Thank you Mr. Bea

After a couple of weeks, I was back out on the street.  Biking to Golfland, stealing toys, and eating hot dogs and cookies for dinner.  I learned a few more tricks before going back into the shelter.  I met this kid Mai.  He was also a regular at the arcades, so naturally we became friends.  He was an older kid,.  Then again to a ten year old, fourteen is old.  With his age came wisdom and knowledge, the crafty type.  He taught me how to fish.  With the right length of fishing line and strong, thin tape, (or a drill if you can get your hands on one) you can drop your quarter or token into the coin slot, and slide it down until it hits a thin metal tab.  That tab indicates that you've paid and that you get the credit to play.  Pull it back up before it goes past a certain point, or your bait is lost.  Drop it back down again and you've now successfully fished.  Off of $.25, you could play a game with two players and beat it, something that could take $5.00 for a noob.  (If any kids are reading this, well, doesn't really matter since Xbox and PS3 provide the best gaming experience now, but still, I do not condone or endorse this type of thing.  Anymore.  And yeah, I'm a huge video game nerd.)

In addition to my young life of petty crime, I also started cutting school and, from a dare, I spray painted the school walls.  To top it off, I strolled around with a keychain of a topless blonde that I bought at a shady convenience store.  One day, I was caught cutting school and the female officer in charge of transporting me back asked me about it.
Does your mom allow you to have this?
Yes, I say as I think of the hilarity of my mom having authority over me.  I make up something about her being cool with it, and Mrs. Officer mutters something about bad parenting.  Of course, nobody was able to get a hold of my mom, so I never got into any trouble.   I was en route to becoming a bad kid, until a teacher finally stepped in.

My fifth grade teacher, Mr. Bea must have noticed something was amiss.  The snitches get stitches rule was apparently not in effect since everyone knew I spray painted the school.    After I was brought back by the keychain-hating cop, he intervened.  He asked me about my home life, which I immediately deflected.  He told me he knew about my artwork on the walls, the unexcused absences, and the cigarette smoking.  The latter was a surprise to me, since I didn't smoke, but rumours start and spread pretty quickly.  I bet it originated from the same brat who ratted on me.  I tried to tell the truth and deny it, but with my reputation it was impossible to shake the new label.  However, I did welcome his help.  We were doing a class project about making fun commercials, and I was having trouble creating mine.  I remember the other kids' elaborate projects, from make believe hotels to savvy infomercials for phony inventions.  I was dwarfed by their creativity, but luckily Mr. Bea was my assistant actor.  My grand idea was pulled from a Juicy Fruit commercial.  Add in some of my odd prepubescent humor and the product became Juicy Poop.  If you know the jingle, you'll see the similarities.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJ92qqzutcE   

Take a sniff.  (Actors sniff fingers) Pull it ouuuuut.  (Actors retrieve Juicy Poop from rear) The taste is gonna move ya.  It's gonna move ya when you pop it in your mooooouuuth.  Juicy Poop.  It's gonna move ya.  The juice is soft.  It gets right to ya.

>Cut to scene where I give thumbs up with my Juicy Poop, like a Mentos.<    
That was the jingle I sang with Mr. Bea to my classmates for my presentation.  It wasn't the best in the class, but I remember thinking I did okay and that I was grateful for the help.

That wasn't the only time he helped me.  The entire fifth grade class was going to a science camp called Walden West.  Apparently we were a "Stanford Accelerated School" which comes with certain perks. All of the kids would spend an entire week up in the cabins in some woods and learn about tarantulas and banana slugs.  We were told they even had a song about the latter.
But it wasn't free.  I was made aware of this trip sometime in January, so there were fundraisers you could participate in to raise money for yourself.  Now that I look at it, it seems like a way to make money off of young aspiring faces.  Anyhow, I was given a box of 30 generic Hershey-looking chocolates.  I sold about four and ate the rest.  When the time came to pay up, I was already in the process of moving to a foster family, so they never brought it up.  I did have bigger things to worry about though.  Somehow the whole school knew that I was at the shelter again, awaiting to be put into my first foster home.  Mr. Bea and a few of the faculty members must have paid for my trip, because I was notified that I would be going.  Despite the situation at the time, I felt elated.  It was a like a going away gift.  It would be the last time I would enjoy the freedom I was accustomed to.

