DeSisto School Part II

S and I warmed to each other and he began to tell me about his escapes, of how on one occasion he hid under a couch for two days, pissing on the carpet until he felt he could leave safely. I had always wondered why it smelled like urine in the common area.

As we established trust we made the leap from telling war stories to making plans, and in the bitter cold of Massachusetts in January we devised a scheme to leave. In hindsight this plan would have been better executed in the Spring.

One night at 12:00 AM we left our bunks. No one woke up, even when we broke the lock that separated us from our shoes and coats. Then we ran in darkness towards the gym and auditorium where we had never played a game or watched a performance.

It was unlocked. We pilfered clothes from a stash in a closet, then made our way to the basement where we hid beneath a tarp behind a boiler. We stayed there for 24 hours. We each had a baseball bat, and in the event that a member of the staff happened upon us we were going to beat them into unconsciousness. This almost occurred. One of the maintenance men came to the basement. I readied myself to attack, but he left after and there we stayed.

To make the hours tolerable I engaged in a pleasure I had not enjoyed for 7 months, which was cursing. These words were edited out of our vocabulary through a number of punitive measures. From then on, every sentence was a proper noun sandwiched between “Fuck”. I still speak this way.

When the next night fell we emerged from hiding. We walked across the campus. S knew the layout of the administrative offices and the plan was for him to enter and steal the petty cash drawer, allowing us to get bus tickets to a destination that was yet to be discussed.

From this point on details become hard to retrieve. I remember walking along railroad tracks and things being fleetingly beautiful. Snow was glowing under a generous moon and the windows of houses gave off orange light. I imagined the families within and how their children might be built right, not crazy or dangerous like me. We talked as though we were kids on an adventure. Eventually we reached a highway. We walked beside it, moving with the big trucks through the snow.

We caught a ride from a trucker. We bought bus tickets to Albany and slept in the mission, smothered in the odor of clothes that never get dry and feet. Eventually we were cast out by the minister. He was not his brother’s keeper.

We split up. We had different survival strategies. I slept under a loading dock on the SUNY Albany campus, then over a heating grate, soaked by rain and feeling death evaluating me, and then I was arrested for vagrancy. A cop threatened to shoot me in the head and leave my body in a ditch and I wished our roles were reversed.

Jerry, a friend of my father’s, picked me up from the police station and began to drive me back to the place I’d escaped from. There was no point in telling him that I would be sitting in a corner in a cold shack and staring at the wall, making up sins so that the staff would consider me to be sufficiently repentant. We stopped at a diner and when he used the bathroom I ran into the woods. Jerry is dead now, killed on a highway off-ramp.

After this I called my parents and told them that this would be the last time they would hear from me. I wouldn’t go back. Being on the street was deadly but at least I was free.

My father eventually arrived. I don’t recall him asking me anything much about where I’d been and what I’d done. These things were mostly boring anyway. I froze. I starved. My life was threatened. As far as I am aware these are the commonplace indignities that homeless people endure.

I drove through the campus of the Desisto School recently. My memories were of darkness, of a hidden cult tucked away from the world and endless distances traversed in the snow. Instead I drove through wealthy New England villages with the usual trappings of ski shops, yoga studios and restaurants, each of them promising an innovative take on farm to table cuisine.

I think I was hoping for ghosts. For an air of menace. For tall grasses encroaching on crumbling buildings that somehow contained relics of the misery doled out within. More than anything I envisioned a tree erupting from the roof of the mansion, life somehow struggling through the rotting carcass of a building that was mortared with the ego of an utterly forgettable megalomaniac.

Instead I felt bored. It was so much smaller than in my memories. Close to the road, only a few miles from a good cup of coffee. All of the buildings had been razed except the building I slept in and the mansion itself. They appeared to have been completely and thoroughly emptied.

There was no opportunity to enter the buildings. The grounds were actively maintained with a landscaping crew mowing the grass. They didn’t give me a second look. Perhaps they were used to gawkers. It all seemed unlikely to me. How did something that did so much damage to so many children have the evil drained away?

