Twas the Day after Christmas

Twas the day after Christmas, a cold blustery day
When tired old Santa climbed out of his sleigh
Unhooked his eight reindeer , and off they did run
To flee from the cold and follow the sun.

Come back here you rogues, screamed the old gent
But they snorted and farted and off then they went.
Curses, screamed Santa, Get back to the stable
I'll chase you and catch you ... if only I'm able.

Even dear Rudoph was fleeing his master
Who tried to chase him, but Rudoph was faster.
So Santa decided to return to his hut
But he slid on the ice, and injured his butt.

He called for the elves, but they didn't answer,
He then called for Donder, Blitzen and Prancer,
He called for Dasher, Vixen and Cupid
But not Comet or Dancer who he thought were too stupid

He decided to get up and go park his sleigh
But just then he saw it whizzing away.
Santa mumbled and cursed and got to his feet
And fumbled for cookies or something to eat.

The cookies that children had left for St. Nick
Tasted stale and rancid, but he ate them up quick.
Then he dragged himself slowly into his hut
And fell fast asleep with his eyes tightly shut.

He slept for a week to rest his old bones
And he snored and he mumbled and the room filled with groans.
Then he soaked in his tub and swallowed his pills
And tried to forget his troubles and ills.

His clothes were all covered with ashes and soot
That he got in a chimney, plus a burn on his foot.
Then he put on his shorts and a fancy tee-shirt
And stepped into flip-flops ‘cause his burned foot still hurt.

He chartered a plane and flew to L.A.
Bought a new condo, where he lives to this day.

* * * *

When Christmas arrives this coming new year,
Don't even worry...you've nothing to fear.
Santa still sends gifts to your girls and boys,
All little children will still get their toys.

All they must do is stay in the house,
Turn on the computer and pick up the mouse,
Click on the links and then on their choices
And Santa will hear all their childish voices.

Their folks will save money when getting a tree
Thanks to virtual reality.
And thanks once again, to dear old St. Nick
Who is clever and crafty and knows every trick
To make every Christmas happy and bright
And to accomplish his miracles in one single night.

So, kids, don't send letters to the North Pole
"Cause Global Warming, we've been told
Will soon make the Pole disappear
And besides, Old St. Nick, now is living here..

Send all your letters to Sunny L.A.
On its close sunny beaches, there Santa does play
He snorkles and swims and checks out bikinis
And when no one is looking, he swills down martinis.

Whatever you do, Santa, it's quite all right.
Merry Christmas to you, and to you, a good night!!

Writ by me on December 24, 2007 Chrismas Eve

Sylvia Honig
Nassau, New York

I Never Had a Christmas Tree

The other day a friend asked me what little Jewish kids did at Christmas time if they didn't have a tree or didn't get any presents. He asked, hopefully, if we "did something else," probably referring to Chanukkah, a holiday my family never celebrated; we only celebrated the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement, the one "happy holiday," and the one dreary holiday when Jews are expected to atone for their sins and pray for the dead. As we lived in a largely Christian community, a small town with very few Jews, we didn't feel the need to observe the minor Jewish holidays. We did forgo bread for the eight days of Passover, but that was not a powerful religious observance for us. My parents seemed to trust that my sister, brother, and I were true believers in our religion, despite our scanty celebrations. Life among the gentiles was relatively easy for us, as we weren't burdened by their religious holidays and no large Jewish community was anywhere around to shame us into more orthodox observances.

In answering my friend's questions about what little Jewish kids did when they got no presents and no tree for Christmas, I told him that the only problem for me was when some well-meaning but insensitive second-grade teacher, a lovely motherly women, asked all the kids in the class after Christmas to tell her what presents they got. Before my turn came up, I made a mental list of all the things my parents and aunts had brought me during the year, and possibly even a few things that I had anyway, like clothes, books, and candy. In effect, I was lying, but I had to save face. I never mentioned it to my parents. They probably would have laughed anyway. Looking back, I feel bad for kids from poor families, but they probably lied also, because I don't recall anyone reducing the class to tears by admitting they got nothing or next to nothing.

The other little problem I had in the second grade was when the same teacher had us all singing Christmas carols. This was easier. I loved the songs, even to this day, I sing them to myself along with the radio, and sometimes even without the radio. I particularly recall singing, "Away in the Manger." When it came to the words, "...the little Lord Jesus laid down his sweet head," I sang it, but just omitted the name Jesus. I did mention this to my mother. She laughed, but admitted that her orthodox father would probably pass out if he heard me singing it, or even knew I sang Christmas carols. I still love Away in the Manger, and now I can even mention Jesus's name, even though I'm an atheist, but a Jewish atheist, which means I'm a Jew by tribal race, but a non-believer in the religious rituals.

I could tell that my friend felt sorry for me and other little Jewish kids who have no tree and no presents at Christmas. He's a Catholic and he, his wife and children always celebrate Christmas. In fact, he was on his way to Wal-mart to pick up last minute gifts and was calling me on his cell phone when his question came up, after I told him I was pleased that I never had to run around buying Christmas gifts. I was tempted to tease him and give him some frightening answers. I could have said, "That's probably why I have these severe emotional problems, especially around Christmas. I go into dark moods and plot foul crimes against people I don't like; I sometimes have bloody revenge fantasies in which I wear black and a hood that covers my face, and I kill chickens and small animals" . "Or I could've told him I ply myself with gin, smoke cigarettes, and binge on junk food until the holidays pass." But the truth is, at least in my case, I never missed having a tree or presents, because like most little Jewish children, we were informed early on that there is no Santa Claus (sob!),no elves (sob!) and the North Pole is just a frozen wasteland

The other upside about having no tree and no Christmas is that we never had to be disillusioned to learn that it was all a fairy tale, that there is no Santa Claus, and that the real meaning of Christmas is a celebration of the life of Jesus Christ, who was not part of our religious upbringing. Our parents did not have the burden of having to break the sad news to their innocent children that not only is there no Santa, but their parents lied to them.

Oh, well, I do believe a kind lie is worth more than a thousand cruel truths, and if the lies were part of the great Christmas spirit, of giving and forgiving, sharing and loving, it's O.K.
by me. I wish everyone a Merry Christmas when I meet them during the season, and I hope
they and their children have all the joys that Christmas brings.

Now I have to go out and kill off some chickens that have been keeping me awake nights. They belong to my neighbors, but they've been warned and now it's too late.

Sylvia

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!!

December 22, 2007

Juvenile Prisons for Girls - New York State's Hidden Dirty Little Secrets

During the 13 years I was a social worker for three New York State's juvenile prisons, then called "Training Schools," and later called "Residential Treatment Centers," and now referred to as "Detention Centers", I documented thousands of pages of day-to-day records of abuse. I started at the now defunct Hudson School for Girls in July, 1965, then at the now-defunct Wynantskill Center for Girls, and last, at the Brookwood Center for Boys in Claverack, New York, now transformed into the largest maximum security center for boys who are considered the most dangerous teens in the state.

All three of these intended-treatment centers were inept at best, but mostly neglectful and corrupt, and did much more harm than good. Even today, these juvenile "prisons" as I call them, are closed off to the public, hiding their extreme failures to help the youngsters they are so highly-paid to rehabilitate, and hiding serious abuses that would appall and infuriate most decent citizens, particularly the parents and families of these teenage victims of New York's failed juvenile justice system.

Here is a report from my first day back at the Hudson School for Girls shortly after the state closed the Wynantskill School for Girls after the abuse and neglect was uncovered, with help from me and one other staff member.

I had begun my social work career at the Hudson School in 1965, transferred to the Wynantskill School in 1968 after learning that the Hudson School had deteriorated so badly it was close to experiencing a riot. Unfortunately, I learned too late that the Wynantskill School was also in shambles and even closer to a riot, which occurred a few days after I got there. After three years at Wynantskill, I returned to the Hudson School with grave misgivings, but no choice in the matter, unless I left the state system, which I had no intention of doing.

On August 12, 1971, shortly after my return to Hudson School, I recorded this report:

(Note: Only first names and last names initials are used to protect confidentiality of the residents) Names of the staffers are the full names, and in Caps.)

* * * * * *

Thursday, August 12, 1971

I attended a group meeting in Cottage # 1 today at `12:30. I had asked GEORGE DOLECAL the cottage supervisor ( who maintained he had a degree in psychology, which was never proven) if I could observe his cottage meeting, to fulfill my commitment to observe one meeting before Friday, Aug. 13. GEORGE was amenable.

MRS. MARY HERRING, the Cottage #1 housemother attended, and another staff, a white woman wearing glasses, stayed until 2:00P.M. I didn't catch her name.

Two girls I knew from Wynantskill (they had been transferred after the closing) were part of the group. Evelyn G. And Arnita N., both from Mary Kozoriz's Cottage 6 at Wynantskill. There were seven other girls€”Gladys, Debbie, Terry, Carmen, Debbie N., JoAnn and Linda, none of whom I had ever seen before.

JoAnn and Terry were angry when they came in. Terry held her stomach and said she didn't feel well. JoAnn sat with eyes closed, and for most of the meeting, appeared to be trying to sleep, eyes closed tightly, a jacket serving as a blanket, and in a sleeping position. She was obviously quite angry and answered only when spoken to, and then in short, angry, clipped relies€“usually heavy with sarcasm.

A Negro girl named Debbie began the meeting. She was in an angry mood, every other word out of her mouth was obscene: fucking, you assholes, shit, fuck, etc. Arnita joined in occasionally. then Evelyn G. At first the subjects were trivial. Debbie complained that girls in the cottage would say to each other, "You're full of bullshit," and such other unfriendly statements, but would not explain why they said it. She brought up that Carmen wasn't functioning properly in the kitchen. Both girls were dressed in cook's uniforms, gold with white headbands. It was brought out that some of the cooks took the largest helping of food for themselves, particularly meat and fruit. The group agreed that one day some girls had meat heaped high on their plates while JoAnn had no meat at all. GEORGE DOLECAL asked JoAnn, who was looking very angry, why she hadn't said anything about it. She snapped without looking at him€“something to the effect that “well, you're hearing about it now. His retort, including the word "fuck" was something like "well, what the fuck good is it now “only made her look angrier and the subject was dropped.

