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.

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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.

Getting Older

I'm sorry to say that the pleasures of old age have been vastly over-rated;
It's just some hype defenders of the geriatric generation have purposely created.
If anyone has ever told you that old age is a piece of cake
I can assure you that believing it is a major mistake.
Longevity is not all it's cracked up to be, which you'll discover as you age
And you'll find that anyone who believes otherwise is on a different page.
Either they're sadly misinformed, or they're just pretending
Hoping against hope that old age is part of the happy ending.

I suppose there are some upsides to this depressing aging tale we all must face
Eventually...unless, of course, fate intervenes and, as the saying goes, we're in a better place..
That place being a subject we are often loathe to discuss because it's better left unsaid
For almost everyone likes to think they'll live forever...until, of course, they're dead.

Oh dear, I've said the unmentionable, the unthinkable, the inevitable word
And if it offends you, particularly those of you who are already aging, pretend you haven't heard
Or seen the offending word: dead; but we can eliminate the word and change it to, I suppose,
The non-living, the dearly departed, or those who have entered their sweet repose.

Moving on to less pleasant considerations, the mirror comes to mind.
The mirror, perhaps your friend in younger days, has now become unkind.
The face that stares back at you is no longer your good friend,
That mirror image reminds you that your youth has come to its untimely end.
But take heart, my aging cohorts, there's no need to fear
Losing your good looks because....alas, the worst is already here.

The main thing we all strive for is preserving or restoring our once good health
Because, as we've always heard, our health is more important even, than great wealth.
But wealth and health will only help if we give up the ghost
Of our past youth and yearnings for the things we loved the most.

And here's the lesson: what you really want when you're old are things that can't be restored
The first blush of love, the admiring glances and the events and people we once adored;
Most of them are gone, moved on, and now they belong to the distant past
And the ones that are still here find time is moving much too fast.
So our restored health or preserved wealth can't get you the things you've always desired,
And as for your hopes to get them back...those hopes have already expired.

A poet tells us, "..gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying"
But all our hopes for renewed youth are, my friends, now dying.
There are no words or thoughts that can help us embrace old age;
We have to face the hard cold facts, and turn life's final page.
But there are comforts, I've been told, though I can't think of one
Except that after darkness falls, there will arise the sun.

(One final thought, although it's cold comfort: the great American satirist, Ambrose Bierce once wrote that someone said: "It is true that as we grow old it is very little that we can get in this world; but in age it is very little that we want."

And Bierce responded saying, "THE LITTLE THAT WE GET IS NOT THE LITTLE THAT WE WANT" (Sob!! How true!!)

My Life as a Girl

When I was born some 74 years ago, my whole family sobbed, not with joy, but with disappointment because I was the wrong gender. My sister Lelia who preceded me on the planet 16 months earlier also evoked family disappointment, but as she was the first, the assumption was that the second child would definitely be a boy. My entrance was perceived as a moral failure for my mother and a monumental disappointment for my father. On the bright side, however, I bounced into the world over nine pounds with a full head of black curls and was welcomed eventually by everyone shortly after they swallowed their disappointment and bravely assumed that Lelia would welcome a little sister (That also proved to be a bummer; she thought I was there to usurp her elevated place in the world and promptly slapped me as I lay helpless in the cradle; nor did she ever regret it. In recent discussions when I tried to make her feel guilty, she insisted it was the right thing to do.) Fortunately, my little brother Marvin joined the family four and a half years later, and the great hurrahs and congratulations made it clear that his arrival cancelled out Lelia's and my intrusive entrance into the world.

Did this make me a rabid feminist years later? Certainly not. Did it ever make me wish I had been a boy instead? Not in the least. Just the opposite. Even when I was old enough to reason, and that happened at age two or three, I was wildly happy to be a girl, and that has never changed. The thought of being a boy gives me the shudders and I thank my lucky stars that fate gave me the right chromosomes or whatever it is that determines gender. My mother always regretted her initial reactions to the births of Lelia and me. She told me innumerable times that girls were a blessing, even though it was obvious right to the end of her days, that she considered my brother her most triumphant production. I don't think it was gender prejudice. I think she just found him more appealing...though why, I cannot imagine. Girls are so much more interesting than boys, women so much more fascinating than men, generally speaking that is. Naturally, there are millions of exceptions, but it's the exception that proves the rule.

