The good people at Knight’s will be donating 15% of your bill to RGC. This offer is good ALL DAY! Please suggest eating at Knight’s to your family, friends, co-workers, neighbors… You know you’ve been craving a great meal at Knight’s; why not satisfy that craving on April 15th and help satisfy some very deserving clients of ours as well!

We’ve been awash in emotions here ever since our beloved leader, Rose Martin, passed away. But we all know that RGC must go on! Rose would insist on it, and we know that there are many people in the community who need our help.

Our Program Services Coordinators and volunteers are busy each day, providing transportation, medication reminders, meals, trips to appointments and most importantly, counseling and positive reinforcement.

It was my best friend. I only had one true friend and he was it. I hugged on him and kissed him during my visit. I assured him that he would be alright. I warbled over and over again how much my drunken butt loved him. He wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my best and only friend in the world. I had never had a friend before.

A few days later I fell ill with the same sickness that my friend had. Now there were two of us on the brink of dying. I was very weak and unable to care for my two children, so I took them to the Bureau of Children Services. I asked them to take care of my kids until I got well. I was very sick with this mysterious killer, and it was virtually impossible for me to work and care for them… so there I was limp and helpless for months.

My friend and I both ended up beating the odds. One day I saw my doctor on the main drag. He looked at me with utter surprise. He said, “I can’t believe you lived through that.” I smiled and said, “Angels are always safe.”

I went back to work and began to play catch-up with all of my bills, etc. I visited my children regularly. They lived in a foster home just as I once had done. I didn’t want to have them in a foster home, but I had no other choice believe me. I took some comfort in knowing that it was only a temporary arrangement. When I went back to the Agency to get my children back, all hell broke loose. I was living in a one bedroom apartment — as I had been when I took them there — and the State officials said that my living quarters were not suitable. The State officials came up with all kinds of reasons why I couldn’t get my children back — things unheard of for poor people to have in order to be suitable for parenting. I was trifled, I screamed at the state worker. I said I brought my kids here on my on accord. I was sick. I wanted them to be taken care of. I brought them to you because I love my kids and wanted the best for them out of the situation I was in. I rambled, “I almost died from my illness, I couldn’t care for them! I wanted them to be safe!”

Me screaming and hollering truth at the worker meant nothing — she stuck to her guns, giving me a list taller than me of things I needed to have before my children would be returned to me. I was devastated to say the least. I couldn’t sleep at night worrying about my children. As a result I would be exhausted at work. I didn’t want to lose my job. That was the only way I could see resolve. I cried and cried. I lost weight. I started to get sick all over again. This time there was a name for my illness: GRIEF. The entire time I suffered from the mysterious illness, I had no idea this was going to happen to me. The state of New Jersey didn’t take my children away from me. I took them to the state for help and assurance.

There was a woman named Penny O’Neal. God bless her. She and her hubby were short in stature. Penny died very young, not long after she helped me. She also had two children, a boy and a girl my children’s ages exactly. She had a husband who drove tractor trailer for a living and was gone most of the time. They lived in the best part of town. Penny had all of the things in place in her home that were on my state “have-to-have” list. She was a stranger. I asked her why she was willing to help. She said, “I am a mother, too”. Penny heard from the street what I was going through, and came to me with a plan. She said, “Call the state worker and tell her that you live in my house. I will move next door for a couple of days with my neighbors to make it look good. I will also take all of my husband’s belongings out of the house. We can do this, Rose,” she said. “The only thing that we have to worry about is if my husband comes home before we are able to pull this off. He is such a nut. We don’t want him involved.”

So I called the state worker and had her come to inspect my new supposed-to-be dwelling. You could see by the look on her face that she was pleased. Especially when I ran up to the door with Penny’s key to let her in. I was on watch at the corner store for her to arrive. Soon came that big black state car with the State of New Jersey emblem on it. I was scared to death, but you couldn’t tell it. I maintained my cool, while the worker went through Penny’s house opening closets and looking at the toys and colorful bedding for children. She opened the refrigerator while commenting on how well she thought I had done, and that she would be bringing my kids to me before the week was over.

When she left Penny came in and the two of us jumped for joy, crying and praising the Lord over and over again. I fell to my knees in thanks. I carried on so much that I began to throw up. That didn’t stop me though my kids would soon be back with me. It had been nearly a year since the nightmare began.

