- First day at SCBH -
I had a choice this morning, whether to eat Quake or Quisp cereal, from the makers of Cap'N Crunch. No bowl of oatmeal for my last meal at home. I figured, what's the use, although this had been one of the things I argued about. We could never have sugar-sweetened cereals. Those were reserved for Annie, Joe and Barbara, "the little ones", as Grandma called them. What was the deal, Annie was only one year younger than me and two years younger than Rob. It was the injustice of the whole situation at home that disturbed me and caused me to act out at times. Frustration. Anger. The Little Ones could eat anything that they wanted to while Rob and I had to eat oatmeal every day, along with two buttered slices of toast and a glass of orange juice. Now, I'm out of here and Mom said I could have my choice. What's the use? What sense does it make to finally get the extra treat of sugar-coated cereal on your last day at home? It made no sense to me. I ate Quake anyway. There was no oatmeal brewing in the pot on the stove. Grandma hadn't gotten up yet to make it.
A milestone in my life had arrived. I had just spent a calendar month in the Milwaukee County Detention Center. The worst part was over, and that was being torn out of your home against your will, being put into lockup with a bunch of criminals and losers, never knowing what would happen next.
The worst part was being rejected by Mom but I had cried all I was going to cry. I had cried at the Detention Center after holding it all in for three days. For the first three days I had a roommate, he filled me in on what's up. There was an overhead two-way PA system, the counselors could listen in on you, be careful what you say. The door, windows and screens were indestructible, don't bother trying to break your way out. After the roommate left that third morning, I was able to take my mattress off of the floor and put it on the bed. Overcrowding forced cells to double-up and there was only one concrete "bed" per cell. Now, I had the room all to myself. We were locked in those rooms or cells most of the time. After lunch, we were supposed to settle down for a few hours. The counselors played the radio through the PA system, it was WAWA 1590 AM or WNOV 860 AM, the "soul" stations in town. I got comfy and thought about my life. I had just turned 14. I was headed who knows where. I cried into the pillow, deep, hard, long. I would not cry again for years and years. No more crying.
So, today, August 11, 1969, I would begin my two-year sentence at St. Charles Boys Home, SCBH. The uncertainty of the future was frightening. I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to leave but I had no choice.
With Mom and I carrying a few possessions, we left 2416 W. Juneau Ave. at 7:30 a.m. I was wearing the new yellow "Polo" shirt that Mom had bought me on Saturday over at the men's clothing store along the west side of 27th Street just north of West Wells Street. I was wearing green pants.
We walked south on N. 24th St. to W. Wisconsin Ave. It was a sunny day, not too hot.
I thought of my brothers and sisters, of Mom and Grandma, of my purple 20" bike with the high-rise handlebars, white "banana" seat and three-speed stick shift. I wondered if I would ever ride it again . . . . .
Walking along silently, I wondered what Mom was thinking. We didn't talk much. She had checked the bus schedule and knew that we had to hurry along. We waited only briefly at the bus stop. Although I felt self-conscious with all of the stuff in our arms, I realized that most people weren't staring at us. There were three other people waiting at the bus stop, a black man, a black woman, and a white man wearing that funny green colored clothing that most janitors wear. He was browsing through the Milwaukee Sentinel, our daily morning newspaper at that time.
"Here comes the bus, Dennis," Mom said. Why did she say that? Now everyone knows my name. They looked at me, then back to whatever they were looking at before. Mom didn't have to say that. Maybe she was afraid that I would bolt. She did stuff like that all the time. I didn't appreciate her spotting me out like that, but what's a kid to do. It was the same at the grocery store when we would shop sometimes, fighting the crowds on Saturday afternoons at Krogers or Krambo Food Store. She'd dispatch you to go get a can of green beans or maybe some creamed corn, then as you're walking up the laundry detergent aisle toward her to put it in the cart, she'd look up and shout, "Dennis! DENNIS!!! Here! Over here! By the Tide!"
Who needs the aggravation? Anyway, that would be one thing I wouldn't miss, Mom spotting me out like that.
There it was, the big, hulking bus, air-braking its way to the corner, pff-fft-pfftpfft-pffCHH! The sign on top said 10 WELLS - BLUEMOUND in white letters on a black background. At the curbside base of the windshield a little white cardboard sign with black silk-screened letters showed the words COUNTY HOSPITAL. When the bus arrived and the door opened, the black woman stepped up to the driver, looked sternly at him and inquired in a loud voice, "Does this bus go to County Hospital?"
