Family CircLes

Thomas Kirk

My dad was convinced that I was heading for "reform school." He would say it with conviction, "Boy, you're going to end up in reform school." It was not an idle threat; the school was nearby, and we knew who was sent there. As a ninth-grade student, I got into a little trouble, enough said.

Ironically, it was my father, a factory worker, who went toe-to-toe with a high-powered bank president and told him, "You're not going to do this to my son, you're not pressing charges."

I signed a few papers, made a solemn promise, and avoided going to court. Among other crimes, I had been caught breaking into a home across town on Snob Hill. As I confessed and apologized, my father was quiet, but he stood beside me and would not let me be humiliated, alone. For a while, I had avoided reform school.

My first job fresh out of college was at a reform school. By then, they had less ominous sounding names like "Forest Grove Academy," "Opportunities Learning Center," or simply, "Lakeside." I worked as a counselor and social worker for 27 school-age young men.

On my first day, before I was introduced, several of them accosted me and asked, "What are you in here for?" It was always the first question.

"I'm your new counselor," I explained. I was only three or four years older than many of them.

They treated me like an older brother, and they told me everything. One day, one of my guys asked, "Why didn't anybody tell me my mom was moving to Arizona?" He then asked, "Did you know she was moving?" I did not. He shouted, "Why didn't she tell me she was leaving when she came last month?"

Deeper, still, was the question that he couldn't ask, "Does she even care about me anymore?" Most of the time, I didn't have the answers they needed most.

On his first day, a thirteen-year-old named Keeson asked me if he could live with his mom when he was released. He told me he would run away before he would ever go back to his dad. I found out later why this mattered so much. Sometimes, his dad would not give him or his brother, Anthony, any supper until they had fought each other. Keeson had come to us with a bald spot on the side of his head. His brother had torn out a patch of hair during one of their fights.

Years later, I read that Keeson had been convicted of murder. I flashed back to a letter that sat on my desk for several months. He had written it to his mom, but it had been returned, unopened. After months of phone calls and searching, we finally found her; she had moved to another state to get a “new start.” That letter on my desk still leaves me broken when I see it.

As a twenty-one-year-old, my work at Lakeside School was a heavy weight that I carried back to my studio apartment every night. At home, I would try to lay aside their stories of pain and abandonment, but at any moment they would gather like storm clouds and swirl in my thoughts.

Some of the young men who were released from our school when they turned 18 stumbled right back into the mess they had left. Less than a month after his release, one of my favorites, Leroy, held a knife to a taxi driver's neck and demanded his money. When I got this news, I remembered something he confided to me one evening. I had taken a small group fishing when he said, "Kirk, when I get out of here, I wish I could call someone and they could talk me out of doing what I'm going to do." I have never questioned whether he was sincere.

When they were ready to leave us, some young men went back to their homes, others went out on their own, and a handful were sent to foster homes. Ray Jr., one of my younger boys, had been sent to a foster home. Ray Sr., his biological dad, told me he wanted to have his son back eventually, but "just not yet."

It was easy to talk to Ray Sr. after a few drinks, and he was easy to find. He had a favorite bar called Downtime. I'd check in with him there every month or so to let him know how Junior was "doing with the folks he stays with." At some point during each visit, Ray Sr. always insisted, “He’s my son, he’ll always be my son, and I won’t sign anything that says otherwise.”

I did home visits every two or three weeks with my foster homes. It was my day to check in with Junior. For about a year, I had been visiting Junior and his foster family every few weeks. The Lanning family was so quiet. They had no television. When we sat down to talk, you could hear the clock ticking on the wall as we waited for the next person to speak.

Mr. Lanning was about six and a half feet tall; Mrs. Lanning was a few inches shorter. Their three kids read books and did their homework whenever I visited. They were not a sporty family.

It was hard to decide what to write in my report each time, but I noticed a few changes. Junior had started to call them "Mom" and "Dad." His "Mom" was "making" him take piano lessons. He smiled when he told me how much he hated it. She was also reading a book with him every day. He said, “We’re reading books even though it’s summer, geez.”

On this visit, I was ready to go when Junior said," I don't want to leave here. I want to know that I can stay." Then he said, "Come with me." He led me to the backyard.

The yard was blooming with irises, more than I had ever seen in one place. There were two dozen little patches of irises, each surrounded by one-yard-diameter circles of rocks. They filled the yard; there was nothing else there except the glorious circles of irises. I was thinking, this is beautiful but just a little odd.

Then, Junior grabbed my hand and pulled me over to one of the stone circles that was full of orange and blue irises.

"Look," he said, pointing at the circle. "This is mine. This one is mine." His eyes looked up at me to make sure I understood.

I headed back to Downtime, and Ray Sr. was having one more round with his regulars. He asked, "How’s ol’ Junior doin’?" It was his typical conversation starter with me. This time, I told him the story of the irises and how Junior had said, "This is mine. This one is mine."

He fumbled around for a paper and finally asked for a pen. He wrote, "I, Ray Comstock, give up my rights to my son, Ray Jr." He had told me repeatedly that he would "never sign off” on his son, yet, in a few weeks, he would sign the legal papers. I could tell the Lanning family they could begin with their adoption process. Ray Jr. would be their son.

Did I do the right thing? I'll never know. It is an imperfect world. Sometimes, the best we can do is pick up the broken pieces and move forward. Some days when I am carrying too many shards, I can only take the next step when I remember a mother who read with her son, a father who knelt with a trowel, and a boy with a circle of irises. 

Thomas Kirk is a math teacher and track coach in Oregon. Most days, there are four generations around his supper table. He is enraptured by the essays of Joan Didion, Morgan Jerkins, and Emilie Pine. He is carried away by the poetry of Langston Hughes, Billy Collins, and Len Pennie. Thomas sleeps without a pillow and travels light. He loves anything free—hitchhiking, dumpster diving, street music, sidewalk chess, abandoned food, mountain trails, and beaches. He is grateful for the EIU community. Someday, he would like to write sublime fiction like his classmates in Professor McClelland's class.