But then it is worth saying that some of the evil didn’t drain away. It just moved, dressed up in a sheriff’s uniform. It became a dangerously corrupt piece of shit in a new place. In a failed bid for congressional office, right wing border hawk Paul Babeau came undere scrutiny for his time as headmaster of the school.

Despite his emphatic denial of any knowledge of the punishments being foisted upon the students under his care, in a home movie leaked to the media Babeau stated “They need to feel hopeless; they need to feel depression and complete failure. They have to bottom out and then be able to work through it.” I have been working through it my whole life.

I came back from Desisto School changed in a bad way. While it was beyond a doubt that I entered the school an angry kid I emerged enraged. I lay awake at night fantasizing a wholesale slaughter of the staff and administrators. To admit to such thoughts in the present is the highest breach to a number of taboos, but this is all I got out of the Desisto experience.

My life hadn’t been normal before and it wasn’t normal after. The hostility that I felt against authority figures, suppressed for an adolescent lifetime, turned white hot. I punched trees until my knuckles bled. I terrified my sisters with the enormity of my anger. My father and I circled one another, animals ready to lock horns.

I was enrolled in a public school for damaged kids. All I remember are grey skies and long bus rides. I was choking on myself. I threatened a teacher’s life, tried to leave the school grounds, was restrained by two security guards, and charged with misdemeanors for my threats. This life experience became standard, but it never stopped feeling novel.

In Colson Whitehead’s 2019 novel The Nickel Boys the protagonist of the story comments upon a man who was imprisoned with him in a state run institution: “The boys could have been many things had they not been ruined by that place […] Chickie Pete for example wasn’t solving special relativity- but they had been denied even the simple pleasure of being ordinary. Hobbled and handicapped before the race even began, never figuring out how to be normal.”

I don’t want to present the idea that there is a direct parallel between my experience and the plight of an African American boy in a reform school in the 60’s. I have insulation that such young men couldn’t have dreamed of, and more second chances than I really deserve. But still, I know this: Violence bends you. Domination breaks you. It turns you into something that you never wanted to be. And then, when you have finally relaxed into the shape that it has made for you the whole thing shatters. And then you’re nothing at all.

The Desisto School Part I

At the age of 16 I was placed in a residential school for ‘troubled teens’ that was later shuttered by the state of Massachussettes for neglect, child abuse and financial impropriety. You can locate the state’s complaint against the institution online, and though I am glad that the man who profited most from this institution is dead there are former staff members out in the world who are irredeemable pieces of shit, first among them being the troglodytic former Arizona sheriff and Republican congressional candidate Paul Babeau.

Several organizations designated it as a cult and I can’t say this wasn’t true. The founder of the school lived in a luxurious mansion where he was served extravagant breakfasts by the students who were most able to ingratiate themselves to him. The rest of us lived in dilapidated, freezing dorms and slept in 10×10 rooms in groups of four. If one of the bunkmates was considered a flight risk two of us would have to drag our mattresses onto the floor. One of us would sleep in front of the door and the other would sleep below the window which would be barricaded with portions of the bunk beds.

My arrival was traumatic. I had gone from punching my father in a drunken rage to sleeping in a sump to the back of a police car to the psychiatric emergency room of a hospital to this place. Upon my arrival they confiscated my belongings. Any medications were taken and would be administered by staff. This included a tube of ointment for the terrifying rash I had developed on my crotch from being a drunken runaway who pissed his pants and then lived in them. Later that day a grown woman would apply this to my perineum and penis.

I was told that I would be allowed to call my parents twice a month and that the phone call would be monitored by the staff. Any complaints about the conditions at the school would be considered emotionally unhealthy manipulation and would result in punishment. I was told that I could write to them as I pleased but that any and all correspondence would be subject to the same rules and oversight. Any suspect behavior would result in a suspension of any contact with my family.

I felt profoundly unwell. When I woke from a fitful sleep to my second day I sat at the breakfast table with approximately 20 strangers and ate nothing. How could I?

My efforts to obtain information about how the institution operated were rebuffed. I gradually realized that there was an expectation that I would stay in this place for as long as it took for me to get well. When I tried to parse out what exactly ‘well’ meant I was met with vague answers until I realized that no one really knew. It was all up to the man in the mansion’s whims, which were no doubt heavily informed by his love of money.

