Family CircLes

Thomas Kirk

My dad was convinced that I was heading for "reform school." He would say it with conviction, "Boy, you're gonna 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 gonna do this to my son; you're not pressing charges." I signed a few papers, made a solemn promise, and avoided going to court. For a while, I 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 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 nobody tell me my mom was movin to Arizona?" He then asked, "Did you know she was moving?" I did not. He shouted, "Why didn't she tell me she was moving when she came last month?"  Deeper still was the question that he couldn't ask, "Does she even care about me any more?" 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 with 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 came 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 food 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. 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 21 year old, my work at Lakeside School was a heavy weight that I carried back to my one room apartment every night; I think it would be even heavier for me now. Some of the young men who left our school stumbled right back into the mess they had left. Less than a month after his release, one of my favorites, named 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 gonna 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 bio 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 too. He had a favorite bar called Downtime. I'd meet him there every month or so to let him know how Junior was "a doin with them folks he stays with."

I did home visits every two or three weeks with my foster homes. It was my day to visit Junior. For about a year, I had been visiting Ray Jr. 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. Mom 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. Ray Jr. 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 everyday, even though it was summer, "Geez." On this visit, I was ready to leave 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 a one-yard diameter circle 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, Ray 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 the Downtime bar, and Ray senior was having one more round with his regulars. He asked, "How's ol Junior a 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." He had told me several times that he would "never sign off on my 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.      

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, and 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. He can be contacted at tgkirk@eiu.edu.