Finally, Debbie and Arnita & Evelyn began to attack Debbie N. For not talking in the meeting. At one point, one of the girls asked her "Where's your mind at?" (To indicate that Debbie seemed disinterested in the meeting.) Debbie's answer was:

"In my head, where did you think it was?"

GEORGE DOLECAL yelled, "Up your ass. Why don't you stand up and then maybe you can think."

Debbie N. gave him a dirty look and turned away.

Evelyn G. Began to attack JoAnn for sleeping and Debbie N. For not talking. GEORGE DOLECAL seemed to become increasingly more annoyed at Debbie N. and at one point he told her if she didn't talk, she was going to bed at seven (7:00) that night. She told him she wasn't talking and she wasn't going to bed at seven either. They argued back and forth briefly.

Finally GEORGE told the group they were a bunch of bastards, referring to the "fucking meeting." Evelyn G. Became very upset at GEORGE DOLECAL, insisting that she was not a bastard. Finally she began crying. GEORGE DOLECAL told her that she shouldn't be mad at him, but at Debbie N. He said he would put the whole fucking bunch to bed at seven if the meeting didn't improve. Evelyn G. renewed her attack on Debbie N., using profanity, demanding that Debbie talk. Debbie refused. GEORGE DOLECAL said that he would drag her ass up the fucking stairs and throw her into bed if she didn't start talking. She still didn't talk. Before that, GEORGE DOLECAL told the group that he felt that Debbie N., JoAnn, and Linda should be transferred out of the cottage because they weren't doing anything in the meetings. The group members discussed their feelings, but there was a lot of tension and no real agreement within the group as to which girls deserved another chance and which should be transferred. Most felt that Linda deserved more of a chance, as she was relatively new, but that the other two needed to be transferred. All three girls, JoAnn, Debbie N. And Linda looked disgusted by the whole conversation and indicated that they didn't particularly care one way or the other.

Finally, the Debbie who was a cook, began sobbing, apparently with frustration and disgust as the whole tone of the meeting. Arnita & Evelyn began crying, too. Debbie (the cook) finally sobbed, "I want to go home to my mother." Later, Arnita said she had a terrible headache. Another girl said she had a headache, too.

MRS. HERRING said nothing throughout the entire meeting except once, when Debbie N. Looked at her and smiled sarcastically, MRS. HERRING then said, "You're stupid."

The other staff member said nothing at all and finally left at 2:00 PM. A few minutes after she left, GEORGE DOLECAL told the group they could sit there all night; he was going to have some coffee. He and MRS. HERRING left the meeting, inviting me to go with them, but I remained with the girls for about ten more minutes. The tension seemed to break a bit after GEORGE DOLECAL and MRS. HERRING left. The girls stopped picking on the scapegoats and two or three laughed.

During the meeting, at the height of their anger toward Debbie N., Debbie the cook had said she wanted to punch Debbie N. In the mouth. She asked GEORGE DOLECAL if she could do it. He said she could do whatever she wanted, but he didn't think it would solve anything. Later, Evelyn asked the same kind of question and his answer was generally the same, except to add that she would have to face the consequences.

Before George Dolecal left the meeting, girls were called JoAnn "The Sleeping Beauty," and Debbie N. "Queen Shit."

I thanked the girls for allowing me to observe and told them I hoped they could be more helpful to each other. They were very polite and friendly to me.

After I left, GEORGE DOLECAL returned to the meeting, but it broke up a few minutes later. There appeared to be a lot of tension and unrest in the cottage.

GEORGE JENSEN ( my then - supervisor) attended my community meeting in Cottage C. He entered as girls were saying that he had confused them by his remarks and that they preferred the way I operated the meeting. I asked the girls to tell GEORGE, which they did, and he explained to them his intended purpose€“getting them to look at their reactions & responses. Meeting proceeded fairly well. Girls talked about Elizabeth S. and it appeared to help her handle angry feelings a little better. She was able to verbalize her tendency to displace anger (in this case toward Debbie C) onto others.
_____________________________________________________________________

Note: George Dolecal continued to harass the girls and later became assistant superintendent at the Hudson School. The place deteriorated rapidly during the next three years; there were hundreds of runways and serious incidents, including a serious riot. Eventually my testimony before the Senate Select Crime Committee on February 13, 1975, led to the closing of the Hudson School. A few months later, in January, 1976, I transferred to the Brookwood School for Boys. A few months after that, George Dolecal was transferred to Brookwood also. His behavior there was completely opposite of his corrupt behavior at Hudson School. He was clearly frightened of the boys, stayed out of their way, and just hung around the secretaries, and often left the building to visit a friend. After a couple of years, he was promoted to superintendent of a Division for Youth camp; eventually, five or six female staff members at the camp sued George Dolecal for sexual molestation and harassment. I believe he was finally fired. The defendants won their case against him; it costs New York State taxpayers over $100,000 to settle the lawsuit against George Dolecal.

Cop Killer and Thrill Killer

Ralph "Bucky" Phillips and Willie James Bosket, Jr.

This is the true story of how I became the advocate for the two most dangerous killers in recent New York State History. Years before these two now-convicted murderers ever entered my life, I was a small town country girl, daughter of a farmer, and for four years a junior high school English teacher in a rural central school district near my home in Upstate New York.

At the age of 32, after deciding that a teaching career was not my life's ambition, hoping instead to become a journalist or fiction writer...which never happened...I took a job as a counselor with convicted delinquents locked up in New York State- run treatment centers...or, more accurately...junior prisons. As part of the job contract, New York State paid my tuition and all expenses to a graduate school of social work, and upon completing the two years masters degree, I was obligated to work in the juvenile prisons for at least two more years. Eventually, I worked with these kids for 13 years.

My last three years with the state New York State Division for Youth took place at the Brookwood Center for Boys, a maximum security facility for some of the state's most incorrigible and even dangerous kids, many from the crime-ridden streets of Harlem, Buffalo, Albany and Rochester. In the mix were other "bad" kids from very rural areas in upstate and the western counties of the state. Many of the "rural" kids were auto thieves or burglars.. The city kids, in contrast, were far more assaultive and difficult to deal with.

On September 24, 1976, shortly after Brookwood became one of the state's maximum security boys' center, a 14 year old from a small town called Stockton near Jamestown, was transferred to Brookwood under my direct supervision; his names was Ralph James Phillips.

Six months later, on February 18, 1977, another 14 year old boy from Harlem was transferred to Brookwood in a unit (called a wing) across from the unit I supervised; his name was Willie James Bosket, Jr.

For eleven months after the arrival of Ralph Phillips, and six months after Willie Bosket arrived, both were released on parole to their homes. End of the story? Actually, it was just the beginning.

Except for their delinquent histories and their birth year 1962,, Bosket and Phillips were direct opposites in many ways. Bosket was a city kid from Harlem, Phillips a country boy who was practically raised in the woods. Bosket was black, Phillips a white kid who was half Seneca Indian, although at Brookwood, he was classified as white, his Indian blood not particularly apparent in his appearance, nor did he ever mention it.

Willie Bosket was the most aggressive, disobedient kid in Brookwood at the time. Ralph Phillips was probably the most obedient, the least aggressive, the easiest to work with. Quiet, polite and somewhat shy, Ralph never caused any problems except one: he repeatedly absconded from Brookwood, usually with other passive white kids like himself, each time after they were beaten by the assaultive black kids. Each time they ran away, they stole cars. Ralph often got as far as Buffalo, once to an Indian reservation.

Willie never ran away from Brookwood. He was "top-dog" so to speak, calling all the shots, intimidating all his peers and most of the staffers. He had a long, terrifying history of violent behavior from the age of ten, assaulting secretaries, teachers, even psychiatrists.

By the time he was placed at Brookwood, he had already worn out his welcome at three other detention facilities, two of them state-run, one a private voluntary agency. At the age of ten he had even stolen a state van and driven it back to Harlem. His "reign of terror" at Brookwood was much to his liking. He never even attempted to run away. He was having too much fun, doing as he pleased, threatening kids and staffers, and rarely being punished.

Ralph was punished harshly each time he was captured after absconding. Usually the punishment was room or wing confinement and loss of privileges for weeks at a time, sometimes as long as a month. Willie rarely lost his privileges for longer than a day or two, even after beating up kids, destroying state property, and threatening to kill people.

Willie was released in six months. Ralph had to spend eleven months at Brookwood before he was sent home. Both of them were back in trouble within months of their release. In March, 1978, Willie was arrested for shooting three men, killing two of them, "just for the fun of it." He soon made headlines and was sentenced to the max at the time, five years, first in a juvenile prison, Goshen, and then to the state prisons after he turned 16 in December, 1978. After serving the five years, Willie went home to Harlem, and soon was re-arrested for a crime of menacing. Eventually, he committed more crimes in state prison, and in April, 1988, after stabbing a prison guard, nearly killing the man, he was sentenced to life without parole.

Ralph was arrested several times and eventually served three separate sentences in state prisons for non-violent crimes, mostly theft, burglary, and larceny. He never committed any violent crimes against people...until he was 44 years old, and then he escaped from a minimum security prison just four days before he was to be released
stole cars and then gunned down three state troopers, killing one of them.

Both Willie and Ralph are now spending the rest of their lives in New York State Prisons, both in maximum security Special Housing Units, monitored day and night, with hardly any privileges. Both live what I consider death-in-life scenarios. Neither one has any hope or chance of ever being free.. Both expect to die in state prison.
I have hundreds of letters from Willie James Bosket, Jr. and dozens of letters from Ralph "Bucky" Phillips. I was Willie Bosket's advocate and close friend for 15 years after he killed the two men in the Harlem subways.

I am currently the advocate for Ralph "Bucky" Phillips, who has been corresponding with me ever since he surrendered to the Pennsylvania state police eight days after shooting the two state troopers, killing one of them.

