at the nurses.
I might spend a few pleasant hours with someone and return three days later to find she had no memory of it. At Dorothea Dix
I went from one ward to the next, while here I spent all my time with the same group of people, week after week, and none
of them seemed to be getting any better. LaDonna still sat in front of the television set, boasting of her personal relationship
with Lee Majors. Charlotte continued to whisper into a plastic cup and hold it to her stomach in order to communicate with
what she identified as her alien fetus; it was maddening. I wanted to slam their heads against the wall and scream, “Stop
acting like an idiot and get better, god-damnit!” Then I’d notice the bruises covering their bodies and realize that someone
had already tried that approach.
On my last night at the hospital, a fellow volunteer was taken hostage by a wiry, manic patient who held a knife to the woman’s
throat and demanded freedom. The police were summoned and gathered in the snow-covered yard to negotiate her release.
“I want a girl,” the man shouted. “A prettier girl than this one. I want the prettiest girl you can find and I want her dressed
in a bikini. Then I want you to put us up in a motel in Akron for… I’ll let you know when we’re ready to come out. Then I
want a trailer with curtains and a water bed and a truck with four new tires. And a winter coat with a zipper instead of buttons.
And I want an outdoor grill, the kind with a hood.”
The police captain agreed to all the demands, signaling to the four officers who were creeping up behind the wishful patient.
“And I’m going to need a fish tank. And a blow-dryer for my hair, and then I want a set of matching goblets and some nice
mugs for my coffee.”
The officers took him from behind, and even as they dragged him toward the waiting police car, he continued to voice more
requests.
I returned to Dix Hill ten years after I’d first volunteered. A friend of mine had been dating a man who had turned spooky
on her. They’d been eating in a popular Raleigh seafood restaurant when he’d taken a sudden urge to pelt the neighboring table
with a side order of hush puppies. The manager was called, and a fight ensued. It turned out that this fellow had been institutionalized
once before, at a state hospital outside Pittsburgh.
A guard led us through a familiar series of locked doors, and the young man emerged. His face was bloated from the drugs,
and his tongue protruded from his mouth, thick and lathered as a bar of soap. My friend was hoping he might be cured with
bed rest and willpower.
“The restaurant manager had it coming,” she said, taking his hand. “That bastard will get his soon enough; the important thing
is that you’re getting better.” She petted his bruised knuckles. “You’re getting better now, Danny. Can you hear me? You’re
getting better.”
i like guys
Shortly before I graduated from eighth grade, it was announced that, come fall, our county school system would adopt a policy
of racial integration by way of forced busing. My Spanish teacher broke the news in a way she hoped might lead us to a greater
understanding of her beauty and generosity.
“I remember the time I was at the state fair, standing in line for a Sno-Kone,” she said, fingering the kiss curls that framed
her squat, compact face. “And a little colored girl ran up and tugged at my skirt, asking if she could touch my hair. ‘Just
once,’ she said. ‘Just one time for good luck.’
“Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but my hair means a lot to me.” The members of my class nodded to signify that their
hair meant a lot to them as well. They inched forward in their seats, eager to know where this story might be going. Perhaps
the little Negro girl was holding a concealed razor blade. Maybe she was one of the troublemakers out for a fresh white scalp.
I sat marveling at their
I might spend a few pleasant hours with someone and return three days later to find she had no memory of it. At Dorothea Dix
I went from one ward to the next, while here I spent all my time with the same group of people, week after week, and none
of them seemed to be getting any better. LaDonna still sat in front of the television set, boasting of her personal relationship
with Lee Majors. Charlotte continued to whisper into a plastic cup and hold it to her stomach in order to communicate with
what she identified as her alien fetus; it was maddening. I wanted to slam their heads against the wall and scream, “Stop
acting like an idiot and get better, god-damnit!” Then I’d notice the bruises covering their bodies and realize that someone
had already tried that approach.
On my last night at the hospital, a fellow volunteer was taken hostage by a wiry, manic patient who held a knife to the woman’s
throat and demanded freedom. The police were summoned and gathered in the snow-covered yard to negotiate her release.
“I want a girl,” the man shouted. “A prettier girl than this one. I want the prettiest girl you can find and I want her dressed
in a bikini. Then I want you to put us up in a motel in Akron for… I’ll let you know when we’re ready to come out. Then I
want a trailer with curtains and a water bed and a truck with four new tires. And a winter coat with a zipper instead of buttons.
And I want an outdoor grill, the kind with a hood.”
The police captain agreed to all the demands, signaling to the four officers who were creeping up behind the wishful patient.
“And I’m going to need a fish tank. And a blow-dryer for my hair, and then I want a set of matching goblets and some nice
mugs for my coffee.”
The officers took him from behind, and even as they dragged him toward the waiting police car, he continued to voice more
requests.
I returned to Dix Hill ten years after I’d first volunteered. A friend of mine had been dating a man who had turned spooky
on her. They’d been eating in a popular Raleigh seafood restaurant when he’d taken a sudden urge to pelt the neighboring table
with a side order of hush puppies. The manager was called, and a fight ensued. It turned out that this fellow had been institutionalized
once before, at a state hospital outside Pittsburgh.
A guard led us through a familiar series of locked doors, and the young man emerged. His face was bloated from the drugs,
and his tongue protruded from his mouth, thick and lathered as a bar of soap. My friend was hoping he might be cured with
bed rest and willpower.
“The restaurant manager had it coming,” she said, taking his hand. “That bastard will get his soon enough; the important thing
is that you’re getting better.” She petted his bruised knuckles. “You’re getting better now, Danny. Can you hear me? You’re
getting better.”
i like guys
Shortly before I graduated from eighth grade, it was announced that, come fall, our county school system would adopt a policy
of racial integration by way of forced busing. My Spanish teacher broke the news in a way she hoped might lead us to a greater
understanding of her beauty and generosity.
“I remember the time I was at the state fair, standing in line for a Sno-Kone,” she said, fingering the kiss curls that framed
her squat, compact face. “And a little colored girl ran up and tugged at my skirt, asking if she could touch my hair. ‘Just
once,’ she said. ‘Just one time for good luck.’
“Now, I don’t know about the rest of you, but my hair means a lot to me.” The members of my class nodded to signify that their
hair meant a lot to them as well. They inched forward in their seats, eager to know where this story might be going. Perhaps
the little Negro girl was holding a concealed razor blade. Maybe she was one of the troublemakers out for a fresh white scalp.
I sat marveling at their
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