We painted his house that summer. In fact we were called ‘Zen Painters’. The idea was that the labor of painting could be viewed as a type of meditation that would be transformative to those doing the work. There was even a little butterfly included in the pamphlets. Everything was Zen here. There was a transparent sexual division of labor, and so the young women were called ‘Zen Gardeners’. The older students who were able to kiss the right asses were called ‘Zen Waiters’.

This was obviously a bunch of bullshit. We were not trained in any mindfulness techniques, we did not have the concept of Zen explained to us and we did not have any encounters with the luminaries of Zen Buddhism. This was a marketing ploy to appeal to parents desperate to convince themselves that they had done the right thing for their child.

I played the game as best I could. I thought this was my clearest trajectory out. I worked hard, was cloyingly polite and desperately constructive with my criticisms in the nightly ‘encounter groups’ in which we accused one another of petty infractions of rules, of emotionally unhealthy behavior or of slacking as we performed the forced unpaid work that no one thought to call slavery.

After approximately a month of panic I began to see how the game was run and I performed the role of a well-adjusted Desisto School student. I knew who to single out. I participated in just the right amount of verbal bullying to not get bullied myself and I kept my communication with my parents on a very surface level. I wanted to see them and talk to them and if the cost was being dishonest, of not talking about the kid who almost died of lithium poisoning and dehydration, or the constant rumors of sexual abuse perpetrated by the staff, or the building that they called ‘the farm’, then so be it.

As with the actual ‘plants in soil’ type of farm, it was a noun and an adjective. You could be farmed, or you could go to the farm. The farm itself was a one room brick building with a bathroom. Kids were sent there for the most serious infractions, all of which amounted to running away or making plans to do so. Allegedly there were other infractions that could get you placed there, but I never saw someone sent there for anything other than flight.

Rumors about what happened to you when you were sent to the farm were manifold- that you were only allowed to eat puffed rice and skim milk, that you wore no underwear under the Dickies suit you were forced to wear, that you could only use the bathroom once a day so that you inevitably were sitting in your own urine- but they all agreed on a single point: That until you confessed to the staff member watching over you an exact and detailed list of your transgressions leading up to and during your escape you would sit in a hardback chair with your knees touching a wall, a position that you were not permitted to move from. No reading, no writing, no talking to the staff.

As with any cult there was an appropriation of language: You were ‘cornered’ (not a very imaginative turn of phrase… you had to sit in a corner) or ‘chained’ (in which you had to be within one arm’s length of another person at all times) or ‘sheeted’ (in which you wore a sheet and underwear and nothing else) or subject to a ‘limit structure’ (which involves one or more other human beings lying on top of you to restrain you). Desisto School was a wellspring of coded language for humiliating psychological torture.

The threat of ending up on the farm was a relatively successful though unimaginative specter of abuse that scared most of us away from any form of escape that wasn’t into our own minds. It strikes me now, 23 years later, that had there been even the slightest introduction to the ‘Zen’ motif that the sadistic pedophile who ran the school liked to pepper our forced labor with that we may have been better able to endure the farm, to find some peace in the petty and controlling nightmare he had devised.

There was a silly hierarchy that all of us were placed into that was reflected in the dorm to which we were assigned and our position within that dorm. The most recent arrivals were ‘New Boys/Girls’. If you abided by the arbitrary and mercurial rules you would be redesignated as an ‘Alternative Boy/Girl’. From there it was a long grind to the status of ‘Steward’, which conferred upon you both the privilege of living in the mansion and the responsibility of making the lives of those below you more terrible. Stewards were entrusted with the sacrosanct task of nit-picking every aspect of their underling’s behavior, and given that they were no more than 18 themselves they could be remarkably petty.

At Desisto School all the internees with the exception of the stewards had to be no more than one arm’s length away from another student and we were required to travel in groups of three. This was called ‘spacing’ and it was as difficult to execute as it sounds. We were expected to adhere to this at all times which made the need to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night a delicate negotiation, as the entire room would need to accompany (and resent) whoever was unfortunate enough to be the first to give into the need.