Their stories, and my connection to them describes the failed New York State juvenile justice system as well as the waste of two young lives. Presently, I'm too close to these tragedies to write about them. I keep all their letters. Both Ralph and Willie are brilliant young men; both write beautifully; both have unusually charismatic, appealing personalities; both of them have stunned their families and their friends by the violent, tragic crimes they committed, destroying the lives of their victims, their own families, and most of all, their own wasted lives.

The tragedy goes on. The endings are inevitable; the endings will be sad. These stories suggest that there is justice, but for those of us who are close to the victims, the criminals, or their families, there are no victories.

Introduction

I'm probably one of the few Americans who has lived in the same place for my entire life, which is now over 72 years. While it's true that I don't live in the same house where I was conceived and occupied for the first three years of my life, I live in the third house I've ever lived in, but all three houses were on the same dirt road in the town of Nassau in upstate New York, and all three within two or three miles of each other. The first two houses have been torn down years ago. My present home was built 43 years ago, and I moved in the day it was ready for occupancy.

Now you may assume I'm very provincial, in the negative sense of the word, because I'm unlike most Americans and even others from highly developed countries, who are well traveled in comparison. But that doesn't give me an inferiority complex. Just the opposite, in fact, because I believe that people who travel and /or move frequently, never develop their personalities as fully as the old salty characters like me, who have spent an entire lifetime in one small rural town, interacting with the same people until they die or move away, sharing a collective history with all the other "natives" like me... even though there are very few of us left in my age category... and developing a strong personal identity, much of which derives from the lay of the land, the climate, the ecology, and the geographical and demographic uniqueness of my home town.

Because I have developed such a strong, individual personality, I tend to be long-winded, talking about or writing about my anecdotal life experiences, my stubborn opinions and deep-seated convictions about life, in general, and my own life in particular. So I'm going to cut this introduction short, and proceed with the anecdotal tales, though individually unique, that make up the sum total of a quiet, but thoughtful and compassionate lifestyle, heavy on stories of stray dogs, pet dogs, animal stories, small town gossip, humor, some untoward events of interest, health and nutritional advice, poetry, art, literature, current events, crime and criminals, the stock market....for starters...an entire slumgullion, so to speak. If you care to take the journey with me, read on!! You won't be bored.

Ah! Summertime

Throughout the years the poets sing
Of Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring
And every poet has a reason
To prefer a certain season.
Why even Winter has been lauded,
Its icicles and snows applauded,
And autumn leaves so bold and bright
Inspired poets by this sight.
And all of us who do love Spring
Know why it makes the poets sing.

But Summer, Ah! the best of all
Inspires us more than Spring or Fall.
So many poets adore the sun,
So many write of Summer's fun--
The long, hot days, the summer breeze
That helps erase long Winter's freeze;
Picnics, swimming, outdoor cooking,
The tan that makes us all good-looking.

Vacation for the kids and teachers,
Wild fruits and nuts for all God's creatures.
The light-weight clothes and bathing suits,
Good-bye to heavy wools and boots"

The fireflies lighting up the night,
The lovely butterflies in flight
And Summer on the eastern shore
Is honored by the ocean's roar.
And all of us spend countless hours
Loving all the summer flowers;
And best of all the Summer's pleasures:
The clear blue skies -- its greatest treasures.
Of all the season's, Summer' s best,
It clearly outshines all the rest.

But wait! What is this I hear?
Dissenting voices in my ear.
Think about the sleepless nights,
Suffering from the insect bites;
Remember those who rave and rant
Plagued by the lowly little ant;
And the many rainy days
That turned blue skies into greys;
And thunder storms that woke the dead,
And lightning filled us all with dread--
Made trees crash down with a big thud
And turned your lovely lawn to mud.
The poison ivy gave you blisters
And poison oak that plagued your sisters;
The boring re-runs on TV
And nothing really good to see.
Summer trips to places sunny
That cost your family too much money;
The crawling deer ticks that appeared
And bit your children, as you feared;
The rabid fox that was seen
Ambling on your lovely green;
The baby birds killed by your cat,
Your children's tears because of that.
Your air-conditioner was a thrill --
Until you got that great big bill.

Enough! I've heard enough of Summer!
Of all the seasons --it's a bummer!

Oh, Wild West Wind, start to blow!
I'm getting ready for the snow.


Sylvia Honig
May 1995

Indians on the Loose

"Indians loose in the house! Indians loose in the house!" Routinely I recited this alarm anytime my boyfriend Norm walked quietly down our long hall to the bathroom, placing one foot in front of the other like a red fox, the way Indians walk. If my parents enjoyed the black humor of my standing prank, they never acknowledged it, nor did Norm, in his stoic, poker-faced Indian fashion. The joke never got stale because Norm rarely used the bathroom, apparently possessing a hollow leg, as the saying goes, for he would sit with me in the kitchen for hours, drinking coffee, on top of several beers he had consumed in local bars before his nightly visits. It was no surprise that his kidneys failed first as he lay dying in intensive care at age 56, but for the first 15 or 16 years of the 20 years we went together until I held his hand and watched him die in Samaritan Hospital in Troy, we spent countless hours together, mostly at my house, but often at his small cabin on Tsatsawassa Lake in nearby East Nassau.

If at first my parents frowned angrily and protested vehemently at our romance for many indisputably legitimate reasons, as the years passed --along with my flamboyant youth and my chances of desirable matrimony --they came to a state of disapproving resignation---probably assuming it wouldn't last forever, in view of my first 29 years of fickleness and apparent lack of dedicated husband-hunting, unlike most other Jewish girls from middle-class upwardly-mobile families.(By upwardly-mobile, I am referring to financial and educational upward mobility--not class status. My father's family migrated from New York City in 1901 when Daddy was a year old. He grew up on a farm, planting vegetables and milking cows. He dropped out of the one-room schoolhouse a five mile walk from his home--in the fifth grade at age 15 to work on the farm under orders from his stern, dictatorial but beloved father Daddy always maintained that he flunked all his final fifth grade exams with such marks as 27 in arithmetic and 49 in spelling, not because he was dumb but because the teacher punished him with insulting grades after he dipped the long blonde braids of the girl in front of him into the inkwell to get even on her for swishing them across his test paper. Probably the girl had a crush on him, my mother speculated. Until her dying day, she considered my tall, broad-shouldered Daddy the handsomest and most desirable man in the world, often decrying the fact that my sister and I would never find a man as wonderful as Daddy. So my father's ambitions for my older sister, younger brother and me were that we finished college and either married money or made lots of it. Money was of enormous importance to him because he worked so hard for a living and suffered from poverty throughout his youth, although to hear him tell it, there was no self-pity or even real deprivation. To him it was all a great adventure, every detailed, humorous, rich chapter engraved in the minds of his family and half the town of Nassau, as he became a popular raconteur from the time he left the farm, with all of us crammed into a pick up truck and a cousin's car, and moved seven miles away to a house bordering the state road, which he bought along with the local tavern that was also a gas station and general store. It was formerly known as Luke's Place, but changed to Jack's Place by my father, whom we all called Jack, even though he was called "Jake" by the old-timers who frequented our establishment.

My mother, whom we called Mommy, also aspired to see her children become well-educated and rich, as the poverty of her childhood and adolescence in New York City's lower East Side, the Bronx, and even Harlem Jewish ghettos left deep emotional scars. Cheerful and upbeat most of the time, my mother was an inspiration to us children, always looking on the bright side, encouraging us with her love and humor, reminding us all the time that, "There may be some people as good as you, but there's nobody better." The only times she lapsed into a somber mood was when she reminisced about going to school crying because her mother had nothing for breakfast, having given the last meager fare to her children, or her family's constant moving from one tenement to another every time they were evicted for not paying the rent, or the severe headaches she suffered because her family could not afford fresh fruit or vegetables. As a child she longed for fresh oranges, and shortly after she married my father, who had not a penny saved but lived from the small profits he earned selling eggs and vegetables at the farmer's market near Albany, at least they always had enough food on the table, and when they left the farm and bought Jack's Place, the money came in slowly but steadily, insuring plenty of food from then on. Still, my mother always feared that the wolf might reappear at the door and that fear fueled her ambition that her children should be rolling in money so that we would never have to suffer the humiliations and deprivations that haunted her childhood.

Getting back to my parents' understandable objections to my romance with the Indian --actually, Norm was only half-Indian and half-French, which made it even worse because he had been born and reared a Catholic--harder for Jewish parents to accept than a mere protestant. No need to worry on that score, however, because after marrying a beautiful protestant years before I met him and having four children with her, Norm had converted to Methodist. We rarely discussed religion, as it was a moot point. He was a gentile--it didn’t matter what the particular denomination. Eager to please my parents so he could continue seeing me--the great love of his life as it turned out--Norm offered at first to convert to Judaism. I found this highly amusing, as he didn't bear the slightest resemblance to anything or anyone remotely Jewish or even any distant Semitic tribe. Six feet four, with wavy, inky-black Indian hair, grey at the temples, dark, deep-set, slitty Indian eyes, and a complete outdoors man, Norm was the quintessential gentile, albeit a most attractive and charming specimen, I thought. Religious differences were the least of my parents' objections, as it turned out, partly because we ourselves were not zealously orthodox, although my parents considered the possibility that any of their three children would marry a non-Jew unthinkable and a complete betrayal of their values. Also, Norm had no religious interests or convictions, never went to church, disclaimed any religious affiliations, and never even spoke of God. His only concession was Christmas, when he bought me lovely presents, and I reciprocated. But that was pure romance---nothing to do with religion.