The very next day the worker came back to the house with B and Joe. I was thrilled to death, and even happier that she didn’t stay long because we could hear Penny’s husband shutting down his rig on the corner. As the worker left I looked over the worker’s shoulder and saw Penny leaping out of her neighbors house, running her short tiny self toward the noise that was coming from the engine of the truck. Everything went well. The worker was gone and so was B, Joe and me when Penny and her husband returned.

Oh what a blessing Penny was! The “system” was in place to never see me with my children again. But Penny saw differently. Thank God.

I took him home with me and put him in the room with the other male children I was raising along with my only biological son. Little Harry was white, but that didn’t seem to make a difference to the other kids. They all got along very well. And when the month was up, Little Harry’s mom came to get him. She had visited from time to time during the month, and Little Harry didn’t seem to mind when she was leaving. But when she came to get him to take him home, he cried and carried on so badly until it was beyond awful to see. It made the other children very sad and they too began to cry. Little Harry was leaving and we couldn’t do anything about it.

So to calm him down I said, “You can come to visit whenever your mom and dad say that you can. We love you and we aren’t going anywhere, we will be here for you if you need us. But for now, please stop crying and go with your mom home to see your dad.” Little Harry settled down and eventually left with his mom.

For the next several weeks Little Harry’s mother came to me complaining about her son getting into trouble constantly, then suspended and later kicked out of school. Before the suspension I went to the school many times to try to communicate with Little Harry about his behavior. He enjoyed my visits, but always ended with I want to go home with my brothers.

As time went on things got worse for Little Harry. He was ten years old and got caught with a bottle of hard liquor in his locker at school. He also created a big scene about running for president of the Black student Union in junior high. It got to be a little too much for his mom and she asked me if Little Harry could live with me and the boys to see if his conduct would improve — otherwise she was afraid that he would not get the necessary education he would need to survive as an adult. I said okay let’s try it. After all he was loved by all of us.

Little Harry came to live with us. He visited his mom and dad often, and then he would come home to wrestle with his brothers and raise havoc. As time went on I fell more and more in love with this half-pint sized leprechaun. Oh what a wonderful person and son he grew up to be. Every mother should have a son like my Little Harry. He went to college in Grand Rapids, and got a job as a services person with a five star hotel there.

One day at work my phone rang. It was Little Harry’s boss begging me to come to Grand Rapids ASAP. I wanted to ask questions but before I could get a word in edgewise he hung up, and all I could see and feel was fear. Fear for the safety of my son. I tried several times to call back and reconnect in my panic stricken state. All I would get from the powers that be was “come”. So I jumped in my car with my oldest son and dashed off to Grand Rapids, praying like a mad dog that my son was okay. The fear swelled so deeply inside of me. I began to shake and cry uncontrollably.

When we arrived, staff was waiting at the door to lead me to the conference room where Little Harry’s boss was meeting. My head was light, my stomach was sick . I thought I would pass out. But instead I put on my big Mama pants, called on God for help and walked through the doorway. Immediately I was relieved when my son Little Harry stood up from the table and welcomed me saying, “Mom you’re here, too”. “I left work and drove two hours to be here. Are you okay son?” I said, while wiping the tears of relief from my eyes.

Little Harry’s boss reached for me to be seated. Then he said to a black man who was seated at the table, “This is Little Harry’s mom, Ms. Martin.” What had happened was this very rich black man who did a great deal of business with the hotel was threatening to take his business away because he thought little Harry was mimicking him when they encountered each other. My son was raised in a black family and had all of the mannerisms of his black brothers. For example, Little Harry felt perfectly comfortable using ghetto slang to describe things and had done so that day without thinking to Mr. Black Wealth.

I would have given a year’s salary to be able to preserve the look on Mr. Black Wealth’s face when the boss introduced me as Little Harry’s mom. I looked the man straight in the eyes with a questioning look. I heard later from the boss the business man was demanding Little Harry be fired for his actions as well. The boss said he had tried everything he knew to convince Mr. Black Wealth that Little Harry meant no harm. And nothing he said worked. Now he finally understood why this white man who he thought was making fun of him was just being himself.

The closing of the hospital was the talk of the town, and the Ann Arbor News played this headline to the maximum. One day the headlines read that someone — probably a former patient of the hospital — was lighting fires in trash cans all over downtown, and that the Ann Arbor Police were seriously looking for the culprit. Weeks passed and the search intensified. About a month later, the headlines read that the fire bandit had been caught and would be tried in court later on that week. My phone at the office rang off the hook. Individuals were calling to ask me to look into the situation because it was feared that the person to be tried was a castaway from Engler’s heartless command.

