Chapter XIV

VISITATION

Today was a special day. I was excited; it was visitation day at the Children’s Aid Society. It had been three months since I’d last seen my little brother. Visitations were supposed

to take place monthly, but for whatever reason my little brother was not there the last two visits. It bothered me, and I cried on the inside, worrying if he was safe. I jumped out of my bed and ran to the closet to get a pair of black pants, a light blue shirt, and black shoes. The standard uniform for visitations was a white shirt. This is what most male children wore on visitation days.

Every now and then, you might see a child in a blue or gray shirt. Today was going to be one of those days. I laid the pants and shirt on the end of the bed like Mrs. Henry showed me. I found my Sunday go to church black shoes and put them under the legs of the pants and found my black belt. But, something just didn’t look right I thought as I scuffled to make up the bed. Mrs. Henry said, “It doesn’t matter how good your clothes look they always look better on a made up bed.” I pulled the sheet up tight, folded the edge back, laid the pillow in the middle of the bed, pulled the spread up over the pillow and karate chopped the spread under the pillow. Perfect! Now, my clothes looked a lot better.

I hurried to the bathroom in hopes of getting there before Mr. Henry took his morning “shit” and stinked up the place. Luck was not on my side. I often wondered what he ate that made his “shit” stink so badly! Mrs. Henry and I ate the same dinner he did last night, and we didn’t peel the paint off the bathroom walls when we dumped. I opened the window and the back door of the bathroom leading out to a porch, held my breath, and began to fancy myself for the day.

As usual, Mr. Henry used all the hot water; therefore, it was another lukewarm/cold bath for me that wouldn’t last long. Mrs. Henry taught me how to take a quick bath when the water was cold and still clean all the essential areas. I made my way back to my room and began to get dressed putting some money in my pocket from my pool hustle the night before. I wanted to give my little brother half of my ill gotten gains when I saw him.

I headed down to breakfast, and I could smell the aroma of the bacon, eggs, grits, and toast. Mrs. Henry was a wonderful cook, so I guess Mr. Henry had an excuse for being so damn fat. I hurried to the kitchen to get my share of breakfast before Mr. Hog, (I meant Mr. Henry) ate everything in sight. Good Morning Baby! Mrs. Henry said, pulling me close and hugging me tight with one arm and pouring coffee for Mr. Henry with the other. “You look mighty handsome son. Am I going to have to fight some little girl today?” Mr. Henry didn’t even look up. He had resigned himself to ignoring my total existence. It was alright with me since he never had my best interest at heart anyway.

Hurry up and eat baby, your social worker will be here soon. “You know them white folks, unlike black people, they’re usually on time,” Mrs. Henry said with a hint of sarcasm. I began to eat, rocking, humming, and anticipating my day ahead. I looked up to see Mr. Henry staring at me over the newspaper he was pretending to read. I knew what he wanted, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. I was going to start my day off in a happy mood. If he didn’t want to see me rocking and hear my humming then he could go across the street and eat. I wasn’t about to give in to this bastard ever again.

Mrs. Henry’s cooking tasted exceptionally good: the bacon was crisp; the eggs were hot, soft, fluffy, and the toast was golden brown and buttered to perfection. The grits, oh my God! The grits were just the way I liked them: not too soupy and not too thick. I liked to break my bacon into little pieces and mix it in with my grits and have a big glob of butter melting in the middle. My thoughts were interrupted by the loud blowing of a car horn, three times. This was the universal signal for foster children to get their asses in gear. I gulped down a few more bites of grits and headed toward the door. “Hey!” Mrs. Henry yelled. “Boy, if you don’t come back here and give me my daily bread (kiss).” I smiled, turned around, ran back, and kissed her on her cheek and ran out the front door to my waiting social worker (Ms. James).

