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one reason or another. My crime was that I had been expelled from three
different schools, and my psychiatrist persuaded my parents that living
with hardened criminals under the authority of pedophiles would
somehow motivate me to care more about math.
So here I was, pounding away at sand and soil with our new group
member George. I had been in the group for almost a year, so I was
pretty well acclimated to how things worked. You see, at Anneewakee
there was no predetermined sentence. You had to earn your way out of
the place. The more you complied, the more you worked on your
problems, and the more you demonstrated a willingness to obey
authority and cooperate with the group, then the more privileges you
could earn and the better chance you had of eventually terminating
from the program.
From day one, as I sat in the solitary confinement of my padded
cell in the E&O, I decided that I would accept these conditions and do
my best to adhere to them. I realized this was really my only choice. It
was very clear: rebellion would keep me confined, and compliance
might one day get me released. It was 1983, I was 14 years old, and the
only thing I knew about Communism was that our USA hockey team
had beaten those Commie Russian bastards a few years earlier in the
winter Olympics at Lake Placid, New York. Of course, it never dawned
on me that most people in Russia were much freer than I was at the
current moment.
George had been quiet since his arrival to our group. He was large
and slovenly, an oafish sort. He had clear innocent eyes that never quite
met your gaze. He dug away with his flathead shovel, and I swung my
pickaxe. I had earned the right to wield a pickaxe. George was new and
so he was limited to the use of a flathead shovel. A spade shovel had to
be earned. Every object at Anneewakee was considered a potential
weapon, something that could be used to harm oneself or others. In the
E&O it was a privilege just to wear a belt, to wear a watch, or to wield a
pen. So the right to grasp a shovel was no small thing. The right to dig
and hoe and saw and chop was a hard-earned privilege. At Anneewakee,
I understand. Thats cool. But one thing Ive learned since Ive
been here is that the quicker you talk about your problems, the quicker
you can get out of this place.
I had bought into the party line, even though I knew a lot of it was
bullshit.
George kept his head down and scraped away the sand from the
roots with his flathead shovel. Well, Im from Los Angeles. I guess my
home situation was kind of fucked up.
How so? I inquired. If you dont mind me asking. I mean, if
you feel like sharing.
I guess I got in some trouble, you know.
Well, yeah, I can relate to that, I said. I got into trouble too.
Mine was different.
Look, I began, you dont have to tell me anything you dont
want to. But its just you and me talking here. We might as well talk. It
helps the time go by. My parents sent me here because I kept getting
kicked out of school. I had this asshole psychiatrist who tried to put me
on Ritalin and he convinced my parents to send me to this place. But I
guess I needed it. I caused them a lot of problems, and I see that now.
The group has really helped me, and Im learning a lot and growing. But
I still have a long way to go.
I was sincere, but I was mostly nave and mostly full of the
propaganda that I had chosen to buy into out of self-preservation. Sure, I
was truly interested in George, but I was also interested in passing the
time and listening to some salacious stories that would take my mind off
of the blisters and these accursed dog flies.
Well, I guess my mom was a drug addict, George said, matterof-factly.
Damn, that must have sucked.
Yeah. I came home from school one day and my mom started
shooting at me. But she didnt mean to. She didnt know it was me. She
thought it was her pimp coming to beat her up again.
George said all of this with no inflection in his voice. He spoke as
if he were talking about the weather. I was shaken. I had never heard a
story like this. I mean, my favorite TV show back then was Hill Street
Blues, but this was some real shit that made Steven Bochcos world
look like Disneyland.
What did you do then? I mean, what happened after that? I
asked stupidly. I didnt know what to say. How do you respond to
something like that?
She apologized when she realized it was me. She didnt mean to
do it. My moms a heroin addict, and she doesnt know what she does a
lot of times.
Damn. I shook my head. Sometimes thats all you can do: shake
your head and say Damn.
But then, for some reason, I continued:
Well, look man, there are a lot people here that dont deserve to
be here. A lot of people are here because their parents are screwed up
and stuff. The thing is to try and make the most of it. You know, just try
to talk about stuff and work with the group. It can really help you.
I think I believed that. I think I meant well.
No. I deserve to be here, George said.
It doesnt sound like it to me, I replied. Its not your fault your
mom is on drugs. And its better for you to be here than to be home in
that environment where you could be killed by a drug dealer or pimp or
something.