At the time I was overwhelmed with priorities. The thought of a mentally ill person being tried in open court was more painful than my list of social work priorities. He or she would not stand a chance. So I raced down to the courthouse to look in on the case. And sure enough it was exactly what I thought, it would be grossly UNFAIR. After hearing the case, the judge decided to sentence Mr. O’Sullivan to state prison two to four years. The judge further commented that since Mr. O’Sullivan had no home or family, he would be a menace if left homeless on the streets of Ann Arbor. Mental illness and homelessness prompted the harsh sentence.

Mr. O’Sullivan had been housed at the state hospital in Ypsilanti since he was twenty. He was now sixty-seven. John (his first name) had intense seizures and a personality disorder as a child growing up. His parents didn’t know what to do about it or him. So they chose the state hospital as a solution. John experienced a very difficult time while in the state hospital. His parents died. He fell in love at age twenty-eight with another patient, and she died mysteriously while being treated at the hospital. Needless to say John was devastated. He once told me the story, and ended by saying since his girlfriend’s death he had lived in a bottomless pit for years.

I tried everything to keep John from going to prison. It didn’t work. It was too late. The judge had made his decision I signed up to be a support for John during his prison time, and I worked with a team of lawyer friends to get John released ASAP. One of my dear friends paid the financial cost to file papers, put money in John’s prison account, and bought him a warm winter coat that he desperately needed. My friend and I visited him on a regular basis. John really liked our visits.

This friend has been my friend for nearly forty years. Sometimes she teases me when other friends are around about all of the experiences she has had — which she would not have otherwise had — if it hadn’t been for me and my wild career. She capitalizes on the fact that supporting my work caused her to be uncomfortably searched by prison personnel. We all laugh about it then continue to move forward.

It took eighteen months of hard work from all of us before John O’Sullivan was released. We went to the prison to pick him up, then introduced him to his new family. We all learned to really love John. He would eat and hold a conversation with us only. We encouraged him to trust others. John was a delightful man. It was the hottest day of the year (I mean it was hot!) and John came to my work place, face blood red and his baby blue eyes smiling. Holding a loaf of bread under his arm, he said, “I don’t have much, but I want to share with you and the children here.”

Years later a small white bus carrying senior citizens passed by me in the Maple Village Shopping Center, and I heard someone calling my name. The vehicle was actually shaking with excitement. The bus came to a halt. The door swung open and a short little woman shouted, “Madam, are you Rose?” I nodded yes. She then said, “Would you please board this bus and help us to settle down John O’Sullivan? He saw you and all hell broke loose. We are unable to calm him.” I jumped up on the bus and searched for his face. When I recognized him I said warmly, “John” and he immediately calmed down. He reached for me and we embraced for quite some time. He rubbed his long white Santa Claus beard across my face. He then said, “I needed that!” I answered “me too.”

Then one morning at 4 am my phone rang. It was a stranger named Gail who just got a job driving a school bus. She had not gotten in her mandatory ninety days and didn’t want to loose her job because her babysitter didn’t show up. She explained on the phone that fellow workers on the bus lot gave her my name and number, saying the only person they knew of that could be trusted to watch a baby and not be rabid getting a telephone call that time of morning was Rose Martin. Gail asked me if I would watch her six month old baby until she got off of work. I listened to her story then said yes.

An hour later Gail arrived with a soft pink beautiful blanket. I told her that I would keep her baby that day if she didn’t cry when Gail had to leave for work. I laid down on my bed, and Gail put in my arms the most beautiful blond, blue-eyed baby I had ever seen. Her name was Jill. I pulled the covers back from over her face and she looked at me as if to say “what the hell am I gonna have to go through this time? Who is this sleep deprived woman with a scarf hat turned around backwards on her head?” Jill didn’t cry, so her mother gratefully backed out of the room and left for work. Jill and I laid there for awhile as I talked to her about life and what was going on in my world. I then mimicked what I thought was probably going on in her life. And she smiled as if she could understand what I was saying. I hugged her she was so soft, so accepting of me, and did not cry. I was thrilled. I found someone to love if only for one day. The loneliness and despair gradually slipped away.