I had to chuckle. And I wish I had a nickel for every time I heard that question! "Yes, ma'am," he told her as she briskly walked down the aisle to a seat on the driver's side of the bus. Mom and I headed to the back, knowing that we had a long ride--though not quite as far out as County Hospital, which was located just north of 87th and Wisconsin Avenue.
We took the bus to 84th St. Along the way, Mom offered me a white rectangle of Chiclets gum out of the box in her purse. She explained that she had no "Yipes! Stripes! Beechnut Gum!" and that she had given the last of the colored Chiclets to Annie, Joey and Barbara. Aha, the "little ones" again. We rode along and I stared out the windows, watching how the sun and shadows moved along as the bus headed west. Sooner than I wanted, we were getting near our stop. We hopped out there at 84th and Wisconsin then walked what seemed to be forever south to SCBH. Along the way I continually shifted what I was carrying from arm to arm. I had the brown grocery bag holding my pillow and the new, small green cloth suitcase with the multi-colored orange and green horizontal stripes. It was hotter now, almost too hot.
I started sweating within a block of the bus stop. Mom was carrying another bag and her purse. It's a long walk south to St. Charles from Wisconsin Avenue. We didn't talk much. I wished that the walk would go on forever and that we would never get there. Mom complained about the distance. Apparently the S. 84th St. bus didn't run that frequently, that would be Route 67. We walked and walked and walked. Mom offered to help carry the stuff, I said no, it's all right. She couldn't help me now, I thought, my problems were bigger than a suitcase and a paper bag.
Finally, we arrived at St. Charles Boys Home and walked up the driveway and toward the Administration Building. Mom checked in with the receptionist. We waited in the lobby in two wooden chairs upholstered in harvest gold vinyl. Mrs. Marion Palmer was the secretary/receptionist, you could hear her behind the sliding glass answering the frequently ringing phone in a cheery, melodic voice, "Good morning! St. Charles!"
The air conditioning felt good on the beads of perspiration at the back of my neck and along my arms. The chairs were comfy, padded office chairs. A good place to sit, rest and cool off. I stared at the linoleum floor and contemplated my future, and my past. I hated it, I hated everything. I thought I was going to die, I could not possibly live another minute. Now I was stuck in a boys home and would soon be with a group of kids, convicts and criminals to me, who looked like a combination of The Bowery Boys, The Dead End Kids and the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story.
At about 9:20 a.m. Mrs. Palmer cheerily ushered us in to the office of the Director, Mr. Raymond P. Lauer. He wore a semi-shiny blue-gray suit with thin lapels, a white shirt, a thin black necktie, black socks, of course. His shoes were black wingtips. He looked a little bit like Sinatra in one of the Rat Pack films. He acted just as cool.
Although this was 1969, that outfit looked like something from 1959. Perhaps he had purchased it over in West Allis at Modern Mens and Boys Wear. I wondered if the material was sharkskin, it looked like it might be but I didn't know what sharkskin was. Maybe the Director didn't earn enough money to buy new suits all the time. Maybe he earned a lot of money and was frugal. The clothes were in good shape, neatly pressed and clean. Mr. Lauer puffed pensively on a cigarette. He seemed to be examining both of us. He listened to Mom first, then to me. If you started talking he would listen and suck long and hard on that cigarette. The commercial jingle goes, "Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should! " and I bet Mr. Raymond P. Lauer would agree. Tendrils of smoke twisted their way toward the ceiling in lazy increments. Lauer listened, we talked. If you stopped short, he would look you directly in the eyes, take a puff, and in a low but encouraging undertone say, "Go on," holding his stare and letting the smoke drift out his nostrils.
He said that he wanted to welcome us to St. Charles and to let us know that he was accessible if there was anything that none of the other staff would resolve, though he was confident that everything would be fine. Mr. Lauer then took us down the hall to meet with Mr. Dan Lawton, MSW, my "social worker", whatever that was.
We chatted briefly, then Mom had to leave to catch a bus to work. With tears in her eyes, she said goodbye. We hugged one last time. She smelled like a mixture of hairspray, make-up, lipstick, perfume, Chiclets gum and her. Everyone has their own smell. Dogs know that. Everyone has their own smell. You have your own smell. Your mother has her own smell. So did mine that day as she said goodbye. I didn't want to exhale, as if holding my breath would keep Mom from leaving, would keep the clock from ticking, would keep time from passing and moving on. I choked back a huge lump in my chest and throat. My eyes glassed over but I didn't cry. Goodbye, Mom . . . thanks for everything . . . I'm sorry . . . sorry I'm such a bad son . . . goodbye . . . . .