I wanted to comfort George, to let him know that he didnt deserve
this fate. His mom was screwed up, but that wasnt his fault.
as we can. Might as well come clean with each other and talk about shit.
Its not like they can arrest you for what you tell me. Hell, youre
already here!
George kept digging, and as he dug he kept his head down and
began to speak in the same matter-of-fact tone: Well, I was arrested
see. Because I did something bad. I did something really bad.
We all did something bad man, thats why were all here.
Not bad like I did, George said. And then without any change of
tone, expression, or demeanor he simply said: I raped my sister.
I was fourteen years old. I had listened to the graphic sexual
exploits of my buddy in the E&O, and I had a vague understanding of
sex and what it entailed. I mean, as virginal as I was, Id had numerous
dalliances of petting with girls at the various schools I had been sent to
prior to Anneewakee. When I was in the 6th grade, a pretty and fully
developed 8th grade girl taught me how to kiss and showed me how to
touch her breasts and fondle her genitals on the backseat of the bus every
afternoon. If that sounds like every teenage boys fantasy, I can assure
you that it wasnt. I felt no emotional connection with that girl. Our
make-out sessions made me physically aroused, but I also experienced
deep shame and tremendous guilt afterwards. I never told anyone. I was
embarrassed to even tell my friends. To go with a girl your own age
was all the rage back then, but if any of my peers had known the things I
was actually doing with a girl two years older than me, they would have
called me a freak. My guilt was exacerbated later on when I finally told
the poor girl that I couldnt do those things with her anymore. She cried
and didnt understand. I guess she associated physical intimacy with
emotional intimacy, whereas our sexually charged physical contact was
way too much for me to handle at my age and stage of development. I
felt guilty for doing the things I did with her, but I felt even worse when
I decided to tell her that I couldnt be with her any longer. In her mind I
was her boyfriend, and our make-out sessions were simply a natural
expression of mutual affection. But I, on the other hand, felt intuitive
guilt for indulging in desires and acts that from my standpoint had
one had the right to judge another. Individuals were simply supposed to
encourage, support, and understand one another; the group would judge.
And I learned that the group often judged lesser sins much more harshly
than it judged greater sins. And time and experience have shown me that
this same twisted dynamic also fuels the majority of human governments
and political systems of this world.
So I received Georges words with a spirit of non-condemnation.
Perhaps I didnt really want to understand what he had said. Perhaps I
deliberately ignored the specific reality of his words in order to retain
my own sanity. I couldnt judge. It didnt matter what he did. He was
here digging up palmetto roots, and so was I. The only significant
difference was that I dug them up with a pickaxe and he dug them up
with a flathead shovel. We were in this thing together, and I wanted to
get out and I wanted to help him get out. Thats all that mattered.
Wow. I may have said Damn again, but I dont remember. It
was Wow, or Damn or something like that. Hell, what else can you
say?
Neither of us said anything for a while. We just continued to
plumb the earth and let the reality of the revelation linger in the miasma
of insect repellent and sun-baked, humid Gulf salt air. He had raped his
sister. And she was three years old. And he had chosen to tell me. And I
guess I was supposed to have some answers, since I had convinced him
to tell me.
But I didnt have any answers. I still couldnt figure out why I was
in this God-forsaken place digging up palmetto roots and fighting off
every biting insect known to man. What answers could I give to George?
Hell, I didnt even know if I wanted to give him any answers. How do
you console a monster? Should you console a monster? And yet, as I
watched him dig and looked at his oafish figure and his innocent eyes
that were perpetually fixated on the ground, I couldnt help but to feel
strangely sorry for him.
So I said, You have to talk about this in group meeting.
I cant. I cant talk about it. I told you, but I cant tell the group. I
cant.
Look man, you have to. I wont tell anyone. You dont have to do
it tonight, but youve got to do it eventually. The sooner you tell the
group, the quicker they can help you and the quicker you can get out of
here. I wont let anyone judge you. Were all in here together man.
Remember that. No one has the right to condemn you. Just express your
feelings and the group will accept you and help you.
When all else fails, you can always fall back on the party line. I
believed what I was saying, and I think I was right, as nave as it
sounded. Thats the only advice I could come up with. I was certainly
unequipped to counsel George about the rape of his three year old sister.
