Did structure, institutional living and the rigid enforcement of societal rules, standards and values cause a miraculous metamorphosis in me? In many ways, the intended metamorphosis backfired. Confinement made me view my freedom in a new light. It also made me discover the creative use of passive resistance. Freedom became like another drug to me. It was something I needed, craved and of course, highly revered. While being physically forced to live within the boundaries of social conformity, my mind struggled to remain free and rebellious. During my physical imprisonment behind the walls of this harsh new reality that was to be my new home for an indefinite period of time, I realized that no one except me could ever mentally imprison me. Each day I grew stronger and valued my freedom more as I learned I am and always shall be a free spirit and more importantly...a survivor! What I didn't get was that I was my own worst enemy and as long as I bucked the system the system was going to buck me.
Each stroke I took as I swam furiously upstream against the current away from what society deemed as acceptable behavior, were strokes I knowingly and willingly took. I took great pride in not being a follower, but in always just doing my own thing, whatever that thing might be...right or wrong. When the current was powerful and drowning seemed inevitable, I silently clung to the belief that somehow everything would miraculously turn out okay and somehow it always did. Even at times when I had no visible hope, somehow blind faith always was silently acting as my buoy. It was always present. I felt it with me always, yet I defiantly never acknowledged that it existed. To me God, faith, hope and better days had all died long ago.
Many times, I purposely and knowingly put myself in harm’s way, yet each time as I teetered on the edge, I never fell into the abyss or reached the point of no return. My dance with self-destruction was a whimsical one very similar to a cat gracefully walking across a narrow branch on a tree just to explore what’s in the next yard. Perhaps like a cat, I have nine lives. And perhaps like a cat, I am driven by two opposing things: curiosity and survival...my yin and yang.
Somewhere along my journey, a realization that life is, but a series of random events tossed our way as some bizarre cosmic test made me eagerly surrender myself to the philosophy of "live and let live." I liked the idea of rolling the dice and with each roll, there was a new outcome. I liked the excitement of not knowing and the uncertainty of fate. Yet, as the events of my younger years unfolded and I developed the perfect clarity of hindsight, somehow the randomness and uncertainty of life seemed to have a master plan after all which suddenly made me feel more in control...more alive...and braver and more eager to take the next step into the great unknown randomness of life. It all had some weird “catch-22” feeling to it. Every action seemed linked to the next with the final outcome being the biggest, grandest oxymoron of all...LIFE! My life felt more like someone’s sick idea of a practical joke. Was God alive after all and having fun watching me stumble so many times? Was my life God’s toy? Many times, I looked skyward and told God it wasn’t funny and it was time to move on to the next person. If God was alive, She definitely wasn’t listening to me. I guess fair was fair! Why would She listen to me when I never listened to Her? Rules, laws and commandments were made to be broken!
My quest for some purpose in life took me into many strange situations and directions, but none was quite as strange as what was awaiting me in the northern woods of Maine via Steven’s School for Girls. I hated captivity. I hated knowing that being caged would only make me more resentful, more defiant and more resistant to any type of conformity. When I announced one Friday afternoon many years ago that I was going to Boston that weekend, no one took me seriously especially not any of my captors or else I would have been heavily watched or sent to “lock-up” until I had been deemed trustworthy again. Most of the matrons working at Stevens all fit the stereotypical description one might imagine.
The majority of females working there were short, rugged middle-aged women with masculine physiques and all seemed hardened from dealing with juvenile delinquents. Each appeared to lack any true compassion and empathy. Often times, they appeared void of any noticeable human qualities or emotions except anger and contempt. In my mind’s eye, these women could have been the direct descendants of the Nazi women in concentration camps… a thought now that I find absurd. Of course, my intense dislike for any authority figure played an integral part in the non-relationship I formed with each of the matrons at Stevens and kept objectivity far away from my thoughts where they were concerned. They were the enemy and that is how I perceived each one of them. I was incapable of seeing that these women were as human as I was and that they had a job to do which was made very difficult by delinquents like me. I personally felt it was my duty to make sure that each one earned their pay and hated their job as much as I hated being there.