Mr. Lawton described the situation to me: He would walk me over to Kiley Hall and there I'd spend some time with Brother William Wickham, C.S.C., who runs Kiley Hall. Mr. Lawton shared that the rest of the boys were all "impressed" with me from my visit two weeks earlier while I was staying at the Milwaukee County Detention Center. Mr. Lawton said that the boys were all looking forward to having me in the dorm. All I could think of was, "Yeah, I'll bet."
I bet that they were probably planning a "blanket party" for me. Mr. Lawton added that my caseworker from the Detention Center, Mr. Bill Grady, would be joining the staff at SCBH as an MSW in about two weeks. Grady had told me that himself about a hundred times. I don't know why everyone was making a big deal about that, it's not like we had miraculously bonded or anything. It wasn't like that was going to be encouraging to me or anything. I don't know. At that time as throughout most of my life, I didn't have a freakin' clue why adults were telling me stuff. Maybe it was for them to feel better, or for them to think that they were making me feel better. They weren't. And I could care less.
So, Lawton walks me over. He says, "Good morning, Brother, here is Dennis O'Boyle," then he leaves, heading back over to the Administration Building. Now Brother William chats with me for a while, I guess most of it was under the aegis of getting to know me and maybe building a relationship, I don't know, like I said, I didn't have a clue about much. I was numb besides. My life had changed, drastically and forever. No one seemed to be appreciating what I was going through emotionally. I was confused and in agony inside. Brother William is a nice enough guy, anyone can see that as plainly as the red hair on his head and the billions of freckles all over his skin. He was from the farmland of Indiana, a big guy, maybe 6'2", 240 pounds, about 40 years old, with a loud and hearty laugh that could be heard often. We talked in general about how I was doing, it was a relief to at least hear a question like that, though I'm sure I covered it up with a lie like, "Fine."
Brother William probed a little more, not like Lauer with his, "Go on," bit, but with more questions, gently, just trying to help me adjust to the change. He cautioned me about one thing in specific, "Oh, by the way, Dennis . . . some of the boys were saying that you claim to have a black belt in karate? When you came to visit the week before last, you told them that? Well, that kind of stuff doesn't fly around here. I reckon you just said that because you were scared, right?"
I wasn't going to answer. I just looked down at the floor. Green carpet, about the color of my suitcase. Avocado green . . . . .
Brother William went on, "Well, you don't have to be scared, and if you do have a black belt in karate, please don't go around beating up anybody."
I looked up, looked him in the eye, "Brother . . . . ." I looked back down at the avocado carpet.
Ah, what the heck, I couldn't talk. He knew and he understood but that he knew and understood was far beyond my knowledge and understanding at the time. He just winked at me and smiled, everything is going to be all right.
He announced that we would go out into the dorm shortly and I would get my "cubicle" in between Joe Gagliano and Jim Sidders. The names didn't mean anything to me. Now and then as we chatted, one of the boys would pop in to the office, "Hey, Brother, can I have a cig--oh, that new kid is here, sorry, Brother, man, but can I get one of my smokes?" these kids would slickly say, smiling, acting like it's all cool, conniving, trying to persuade Brother William to let them have a cigarette. And he would.
We walked out after about a half hour of visiting. I was assigned the third cubicle on the left in Kiley Hall. The first one out the door of Brother's office was Paul Robillard, then Gagliano, then me, complete with a window and the big, black heater, one of two in the dorm, then Sidders. Partitioned off from Robillard and Gagliano was the t.v. area, with bookshelves and a sofa, coffee tables and chairs. Across from me was John Smolos, the "hippie" of the dorm. Tags and titles are important to adolescents for some reason, everyone has to be branded. What was I? A bonehead? A collegiate? They weren't sure yet. Neither was I. What did those names mean? I didn't have a clue, I told you that before. I was mostly scared most of my life. I didn't know what was going on. I was afraid that someone was going to hurt me, like my Dad had, like my brother had, like kids in the neighborhood had. Like I had hurt myself and others, I thought everyone was out to get me. Didn't trust anyone, couldn't trust anyone if I would have had. Too scared. Because of all the fear, maybe, I didn't have any room for self-awareness. I was scared a lot of the time.