As I entered the car she said “Aren’t you people ever on time?” I laughed, thinking about what Mrs. Henry had said. Ms. James looked at me and smiled, confirming my thoughts (I looked good). Sometimes after an episode of getting into it with Mr. Henry’s ass, Mrs. Henry would bestow some of her female wisdom upon me. “Baby! I knew it was going to be deep! Baby! It’s important you look your best at all times and especially when you are stepping out. People will often treat you according to your appearance. A well dressed man will have more doors open to him than a bum. Women like to see a well dressed man, especially if he’s hers. When a woman first meets a man, she looks at three things: his teeth, his hands, and his feet. If his mouth is raggedy, she doesn’t want him kissing her. If his hands are dirty and rough, she doesn’t want him touching her, and if the shoes on his feet are busted, then she knows he definitely can’t afford to put any shoes on her feet.”

I think she had told me this before, but I listened again with the intensity of a virgin in a whorehouse. My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden stop of the car. We had only gone a couple of blocks when Ms. James pulled up to the house of another foster child. She blew the horn three times and the door opened quickly and out ran a boy. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place from where. He was about eight years old, kind of chubby and wore glasses. His shirt was kind of wrinkled, and his pants were kind of tight, and the heels on his shoes were run over. Mrs. Henry would have had a fit if she saw him. She believed it was the responsibility of the woman of the house to make sure that all the men who lived under her roof looked good.

I spoke to him, and he spoke back without looking at me. He got in the back seat behind me and slid as close to the corner as he could. He looked out the window the entire trip to the Children’s Aid Society not saying a word. I still couldn’t place him, and it was bothering me. As we pulled up to the garage door of the Children’s Aid Society, Ms. James blew her horn three times, and the garage door began to open. On the other side of the garage door was old man Johnson. He usually opened the door quickly except the days when he had taken a nip the night before. On those days, he was a little slower as he often fell asleep in the booth. He was kinda creepy, and he talked fast and repeated himself constantly.

“Good Morning Ms. James. Good Morning. Is everything alright with your car? Is your car alright? If your car ain’t alright just let me know, and I’ll get Terrance to work on it.” Terrance was once a former foster child who got a job working in the car pool of the CAS. He liked to race cars on the streets, and knew his way around a car engine. He got his nick name from the big engine he had in his car and his first initial. His license plates read (Terrible T). He used to wink at us and tell us to keep our heads up. All the social workers liked him and told their children that Terrance use to be a foster child and now look at him; he’s working for the Children’s Aid Society making an honest living. I understood what they were saying, and the point that they were trying to make, but in my heart, I knew when the time came for me to leave the care of the State and the Children’s Aid Society the last place I wanted to come back to and work at was the Children’s Aid Society. It already held too many bad memories for me.

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, but I knew one thing for sure, I wasn’t going to be no grease monkey or garage door opener. Naw! This boy was made for some of the finer things life had to offer. I knew what it felt like not to have them, so I thought it might be fitting I experienced some of the good things life had to offer. Ms. James pulled into her assigned parking space, cut the car off, and began to fill out her trip paperwork.

The children knew not to open the car doors until the social worker got out first. In the summer time, this was uncomfortable as the heat in the car and garage could get unbearable, and in the winter time it was cold. The routine was clear. The foster children were not allowed to get out of the car until the social worker finished her paperwork. She was to walk to the back of the car, hit the back of the trunk three times, signaling the child in the front seat to get out of the car, followed by the child sitting behind them and so on. The children lined up in a straight line and walked behind the social worker like a mother duck leading her ducklings. This method was de-signed to prevent the children from running wild around the garage and instill discipline in them. Every now and then, you would get a child that got out of line or made some slick dance move behind Ms. James’ back, but old man Johnson would scold them with his drill sergeant voice. “Knock it off you little deviant” were his favorite words.

As usual, I didn’t know what he meant by “deviant,” but I knew if it was loud and from an angry old white man it couldn’t have meant anything good. As we entered the Children’s Aid Society, there was a long hallway with windows on both sides. The windows on the right allowed you to look out into the garden and outside playground area, and the windows on the left allowed you to look into the indoor playroom. Since it was kind of cool outside, I assumed my little brother would be inside. I twisted, stretched, and stood on my tippy toes to see if I could see him.