I mean, if a licensed psychiatrist couldnt figure out that my problems in
school were directly related to the dysfunctional alcoholic environment I
had to deal with at home, then there was certainly no way I could figure
out how to help George deal with this horrific situation.
The sun began to drop behind the Florida pines, and the pile of
palmetto roots was now a small hill that was taller than both of us. We
shared a mutual satisfaction in our accomplishment. Our pile was taller
than everyone elses. We had worked hard, talked hard, and now it was
time to eat, shower, and get ready for the nightly group meeting. I felt
good knowing that I had helped our new group member open up about
his problems. I patted myself on the back, because I had encouraged
George to share his troubles with me. Now I could only hope that
George would one day share his burden with the entire group.
After supper and showers we walked down the beaten trail back to
the campsite, slowly and cautiously, many of us with long sticks, beating
the brush on either side to scare off any rattlers that may be near. Even at
night, the Florida panhandle was oppressively hot in the summer, but the
Gulf breeze would often waft in and provide a modicum of relief in the
evenings. The group logs surrounded the campfire, the size of which was
determined by the seasons and the weather. On rare occasions, if there
was no wind and the night heat was stifling, there would be no kindled
wood, just a kerosene lantern set in the middle of the blackened ashy
sand. But tonight there was a suitable breeze, and we made a small but
firm flame. We took our places on the group logs around the fire, and it
seemed that we all shared an unspoken satisfaction of a good days work
together. The supper at the dining hall had been good. We were clean
from our showers. And some nights just seemed more conducive to
opening up and sharing than others. This felt like one of those times.
But I was not expecting George to bare his revelation tonight. I
thought it would take some time before he disclosed his secret to the
group. And as much as I had coaxed him to reveal it to me, I wasnt
about to pressure him to tell the entire group until he was fully ready.
The group might be omniscient, but theres some knowledge that human
omniscience cant even handle.
There is no thicker darkness than the nighttime of the Florida
panhandle wilderness. Faces around the circle of fire become intensely
clear and magnified against the curtain of blackness that stretches
endlessly beyond them. A campfire in the midst of an endless pitch
black expanse engenders a sense of solidarity and intimacy among those
who share its offer of warmth and light. There is a shared vulnerability, a
common awareness of mortality and finitude. All are equally subject to
the terrible mysteries and unfathomable horrors that potentially lurk
beyond its flickering flames.
We had all barely taken our seats when George began to speak:
I guess I have something to share.
George seemed nervous, less matter-of-fact than he had been with
me earlier that day. He looked down as he spoke. He fumbled with his
hands and kicked at the sand.
Im not really sure if I should say it, but I guess I need to.
I was conflicted. On the one hand I felt great pride that I had
convinced George to share his troubles with the group, but on the other
hand I wasnt sure he was ready yet. Maybe he needed more time.
Maybe he should tell our group leader first. (Group leaders were the
ostensible professionals that were hired to be in charge of each group.
None of them were licensed psychiatrists or psychologists, and it turned
out that many of them were pedophiles and child abusers.) But if George
felt the need to share with the group, then I reasoned that this was a good
thing, right?
The thing is wellthe thing is George stammered. Im not
sure if I should say this
Go ahead George Its OK man, just talk to us Were here to
help man, just say it The group offered its sincere encouragement.
I was afraid for George to say it, but my voyeuristic side was
quietly urging him on. I suspect that the entire group felt the same way I
had felt earlier that afternoon. What did you do? It was the question that
fascinated us all and somehow bound us together. We all wanted to
know if the others crime was greater or lesser than our own. A pissing
contest, essentially. And I was the ultimate loser. I didnt have any
crimes on my record, no jail time to boast of, no Judge that had
sentenced me to this fate. I was the kid who got kicked out of Catholic
school, got kicked out of boarding school, and got kicked out of reform
school; the kid whose parents paid a shrink 80 dollars an hour to
recommend that I be sent to this hellhole that my mother euphemistically
called a wilderness program. I looked at my comrades gathered around
the fire and thought, You aint gonna win this pissing contest; in fact,
youre gonna wish you hadnt even entered it.
Its alright George Tell us whats on your mind Were here
to listen Were here to help... Were no different than you We all
have problems... The group essentially echoed the platitudes I had
spouted to George earlier that day.
