REFORM SCHOOLS COME IN ALL SIZES- PART THREE

He walked over to me, gripped my shoulder with his hand an asked, “Son, would you stay on the farm if I let you go out there to work?”

 

My heart skipped a beat. Not because he had suggested my going to the farm. No, but because he had put his hand on my shoulder. I thought, maybe this guy is an okay guy, maybe he does like me!

 

“Look, son, I asked you a question. Your record tells me not to send you to the ranch, but I’m going to take a chance on you.” And he squeezed my shoulder.

 

That did it! I wasn’t a tough guy any more. Tears came to my eyes and streamed down my face, and I promised, “I won’t run away, honest, I won’t. You can trust me.”

 

I thought you had it in you, he said.

 

And proud of that hand on my shoulder and his trust in me, I went off to the farm. That touch kept me straight for the two years I was in Whittier, for Fred C. Nellis was the only man who ever showed any real love and interest in me all during the years I was in trouble. He put his faith in me and you can bet I didn’t run away. I couldn’t. The Big Guy trusted me!

 

At the end of the two years, I was put on parole and allowed to go home to my Mom in Sacramento. It was grand to be home. I was full of promises to Mom and myself. And I did all right for a while. I worked as an usher at the Victory Theater. I worked in the rice fields where my brother Paul worked. At the same time, I started going around with the old gang. After all, they were the only Friends I had. I started staying out late at night, smoking, drinking, and taking things to help pay my share of our good time.

 

I remember one night when I didn’t get home until late; about 2a.m. I took off my shoes to sneak in. As I opened the back door, I stopped still. I could hear a voice in the living room. I peeked around the door, and there was Mom, kneeling in front of the old rocking chair. She prayed, something like this, “Oh God, I don’t know where Phil is tonight but you do. Please won’t you save him and bring him back home so I can have some rest?”

 

I waited until she finished praying and went to bed. I hardened my heart so God couldn’t answer her prayer. I knew I was running with the wrong gang but I didn’t want to give up my friends for what? As far as I could see for nothing. I kept on going with the gang, and we burglarized a garage and I was arrested again. By this time, I had lost count of how many times I’d been picked up.

 

While awaiting sentence, because I was fifteen and too old for juvenile hall, I was put in jail. One night while I was there, the police brought in a woman and locked her in a cell close to mine. She was a drug addict, shooting heroin. She didn’t suffer much the first night but sat quietly in her cell, waiting for the effects of the heroine to wear off.

 

But the next day and night were a nightmare for the woman, myself and those in the other cells! She screamed, cried and cursed the police, begging for a shot of heroin. Her nerves were raw. Her body felt as if a thousand bugs were crawling up and down each nerve. No one paid any attention to her cry. Not even an aspirin was given to her. Finally, unable to stand the pain any longer, she began butting her head against the bars. She cracked her scalp and blood gushed out, running down the aisle. By standing close to my cell bars, I could see the blood as it formed a little pool on the cement floor. She stopped screaming and fell to the floor. The guards came and carried her out. I don’t know if she was dead or not, but seeing her suffer made me fear and hate dope. I never touched the stuff.