In my cubicle, I sat my belongings on the bed and looked at the single piece of furniture that was comprised of a pair of doors, three drawers, a desktop surface and a shelf above the desktop. The doors opened to reveal a shelf and a dowel rod going across from left to right. The only word I could think of to describe this piece of furniture was from that great book we'd read in Eighth Grade, "To Kill A Mockingbird" by Harper Lee. This piece of furniture was, indeed, a chiffarobe.
My desktop surface was covered in a lobster-colored dark pink Formica. I had a contrasting light blue synthetic chair, the kind that you would see in bowling alleys in those days. No wonder, for it was some kind of fiberglass or vacuum-formed chair made by AMF, the bowling alley people. It had the AMF logo formed into the back of the chair near the bottom and a pair of shiny metal legs. The wall at the back of the desk part on the chiffarobe was sort of a pegboard piece. In the holes were some hooks made out of straightened paper clips. I put my stuff away trying not to think too much. I felt like a zombie, just going through meaningless motions, eerie. Scared. Didn't want to think, didn't want the next moment to come, didn't want anything to happen. I felt empty and lonely inside, a worthless piece of garbage.
A big, blonde-haired boy with a goofy grin on his happy face was pushing a wide dust mop along the floor in the dorm. He called out loudly to Brother William, "Brother! You want me to sweep in the new kid's cube, too!?!"
Brother William smirked and replied with a twisted, sarcastic, "Stewart! Of course you are to sweep in the new kid's cube. It's part of your chore, isn't it?"
"Brother, man! Come on! When I first came here, I had to clean my own floor," Stewart said. He came along and I moved out of the cubicle. He made a few swipes with the dust mop and stopped to introduce himself, "Hi, new kid, I forgot your name. I'm Ralph Stewart."
I looked down at the floor and shook his hand, embarrassed that I had lied about the karate thing. It was nice of Ralph Stewart to be so friendly. He dusted around my area and under the bed, then kept motoring along toward the far west end of the dormitory.
Brother William and one of the boys showed me to the outer hallway, to a pair of closets out there, one with cleaning supplies, linen and towels in, the other with a bunch of junk, board games like chess, checkers, Candy Land, a bunch of athletic equipment and who knows what else. They gave me a charcoal gray wool blanket, a nice, thick, blue cotton bedspread with thicker, frilly lengthwise-stitched lines, a set of sheets and a pillowcase and said that the laundry goes in on Sunday night, whatever that means. I returned to my cube and laid the stuff on my bed, then went back to the linen closet to get the clear blue spray cleaner and a roll of paper towels. I cleaned and dusted from top to bottom then made my bed, neatly, squarely, so taught that you could probably bounce a quarter on it, the Army way. Dad would have approved of it. I figured, arrogantly but possibly correctly, "No one around here knows how to make a bed but me."
I stepped out and looked into my cubicle from alongside one of the two round tables in the center of the dorm. My cube looked good, tidy and fastidious. The wall between my bed and Jim Sidders' bed was part wood, part bookshelf (on my side) and part vertical boards, about 6" wide, rising to the ceiling from the top of the bookshelf. I loved to read. I had no books. There were some out in the television area, I was going to bide my time, then start collecting a few for my shelf.
So, on August 11, 1969 along the left or south wall in Kiley, it was Paul "Robes" Robillard, Joe "Gag" Gagliano, both from Milwaukee's south side. Then there was me, Dennis (nickname yet to be determined) O'Boyle, Jim "The Dorm Goon" Sidders, Ralph "Stein" Stienbring (a bigger, older Jewish teen), John "The Duke" Duchers from New Berlin, at the back wall it was Chuck "Coop" Cooper and Jeffrey "Springer" Springfield, then along the right or north wall there was an open cubicle, Ralph "Stew" Stewart, another open cubicle, and John "Schmo" Smolos.