Most objectionable to my parents was Norm's ex-wife and four children. Also high on their list was his heavy drinking and chain-smoking. Soon we learned that he was several thousands of dollars in arrears for child-support payments that he had no intention of paying, as he blamed his wife for cheating on him and leaving him. Thus she was forced to live on welfare for a year or so until she got a secretarial job and a lawyer who hauled Norm into court several times to make him start paying up. Once when he decided to disobey the court order--apparently his idea that his Indian prerogatives permitted him to ignore support payments, he was hunted down by State Troopers, who had no trouble finding him at one of the local neighborhood bars, and thrown in the county jail for a couple of days until a drinking buddy of his ante-ed up the $500 fine; the generous friend and I then drove to the jail and freed Norm who was so relieved that he kept up payments for awhile. Later on, my brother Marvin, upon passing the bar exam, took on Norm as a first client and gave him a cheap divorce, uncontested by his furious wife who wanted to be rid of him and all the aggravation of getting an attorney and hauling him into court, even forgiving a large debt of over $2500 that he owed her in back payments. Although he still had to pay child support, he went to court one day to plead for reduced payments because she was now working, and as a construction worker, Norm was laid off in the winter months and lived on small unemployment benefits. Luckily for Norm, the judge seemed unsympathetic to Norm's wife, and drastically reduced the support payments. For years afterwards, my brother regularly reported back to me that one of the officers in the Rensselaer County Family Court who knew the case used to go around telling anyone who would listen,"There's this big Indian named Norman DeLorme who works as a bulldozer operator and makes big bucks while his wife was on welfare for a year and now makes a small salary and has four kids to support, and all she gets is a measly 50 bucks a week in support payments? Norm used to laugh gleefully every time I told him that Marvin reported
another such recital.

Further parental objections included the educational disparity between Norm and me. He was a high school dropout while I had a B.A. from Washington Square College of NYU, having majored in English literature with a minor in philosophy. When I met Norm I had taught English for four years in a local school and was completing a Master's degree in library science. With only a few weeks to go, I dropped out to pursue him. The following year I won a scholarship to the State University at Albany and in two years I had a Master's Degree in Social Work, graduating at the top of my class with a nearly straight A average. My parents assumed that the educational disparity would eventually bring me to my senses, but after four years, Norm had no intention of letting me slip away. Many times I tried to break off with him--not because of my parents' objections--which had dimmed with time. I think my father actually decided it was a good thing, realizing that I was not the marrying kind. The thought of marriage always struck me as a trap; it meant the end of romantic pursuit, which I was so good at and thoroughly enjoyed. Besides, I had a short temper when anyone tried to dominate me, and I knew that any marriage I attempted would end in either divorce or violence. My father, witnessing several of my outbursts, said to my mother one day, "Sylvia will never get married. No man will ever put up with her." I agreed. Marriage was never in the cards for me; when it finally dawned on my parents, it considerably eased their objections to Norm.

Arguments between Norm and me were frequent and increasingly bitter; his jealousy was a major problem. He mixed me up with his ex-wife, assuming that I, like her, was cheating on him. He began following me around whenever he wasn't working, particularly in the winter months when construction work came to a standstill. A couple of times our arguments escalated into physical fights, once when I slapped him and he slapped me back. Another time when I stopped my car after seeing him emerge from a local bar and we argued, he punched me in the face. I shot off at once for the State Police barracks and reported the assault, although I had no scars or bruises. Unfortunately, it was treated as a lover's quarrel, and I stopped seeing him for several weeks until he begged forgiveness and I relented.

Over the years my parents grew genuinely fond of Norm, admiring his persistence and stoic tolerance of my temperamental outbursts and domineering ways. In all important respects he became a full-fledged member of the family. Often during his daily and nightly visits as we sat around the kitchen table, my mother would say, "Norm, how long are you going to put up with this, day after day?" Each time a sadistic smile would beam across his handsome face, his slitty Indian eyes narrowed for emphasis, and his stock reply came forth, "Not much longer. Any day now."

That day never came, until Norm left us forever. By then, my father had been dead for four years, I was 50 years old, and my mother had another year and a half to live. I'm 66 now and I live with my three dogs in the same house where Norm made almost daily and nightly visits for over 20 years. And there are no more Indians loose in the house.

A Senior Citizen's Lament

I look in the mirror, and what do I see?
Is that a wrinkle staring at me?
Heaven forbid! It's some ghastly mistake,
Perhaps it's frosting from the chocolate cake.
Wait! I'm trying to brush it away,
I know it wasn't there yesterday.

Hmmmmm. I rubbed and I scrubbed but I still see a line.
Well, if it's a wrinkle, at least it's quite fine.
It isn't too long and it isn't too deep.
Maybe it's there because of the way that I sleep.

Someone once told me, never sleep face down;
It'll scrunch up your face so you'll look like a clown.
They said you must sleep on your back or your side;
If not you'll have wrinkles that you never can hide.

Oh, well, one small wrinkle on somebody's face
Isn't a sign of old age or disgrace.
A dab of foundation will surely conceal it;
I won't tell a soul; I'll never reveal it.

One last look to make sure it's all right;
Good grief! I see that I still look a fright.
What do I see now next to my eyes?
I'll take a close look: whoa! --nasty surprise!
It's hard to believe what I think that I see --
A whole bunch of crows must have landed on me.
They must have arrived while I was asleep
Because they left footprints from their big scaly feet.

I'll slather on make-up to cover their tracks
And plaster of paris to fill in the cracks.
Then I'll powder it all with a big fluffy puff
And hope that these measures will be quite enough.

O.K. It's done. What a great disguise.
You can't even see rings under my eyes.
Just one quick check to make sure that I'll pass
For someone much younger --a smooth-skinned young lass!
Yipes! Do I see skin beginning to sag?
Am I starting to look like a real old hag?
And under my chin -- I see real trouble.
One chin is enough -- I don't need a double.
I'll have to keep my head held high
And pretend that I'm looking right up at the sky.
And in my dyed hair, do I see a white streak?
That's just what it is. I look like a freak!

Enough of this whining about my lost youth.
I'm sick of this trying to hide the real truth
I'll scrape off this make-up and wash my face clean
who cares if my wrinkles can clearly be seen?
No longer will aging kindle my fear;
I boldly accept my advancing years.

I'll dress like a crone and let my hair turn all white,
I'll putter around and go to bed before night;
I'll wear my spectacles at the end of my nose,
I'll wear house dresses and roll up my hose.
I'll save a fortune on make-up and clothes,
I'll be a little old lady, and it won't be a pose.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
But since I'm only 64
I'll give myself one year more.
So, Gangway! I'm off to the mall!
To buy cosmetics, paint and all.
Just one more year to paint my face,
and then -- maybe --I'll grow old with grace.

Sylvia Honig Copyright June 1998

The Shape of Things to Come

These words are those I love to hear:
"I see you've lost some weight, My Dear."
These are the words I've come to hate:
"I see that you've put on some weight."

I dislike folk who get quite fresh
And talk about excessive flesh.
I won't go near a bathroom scale
The moving numbers tell a tale
Of not-so-subtle added pounds,
Advancing flesh, unsightly mounds,
Unsightly bulges round my waist
Reminders of my gourmet taste
For cakes and pies and fatty sauces
That obstruct those hoped-for losses.

Worst of all are the mirrors
Which confirm my dreaded terrors.
Gadzooks! I can't believe my eyes!
I think I've gained another size.

It might be all the coke I guzzle--
Maybe I should wear a muzzle.
What a challenge! What a hurdle!
I'm looking for my old used girdle.

I hate to start another diet,
But I'm desperate -- I have to try it.
No more pies, cakes or steaks--
I'll starve myself --that's what it takes.
I'll try to live on sticks and stones,
Holes of doughnuts, meatless bones.
I'll walk and run and exercise,
I'll banish all those cakes and pie,
Give up those foods I love so well--
It's my new diet--the one from Hell.

And when I again regain my shape
Everyone will stare and gape;
Congratulations will pour in
Because at last, I've gotten thin!

Well, now that's settled -- I can't wait,
I think that I will set a date
To give up all my favorite food--
I'll start it when I'm in the mood.

And while I'm thinking when to start
I'll munch on this small apple tart,
I'll polish off that great big steak
And finish up the chocolate cake.
A scoop of ice cream -- what's the harm?
And fresh sweet cream -- straight from the farm.
A glass of coke to wash it down
It can't add more than just a pound.

Oh! Hang it all -- no more lies.
I'll buy clothes in a larger size.


Sylvia Honig
C. August 1999

The Dying Children

America is crying for her children
Something must be done,
For they are dying in our streets
In their desperate search for fun.

The joys we knew when we were young
No longer fill their needs;
They've learned instead to seek the thrills
That come from evil deeds.

When kids are sad or they are bored
They often turn to crime,
So in their most important years
They end up doing time.

Not long ago who would have dreamed
That kids could get a gun
And join the war out on our streets
And kill someone -- for fun.

Our streets are red with children's blood
Brought down by their own peers,
Cut down in the first bloom of youth
And could not live out their years.

* * * * * * * * * * *

One day I went to prison
To interview a youth
Who once had killed two people--
I went to learn the truth.

He shot two boys down in cold blood
When their backs were turned,
Some people said he had a rage
Inside him that just burned.

I asked him first about his crime
Why two boys had to die.
He answered me without a pause,
He never blinked an eye.
"I was just 15 at the time
I went out after dark,
I picked the victims randomly,
I did it for a lark.

"I realize now that it was wrong
It made my mother weep,
But I don't think about it now,
And I never lose much sleep.

"I never showed remorse,
Because it was too late
But people said that what I did
Was triggered most by hate.

"I never hated those two boys
Because they were just strangers,
Who wandered out into the dark
Regardless of the dangers.

"They didn't know that I was waiting
With gun and anger armed
Because they both were innocent
They thought they'd go unharmed."

I asked him if he ever thought
About those two boys' mothers,
About the horror and the sorrow
Of their relatives and brothers.

"I didn't think about it then,
I know that that sounds cold,
But I was only 15 years
And that's not very old."

He spoke of deprivation
In childhood and youth,
He promised to reform
And swore he spoke the truth.

I hoped he was sincere
And didn't tell me lies--
But still I was disturbed
By the cold look in his eyes.