While any fair-minded person would be frustrated at having to adjudicate such a practice, the Stewards were generally not fair-minded. This might have simply been an outcome of giving 17 and 18 year-olds the right to declare people in violation of rules and then patting them on the head for doing so. It also might be the case that these kids were taught over the course of several years that their own welfare depended on a willingness to step on the heads of those who were below them on the ladder. Or it might be that only a sociopath can thrive in this sort of environment.

I ‘spun’ (another puzzling use of words) into the Alt-boys dorm and after not too long I was the ‘Dorm Leader’, a shitty job in which you were tasked with the responsibility of overseeing the daily cleanings of our living space. As well, as a dorm leader you needed to use a stopwatch in the shower to enforce the unbreakable and unquestioned tyranny of time. We were permitted minute long group showers in the morning.

Our bowel movements were monitored as well. While the unpredictable temperament of urine was spared the clock, shitting was another thing entirely. With the knowledge that the toilet stall was an invitation to indolence we were permitted no more than 2.5 minutes in which to defecate. This had two outcomes as far as I was able to gauge: You either left the stall with a shitty ass or you mastered the art of the clean drop at the expense of hemorrhoids. I was more inclined to the latter. The fact is that getting a turd out of your asshole with only blood on the paper requires a kind of full-bodied approach in which you spread your asscheeks as far apart as possible and sit on the seat so that it pulls you even further apart. From there it is a matter of expediency, of forcing the feces out as fast as possible so that it made no contact with the rest of your butthole.

I oversaw all these petty and fascistic rules that institutions of social control need to exercise. They serve as a kind of thermometer in the turkey of defeat. Another hallmark of petty authoritarianism is the need for an enemy, and at Desisto School the enemy was within. While students fleeing the school was never a regular occurrence it did happen periodically. I felt a great sense of relief that I was not the only one who wanted to get as far away as possible. A boy named S was at once the best and worst at running away and he ended up in our dorm. While I can’t recollect how many times he made it off the campus, it was enough to summon feelings of respect. But he inevitably arrived back at the school.

As part of a young person’s residence at the school (and I use the term ‘school’ loosely as I attended perhaps a week of classroom instruction while there) the parent’s were expected to attend monthly meetings in which Michael Desisto himself appeared to harangue our moms and dads about how deeply manipulated they had been by their children and how this was indicative of the codependent love that was actively destroying their family. On the whole I think my father was far more taken in by this amateurish psychobabble than my mother but nevertheless the months stretched on.

There were tremendous dividends to having these meetings. It allowed the parents to imagine that not only were they healing their children, they were healing themselves. And thus was fealty pledged to a shitty little empire ruled by decree of a greedy old man who exercised absolute control over a fiefdom of children engaged in a constant circular firing squad. If a student ran away their parents were supposed to cease all contact and refuse to take calls and to contact all their friends’ parents and the whole extended family and demand that they not provide to their children so much as a porch to crawl under.

Obviously this poses a serious danger to the young person. How would a kid, displaced and unfamiliar with how to access social services for homeless youth survive? In the case of S the answer was by getting drunk enough to deal with the realities of trading sex for food and shelter. But he always came back, and I don’t know whether that was the pain of being completely cut-off from his family or a simple need for stability.

I respected him. I was so dedicated to leaving through the front door that I hadn’t considered the rear. I knew there were deficits in my knowledge of the geographic locale- I had only been off-campus once in the time I was there. As well, I had no real ability to survive, only an ability to endure. Endurance can take you far but if you don’t get the hang of survival you’re fucked.

I began to sound S out. He had been there for two years with significant gaps where he lived on the street. He was a wellspring of gossip about the functioning of the school and the infractions of the students. He provided a sort of oral history of the place in which heroes and villains emerged. My favorites were the stories of a notorious boy who had been placed on the farm in the recent past.

Fire Codes were flagrantly ignored by those who ran the school, but somehow, against all reason, the farm had a fire extinguisher. This boy had used it to beat the staff member supervising his misery within an inch of his life. On another occasion he had punched the glass out of a window and opened up his wrists. He was always on the farm. There was no speaking to him but I wished him well. I thought he was braver than the rest of us.