It was now about 10:30 a.m. Brother William announced that it was our turn to do some yard work. He assigned various chores. Somehow I was given a pair of gardening shears and told to go trim the grass around all the trees on the property. That's right, all the trees. So, I went to work. No one was watching me. I could have done anything. I was snipping at the grass at the base of an elm tree between the Brothers House and the Administration Building. I was numb. It was mindless work. I looked at the bright yellow beams of sunlight streaming through the trees, burning the skin on my right forearm, highlighting the golden hairs beginning to grow there. I looked at the contrast between the tanned portion of my arm and the untanned place just above the shirtsleeve of the yellow Polo shirt. I wondered what made it a "Polo" shirt, some term Mom used to describe it. Snip, snip, snip, I trimmed the grass and moved from tree to tree, purposing in my heart to remember these moments forever, how the sun was shining through the leaves up above and burning my skin and I didn't care. I thought of running away. No one was watching, I could have done it. Hmm. Looking southwest, I figured, all I had to do was walk off, head down to Honey Creek, jump across somewhere, head over to Aunt Renee's house at 1500 S. 78th St. in nearby West Allis, just on the other side of State Fair Park from St. Charles Boys Home. I could do it.
But where would that get me? Would she even let me in--or call the police? And what about my stuff? It didn't sound like a good plan. I kept snipping grass along the base of trees. Snip, snip, snip. Sometimes standing, reaching down, sometimes on my knees, or sitting like a "Z", snip, snip, snip.
Who cares!?! I'm stuck in this God-forsaken place and who cares! Nobody. I may as well snip grass until I die.
There were a lot of trees. I was getting blisters on my hands, not used to the work, switching the scissors from hand to hand from time to time. Snip, snip. Would this ever end! Wasn't this slave labor, making me work, making us do the work? I guess, at home, like years ago in Georgia when my father was with us, it was the same thing. We did yard work then, me and Rob, pulling weeds, mowing the lawn, this was the same thing. Kind of . . . normal. Kind of o.k., really, you know? I just didn't know what to expect, no one had given me a written script or game plan, I didn't know what was going on or what would happen next. I didn't have a clue as usual. I kept trimming the grass around all the trees, then by the big crucifix there right in front center of the main dorm building, and by the statue of St. Charles himself. No one had to tell me how to do a good job, it was self-evident, even to a clueless person. Snip, snip.
Eventually, Brother William came looking for me, praising the work I had done. Now it was time for lunch, all right! Lunch! Who can think about trouble when it's time to eat anyway!
We washed up in the lavatory across from the dorm. Each dorm, and there were four, had their own lav, right across the hall from the dorm itself. Venard Hall, they were the "little" ones, the younger, smaller kids, they were going down to the cafeteria first today. As we washed up, then queued up, I seem to fit in pretty well. No one was causing me any trouble, I was in line in the middle and everything was o.k.
We marched down the corridor, east, then north, then west, waiting along the north wall just outside the cafeteria until one of the cooks said that we could come in. We went to one of the four long tables, our table, I guess, everyone sat down. Duke and Stein went to the counter and brought back two big pitchers of red Kool-Aid or juice? It was red fruit punch as it turned out, Peacock brand, from one of the institutional food vendors. Brother William stood, then everyone stood up, so I stood up, and he led the prayer, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen."
He paused and looked around with one eye open, his right eyebrow arched high, his right eye looking at everyone, then settling on Springer, then closing. Springer smiled.
Brother William continued, "Bless us, Oh, Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from Thy bounty, through Christ, our Lord, amen. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen."
We sat down. Food started being passed around, it was hot dogs, buns, baked beans, sauer kraut, mmm-mmm, good. Especially when you're hungry. Pickles and olives, ketchup and mustard, relish and mayo if you wanted it. Brownies for desert. How could you go wrong in a place like this!?!
I guess I wouldn't have to be worried about where my next meal was coming from anymore. I wouldn't have to go two days without food, I wouldn't have to scrounge for soda bottles to return for the deposit and I wouldn't have to eat an onion like an apple anymore. My basic needs would be met, and met well.
Between the start of Eighth Grade at St. Rose School in Milwaukee, through the miserable end for me at home and my sentencing to St. Charles and the start of Ninth Grade, I grew eight inches taller and fifty pounds heavier.
SEPTEMBER 1969
Upon discovering an abandoned 1953 Remington Rand typewriter while cleaning out the storage closet with all of the games and stuff, a brainstorm struck to start a newspaper. I obtained a ream of paper, several mimeograph forms and basic training in typing and mimeography from Mrs. Palmer in the Administration Building. Then, after hacking out a few practice stories, I founded, designed and created the publication, "The St. Charles Independent Press", and was 100% responsible for all production and content throughout its entire history. Applying journalistic, investigative, creative, and other techniques in gathering and writing all news, weather and sports stories, I proceeded to amaze everyone. The publication was highly popular and well received by the rest of the boys and most of the staff. Things were going to be o.k.; in fact, they were getting better all the time.