Ms. James stopped to talk to another social worker, but I wasn’t paying attention. I walked right into her, smashing my face against her butt. The boy behind me let out a small giggle. Ms. James turned around and just looked at me with a strange look. She said “Did you discover anything new?” She and the other young white female social worker burst out laughing. Bitch! I thought to myself I know twelve year old black girls with bigger asses than yours. I re-gained my composure and continued to look for my little brother. There were quite a few children in the indoor playroom. Most of the children were also waiting on their brothers or sisters who were receiving dental and medical services. The playrooms also served as a holding tank for children until the social workers collected all of their children and repeated the process in reverse until each child was dropped off at their foster homes.

Despite every child in the playroom pretty much being in the same boat, (screwed by life early in the game) the social dynamics were just like the social ladder on the playground at school. The children in the playroom separated themselves by family, friends, neighborhoods, and social economic class. You could tell the foster children who were placed in good homes. They didn’t have on the state issued clothes. The little girls’ hair was done, and they wore pretty little dresses with pretty black patent leather shoes and white bobby socks. The boys had on clean shirts and ties, and their shoes were shined. Their hair was neatly cut or combed, and it was obvious they had bathed. They had the soapy, cologne smell. These kids seemed to be happier, didn’t cuss, and talked with wisdom beyond their years. This was probably due to the high educational level of their foster parents. These children never put their coats, sweaters, or any other clothing item in the coat room (The Black Hole) located on the right as you entered the playroom.

This closet had a reputation for eating nice clothes, toys, or any nice item a foster child was stupid enough to bring on visitation days (transistor radios, purses, scarves, or gym shoes). I remember one time seeing this girl crying and refusing to leave the playroom. She had brought her transistor radio and left it in her coat pocket and someone stole it. The issue was not the radio; the issue was that her foster mother had bought it for her as a present and told her not to take it with her, but she wanted to show it off to her brothers and sisters and the other children during visitation. She left it in her jacket while she went for her dental checkup and when she returned it was gone. Since children were constantly coming and going, it was no way she would ever find out who took it.

Although, some of the staff got off on checking our pockets like we were little criminals (which most of us were). As a foster child, you had to learn early in life how to survive. Her lost was another foster child’s gain. There is no doubt her foster mother would be angry, and she might even beat her ass. So, her tears were genuine and warranted. One thing for sure, you can best believe she wouldn’t ever bring anything else of value to the Children’s Aid Society on visitation day.

On the low end were the children who wore blue jeans, dirty sneakers, hadn’t bathed, brushed their teeth, or combed their hair (no one ever stole their shit). Then there were the kids like me, in-betweens, not rich but had somebody who loved them enough to care for them. I wonder which group of parents my little brother ended up with. The answer was provided as he walked through the door coming in from his medical appointment. He looked like a little preacher: black suit, black tie, shiny shoes, and a neat haircut. He had a serious look on his face, like he was thinking about something important. I hadn’t seen him in three months and ran to him, wrapped my arms around him, and gave him a big hug. He just stood there, stiff not moving or returning my hug, like he didn’t know who I was or didn’t care. “Hey little brother,” I said making sure it was loud enough for the other children in the playroom to hear me. I wanted to make sure they knew he had a big brother to back him up. Just like in school, the preppy kids in the playroom often got bullied, toys taken, or robbed of their candy and money.

Something was wrong. My little brother’s response to seeing me after three months wasn’t what I expected. I knew he couldn’t have forgotten me that soon, as much as we went through together since our parents had died. “Hey! You want to get a deck of cards and play some Tunk,” I asked? He looked at me coldly and said “Cards are the devil’s tool used on fools.” I thought “What the fuck?” “Who told you that,” I asked. “Mr. Benson, I mean Reverend Benson.” Oh shit! His new foster parents were holy rollers! “What else did he tell you?” “He said that anyone who doesn’t love Jesus is not your brother or sister, and I shouldn’t associate with those types of people.” Associate? What the hell did that mean (I thought)?