I often think about him
And wonder how he fares,
Spending years in prison --
I wonder if he cares.

****************

I hear of other children
Who fight and maim and kill.
We haven't found the answer--
Perhaps we never will.

It's easy to point fingers
And find someone to blame,
While our streets resound with gunfire --
It is our nation's shame.

I think about this problem,
I know that it runs deep;
I think about the killer's words,
"I never lose much sleep."

If there is any lesson
To be learned from this warfare:
We have to love our children
And teach them how to care.


Sylvia Honig
February 1995

Mad Enough to Kill

Chapter 1 - The Most Dangerous Prisoner

Armed robbers, rapists, and murderers walk the long, grim halls of Brookwood Center, one of New York State's maximum security detention centers for male juvenile deliquents; most of them are 15 years old. Brookwood, originally the center for delinquent girls, reverted to a boys' facility for barely a year ago on February 18, 1977, when 14 year old Willie Bosket is admitted. His arrival causes a flurry of excitement among us staff because of recent rumors that he had been shot to death while mugging someone on the streets of Harlem.


Willie is well-known here, even though he just arrived. He was here two years ago in 1974 and early '75 when the New York State Division for Youth turned the BrookwoodCenter for Girls into a co-ed program. After a year, the program failed; the complex problems of simultaneously supervising male and female delinquents had been under-estimated. Riots erupted, and the boys' program was phased out. Willie, only 11 when he first came to Brookwood, left behind an unforgettable reputation as one of the most unmanageable children in Brookwood's history.

Although at that time I was working at the nearby Hudson School for Girls, I had met Willie once. He was at the Hudson railroad station with Brookwood staff, who were putting girls on the train for Christmas home visits; at the same time, I was bringing girls from the Hudson School to the station. I remember a small, angry-looking boy who looked too young to be in a training school (as detention centers were called in those days). Willie was the last boy at Brookwood and would be going home soon, I learned from the staff who introduced us.

"What are you in for?" I asked.

"For stabbing people."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because they mad me mad," he told me.

When Willie arrivbes without warning on February 18, we are more amused and curious than alarmed. We tease Bruce Kline, the staff member who had spread the rumor of Willie's "death," and we feel sheepish about our unquestioning acceptance of the story. Perhaps Willie is not so violent anymore. He is 14 now and his appearance has changed considerably. Although still physically slight and not particularly tall, his delicate baby face has matured and he is very good-looking, though he looks no more than 14. He smiles shyly and says hello when his supervisor, Phil Willams, introduces us in the hallway. I ask him if he remembers meeting me in the Hudson railroad station two years ago. He shakes his head, smiles politely, and says he doesn't remember me.

From then on, I see little of him. I hear he has been exempted from attending school and is working the maintenance department. I don't understand why Brookwood's director,. Tom Pottenburgh, has bestowed such an exceptional privilege on Bosket, but I have little time to reflect on it. Wing 2, which I co-supervise as the assistant to Ed Davis, is in critical shape, and I am nearly overwhelmed by the responsbilities and grave problems we face.

Three 15 year old boys are creating chaos in the wing. All three are physically well-developed, they are illliterate, and they are very hostile. As they are the only black residents in the unit, their intimidation of the eight or nine white boys is creating problems of racial dissention among both boys and staff.

"Niggers don't go to school in Wing 2," a staff member tells me one morning. Wilson Cole*, Leroy Harkins*, and Stewart Jackson* all remain in bed, sleeping till lunch is called at noon. The white residents hate school, too, but they attend, relieved to get away from their three tormentors. Most of the time, Ed Davis is out of the wing; I am left to confront these three "hardrocks" and suffer their defiance and occasional verbal abuse. The rest of the staff are fed up with them, too.

LeRoy Harkins, the most explosive--the biggest trouble-maker of the three-- goes on a 47 day "home visit" from January 13 through March 1. The visit is actually Brookwood's attempt to dump him back on the community, but he gets into trouble and is returned a few days after Willie Bosket arrives. Harkins is more unruly and defiant thean ever. Shortly after he returns, he sees a small, slight, light-skinned black kid wearing a green workman's ocoverall, a yellow hard-hat, and a tool belt with hammers and screw drivers. It is Willie Bosket, quietly and efficiently doing his maintenance tasks.

"Who's that?" Harkins asks me, and "What's he doing?"

I explain it to him. "I want a job just like that," says Harkins. I report his demand to Pottenburgh and Ed Davis, and they have to do some fancy talking to deny h is request and pacify him.

The next couple of months turn into a nightmare. On February 27, Wilson Cole assaults our 50 year old night staff, a tall gentle man who never antagonizes the residents. For no apparent reason, Cole jumps him in the hallway after breakfast and beats him so badly that the floor is covered with blood. The man is rushed to the nearby Columbia-Memorial Hospital emergency room and treated for a large gash on his forehead. His blood pressure shoots up over 200 after the attack.

I am off duty that day. I return the next day to find that the entire staff had been too frightened of the l5 year old attacker to discipline him. A disciplinary hearing is pending, but director Pottenburgh has delayed it, giving Wilson the feeling he is going to escape punishment. When I confront him and threaten him with court action and possible transfer, Cole turns hostile to me. He finds excuses to draw me into arguments, and then threatens me with physical violence. At least three times I have to call for male assistance when he is threatening me. When the disciplinary hearing is finally held weeks later, Pottenburgh lets Cole off the hook with vague threats of a transfer and a slight delay for a home visit. Soon Cole is back to his worst behavior, terrorizing and assaulting the other frightened boys and threatening the staff.

Harkins develops an excessive attachment to me and makes increasing demands on my time and attention. He won't deal with any other staff and frightens them away, including supervisor Ed Davis. Nevertheless, whenever Harkins becomes upset, and he does so with increasing frequency, I have no influence or control over him. He throws violent tantrums that totally disrupt not only Wing 2 but the entire Brookwood program. He becomes so uncontrollable that he has conditioned us to panic when he begins threatening, breaking up the furniture, sometimes hurling obscenities and sobbing. Anytime this happens, frantic calls for help are sent out from Wing 2, and anywhere from six to twelve men rush in to subdue him and lock him in a stripped room until he calms down. A couple of times it requires a pair of handcuffs as well.

Stewart Jackson, the third trouble-maker, is less trouble than the other two, but acts as their accomplice, teasing and threatening the white boys, refusing to attend school. He's not so vicious as the other two, but he llikes to join in on the fun, thereby compounding the problem for the staff.

By the middle of April, Pottenburgh, Davis, and I are the rest of the Brookwood staff are anxious to get rid of Harkins. He seems to be the major problem and he's getting worse. I notice that when one resident becomes unmanageable and is identified as the chief trouble-maker, he acquires a monopoly on that role. Harkins has that monopoly from the day he arrives in July, 1976, until we release him on April 25, 1977, approximately two months after Willie arrives. Perhaps this is why Willie keeps such a low profile for the first two months. Perhaps one trouble-maker of imposing stature acts out the forbidden wishes of the other angry inmates.

Everyone --boys and staff-- is relieved when Harkins leaves. Cole and Jackson are still very hostile, but Harkins's explosive presence was the single most demoralizing influence in the wing. A lot of pressure is off now, especially for me.

Before I can fully unwind and get a better grip on the situation in Wing 2, Willie Bosket abruptly intrudes on my plans. I have nearly forgotten about him during the past two months. The only time I notice him prior to Harkins's departure on April 8 is when Willie gets explosive for some reason and sets off the fire alarm. His supervisor, Phil Williams, and director Pottenburgh rush to apprehend him in the hallway. They flank him and walk him to the infirmary to be locked in a stripped room until he calms down.

I pass them in the long hallway. I am surprised they appear so grim, for Pottenburgh is 6 feet 9 inches tall and weighs at least 300 pounds. Williams is over six feet as well. Willie is no more than 5'' 6" and perhaps 100 ppounds. But the men look uneasy as they escort their small charge to the punishment areas.

Willie's handsome, fine features are contorted in fury. He walks stiffly between the two tall men; he seems possessed by uncontrollable rage--about to explode. If he sees me, he gives no sign, staring straight ahead. I am glad when they pass out of sight. There is something nerve-wracking about Willie's explosive anger.

He does not remain locked up for long and is back on his maintenance job within a few hours. I think no more about him until the first week in May, when he comes to my attention a a far more compelling and frightening manner.

**************************************************

*The names of all the residents, except for Willie, are changed to protect their confidentiality.

Chapter 2 - Willie Turns on Me

All at once Willie looms into my life in a tense, terrifying drama. It is the beginning of his vicious, irrational behavior toward me, and when he's abusive and threatening, I feel like quitting my job. I question my ability to work with delinquents now; if I tremble before a 14 y ear-old boy, I will have to leave Brookwood.

It is nearly a month since LeRoy Harkins has been released on April 25, and I have staggering problems to contend with in Wing 2. Wilson Cole's burgeoning hostility toward everyone has come into full bloom, causing such demoralization that the entire wing seems about to collapse. Some of the male staff are so frightened of him that they take turns calling in sick, leaving the women on duty alone. On May 19, two days before Willie starts in with me, Wilson becomes violent and yanks the steering wheel of a state car driven by staff Vernon Jeffries. The car swerves toward a tree, but Vernon is able to regain control just in time. Back inside Brookwood, Wilson starts slapping around the white boys in Wing 2 and knocks over big garbage cans in the hall. Vernon calls for assistance; several male staff subdue Wilson and place him in a stirpped room in the infirmary.

Two days later, Wilson is still locked up, still very hostile. Wing 2 staff have to take turns sitting in the infirmary to keep him under constant supervision while he is isolated. Whenever he has to eat or use the bathroom, several men are called to stand by while the door is unlocked. One time he rips the toilet off the floor in a rage.