Anyway, if my father was disappointed, he didn't show it. As we grew up, he seemed very appreciative of us, even though, like my mother, it was clear my brother was his favorite as well. But did that bother me? Certainly not. There's no accounting for tastes, and if my parents thought boys were a greater joy than girls, I have no problem with it.

Years later when I taught junior high school English for four years, I found the 12 and 13 year old girls far more interesting than the boys, even though there were some major exceptions. By the time I got to high school, however, I found the boys far more interesting. I guess that's normal. And in college, the boys far outranked the girls, in my estimation and my interests.

Years later when I became a social worker and supervised hundreds of delinquent girls and boys, at first I really loved working with the girls, and thought that I would hate have having to put up with delinquent boys. But after ten years, when the system changed, the girls reform schools mostly closed, and I changed positions and worked with delinquent boys, I immediately found them far superior to the girls. Boys are obviously slow bloomers. Girls, as a group, for some reason, lag behind as they mature. It's probably nature's way of preparing them for a dismal life of procreation, playing second fiddle to their physically stronger brothers and husbands, and resigning themselves to being "children of a lesser God."

But as for me, I have never considered being female anything but the best possible choice. To begin with, from the time I was four years old and my aunt Sue brought Lelia and me two little dark brown hammered satin dresses, I immediately began a lifelong love affair with clothes. I can still see those brown dresses and happily recall the day Lelia brought me to her first grade class one day to show me that the next year, when I turned five, I, too, would be in the first grade at East Nassau School. I wore my little brown dress, and as I sat at a long table with Lelia and other first graders, I noticed a little boy named Bobby who sat opposite me staring at me. Every time I looked away and then looked back, he was still staring. The wheels in my head kept turning, until finally I realized what was happening. I looked him dead in the eye and said, "I know why you're staring at me. Because you like my new dress." Little Bobby's face turned beet red and he turned away. I had embarrassed him...but that wasn't the worst part. As soon as we got home, I ran to my mother and told her exactly what happened. Her reaction stunned me. She laughed hysterically, repeated it to my father, and from then, whoever came to visit, had to hear her tell the story and repeat my comment, "I know why you're looking at me....because you like my new dress." Gales of laughter always greeted the punch line, but. I never laughed at it. I knew that from then on, my beloved mother could not be trusted with my clever little sayings, although, as it turned out, I never had many clever little sayings. That might have been the only memorable one I ever made during childhood, whereas my mother often recalled amusing or clever comments from Marvin and Lelia. But girls weren't expected to be clever, I suppose. Merely compliant and sweet. I think I was compliant for a long time, but sweet doesn't describe me in those days. I was cautious, fearful for my safety, and uneasy about the impression I made on others. After all, I was greeted at birth with disappointed sobs, smacked in the face in my cradle by my own sister, and teased and humiliated by my mother after I confided my social gaffe at age 4. I just assumed more of the same might be coming, and I tried to be sort of invisible by obeying my parents and not assuming anything about other people, like little Bobby who liked my new dress.

PART 2

I've never understood why some girls brag about having been "tomboys," when they were young. I suppose they thought that things little girls did or were supposed to do were boring or insulting, like learning to cook and clean, and play with dolls. Perhaps they just thought that climbing trees and playing with toy cars was more enthralling. I never saw it that way. Unfortunately, my parents never provided us with dolls, partly because we had little money, and besides, they thought that we were happy just playing games and running around outside in the rural area where we lived. I was very sad about this, particularly in grade school when a couple of our (female, of course) teachers, occasionally decided to have a doll contest. I had nothing to bring, and was not only embarrassed but deeply envious of the beautiful little golden- haired dolls some of the girls owned. I don't recall what the boys did during the doll contests. I suppose I blocked it out. To this day, I think about buying a really beautiful doll and placing her on my bed as an ornament and a testament to my motherly instincts. However, in my later years, I became addicted to dogs, and instead of dolls, I have a huge black lab toy dog sitting in my room, and some other stuffed animal toys around the house, to remind me of my love for all animals except for insects, especially spiders. Real girls hate spiders, and if that's the test, my femininity is beyond question.

