local politicians, not our judges, and most disappointingly, not even our local police force. Thankfully though, I did have some allies - my mother, who desperately tried to protect me, and my son’s step-father who was quiet and patient while I did what was necessary, my son’s juvenile probation officers, two Arizona police officers (who trust me to this day to keep their identities protected), a California Highway Patrolman, a Southwest Border Alliance agent, and a prison mail clerk who simply had had enough.
Robin, I remember this moving piece from group.
ReplyDeleteHave you made any changes? After reading it again, I realize the problem (for me) is that you are starting in the wrong place. Try a new beginning with the viewpoint character finding the letter, reading it, not showing it, then going to the councilor an having him read it, and show the letter. You'll set the stage, build up some suspense, which is important because the letter is a very important part of the story. I hope you work on this. I think it could be something really special. Joanne