Trying to Survive in a Hateful Family

Trying To Survive In A Hateful Family
SHS
Winter 2002

At school, Joe was classified as emotionally disturbed.  He had anger problems and would explode with a string of vulgarities at any moving target: a teacher, a classmate, a comment, a gesture.  His mouth got him in lots of trouble. And no matter what punishment we doled out to him, he didn’t flinch.  He didn’t care. Nothing we did ever fazed him.

Joe was a sophomore. He was short and pudgy.  He was a skinhead, a neo-Nazi, white supremist.  He shaved his head but on occasions, he used to take a blue pen and drew in sideburns right on his face.  He spooked his classmates and that was a source of pride for him. I always got along with him.  But I always knew that he could and would explode on me if I stepped on any of his emotional mine fields.

It was snowing one day and we had an early dismissal. On a regular dismissal day, it would take about an hour before we got the majority of kids to leave the building. But on an early dismissal, the building is deserted in ten minutes or less.  Everyone would leave, dancing down the hallways with delight.  We, students and teachers alike, had been given the gift of two extra hours of freedom. And we were not going to waste a moment of it here, in this building.

So fifteen minutes after dismissal, I roamed the building to take inventory of my situation. As usual, I was in a ghost town; everyone was gone, except for Joe. He was crouched down, in the auditorium doorway.

“Joe, what are you doing here” I asked.

“I missed my bus.” He tells me.

“How are you going to get home?”

“I don’t know.”

”Did you call home.”

“I don’t have any money to call home.”

“Come on; use my phone in the office”, I offer.

So we head off to my office and I direct him to a phone.  He dials his number and his dad answers.  And I can know this because I can hear the entire conversation.

“Dad, I got out early.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“I need a ride home.”

“Fuckin walk home.”

“I don’t have boots.”

“That’s your fuckin’ problem”.

“Is there anyone who can come get me?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“At the high school.”

“Where’s that?” The father does not even know where his son goes to school, a mile away from his home. So Joe turns to me and asks for the schools’ address.  Joe repeats what I say.

“Where the fuck is that and who the fuck are you talking to?”

“Dr. Kelly.” He answers as he rolls his eyes at me.

“Who’s that?” the dad wants to know.

“My principal.” Joe sort of whispers this response in embarrassment.  He doesn’t want me to hear that his father does not even know who I am.  And I am offended, not that this man does not know me.  But that he has such little interest in his son’s education that he doesn’t even know who is responsible for this important part of his life.

“Why don’t you tell him to take you the fuck home.”

“It’s a her”, Joe tells him.

“Who gives a fuck? I ain’t fuckin’ picking you up.”

“Is Mike there?” Joe asks, hoping to speak with his older brother.

“Hey Mike” the father yells, “It’s fuckin’ Joey. He got outta school early and now the douche bag wants to be picked up.”

Joe is growing angrier and angrier with each comment his father makes.  But he is holding it together and trying not to snap.

Mike agrees to come get him but he will not drive the complete distance.  He’ll pick Joe up at the main intersection. So Joe will have to traipse through the snow for ½ mile and without gloves or a hat or boots. But he is resigned that this will be his best offer. So he takes it.  He hangs up and so does his brother. Neither say goodbye to each other.

Joe thanks me.  I wish him a good afternoon and he responds, “Yea, you too.” He trudges off, into the cold, raging snow.  As he wanders away from me, he gets smaller and smaller until he disappears in to a white horizon of snow. He becomes invisible to me as he heads home to his family who treats him as if he is invisible.