It is Saturday, May 21. Sometime in the late afternoon, I will have the unpleasant task of supervising him, but during the earlier part of the day, I go outside the enclosed courtyard with five of my boys to supervise their recreation while they ride the two bicycles and play ball. We are outside enjoying the sunshine and fresh air when the locked door opens and Willie and his friend, Dereek Evans, also a Wing l resident like Willie, come out to join us. Marty, the Wing l staff, lets them out and then disappears back inside. I am irritated because he has shifted his authority and responsibility for them to me without even asking and left me alone with seven boys.

For the first time, I realize that I am uneasy when Willie Bosket is around. Just before we went outside, I had talked to John Deters, Wing 1's assistant supervisor. He has been complaining to me recently of the permissive treatment of Willie Bosket; he blames his supervisor, Phil Williams, and director Pottenburgh for coddling Willie, giving him special privileges. Today he's furious because after Willie and Derek Evans had been disruptive all morning, Phil Williams took them off-campus for two hours to pacify them; the rest of the wing had to sit around the smoke-filled lounge and wait until this afternoon before they can go outside or off-campus.

Apparently, Willie and Derek are still being rewarded for their misconduct, and that makes me jittery. Derek is a scary youngster. A 15 year old black kid from New York, he is muscle-bound, sullen, and assaultive. I hear he's serving time for a manslaughter conviction. He rarely looks anyone in the eye and, like Willie, gets more privileges than any other Wing 1 kids. Moreover, he and Willie are "best friends" who hang out together all the time. Together, they are doubly intimidating.

As soon as Bosket and Derek are turned loose on us, they demand the two bicycles from my boys, who silently hand them over. I can tell my boys are frightened of them, and I know I should intervene, but Willie and Derek ride off quickly, ignoring me. They are back within minutes, and I feel very dangerous vibrations. They are riding the bicycles fast, causing my boys to jump out of the way. They are trying to scare us.

One of my boys asks if he can go back inside to use the bathroom. When I try to unlock the door to let him in, I find the lock is jammed. This has happened several times recently: I and other staff have reported it, but so far, it hasn't been fixed. I fight down rising anxiety. Now I am locked outside with Willie Bosket and Derek Evans; I hardly know either one of them, but I have the definite feeling that they are hostile to me. As the only staff present, it is my respon.sibility to keep order and use my authority if necessary to protect the boys I supervise.

My boys watch anxiously as I struggle with the lock. It's no use. Then Bob Decker, one of my boys, offers to climb over the 14 foot wire security fence, go to the front door, and ring the bell for h elp. Everyone at Brookwood knows that the security fences are inadequate and can be scaled in seconds by any boy who wants to escape. Often, staff have asked boys to scale the fence to pick up stray baseballs during recreation.

I give Decker permission to go over the fence. As soon as I do, Willie Bosket leers at me and says:

"Oh, giving permission to go over the fence. That's against the rules here. I'm going to report you."

"Go right ahead," I tell him, trying to appear unconcerned. He laughs and drops the subject, pretending he is playing, but I know better. He is testsing his ability to confront me to see if he can ruffle my composure and
challenge my authority. Minutes seem endless until one of the staff, summoned by Decker's ringing the doodrbell, comes to open the door. I decide to end the recreation period early. I tell my boys and they follow me inside without a murmur of protest. Like me, they are relieved to get away from Willie and Derek, who come back inside with us and return to their wing.

I try to forget about the incident. The entire day is unpsetting and seems fraught with danger now. I know that Wilson Cole will be abusive when it is my turn to supervise him later. Perhaps I am just jumpy about Willie because I know what's coming with Wilson, but I cannot shake the feeling that Willie is out to get me.

Around 2:00 in the afternoon, I am walking down the long hall to my wing when I hear footsteps behind me. Before I can turn around, someone calls loudly, "Hey, Sylvia, are you horny?

Whirling around, I see Willie Bosket, escorted by his staff, Bob Pollock. Pollack leaps toward Willlie and grabs h is arm, but Willie shakes him off. he has a wild look; he seems highly excited. I stop and stare at him, fighting against panic. As I look directly at him, he shouts as loudly as he can, "Sylvia, do you want some dick up your pussy? Did you fuck LeRoy Harkins? Do you fuck Wilson Cole?'

I cannot move or speak. BOb Pollock is horrified. He tells Willie to shut up, but Willie ignores him and laughs loudly in my face. I turn around and walk ahead. I am terrified. Willile has declared open warfare on me. He knows now he can abuse me verbally, talk to me as if I have no authority all, call me filthy names, and get away with it. Bob Pollock tried to stop him, but he is only a line-staff and has no real authority here, and Willie is not afraid of him. I realize that I am now Willie's prime target for abuse, and Pottenburgh and Williams will not take any serious steps to protect me or stop Wille. They are angry at me for reporting the deteriorating conditions at Brookwood to Central Office
recently and criticizing their leniency. Besdies, they act frightened of Willie themselves.

I go to my wing office and try to write diagnostic reports that are overdue, but I can't concentrate. Finally, at 4:00 P.M., it is my turn to go into the locked infirmary and supervise Wilson Cole. It's almost a relief. Even though Cole is hostile to me, at least he is locked up, whereas Willie Bosket is wandering around freely, and just as hostile. At least I will be safely locked up away from Willie for awhile.

As soon as I go to the infirmary and lock myself in, Cole sees me through the widow pane of his locked door; he begins to abuse me, and he is a master at it:

"Sylvia," he calls out in his most sadistic tone, "Is your mother big and fat?"

I try to ignore him, but he repeats the question. "No, she's slightly plump," I tell him.

"When I get outta here, I'm gonna fuck both you and your mother," he says.

"How about your mother. Is she big and fat?" I ask. I decide to give him back some of his own bitter medicine. It is highly unprofessional of me,but I've had enough abuse from him and Bosket today, and I don't feel like taking it lying down anymore.'

Cole is surprised. "Yes, she is, " he says, "but I'm gonna fuck you and your mother."

"Why don't you go home and fuck your own big fat mother?" I suggest calmly.

Cole is astonished. He has never heard me talk like this before. After a momentary startled silence, he gives a loud, crowing laugh. He likes this dirty game.

"Bitch, " he says, 'I'll get your mother's pussy."

"Get your own mother's pussy, you little bastard," I tell him calmly.

"Sylvia, how come you're talking all this shit?"

"Because you're talking all your shit."

"Sylvia, this one's for you," he yells. I look at him from my desk. He is holding up a two-by-four that he has just ripped from the wooden bed frame with his bare hands. "As soon as I get out, Bitch, I'm gonna kill you, " he says.

"Good," I say. Then you can go to jail and spend the rest of your miserable life there, because that's where you belong. My troubles will be over."

He laughs again. "Bitch. This one's for you. As soon as I get out, I'm gonna do the Big One. I'll find where you live."

I get up, walk to his door, and stare eyeball to eyeball with him. "Wilson, you don't scare me. I'm not afraid of any little 15 year old boy."

"I ain't no boy. I'm a man."

Now I laugh sarcasticallly. "I don't see any man. I see a rotten, little 15 year old boy, and you can threaten me all you want. I'm not even going to look over my shoulder when you get out of here. I don't give a damn what you do or say, you don't bother me at all. Too bad God gave you so much brawn and so little brains."

Wilson is speechless. He laughs, but I can see he is stunned by my counter-attack. He knows that he can snap my neck in a second if he feels like it, but at this moment, I don't give a damn. I'll worry about it when he gets out of isolation.

I go back and sit down, and for a few minutes it is quiet. I feel very good because I have discharged some of my repressed rage and outrage at being humiliated and unfairly abused. I'm beginning to calm down.

Suddenly my serenity is shattered. I hear a loud, maniacal laugh outside the locked infirmary door and a taunting voice calls out, "Hey, Sylvia, how would you like some dick up your pussy?"

It is Willie Bosket. Through the door's ventilaton slats at the bottom, I see a quick movement and then hear Willie's voice loudly repeating, "Would you like some dick up your pussy?"

Everyone in Wings l and 2 must hear Willie, but no staff comes to get him, no one calls me on the phone to ask if I want help. Then I hear another loud laugh coming from Wilson Cole's room. He is enjoying himself immensely as an appreciative audience.

Willie repeats his obscene question for the third time. I am very frightened. I am locked up alone, and on either side of me--fortunately behind locked doors--are the two most vicious, violent inmates, and both of them hate me. The administration is against me and I cannot expect any support from my supervisor, Ed Davis, as he, too, is afraid of Wilson and is not going to get himself involved with Willie Bosket on my behalf. For a long time, Davis has resented my superior rapport with LeRoy Harkins; I know I can't look to him for any help now.

After a few minutes , Willie repeats his question again. I decide to try humor.

"What's dick?" I ask.

He repeats it again. "What's pussy?" I ask.

A nasty laugh again from Wilson Cole's locked room. He is expressing his listening enjoyment and paying me back at the same time.

After about five minutes, Willie gets tired of his sadistic game and returns to his wing. When I hear his footsteps retreating, I close my eyes and try to calm down, but I feel very shaky.

Then Wilson calls out, "Sylvia."

"What do you want?"

"What are you gonna do if Willie gets in here?" he asks.

"I'm going to unlock your door and let you out," I tell him.

He laughs loudly. I am emotionally exhausted and sick at heart by the time another staff comes to relieve me at 5:30 and I can go home at last. I'm positive that Willie Bosket is just beginning to terrorize me, and I wonder if I 'll have the courage to keep working at Brookwood.

****************************************


Chapter 3 - Mad Enough to Kill


Saturday mornings have always been dreary at Brookwood, but now they hold a special terror. Since Willie began taunting me a couple of weeks ago, Saturdays are dangerous times for me. There is only a skeleton staff and a poorly planned schedule. This creates boredom and boredom can lead to disaster here. Today, on June 4, the silence in the long hallway to the wings seems ominous as my day begins. I try to put Willie out of my mind, but persistent premonitions of a showdown disturb me.

I don't have long to wait. Just before brunch is called, Willie suddenly appears before me in the entranceway between Wings 1 and 2. He blocks my path and stares at me, smirking.

"Whore. Sylvia Honig is a whore."