It was through a recounting of the transgressions of others that we evaluated each other. It provided us with plausible deniability. Snitching was embedded in the fabric of life at Desisto school. It was always possible that you would be betrayed. You couldn’t even be angry with the person who sold you out. It was their only way to escape from a corner and have the dubious privileges of a shower and normal food reinstated.

Online Dating

Out of an abundance of sexual frustration and (apparently) a masochistic streak I signed up for a dating website recently. “Why not?” I thought. “What do I have to lose?” This is an optimism that isn’t typical of me. There’s always something to lose, even on your deathbed. Even when the stakes are so low.  

I only have one good picture of myself. I am holding my niece. We look like an oil painting. The dark is behind us, the light before us. Neither of us is smiling nor are we frowning. Instead we look surprised and perhaps a little bit scared, beholding something that is both great and terrible. I took this sacred photo and uploaded it to a website where people shop for each other. 

After this I wrote about myself in trite, petite soundbites that avoided more than they admitted. Politics, spirit, dreams and aspirations are all distilled into choices on a drop down menu. Instead of ‘anarcho-communist’ I chose ‘liberal’, a thing I most certainly am not. I was able to flaunt my graduate degree, a diploma that is only useful for wiping asses or kindling fires, without seeming too snobbish. I was asked to list my astrological sign, my preferences regarding children, cigarettes, alcohol, voting  and domesticated animals. These are the criteria by which a person’s worthiness of being known is judged. And then, important above all things, is one’s career or lack thereof. 

As I began to look at the people to whom I would apparently and inexplicably be wedded I began to notice that there is a sort of form to the creation of a profile on these sights, particularly where pictures are concerned, that verges on a sort of modern folk art, a haiku for ugly Americans to compose as the world burns. I can only comment on this phenomenon as it pertains to women- I didn’t sign up to look at men, although this would be an interesting thing to do in the pursuit of a more thorough knowledge of the limits of human imagination. 

While the order of presentation can change, the common elements remain. There is the obligatory selfie that is usually taken in a car or in front of a mirror. This part of the pattern is understandable- the website uses some unfortunate algorithm to authenticate your face, a technology that I can only assume is also used by the military industrial complex for less innocuous purposes. 

There is also a recurring though not quite universal photo in which the person is posing in a location that is obviously not in the United States. I interpret this to be an assertion of the subject’s worldliness. I guess I  shouldn’t judge people for doing this. People take pictures when they travel. It is just that I hate to travel and even if I didn’t I couldn’t. I can’t afford to travel because I can’t afford to anything. And maybe this is what it boils down to. There is a class dimension to these things, as there is to all things in this awful society. 

Other ingredients of this form are the brunch shot, in which the person sits before a completely denuded breakfast plate, mimosa in hand, which appears to be another assertion of one’s position in the class hierarchy as well as testament to the fact that they are fun all day, all the time. Weekends are leisurely, the weeks are full of important and well paying work. Then there is the group photo, in which they pose with people that are apparently dear friends and relatives. The photo says that they are rooted in a community of some kind, utterly complete save one predictable but suprising, humble yet successful, well appointed human male.

Inevitably there is a photo taken on a beach, presumably so the observer can admire the person unclothed and ponder the hours they spent at the gym. But perhaps it is indicative of all the ways in which I am myself a petty and superficial person that I noticed this at all. I chose to not look at people who I found to be unattractive. I denied them the right of the internet age to be noticed, to register as a blip on the radar of another human’s consciousness.

People tell stories with pictures and all pictures tell stories. That the stories people to choose to tell as they search for connection are remarkably similar tells a story on a grander scale. That we are frightened of looking different. Afraid that the world will know we’re broken and unloveable, that we can barely stand another day of feeling so lonely. And then that we’re simply afraid, reaching for affirmation of our beauty and of our ability to perform conformity for wages of love as we march away from the darkness and into a light that shines so brightly we cannot see. This light might be salvation. Or it might just be what we see before the shockwave hits.