Before I could say anything else, two older boys dressed just like him and an older girl holding the hand of a little girl around my age walked up and interrupted us. “Come on” they said, “You know the Reverend don’t allow us to associate with people like him.” I looked at them and said “I’m his big brother.” “No you not!” the little girl said angrily, “They’re his big brothers,” pointing at the two older boys. They smiled at me with a smirk on their faces, proud of the recognition bestowed upon them by the little Bitch! The older girl reached out for my brother’s hand, and he grabbed her hand without looking at me and began to walk away.

I reached out and grabbed his other hand and pulled him back towards me. She pulled his other hand, and we began a tug of war with my little brother as the rope. I wasn’t about to let him go without a fight and a fight is what I got. Before I realized what happened, the older boy punched me in my forehead with his fist and yelled “I smite you, you demon in the name of Jesus.” The other boy kicked me in my stomach and yelled “Bow down you son of sin!” The older girl began to hit me along with the little girl. Both shouting loudly, calling me the devils’ child, and an uncircumcised Philistine and other words, I did not understand. The other children in the playroom began to chant “fight! fight! fight!” They all continued to punch and kick me while yelling biblical stuff.

I heard the older boy yell “Hit him!” “Strike the devil.” I was laying in the fetal position absorbing the kicks and punches. I managed to get to my knees once they stopped and found myself looking straight into my little brother’s face. “Hit him” they all said, “Hit him or we’re going to tell the good Reverend you refused to fight for the Lord!” My eyes locked with my little brothers’ as he swung and punched me right in my face. I fell backwards and just laid there not because of the blow of the punch but because my heart was too heavy to get up. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. I never thought I would see the day when my little brother would take sides with someone else against me. The chanting of the other children brought the social workers and other staff members running to the playroom.

I jumped up from the floor and began to straighten up my clothes. I heard Ms. James call my name in an angry tone. “Boy! Are you involved in this melee?” Before I could say anything the oldest boy said “Yes Ma’am he is. As a matter of fact, he started it all ma’am. He confronted our little brother and attacked us when we tried to get him away from him.” One of the other staff members said “Aren’t you Reverend Benson children?” They all smiled and said yes ma’am at the same time.

The staff member then said “These are some honest, God fearing children, and they wouldn’t lie. The good Reverend doesn’t tolerate lying in his home.” The children all smiled and nodded their heads in agreement. I waited for Ms. James or another staff member to speak up in my behalf, but all I heard was silence. I knew what that meant; the blame would land squarely on my shoulders. I was right. One of the staff members grabbed me by the back of my shirt and marched me off into an office adjacent to the playroom where she commenced to scold me about my behavior. “You should be ashamed of yourself attacking those children just because they’re preacher kids.” “You East Side children are out of control, but you’re going to learn not to bring that attitude into my playroom, Mister! If you can’t act right and follow the rules I’m going to recommend your visitations privileges be suspended. Do you understand me?”

Her tirade was interrupted by the door opening and Ms. James entering the room. “Let’s go! She said in a stern voice. Get your stuff, go to the bathroom, and straighten yourself up and meet me at the back door to the garage.” “Yes Ma’am.” I said and hurried out of the room thankful for her saving me from the Dragon Lady. As I walked out of the room, one of the boys in the playroom began to reenact my beating punching himself in the head then grabbing his stomach and falling on the floor assuming the fetal position and screaming, Jesus!, Jesus!, Help me Lord!. The playroom erupted in laughter at my expense, and some of the children began to slap the hand of the boy reenacting my beating, bestowing praise on his acting skills. My little brother and his new brothers and sisters were standing in the back of the room, staunch faced, holding hands, standing from the oldest to youngest, with their heads down, praying.

The ride back home was made in silence. I chose to sit in the back seat with my face pressed into the back seat to hide my tears. Again, I was crying because of my love for my little brother. I didn’t understand how I could be crying over someone who had just rejected my love. I still had a lot to learn about life. Regardless, he was my little brother, and I promised my mama I would look out for him, and I would, with or without his love.