I have an impulse to dash to the safety of my wing, but I don't dare lose face before a resident, and any sign of weakness may incite him further. Besides, I want him punished.

I have difficulty breathing, but I force myself to stand still and glare back at him. "I've had enough of your filthy remarks. I'm going to report it to your staff."

"I'll get him for you," Willie says sarcastically and disappears into Wing l. Seconds later he reappears with John Deters, Wing 1's assistant supervisor. Deters looks nervous. Like me, he is on the administrative black list and has no real authority here. Pottenburgh and Williams are gunning for him because he is critical of the program, and Willie Bosket is a sore point. Deters had complained about the permissive treatment of Willie to Phil Williams and has been told to keep his hands off the case.

Facing me now, Deters is caught in the middle. We are friends, but if he butts into the Bosket case, he is sticking his neck in a noose.

"John, Willie has been making nasty remarks to me for weeks now. I've h ad enough of it. I've asked him to stop, but he won't."

"Just ignore him," John says.

"I'm trying to." I turn and walk away. I can feel Willie gloating. John's betrayal is more painful and more infuriating than Willie's victory.

Back in the relative safety of my wing, I try to collect myself so that my own boys and staff won't notice how upset and frightened I am. From Deters's weak-sister response, I realize I will have to plan the day carefully to avoid further encounters with Willie.

Brunch is called and Wings 1 and 2 converge in the hallway to the cafeteria. I lag behind to stay out of Willie's sight. I pass through the dining room and go directly into the large, steaming kitchen. The clanging of pots and dishes, the bustling activity of the kitchen staff preparing a lavish brunch for twenty-five hungry boys, seems safer than the dining room where my 14-year-old tormentor sits waiting for another shot at me.

Art Randolph, the Wing 4 supervisor, is eating breakfast at a small table in the kitchen. A large, heavy-set black man who backs down before no resident, he has physically subdued assaultive boys on occasion, and he commands respect. I tell Art about my unpleasant incident with Willie this morning. He keeps on eating his eggs and toast, listening, nodding, but makes no offer to help. My hopes for the day grow dimmer.

Deters comes into the kitchen and starts telling me he is fed up with Willie Bosket, but as long as Pottenburgh and Willaims keep pampering him, he's not going to stick his neck out. I feel he should have reprimanded Willie, regardless of Willie's privileged position.

"Now that Willie got away with it, he'll keep it up, " I tell him. "I want something done about it."

Suddenly Willie is right up in my face, seething with anger, eyes bulging and burning with rage, face contorted with fury. "Don't you ever talk about me behind my back," he shouts.

My mind goes absolutely blank. The intensity of his attack paralyzes me. My silence goads him on. "If you have anything to say about me, say it to my face," he commands.

"I AM saying it to your face," I answer stiffly, knowing my words are defensive and meaningless. He stands there smoldering, eyes riveting on me. Dishes and spoons and knives and forks are crashing all around us. Knives and forks. All at once I am conscious of weapons everywhere. Cleavers, butter knives, paring knives, forks. I have a vivid image of Willie picking up a knife and plunging it into me. I am positive that he wants to stab me.

Deters stands stupidly by without a word. The three plump elderly women cooks keep on turning pancakes, frying eggs, smearing butter on toast, as if nothing is happening. Art Randolph is drinking coffee as if this angry drama is not even taking place. The boys in the dining room do not even glance at the tight little knot of Willie, Deters, and me, locked in a struggle of authority, power, and hatred. But everyone is keenly aware of what is going on.

For interminable seconds Willie glares at me. I can hear his breathing, feel my face burning, sense John's discomfort. But I cannot move. I can only hope that one one can tell how terrified I am.

Abruptly Willie turns and stomps back into the dining room. Relieved, I shoot an accusing look at Deters and walk away. I would like to run at full speed, but I walk slowly. I am almost into the hallway when there's a loud laugh, and a jeering voice announces, "Willie is going to beat up Sylvia." I stop and turn around. It is Stewart Jackson, one of my boys, getting even with me for not taking him off-campus earlier. I have no time for him now.

Once out of sight, I rush to the infirmary and charge in so violently that Marilyn, the nurse, lets out a small shriek. I lock the two of us in and tell her about Willie. She is sympathetic because she, too, believes that Pottenburgh and Williams are playing games with Willie for their own sadistic amusement. We have discussed it before, and she has told me that Wille has been hostile to her in the past.

I call John Deters in the cafeteria. The minute he says hello, I launch into a tirade, demanding that he control Willie and keep him away from me. I slam down the phone, wait till I'm calmer, and then dial Pottenburgh at his home. His line is busy. I learn later it's Deters telling him about Willie and me. Ten minutes later the line is free and Pottenburgh answers. I light into him, reminding that Willie has been getting away with murder--assaulting p eople, coming in drunk, cursing and threatening everyone, destroying property.

" I want him controlled and off my back, " I tell Pottenburgh. I don't care what you do with him. Take him to China for all I care, but I want him off myback or I'll be in the governor's office Monday morning."

I get a hushed,weak response. He says he'll take care of it.

After awhile, I return to my wing. The minute I see Steward Jackson, I lose my temper. I'm very jumpy now, even though Wing 1 is quiet and there is no sign of Willie. I give Jackson hell for his inflammatory remark in the cafeteria and promise him he won't be going anywhere off-campus with me for a long time until I see a complete change i n his moronic, irresponsible behavior. He gives me a lot of mouth, but he doesn't scare me, even though he is over 200 pounds, not-too-bright, and very assaultive. It is Willie--little, 90 pound, baby-faced Willie with his handsome, delicate features and boyish charm--who terrifies me. He is nice to people who are indulgent with him, but vicious to those he dislikes. And he hates me.

Around two in the afternoon, I pull his record from the general file and skim over it. He has been institutiionalized on and off since the age of nine. He has stabbed people, hit them with staplers, set fire to a ward at Bellevue, tried to strangle a secretary, tried to bash in the skull of a psychiatrist, threatened and assaulted droves of people. He is extremely dangerous.

Back at the wing, I learn that Deters has taken Willie off-campus on a fishing trip. As usual, Willie is being rewarded for bad behavior. But at least I am safe for the rest of the day.

Around 4:30, I think about going home. Thank God this nightmarish day is nearly over. Then a loud commotion comes from Wing 1. I hear people shouting, people running. I dash into the hall and nearly collide with John Deters, who looks frantic.

"Sylvia, go into the infirmary and keep an eye on Neil Westgate. He's locked up in a stripped room. He just tried to kill himself. The boys caught him and Willie in the shower having sex and Neil tried to cut his wrists. I have to go after Willie."

Someone from Wing 1 yells, "Willie's got the keys to the truck." Men pour out of all four wings, running toward the maintenance department. John dashes away. The whole place is charged with violent excitement.

I peek into the stripped room where frightened 14 -year old Neil Westgate is lying face down on the thin mattresss. Even though the plexiglass window of the locked door, I sense his despair Everyone knows he has been waiting for weeks to be transferred to the psychiatric ward of a state hospital. The Wing 1 staff should have kept a closer watch on him. After awhile, a female staff from Wing 1 comes to watch him. I return to my wing.

Someone fills me in on the current crisis. After he comes back from fishing, Willie goes to take a shower. When some of the boys catch him with Neil, they laugh and broadcast the news. Willie is not amused. He throws on his clothes, announces he is going to kill Phil Williams, and slams out of the wing. Minutes later, he is downstairs, then outside, then in the state pick-up truck, speeding away toward Williams's house across the road from Brookwood, with at least fifteen men in pursuit. When the truck stalls at the edge of the campus, they restrain Willie and take him back to the maintenance shop at Brookwood. The moment they let go, he grabs a large fire extinguisher and turns it on them. The men run for cover, giving Willie time to pick up a crowbar. For the next half hour, he menances and threatens to kill anyone who approaches him. Around 5:30 he becomes tired, is talked into putting down the crowbar, and agrees to go back upstairs and serve his discipline.

Before I leave for the day, Willie taken to the infirmary and locked in a stripped room. Pottenburgh , Williams and four or five others who think they have a close relationship with Willie remain on stand-by for hours aft erward, counseling him, calming him, lighting his cigarettes. None of the three psychologists or resident psychiatrist is called. Willie never bothers with them. Only his favorite staff have the privilege of counseling him.

When I finally start for home, I am in better shape emotionally than I was when I came to work, for despite the ugly confrontation between Willie and me earlier in the day, I now have two powerful consolations: First, Willie has gone much too far this time. He will have to be stopped somehow--disciplined and supervised better so that he can no longer call the shots at Brookwood.

My second consolation is even more reassuring: I know that Willie hates me and wants to hurt me. Bu t when he was mad enough to kill---Phil Williams, not I---had been his target.

**********************************

Chapter 4 - Further Encounters with Willie

For a few days after his wild rampage, Willie simmers down. I hear he is supposed to be locked up in the infirmary for a week, and occasionally I get a glimpse of him when he is let out of his locked room to smoke or talk to one of the staff. He gets a lot of attention from Pottenburgh, Phil Williams, and Jake, the maintenance foreman, who take turns going to the infirmary to counsel him. The Wing 1 staff arre supposed to counsel him too, and I am sure Minerva, his favorite staff, visits him. Neither the psychiatrist nor any of the three resident psychologists go near him.

John Deters is disgusted with the entire case. He has little to do with Willie. Deters tells me that Willie did say he was angry with me because I went to the maintenance shop to try to take away his job so that I could put two of my boys in his p lace. I tell Deters that that's a lie. He tells Willie what I said and reports to me that Willie doesn't believe me, he doesn't like me, and he refuses to talk to me. I don't want to talk to him anyway. I consider him unreasonable and vicious; besides, he is not my responsibility; let Phil Williams worry about him. I decide to ignore him from now on and assert myself only if he starts abusing me again.

It's not easy to ignore him, as he's off his discipline before the week is up, although I believe he is suspended from his maintenance job for a week. Occasionally I pass him in the hall, and when he sees me, he is somber and quiet, but I look directly at him with my coldest, most disapproving stare. I want him to realize I will not tremble before him, I have nothing to say to him, and I require only that he keep his distance.