Well George began, his voice quivering a bit. The thing is
well
strength that I had never seen before in my life and that I have never
seen since. There was a cosmic battle taking place. And as much as I
wanted to remain an innocent bystander, I was somehow intimately
engaged, even though I couldnt move. I dont know how long it took. It
could have been ten minutes or it could have been 45 minutes. All I
know is that something inhuman or subhuman overwhelmed George,
and it took every ounce of strength on everyones part to get him under
control.
Time stood eerily still during the struggle, but George was finally
restrained; and whatever evil energy had possessed him seemed to
finally be gone. As the fire crackled, I watched him lapse into a deep
sleep. Somebody gently wiped the blood and sweat and tears from his
face. We couldnt wake him and we all felt it best to let him rest. We put
him in his tent, and then we all went to bed, oddly with no fear or
trepidation. Looking back, I guess our lack of subsequent fear was
because we had witnessed a catharsis. Without any substantial spiritual
guidance to direct us, we nevertheless intuitively sensed that something
had been necessarily expunged. George had come clean. He had
unburdened himself. He had faced his devil, and he no longer had to
carry that evil within him. Somehow we understood this expiation, even
though none of us could articulate it; and we therefore retired to our
Camel tents with nothing but our own desperate sleep in mind.
I was in that group with George for another six months or so. We
never talked about his horror again neither the evil he had committed
nor the evil he saw in the fire that night. I dont know what happened to
George, or if he ever saw the devil again. I can only pray that he found
the grace and strength to deal with his many demons. We all have
demons to fight, and George was no different from me in that regard. I
wonder what happened to his drug addicted mother. I wonder what
happened to his sister, that poor little girl. I wonder what happened to all
the others who spent two or three years of their lives trying to survive at
Anneewakee, the land of the friendly people.
manicured blade of grass came from our own efforts and labor. As
difficult and unfair as it was, we all felt very good about what we had
built together.
The dirt road that led to the campus was gated and locked. There
was a sign indicating that the property was for sale, along with a phone
number. I called the number and explained to the man who answered
that I had once lived here as a student at a place called Anneewakee,
and that I wanted to know if I could show my wife the campus. The man
asked my name, and after I told him he said enthusiastically, I
remember you well! Ill be there in 10 minutes. Mr. L had been a
group leader and one of my football coaches there. He was a genuinely
nice man, one of the truly good guys at the place.
He showed up a few minutes later, unlocked the gate, and drove us
down the dirt road towards the remains of the campus.
They want to turn it into a golf course now, Mr. L lamented.
Can you believe that? A golf course!
We turned onto the campus drive and approached a ghost town.
The buildings were crumbling, the football field was overgrown, the
cabins across the lake were falling apart. What had once been so
efficient, so organized, so well-kept and well-run had now become a
wasteland.
After all the work you guys did, Mr. L said. Look at what
theyve allowed to happen to this place. After all the work you guys did.
And now they want to make it a golf course. He shook his head. They
could turn it into a camp or into a school, or something that would
preserve what you guys built. But theyre gonna tear it all down and
make a golf course!
It did indeed make me very sad. Mr. L led me on a trek back into
the woods to show me the cabins and the group site that George and I
had helped to build. The trail was barely traceable, and Mr. L beat
back the bushes on either side with a long metal pole. I was scared to
death of the rattlers that I knew were surely lurking nearby. I couldnt
believe that I had actually once been acclimated to living in such a snake
infested wilderness.
The group site we had built was completely overgrown, and our
cabins were rotting and infested with cockroaches and spiders. This had
been my home for two years, and now it was completely uninhabitable. I
was flooded with a mix of emotions. I had hated this place. When I had
lived here, all I could think about was getting the hell out of it. Now I
was sad to see my erstwhile home so neglected and forsaken.
We wended our way back down the pine scrub path to the
remnants of the main campus. It was the middle of summer, and just as
hot as it had been on that day when George and I were digging up
palmetto roots together. But there was no more work going on here now.
No more group meetings. No more campfires. No more friendships
being forged. No more children being abused.
A hawk circled overhead. A white crane glided up from the lake.
The sun-baked air was silent and still. The only remaining inhabitants in
the land of the friendly people were the ghosts and demons that we
had long left behind.
By
GEBRE MENFES KIDUS