Being Myself Wasn’t Always The Best Idea

Kevin Lavelle • Jun 21, 2023

The First Time You Go To Prison It Doesn't Stick

Roswell, New Mexico.

2003.

At age 11, I was six foot two.

Grandma Nancy was four foot eight.

She looked like Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

But when she was mad at me, she’d climb the stairs to stare me straight in the eyes and let me have it.

She and Grandpa Fred were strict but fair.

I ate well, they listened to me, and best of all, I could be myself.

But because of the nightmare home I had before going to live with them, being myself wasn't always the best idea.

*****

They say the first time you go to prison it doesn’t stick.

When you get out you’ll do something dumb to go back because the first time inside didn’t break you.

My Dad was an aviation mechanic, which meant my family traveled around a lot.

But somewhere along that road, he took a turn down Narcotics Way.

The crap he drew into his veins sucked even bigger problems into his life along with it.

He showed me how to cook crack on a spoon and how to strap your arm to shoot it up.

When I was nine, he started to yoyo in and out of prison.

Soon after, my Mom succumbed to drugs too.

Strangers smoked crack and had sex on the family couch.

Drug-fueled violence and rage were the soundtracks to our lives.

And soon it seeped deep into my veins, and I got hooked on it too.

I was a big kid and transformed into a horror movie monster when I couldn’t take the crazy anymore.

Once I hacked my Mom's bedroom door down with a butcher’s knife.

She didn’t take that well.

“You’re locked in your bedroom shooting up with your boyfriend and your kids are out here eating cereal for dinner again and you call the cops on me?” I yell at her as the cops lead me away.

Sitting in the back of the cop car looking in at the nightmare that was my home, I say to myself:

“I want more than this.”

*****
The preacher and his wife, a pianist, became my foster parents when I was 11.

It was only supposed to be temporary until my Mom got her shit together.

She got shipped to prison instead.

So my foster parents fought in court to become my permanent legal guardians.

I called them Grandma Nancy and Grandpa Fred, on account of their age.

They grew up in the Great Depression and carried the torches of discipline, hard work, and respect as their guiding lights.

It was all “Yes sir” and “No Ma’am,” but I was okay with that, on account of the kindness they granted me.

They knew the hardships I had faced.

See, they had been my Dad’s foster parents when he was a kid.

Considering how my Dad turned out they could have judged I’d follow the same path.

But they rolled up their sleeves and got stuck right into raising me.

I always admired that.

When Grandpa Fred was angry with me, he’d talk through why instead of yelling and breaking things.

He was uncomplicated.

But I had developed a really keen sense of awareness about people’s behavior, especially adults.

And it took me some time to trust that Grandpa Fred’s anger wouldn’t lead to violence.
Not that I didn’t test it at times.

Grandma Nancy kept a Folger’s coffee can in the cupboard stuffed with $20 rolls of quarters that she’d use for offering at church.

I started sneaking a roll out here and there to buy candy bars.

Then I’d leave the opened coin rolls under my bed.

Many candy bars later, Grandma noticed some coin rolls were missing.

“Think you misplaced them, sweetheart?” Grandpa asked her as she searched high and low. “Or maybe you gave them to Mikey and he misplaced them?”

As I watch her face flush with worry, mine flushes with shame.

It never once crossed their minds to ask me if I knew anything about it.

There was no way I’d fess up now…

I couldn’t bear to disappoint them so.

But after they ran through every option, they eventually searched my room and found the ripped rolls poorly hidden under my bed.

Their disappointment was doubled because I was stealing from them and the church.

From experience, I expected a beating.

But it never came.

That wasn't their way.

They just wanted me to learn from my mistakes.

So instead, I had to walk to school for a month to think about what I’d done.
*****
Several months in with Grandma and Grandpa, I began to trust their kindness.

Me, who had been a ball of rage and frustration when I arrived, had begun to let my guard down.

And though they didn’t crack jokes or prank, Grandma and Grandpa had an easy humor about them, always ready with a smile.

So one evening at dinner, Grandma farted and no one said anything.

Now they both wore big hearing aids and sometimes the batteries ran out and they didn’t realize.

Also, Grandma had some health issues, so between those two things she mightn’t have been aware of what she did, so this helpful 11-year-old thought he’d do her a favor.

“Grandma, did you just fart?” I ask, grinning from ear to ear.

Before she could answer, my Grandpa backhanded me with shocking force.

I was struck dumb.

It stung like hell and I willed the tear trickling down my cheek to suck itself back up into my eyeball so Grandpa wouldn’t see it.

“We don't ever speak to anybody like that, especially your grandmother,” he says with that deep, steady voice of his.

“Yes sir,” I mumble.

“You can’t let your mouth be a waterfall and say whatever comes into your head, son,” he continues. “People get hurt that way.”

“Yes sir,” I croak, as I swallow the lump in my throat.

“Now apologize to your Grandma,” he says, his voice softening a little.

“I’m sorry Grandma, I didn’t mean to disrespect you like that,” I say, and I mean it.

She lays her hand on my arm.
“It’s okay sweetheart,” she says, and she means it too.
*****
I love the lessons I learned that day.

I learned empathy.