On June 10, six days after Willie's rampage, I get a memorandum from Pottenburgh in reference to my confrontation with Willie and the telephone call I made to Pottenburgh demanding that Willie be controlled. The memo accuses of of being "...a person in a state of fear who seemed to be over-reacting and developing a state of panic anxiety." Pottenburgh is blaming me for Willie's attack on me!

After reading this rambling, poorly-written memo, I go to see Pottenburgh. I tell him the memo is an obvious attempt to build a case against me so he can fire me because I had reported Brookwood's deterioration to the New York State legislature recently. I give him until Tuesday to rescind it. He acts nervous and guilty, but agrees to rescind it in writing. However, when I come to work on Tuesday, he gives me a short note saying that he has changed his mind.

Within an hour, I present him with a long memo telling him I consider his memo a transparent, unethical attempt to discredit me for criticizing and reporting his administrative failures to the state legislators. I add a detailed chonology of events on Willie Bosket, including the incidents of Willie setting off the fire alarm, coming in drunk, stealing alcoholic beverages from local stores, striking staff including Pottenburgh himself, commanding Pottenburgh to sign a paper promising not to discipline him, going on runaway duty with Jake, breaking the windows and smashing a wooden partition, trying to kill Phil Williams, and carrying a full set of insititution keys. I send copies to Sid Zirin, Division for Youth liaison staff, Ed Davis, and Peter Edelman, the Division director. Six days later, Pottenburgh sends me a weak, defensive response dated June 20. There are no copies of the memo. This is the last time he ever sends me a reproving memo, and he never mentions Willie Bosket to me again.

Besides the memos, there are other grim reminders of Willie. One day I run into a forlorn figure, Neil Westgate, the resident who was caught in the shower with Willie. He is escorted by Wing 1 staff Black Hawk, and we stop to talk. Neil asks me if he can transfer to my wing because Willie keeps hurting him....bending back his fingers and hitting him, and the Wing 1 staff can't seem to stop it. I tell him I'm sorry, but transfers are not allowed. Black Hawk takes me aside and tells me that when the administration hooked up the loudspeaker system recently, he and the entire population of Brookwood could hear Willie announcing, "Suck my dick," and other obscene statements for all to hear. He could also hear Marty Gallenter, the Wing 1 staff on duty, trying unsuccessfully to stop Willie. Apparently the catastrophic events of June 4 and the subsequent discipline have worn off and Willie is returning to his old, sadistic ways.

But now Willie is no longer uppermost i n my mind. Other traumatic events have eclipsed his murderous June 4 rampage. On Friday night, June 10, two large, dangerous residents of Wing 3 are left alone in the wing with Al DiSimone, a middle-aged, mild-mannered staff, while the rest of the Wing 3 boys and staff go off -campus to a movie. The two boys jump DiSimone, choke him into unconsciousness, and abscond with his money, his keys, and his car. He is found by Wing 4 staff and rushed to the Columbia Memorial Hospital in Hudson where he remains in intensive care for five days. The radio and newspapers are blasting the news Saturday morning, and when I arrive at Brookwood, it's the main topic of discussion. Within two days, the boys are apprehended in Buffalo and returned to Brookwood. The choatic events here have finally reached a climax with Willie Bosket's explosive behavior, the surprise visit from the state legislators I invited, and this well-publicized attack and escape from a so-called maximum security institution---all within little more than a week.

Drastic measures are taken. On Tuesday, June 14, Wings 2 and 3 switch places. Our entire population of Wing 2 --boys and staff--move upstairs to Wing 3. Wing 2, which has been chosen because it is downstairs next to the infirmary, becomes a maximum security wing within a maximum security institution--a lock-up within a lock-up. Our wing loses staff Vernon Jeffries to Wing 2; Black Hawk is Wing 1's contribution. Chick Hughes and Moses Chestnut join the new security staff. The two supervisors of former Wing 3 now supervise Wing 2.

Three boys become the first residents of the new closed security wing: the two who mugged Di Simone and Wilson Cole, from our wing. Ed Davis jumps at this great opportunity to put Wilson there after Wilson --for the twentieth or thirtieth time --attacked Mark Langley, a small, frightened white boy who was Wilson's favorite target. It's a relief to all of us in our new Wing 3 to be rid of Cole at last. Perhaps now we can regain control and put things back in order.

An unexpected advantage for me is the fact that o ur new location in Wing 3 is upstairs, across from Wing 4. No longer will I be across from Wing 1 where Willie Bosket resides. That means I will see even less of him -- a comforting thought.

But two days later, I have an unexpected encounter with Willie. On Thursday evening, June 16, he comes upstairs and asks to speak to me. Taken by surprise, I step out in the hall so that we can talk privately. I notice he is polite and calls me "Miss Honig." He seems subdued and uneasy.

He tells me he has learned he made a mistake and now realizes that I was not trying to take away his job. I am astonished, but I remain unruffled and stifle my curiosity. I would like to ask him how he found out he was mistaken or why he thought I was trying to take away his job in the first p lace, but I am too relieved to say anything but accept his apology and offer my hand. We shake hands and he goes back downstairs.

I return to the wing dazed and elated. Now I have one less overwhelming problem to contend with at Brookwood. I tell the other staff on duty about it, and they, too, seem surprised. My ugly confrontations with Willie are common knowledge at Brookwood.

Later, when I think it over, I feel certain that no one influenced Willie to make amends. He must have decided independently that he prefers my friendship to my animosity. I try to figure out his motives and decide that he rarely shows hostility to women; perhaps it is foreign to his nature. I also believe that my cold, haughty stares made him uncomfortable. Because I was so totally defenseless under his attacks, with no administrative support and no real authority to punish him, I felt that staring him down was my only weapon. The old saying, "If looks could kill..." sometimes applies. It may have worked for me this time.

Although greatly relieved by Willie's change of heart toward me, I am still uneasy. Because I had experienced such emotional upheaval under his savage verbal attacks, I don't feel certain that our new truce will last. I know how temperamental he is, and my experiences with other explosive Brookwood residents advise me that they run hot and cold.

But Willie surprises me.

Shortly after our truce, I am standing in the infirmary talking to nurse Marily Buschman. Suddenly Willie comes flying in shouting, "Boo!" to scare Buschman. He doesn't see me until I scream because his little trick, aimed at frightened her, has startled me instead.

"My God, Willie, " I say with exasperation, "do you want me to drop dead of a heart attack?"

I shake him by his shoulders and he laughs uproariously. From then on, he takes every opportunity to sneak up behind me and scream "Boo!" He is so adept and inventive in his scare tactics that I nearly suffer coronaries on a couple of occasions. Then one day, I see him p utting soda in a vending machine in the administrative area. His back is to me and I am wearing wedgies with rubber soles. Here is my chance for revenge. When I'm practically on top of him, I scream "Boo!" Willie jumps a foot in the air, spins around, and is delighted with my coup. I can play the game as well as he, and he appreciates a good player.

Once in awhile he stops briefly to chat with me in the hallway. One day he shows me how he can turn off and on the institution's fire alarms. He takes a large screw driver out of his tool belt to illustrate. That's how I know he carries large tools that could serve as weapons. He is not trying to flaunt his unusual power....he is only trying to be friendly.

Another day he surprises me again. It is August 13, one month before his release. He comes up to Wing 3 this paticular Saturday afternoon dressed in his workman's coverall and asks politely if he can talk to me out in the hall. When I step outside, he produces a ring made from a sterling silver teaspoon. The ring is heavy, ornate, and beautiful.

"Someone made this for you and told me to give it to you," he says with a wide grin.

"Willie, it's beautiful," I say, examining it, "and I know you're the someone who made it for me."

I thank him and kiss him on the cheek. He goes away with a big smile, and I am left with a warm, good feeling about him. I think about him for awhile and, based on recent events...his continuing assaults on staff and residents, I know he is still dangerous, but I feel certain he will never be dangerous to me again. We are friends now, and Willie is not the kind of person to make friends easily or treat friendship lightly.

After that, I see very little of him. I come down with a bad case of sinusitis that sends me to the hospital emergency room one day and puts me out of work for over a week. When I return on September 6, I have a lot of work to catch up on. I see Willie once or twice before he is released on September 15. He is always friendly, and I mean to have a longer chat with him before he goes back to the community and wish him good luck, but somehow I miss that opportunity.

When I come to work on September 16, John Deters tells me that Willie has raised hell the night before his release and that he is glad to be rid of him at last. he assures me that "...one of these days, Willie is going to kill somebody."

***********************************************************

In the next few months, I hear occasional news about Willie from John Deters. Willie isn't doing very well, he has left the group home where he was placed when he left Brookwood, he is back home in Harlem. Gradually, I hear less of him and in a few months it seems as if he is forgotten at Brookwood.

But one day in March, 1978, six months after his release from Brookwood, the name of Willie James Bosket, Jr. resounds again through Brookwood's long, grim halls. Everyone is talking about him. The Division for Youth has just learned that Willie is the 15 year old who gunned down three men in the New York subway stations--killing two of them. He is about to become the most notorious juvenile in New York State.

* * * * * * * *

posted by Teeko @ Wednesday, January 25, 2006

1 Comments:

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At 7:23 PM, Rena00 said…

Whoa. I just got finished reading all of this and I must say that I don't know how you're still standing. Me personally, I would've gone crazy handling those kids, especially that one former kid, Cole. I never knew just how obscene and wild teenagers could be. And yes, Willie Bosket was just as wild on the streets as you've described him. Through various family members, he was a handful. And I'm unsure as to whether or not you're aware of this but having sexual relations with other males (and I'm referring to those whom were within his age group) didn't start in juve. I heard he's now sulking in sorrow buy hey, what can you do.

It's funny because there isn't an article nor book in which has captured actual situations as you've done throughout your whole story. You should write a book (that is if you haven't) regarding your experiences a SW.