From the first grade on, I developed mad crushes on boys. In the first grade, I thought I loved John, a little boy in the second grade. In East Nassau School, first and second grades were in the same room, and so I had a year of happily watching John, wishing he would notice me. During chorus, he would creep up slowly and hold hands with a second grade girl named Elsie, making me very sad and jealous, but one happy day, he stopped before he reached Elsie, and held my hand throughout the singing. I never forgot it. Unfortunately, he never did it again. Years later when I saw him, in our early teens, I realized he was still very short, but I still thought he was cute.

From the second grade through the fourth grade, I must have been in the latency period of life because I had no further interest in boys, but that changed in the fifth grade when a sixth grade hall monitor caught my amorous eye. As I was only years nine years old and had no idea how to be seductive, I kept my romantic thoughts secret. By the end of the sixth grade, however, I fell in love with "an older man," who was actually only a freshman and attended the big central school, while I was in the last year of the elementary school. I saw him when he stopped by occasionally to see his girlfriend, Rose Marie, who was in my class. I was jealous , but I could understand his attraction to her, as she was pretty and very friendly to everyone. She also had two older brothers who attended the central high school, Tom and Don, and both were very good-looking, but not as handsome as Philip, Rose Marie's boyfriend. I learned that he lived with his brothers and family on top of Bunker Hill past Nassau, and as addresses were very simple in those days, I decided to write him a note, revealing my devotion. First I drew a sketch of a rooster and colored it with crayons. Then I wrote a perky little note on it, saying: Wake up, Philip! Someone is after you." I stupidly signed my name, Sylvia, and sent it off. A few days later, Rose Marie came running up to me in school with a puzzled look on her face and said, "Sylvia, did you write...." and before she could finish her sentence, I said, "Well, there must be more than one Sylvia in the world," and I jumped on the school bus and escaped. She never questioned me again. The next year when we attended the central school, I used to see Philip in the cafeteria at lunch time, and one day I got behind him in line and started asking him to get me a tray, and some utensils, and he turned to me and said, "Who was your slave last year?' I laughed and felt I had made an impression. But as I was only eleven years old, and Philip, who was about 14 or 15, was still going with Rose Marie, as far as I knew. Eventually, I developed crushes on boys in my class and forgot about Philip, and then I heard his family moved away to Stephentown and I never saw him again. But I never forgot how good-looking he was.

All through high school, I had crushes on the really good looking, popular boys in the class, but if they had any interest in me, they didn't show it, until I was in my senior year, and now 16 years old, going on 21. The handsomest boy in class, Arnie, who was later a dead ringer for the movie star, Sean Connery, suddenly paid attention to me in homeroom. He asked me to help him with his homework, as I was known as "a brain," and he was not much of a scholar. Happily I took a seat near him, close as possible, and tried to explain the lesson , but he was having more fun teasing me, all the while chewing a big wad of gum. After awhile, I went back across the room to my seat and seconds after I sat down, I felt something land in my long black hair. I felt around and came up with the big wad of gum Arnie had been chewing. I pulled it out and called across to him, saying he threw the gum in my hair. He just laughed and denied it, I threw away gum, and was delighted that he showed an interest, even if it was in a very immature manner. Years later, when Arnie bought a summer home near my family, we became good friends.

Despite clumsy beginnings, when I began dating at the tender age of 15, romantic pursuits became my main focus, and I was not alone. All my classmates and girlfriends seemed similarly preoccupied. I suppose it's what my mother called "the biological urge," and she was quite right. Now in those olden days, in the late 40's and early 50's, it may have seemed to some as if boys had the advantage in the courtship arena, but in mind, it was far easier and more fun being a girl. True, it was up to the boys to pursue the girls, openly at least, whereas girls had to wait to be asked out, but that was the best part of the fun for me. Girls, it appeared, had to learn to be alluring, how to attract boys and sink our hooks into them. Much of the techniques I used and assumed I had invented were, of course, instinctual. Body language was the key, "taking them with your eyelids," I think was a biblical suggestion. Flirting begins with the eyes, I learned, and I worked on it. Clothes was another key to success, and as I had good taste in clothes and my mother was generous, buying Lelia and me expensive clothes, I was on my way. Cosmetics, another lifelong love of mine, played a part as well. "Doe eyes," had just come into fashion, and during my last two high school years, the black eyebrow pencil was my ally, as I subtly drew on doe eyes. I don't recall any other girls in school wearing it. In my yearbook, one boy mentioned my doe eyes.