Yes, I was definitely going back to Boston and I would find Eric. By now, he had just started college at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst and was well on his way to becoming somebody. I felt I owed him an explanation as to why I kept disappearing and why my behavior was so erratic. I know I was a mystery to him. The more he tried to help me, the more I resisted his help. The speech I had rehearsed many times in my head revealed chapters from my childhood and especially that dreaded chapter I tried so desperately to forget revealed my first love and the unhealed wound I carried with me. The first cut is always the deepest and the most complicated to explain, but I knew I needed to find a way to be honest with Eric and also with myself even though the picture I had to paint for him was an ugly one.
I secretly longed for those moments of sanity that Eric always seemed to bring, yet he frightened me with the normalcy in which he touched the huge upheaval I called my life. Life on the streets was supposed to be anything, but normal. So I was faced with the dilemma of figuring out where and when “normal” fit in. Each time I pushed him away, he remained steadfast and patient. Now, hundreds of miles away, I sat thinking of him and what I would say to him when I saw him again.
The only two people who seemed to have any type of actual personality and compassion at Stevens were a male social worker named Mr. Goodman (fictitious name) and one of the female teachers named Mrs. Presley (fictitious name). I had nicknamed Mr. Goodman "Mick Slick" because he reminded me of what a cross between Mick Jagger and Grace Slick might look like. The name caught on and before too long all the other girls in my dorm called him that as well. He never seemed to mind because he knew the name was a term of endearment and not one to belittle him. He always smiled whenever I addressed him that way regardless of the setting or the circumstance. I prided myself in being delightfully inappropriate and liked to watch people’s reactions to my inappropriateness. I’m sure Mr. Goodman had been questioned by his superiors about his nickname, but he never asked me to stop calling him that. I think he knew the request would have fallen on deaf ears. So until the day I departed from Stevens, he remained my “rock star” and quasi-confidant.
Mr. Goodman had short, thick, dark hair and dark, inviting eyes. His full, sensual lips made everyone focus on his mouth as he talked. Whenever he spoke to me, his words were lost and distorted long before they reached my ears thus trapping me in a sensual kaleidoscope. Although he wasn’t very tall, he more than made up for what he lacked in other dominant male attributes with his charismatic personality. By today’s standards, I would have to say he definitely would be considered as being hot by young females and might even be described as looking like a male version of Liv Tyler, the actress and daughter of Steven Tyler of the rock band, Aerosmith.
Mrs. Presley, who continually encouraged me to keep writing, was tall and slender. Her build was much like mine, yet she had curves where mine were still just youthful hints of better days yet to come. I remember watching her long, delicate fingers turn the pages of the black notebook in which I kept all my poetry containing my most intimate thoughts. As I watched her absorb my words, I thought how amazingly feminine and gentle she was as I eagerly awaited each critique she gave me. She spent a lot of time reading my poetry and seemed to recognize something worthy in my words and also, in me. She claimed I had a natural talent and encouraged me to treat that part of my being with kindness so someday it would grow and flourish. Around that time, writing had become my closest "friend" because it was something that never passed judgment on me nor expected anything in return other than the gift of life that came from the deliberate union of mind and heart that created the written words from my soul:
Quivering gently from your touch
I am the strings of your guitar,
an instrument you creatively strum
and my love
melodiously rhythmic
a song you play
gently
barely beckoning me to come along
to sing with you
in harmony
Across the highways
into the deep surreal dreams and
fantasies of better days yet to come
and moments of blissful surrender
growing longer...
stronger
each time you play your song.
[1971]
Something wonderful happened each time I wrote. My life gained meaning and validation through the words I wrote. “My friend” was always there when I needed it and it became my lifeline at times that helped keep me stay grounded. I found with written words I could express all those feelings I could not and would not express out loud. I could be brutally honest and that honesty, no matter how negative or harsh or inappropriate, unlike my spoken word was praised as being a work of art. I was never punished for my written defiance. I was always encouraged to continue to express my feelings through that medium.
I often wondered what all those people thought when they returned to work on Monday morning only to be told that I had escaped. I smiled each time as I allowed myself to believe that somewhere deep inside they knew that my free spirit could not live in captivity and they secretly admired me for being strong enough to follow my instincts. Yes, I escaped and didn't look back until I was in Boston. And being in Boston, I was one step closer to doing what I had set out to do.