It's been twenty years since, and I still am grateful for having such a great teacher.  You know how security questions sometimes ask who your favorite teacher is?  I always put Mr. Bea.  I recently reached out to him on LinkedIn and thanked him for making an impact on my life.  I believe that good teachers deserve all the praise that their paychecks don't sing.  So take some time and thank a teacher in your life.  I'm sure they'll appreciate it.

PS - As usual, names have been changed or omitted to protect their privacy.
 

The Children's Shelter by Sleepy Hollow

I was ten years old the first time I checked in to the Children's Shelter by Sleepy Hollow.  (My math was wrong in my earlier posts.  I didn't turn eleven until the start of sixth grade.)  A police officer greeted me on a Saturday morning as I was on my way out to enjoy my weekly savings.  He explained that someone had called to report I was home alone, which I vehemently denied.  When he asked to speak to my parents, I could furnish no answer that would help me to escape.  I was detained and taken to the shelter immediately. 

The Children's Shelter of Santa Clara County on Roberts Road.  Little did I know that I would become a frequent guest of these facilities.  Five more times to be exact.  It wasn't a terrible place though.  There were doctors who gave health analyses before assimilating me with the rest of the kids.  Afterwards, I was taken to a large room with two rows of metal beds methodically placed between tall gray lockers.  Each bed was neatly made, with the sheets and covers tightly tucked in.  I was assigned one of the beds and its corresponding locker, where I found a set of toiletries, towels and pajamas laid out for me. 

Life in the shelter was very routine.  Wake up and make your bed.  There were specific instructions given on how beds were to be made.  One of the kids, Rudy, another frequent guest, helped me out, since I was a newbie.  The trick he said, was to use a clipboard to shove the sheets and covers tightly under the mattress, giving the top of the bed a taut and tucked appearance.  Once all the beds were made, we lined up to walk in formation to morning chow.  After chow, we were released to shower and brush our teeth, which I thought was strange, since I was used to brushing before eating.  There was a school on the premises, though the only resemblance to a normal school it had was that there was recess at 10am.  Aside from the rumours and gossip of who ran away and who was secretly sleeping with each other, (the guests' ages ranged between four and sixteen) the kids played normally during recess and lunch.  My favorite time of the day, of course, was free time, the two hours given to us before lights out.  There was a game room, which consisted of a pool table, a foosball table, and a tv with a Sega console, not the Genesis, but the original master system.  Here, I became a pro at foosball, learning how to accurately pass and shoot without putting the whole rookie spin on the poles. 

On the weekends, we were afforded the opportunity to go roller skating.  That, I was horrible at.  During one of the trips, I remember being sad, not because I was afraid or missing my mom, but because I was upset that my time and freedom were being taken from me.  What was so wrong about being home alone?  I was grown for my age, wasn't I?  I knew how to feed myself, take myself to school, and still earn good grades without anyone checking up on me.  Some of the kids were stuck in the shelter for months, unable to go back to their families, and passed over by potential foster parents for younger, more well-behaved kids.  These group of kids, like Rudy and me, were the regulars that kept coming back.  We were the unwanted ones who couldn't behave or last in any particular home.  In the van ride back to the shelter I started to wonder if I would ever have my freedom again.  I didn't want to be there anymore, nor did I want to be in foster care.  I wanted to go home back to the life where I was my own boss.  I came and went as I pleased.  On some nights, I bought a pack of Oreo's or a Sara Lee's pound cake, and that would be my dinner.  I played video games as late as I wanted to, since my mom didn't come home until 2am.   Here I was prisoner to their schedules and as I thought about the unknown that awaited, I silently allowed the tears to come out.  One of the counselors asked my why eyes were puffy, to which I responded that the falls from skating caused the hurt. 

A couple weeks had passed before I was released back to my mother.  She had apparently jumped through all of their hoops to claim me back.  When I arrived back home, nothing changed.  The next day, we went back to our normal routine, and I was happy again.  I had to be careful though.  Somebody knew that I was being left home alone, and I suspected my neighbors.  Nick and Vincent's parents weren't the meddling type.  I made it a habit to leave through the back gate of the house, and I always checked to see if anyone was watching me leave.  There were a few close calls, and I remember nights when officers would come by the house to check up on me, and I would hide under the bed until they stopped knocking on the door.  I had to stay out of the shelter if I was to enjoy my freedoms.  It wouldn't last long.  In another few months, I would be back at the shelter. 


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