Lipstick was the main cosmetic lure, and it had special meaning for me because Lelia and I had such a hard time with it. My father, always a prude and watchful for any signs that his daughters were heading in the wrong direction sexually, had early on forbidden us to ever think of wearing lipstick, which he apparently considered a major part of the Devil's workshop. His frequent warnings were always, "If I catch you wearing lipstick, I'll break every bone in your body." That was scary. We also were well aware of the family story about Daddy and his older sister Helen, who got married young to Max and moved away to New York City. Daddy visited her one day and noticed she was wearing the dreaded lipstick. Without warning, he went through her draws, found her lipsticks, and threw them all away, after warning her never to try wearing lipstick again. Her docile husband, apparently afraid of his domineering young brother-in-law, never said a word, and his sister never wore lipstick again.

Lelia and I had a tough task ahead of us, but resourceful Lelia, quickly solved our problem. On her 13th birthday on March 13th (Thereafter she liked the dreaded number 13 and even got married on a May 13 years later), as we were getting ready for school, she called out to Daddy, who was still in bed. "Daddy, today is my 13th birthday." There was an uneasy silence and then Daddy growled back, "So what?" Lelia said, "Don't you remember? You promised me that when I turned 13, I could start wearing lipstick." This was a patent lie, but truth was not the issue here. Our future happiness was the issue, and Lelia took the bull by the horns. She knew how to instill guilt in my father because ,an unsentimental, practical Virgo, Daddy never celebrated birthdays, never sent us a card or gave us gifts. There was another disquieting silence and then Daddy growled back, "I never said no such thing." "Yes you did," Lelia insisted, knowing that her birthday and his guilt gave her the advantage. Finally, Daddy answered, saying, "O.K., but only very lightly." With great joy, Lelia pulled out her Tangee lipstick and the two of us, applied it and rushed off to school. I was still eleven years old. From then on, every morning after we got on the school bus, we put on lipstick, and every afternoon just before the bus dropped us off, we violently wiped off all traces of it, for even though Lelia had permission, I didn't, and we didn't want my father to see how we were abusing the privilege. I favored bright red lipstick, and he would have gone ballistic if he ever saw my bright red mouth. The other kids, knowing our predicament, would watch us and let us know when we succeeded in wiping it all off. My mother knew about it, but she had no problem with it or with our deceptions. It amused her.

As we reached our late teens and near high school graduation, lipstick was still a sore point with my father. Every once in awhile, when we were preparing to go square-dancing, the highlight of our young lives, Daddy who had to drive us there, would suddenly focus on the lipstick. Although Lelia wore it lightly because her skin was so fair, somehow Daddy saw it as a blinking neon sign. He would occasionally scream at her, "Take off that red lipstick," and while I stood by with a blazing red mouth, he didn't seem to notice it on me. So while Lelia had to scrub off her light Tangee, I was off to the dances with my bright gleaming red mouth, and a happy victorious grin. Once Daddy left us at the dance, of course, Lelia put back the Tangee. It was fun fooling Daddy.


PART 3

When I started college in September, 1950, shortly after I turned 17, the conventional wisdom still favored boys, but at the time, the ratio of boys to girls at NYU was three-and -a -half to one, and that gave girls the advantage. At the same time, the sexual revolution had not begun, and girls who slept around were considered sluts, whereas the boys who did the same were admired as attractive studs. Abortions were crimes in those days, shotgun weddings were embarrassments, and illegitimate children were considered a permanent scar on the reputations of the unfortunate mothers and their innocent children. Drug usage was unheard of and cigarette smoking was perfectly acceptable, in those days. Alcohol, however, was frowned upon. (Today, it's just the opposite. Who knew?)