I prepared for work while keeping a close eye on my little Jill. I fed her and gave her the bottle before we left the house. I was as pleased as Punch (from the comic Punch and Judy), engulfed with happiness. When I got to work I showed Jill off and told the story of how I got her. The staff voiced their opinion of what they thought of Gail for calling me that time of morning with her problem. I didn’t understand their position. I was a social worker — helping someone was my ideal thing to do. So there I was working through the day with Jill near my side the entire time. Everything I did that day included Jill baby. Jill baby now was the new name I had given her. I bought a child carrier sling put it on my back and carried Jill baby proudly, hugging her and kissing her as the day went on. When I noticed it was almost time for her mom to come get her I shut and locked the door to my office.

Shortly afterwards, I heard a knock. It was Gail. I ignored her calling through the crack in the door. Finally I said, “Who are you and what do you want?” The small crowd who had come to Gail’s aid laughed hysterically at my question. After a while, I opened the door and handed Jill baby reluctantly to her mom. Then I said, “Who is keeping her tomorrow?” She answered,”I have a new sitter coming tomorrow. I am interviewing her this evening.” I said loudly, “NO, I want to be present when you choose a sitter for my Jill baby!” Gail smiled and said, “That’s okay with me.”

After several interviews for a sitter failed, it was decided that I would keep Jill baby every day until Gail could find as good a sitter as me. By this time it was not going to happen if I had anything to do with it. Her young mother let me keep her a great deal of the time.

A couple of weeks into my new responsibility, I began to get feedback from those black like me who watched me shower my love on Jill baby each and every day. The women complained constantly saying, “With all the needy black children in the world, you pick a white baby to love. And Rose Martin, why do you shame your race loving a white baby when so many black children are suffering for the lack of love?” Not for one minute did I think of that. All I knew was God had answered my prayers. He had given me someone to love, and I was overjoyed about it. I took a lot of ribbing from my peers and fellow social workers. It hurt me very much. The things they were saying and the names they began to call me — I didn’t care. I loved Jill baby and that was it. They were not going to make me feel I was doing something wrong by loving a child who needed love just as much as I did.

Regardless to the color of our skin, I carried her all over town on my back as people stared and whispered regarding my choice. Even with all of the hurt, I had a ball helping to raise Jill baby. Watching her grow up and begin to walk. Teaching her how to dance with rhythm and how to pray. I taught her ghetto slangs. One day Gail and I had to take Jill baby to the clinic for a procedure on her ear. When the doctor entered the room he said, “Who is the child’s mother?” And before I thought, I said “me” — as I noticed over my shoulder Gail was pointing at me, too.

My grown children would tease her sometimes, and act like they were jealous. They would beg me to let them baby sit, alluding to the fact that they would break Jill baby out of being spoiled if I left her in their care. We all would laugh at how they described the different methods they would use. Jill baby became just as much a part of their lives as she had mine.

Years passed before the hurt stopped from those who watched our sheer, genuine love exchanged. “Oh my God, what a great example you have allowed me to show,” I thought as I sat in the front row of Jill baby’s graduation from high school.

I read her lips as she marched down the aisle. “I love you my Rose”, she said.

I had medical insurance. But, I didn’t want to be part of an assembly line during surgery. It really concerned me that complete strangers would be visiting a space in my heart that only God resided. I was not financially well-off. Money and influence is known to rule the world. So I went home and began to write a list of things and skills I did have. Among the items on my list was cooking.

According to those who had eaten my food, I am a terrific cook. I then called the surgeons office and asked for permission to cater in a soul food lunch for the doctor and his staff. They were delighted. A date was set. I asked the ex-cons who work in the catering department of Rose’s Good Company to help me prepare and serve the lunch. When I explained to them why I was doing this cooking event they all laughed their heads off, saying, “Rose you never cease to amaze us. You sure can come up with a solution.”

When we arrived at the medical facility we began to set up the warmers and all the trimmings necessary for a splendid feast. Our guests poured into the room, and the aroma of the homemade foods from scratch captivated their senses and their attention. They sat at the tables and truly enjoyed themselves, licking their fingers covered with sauce from the barbecue ribs I had made. One could see personnel eating who had been taught not to overindulge, catching hell trying to stop this delicious flow of good taste. The surgeon asked his staff to get on the phone and invite other doctors in the building to this marvelous event. The 45-minute lunch lasted two hours.

Afterwards when my helpers were cleaning up to move on, I said to the surgeon, “I did this because I want you to be able to associate my heart with the food you have eaten here today. That is, if you ever want to taste it again!” He smiled, shaking his head in disbelief of what he had just experienced and at the length I had gone to make a point.