It was a cold, rainy Sunday afternoon in October. The autumn chill signaled that winter would soon arrive, but when I left, I left without even a jacket. The only thing I took with me was another girl needing freedom as much as I needed it. Sharon Smith, a petite, scrappy-looking teen with long wavy hair reminded me of Little Orphan Annie from the comic strips. Her lightly freckled skin gave her otherwise rough-looking exterior a slightly wholesome “girl next door” look. She wore her hair in a multi-layered shag otherwise it would have been wildly unmanageable. Sharon’s tough exterior, a convincing facade to most was her most notable feature. She was always upbeat without being bubbly or obnoxiously optimistic. Sharon was like me, just another product of what was considered a typical failure from a lower-income family. Our stories were probably very similar, but they were stories most people weren’t interested in hearing. We never compared notes. I just assumed she was as street savvy as me, but it wasn't until later when I learned that she wasn't. We just instinctively gravitated towards each other as if we had some invisible force directing us. I guess we both needed a friend and someone we could trust.
Although we both were born and raised in Bangor, she wasn’t someone who was ever more than an acquaintance to me before we both landed in Stevens at the same time. Perhaps it had been because she lived on the other side of town that had kept us from forming a friendship before or maybe it was just because we didn’t associate with the same circle of people. Whatever the reason, that changed quickly as soon as they put us both in the same dormitory. Our similar hatred of the system in which we both lived was the foundation for our relationship. We become fast friends and eventually partners in crime. When the idea of fleeing first came to me, naturally I wanted to share it with Sharon.
We both had kitchen duty on Sunday afternoons, so I knew that I could approach her then with the plans I had carefully made by rehearsing each detail over and over again in my mind until each step had reached perfection. I knew we would have a little unsupervised time when we returned to our dormitory from our work detail while everyone else was at free time in another building. If all went accordingly as planned, that time would be enough to put my plan into action. I knew my window of opportunity was very slim and dependent on several factors that were subject to change very rapidly. My plan was full of “ifs” but IF it worked, it meant freedom. I was ready and willing to gamble on taking a chance even a slim chance and one most likely not meant for success just to be free once again.
While we washed dishes, I asked Sharon if she was ready to get the hell out of “Dodge.” At first, she thought I was kidding and then as I carefully laid out my plan, she saw the determination in my eyes and heard it in my voice. She knew I was going with or without her! As I went over each step, it was obvious I had observed how everything was done, when it was done and why it was done that way. Each time anyone went anywhere on the property, whatever matron ran that building from which a departure was made would call ahead to make the next matron aware of the person’s pending arrival. This gave the person only a few minutes between buildings to come and go. I knew a successful escape would have to happen elsewhere. Success meant I had to manufacture enough time to get safely away. The place that seemed to offer the best chance of success was in our own dormitory after returning from kitchen duty.
When we finished kitchen duty, we expected the dorm to be empty when we returned, but that Sunday Debbie (fictitious name) had lagged behind foregoing “free time” in the recreation building because she wasn’t feeling well. She sat in the TV room by the front entrance of the building watching some old movie. Upon entering the building and walking past her, Sharon and I looked at each other without saying a word. Sharon’s expression reflected the instant panic that was running through her head as she wondered what we were going to do. Because I always could think quickly on my feet, I silently mouthed and motioned to Sharon to let me handle Debbie as we walked up the corridor past the TV room. She acknowledged her understanding with a nod before we went to our rooms at opposite ends of the hall after letting the matron know we had returned from the kitchen. We told her we didn’t want to go to free time because it was raining outside and that we‘d just stay here and listen to music in our rooms or watch TV with Debbie.
Once inside my room, I quickly thumbed through my stack of albums searching for the right mood music for the occasion. Woodstock seemed like an appropriate choice for memorable departure music. I turned the volume up just loud enough to let the matron notice I was listening to music, but not too loud as to make her come to my room to tell me to turn the volume down. As I readied myself to leave, I hesitated just long enough to pantomime the words of a Jefferson Airplane song encouraging me to go be free.
“Alright friends, you have seen the heavy groups, now you will see morning maniac music. Believe me, yeah. It's a new dawn. Good morning, people!” Grace Slick bellowed as she took center stage at Woodstock. Yes, it was a new dawn and tomorrow I’d be in Boston. As the music began to escape from my speakers, I sang along with her to pump myself up for the long journey ahead:
“Look what's happening out in the streets
Got a revolution, Got to revolution
Hey, I'm dancing down the streets
Got a revolution, Got to revolution...”
 |
| Boston Public Gardens in the fall |