My father's stern and scary warnings kept me safe, however. Besides, I bought into the theory that female promiscuity was shameful and perilous. My closest girlfriend, who was my age and grew up in next door, was born forty years too soon. Nowadays her behavior would be considered perfectly normal. When we were still in high school, Joy, as I'll call her (and,indeed,she spread the joy around), was already sleeping her way through many transient affairs, many with older married men). For some reason, despite her bright intelligence, she always got caught and received occasional beatings from a furious older brother, who took on the parental role after their father deserted when Joy was still a baby. But that didn't stop her. I think it added to the excitement for her. But although her risky antics interested and amused me, it also scared me straight. I knew that my father would never have beaten me, no matter what I did, but I was certain it would have killed him, and if not, he would have made me so guilty and miserable that it wasn't worth it.

In my high school years, three girls got pregnant, and two of them had shotgun weddings. The third, a tall, beautiful, intelligent blonde, was not so lucky...or perhaps she was. The father refused to marry her or even acknowledge his parenthood. All three had to drop out of school, although I believe all received home tutoring and graduated. But their reputations were tarnished, and I pitied them. All three were beautiful girls from decent families, but it made no difference in the public courts of opinion.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed my college days and years immensely, despite the specter of personal shame and ruination hanging over all us girls at the time, and particularly the fear of my father's wrath, should I cave in and bring shame upon the family. Just getting dates and falling in love was pleasure enough for me. Learning how to play the dating game was a full time preoccupation, not just for me. In the girls dorm at NYU, where we out-of-town students lived, I can't recall ever discussing classes or school subjects. All we thought and talked about was dating, romance, and boys. It's amazing that most of us eventually graduated and even went on to graduate school. Rules were strict, and we had a midnight curfew, and a one PM curfew on Saturday nights. If you violated curfew, you were campus-ed, meaning you had a nine o'clock curfew for days, weeks, or as long as the two demonic housemothers decided was your punishment. In all the four years I lived there, I was campus-ed only once, and for coming in just minutes late. However, there were ways to get around it for girls who had ulterior plans. We could sign out for weekends, as long as we had a legitimate address with relatives that could be checked on. My sister used my aunt Sue's address and phone number. I didn't need it. I was very obedient.

Now you might suppose that I envied boys because they had all the sexual freedom that was denied to girls, even though they had other serious risks, like being forced into shotgun weddings, being hauled into family court for child support, and of course, eventually, unhappy marriages and divorces, But I neither resented nor envied boys because in my mind, it is was, and still is...so much harder to be a boy in our society, and in many ways, so much easier and more pleasurable to be a girl. Possibly in a banana republic or a primitive or savage society, boys would hold the greatest, distinct advantages, whereas girls would suffer from the moment of birth till their dying days. But this was America, the civilized highly industrial world, and girls clearly had, and still have the advantage...even from broken and/or dysfunctional homes, poor families, whatever excuses people used and still use to justify anti-social behavior. It's still way better being a girl, in my mind, any time, anywhere, particularly in America.

But I won't get into gender politics. To me, the real important differences between boys and girls, men and women, is not gender. It is the most important variable of all: character and personality, which is one, in my mind. Good or bad, young or old, successful or failed, lucky or unlucky, the important thing in our lives is our character/personality, no matter what else happens.

In the King James version of the Old Testament, and in the Hebrew Talmud, I have read "If you have understanding, what do you lack? If you lack understanding, what do you have?" This is the credo I live by, and it eliminates all the arguments for and against gender politics. You can substitute the word "wisdom" for understanding, but it amounts to the same thing. If you are wise, you are understanding, and if you are understanding you are wise, I believe. I carry this thought to another level: gender. If you have a great character/personality, what do you lack? If you lack a great character/personality, what do you have?

So it doesn't matter if you are male or female....in the modern world, at least. What matters is what you do with what you've got. How you play the hand that was dealt to you. I firmly believe it. And that's why, as the song goes, "I enjoy being a girl."