Then the doctor said, “You have a wonderful group of people working with you. I particularly enjoyed my conversation with the man in the brown shirt.” I said, “Who John?” He nodded yes. I went on to say, “Oh John is my right arm. He has been with us for years. He also spent 36 years in prison.” With absolute amazement on his face, the doctor shouted, “What? Well he is just like me”. I said warmly, “He sure is.”

I went on to mention the names of the other ex-cons who accompanied me, and the more than thirty years each of them had done in prison. The surgeon was flabbergasted. For a minute I thought I was going to have to resuscitate him.

I ended our conversation saying that myths have to be dispelled. The individuals you see here with me are good human beings, as you have witnessed today. All that was needed in their lives was a second chance.

You would think people who make their living in service positions would be more genuine. But they aren’t. They give you poor service until it is near time for a tip. Then they start smiling and acting like they have been at your beck and call the entire time you were their customer. They lie to keep from doing more work. When they get cut off in traffic they throw caution to the wind while mumbling colorful slurs, and sometimes visual clues of what they think of you and your safety — people can be very mean. And more and more individuals join the mean class every day.

Then there are the speeders who couldn’t care less if you or your family is hurt during their fiasco. They are so much into what they are doing, they don’t even see you let alone care about you. We need to slow down and take a hard look, then begin to change things. Perhaps the people who grimace at you because you smiled at them would choose to smile back rather than act like you can’t be seen. Nothing feels better than a stranger choosing to smile a wide, warm and kindly unsolicited smile to an on-coming person.

Not to mention minorities standing in line behind non-minorities and watching the sales person or clerk treat the people in front of them very well — then when your turn comes to be waited on, the clerk frowns assuming he or she will not be able to communicate with you. They frown sometimes so hard that wrinkles show in their foreheads. Too many times the spiritual aura today rings out ME ME ME. What is so deep about this statement is that many times the perpetrator is not even aware of their behavior. It is second nature to them to feel privileged and behave like they should be first all of the time. If we turn this feeling around there will be much happiness in our communities.

I can remember the 9/11 attack on America. Afterwards, for at least four months people treated people very well, united as one, in many regards. But it only lasted a short while. I say this because if people can do this for a short while as evidenced during the heartbreak of 9/11, they can do it permanently. Try it just for one day and see how well you do, and how much those you come into contact with like it.

One smile brings a smile. One good deed brings actions and thoughts of good deeds. There are few examples of caring in the world today. We’ve got to pick up the caring torch of our forefathers and foremothers and run with it.

He called. And when he did he said, “Ms. Martin you are the first voice I have heard outside of this prison for over thirty years. I am glad to be talking to someone from the outside world. I feel human again.” He then thanked me very much for the few dollars I put in his prison account. He asked me if he could use some of the money I sent him to buy stamps so that he could write to me and the volunteers at Rose’s Good Company.

He then asked if he could share a few things with me–like the fact that the rule being used for the last two years in the prisons regarding cavity searches both vaginally and rectally of women had been overturned (Detroit Free Press 4-16-12). He talked about the humility these women had been subject to on a regular basis. No prohibited items for those two years were found. Pervert at work. He also spent a great deal of our conversation talking about how remorseful he felt about the crime he committed as a young kid. And I believed him. He went on to say how different it was talking to me rather than the inmates who have lost hope that he’s locked up with each day. I told him that I would add him to Rose’s Good Company’s list of convicts who receive a personal letter from me every ten days describing what is going on in the world and in the lives of some of the ex-convicts they know.

Three days after sending Tom the first of my personal letters, I got another call from him. He was delighted and shared with me how hopeful he felt now that someone on the outside cared about him.

A couple of years ago I did this same thing for a inmate name Doug who had no family. Doug received more than thirty-five bad behavior tickets during 2010. He since has received NO tickets. Recently, I asked him why. He said, “Because you and your volunteers care about me and I can tell by the way you treat me.” He went on to say that the food is horrible in prison and he was able to buy some romen noodles with the money RGC sent to him. He said, “It may not sound like a big thing to you. It is to me because I yearn to eat food that doesn’t taste awful. There are so many terrible things being endured by convicts. There is a clear line between what is punishment and what is humane.

I am bloging this point of interest to me, with the hope that others will re-think their attitudes regarding the treatment of those human beings in prison. This is not a soft-on-crime statement, as I have been cautioned by almost every Republican politician who has heard my plea. This is a cry for humanness.

When I was eleven years old, the church women had a ceremony where they would ask us children who wanted to be married to Jesus. Of course, I was the first to raise my hand! And when I did, the ceremony began. The pastor sang with the congregation as he put a shiny new beautiful ring on my finger. They clapped as they brought the roof down with praise and acceptance. The vow said by each young girl was I am His. I can remember wishing my mom was there to see me marry Christ. The words spoken by the church leaders were so wholesome and loving to me. The minister said nothing–absolutely nothing–would be able to hurt me anymore. Now I belonged to Christ only goodness would come as a result.

I left the church that day high as a kite with spiritual energy. And a feeling of relief. I would not be hurt ever again. I had been brutally beaten so many times, by my peers and the adults whose care I had been left in by the state of New Jersey. I was tired of being the underdog all of the time. A whipping post for every one who wanted to let off steam. I kept twirling the ring on my finger as I rode in the bus back to the Ringgold Farm. I told the adults what had happened and where I got the ring from when we returned home. They seemed to enjoy my story so that made me feel real good.

Then a few days later I was awaken in the middle of the night, being beaten with a cat o’ nine tail strap by Mrs. Ringgold. She shouted as she beat me, “Go down stairs and find the wrong you have done! It was your job to wash the dishes and you didn’t do a good job! Find what you didn’t do right!” I woke up in a panic and ran stumbling down the stairs, trying to dodge the pain caused by the weapon she knew only too well how to use.

I started pulling out lots and lots of dishes and silverware looking for what was wrong as she continued to do her thing. The pain from the strap was so intense that I fell to the floor, and as I was falling I turned the ring around on my finger screaming, “I am His! I am His!”, over and over again. The ring came off as I pulled, and was lost underneath the sink. I scrambled to find it. I thought the reason why it hurt so bad was because I lost my wedding ring. After my bloody nose and what seem to be an eternity, she stopped and motioned to the fork that still had food on it. Food that you would need a microscope to see. Then she said, “I don’t care if tomorrow is a school day. I want you to wash every dish and silverware in this house before you go back to bed, even those pieces that are not dirty. Maybe the next time you will pay closer attention.”

Perhaps that is just one of the reasons today I am so meticulous about my work and why I get many compliments about the jobs I do. Her way of teaching was barbaric, but so useful later in life.

I know real well a fourteen year old boy whom I admire very much. Why? Because he is brave, has a handle on his thinking and temper. He associates with peers who are of good character. Even Superman couldn’t do what this kid has to deal with each day. For example, his parents have disturbing issues from their childhood and the past that have not been addressed. Therefore their son pays an enormous emotional and psychological price while growing up trying to love someone who is less than kind to him. Dad plays his part on the down-low. The last thing he wants to do is upset his wife—causing him to honestly have to seek viable employment in order to continue to enjoy the “King for a day” treatment he receives most of the time. He pays no attention to the pain shown in his son’s eyes. The boy’s body language—the burdened way he walks and carries his shoulders—is a dead give-away. Like he is carrying the weight of the world around. It is horrible to see and so sad.

Recently this youth got some work for a few weeks and he thought by working he would be able to get at least one of the trivial toys he desired. He then would feel like he could join in with his friends at school when the game subject was discussed. But his mom took his first pay citing the family needed it for food. What would his parents have done if he had not found work? There are many mentally hurting things.

This kid mingles only with children who the neighborhood compliments for their bravery—for not getting involved in situations that will land them in court, dispelled from school or worse. That alone is something his parents should take into consideration. But they don’t. Their son has an eye for what is right, and not an appetite for the thrills and chills of the unknown.

Four more years to stay here, he regularly thinks. His parents do what they can to keep him from associating with healthy peers. Very little play time together and no over-nights with friends. Taking a short cut I guess, rather than spending time from their low-lifed lives to learn who their son’s friends really are. It is easier for them to just say NO about almost everything. Mom and Dad get involved when the house is on fire!

Where is protective services when you need them? Calling them would do no good. The State of Michigan doesn’t want to spend money housing kids who already have a roof over their heads. Even when emotional and psychological assaults are constant and devastating. It just costs the taxpayers too much money. The state chooses to spend it later in life when the targeted youth end up behind bars.

It’s okay to be protective of your child, but not to the extreme that he hates every waking moment. And every day he thinks four more years—but too scared to tell you. When the worse happens as a result of you always having to be correct, you will hear “What did I do wrong?” A classic.