Someone I like to remember.
When I was in my late teens, my father was in a mental asylum. Why was
he in an asylum? Because he was a crazy fuck. That's not the point.
For the year and a half he was in the asylum, my family would come to
visit him about twice a month. And during that time, I met some of the
most interesting people I've ever met. There was the paint sniffer who
could do cryptograms in 17 different languages. The maniac who killed
his whole family but saved a helpless kitten from a sewer drain. The man
who believed with all his heart that each cigarette he smoked would end
with his death, and then rejoiced with the happiness of a cancer
survivor each time he put one out and was not dead.
Obviously, security in a place like this was pretty tight. There were
several security checks to go through before you were let into "E
Wing"... the place they kept the violent and unpredictable patients.
Sometimes, the waits were pretty long. They could only allow so many
visitors at a time so they could keep track of everything. And when
there were a lot of visitors to E Wing, sometimes you spent a lot of
time in the waiting room.
The waiting room was a perfect scene for a crazy-house film. A long
hallway with bars on all the windows. Built sometime in the 1930's, it
had the old timey black and white tiled floor. Doors with square glass
windows in each, complete with the painted names of the occupants who
worked in those rooms. Ceiling fans hung from a ceiling perhaps 15 feet
high. An ancient stairway leading to upper floors. Occasionally,
psychotic screams would echo down the stairwell. This isn't a story,
this actually happened.
One time, while my family was waiting in this "lobby" to get to the next
checkpoint and hopefully E Wing to visit my father, my mother struck up
a conversation with another woman who was waiting to see a doctor. This
was a black woman... someone white people didn't normally converse with
voluntarily in Arkansas, even when I was growing up.
The black woman was frantic to see a doctor and have her daughter
committed. And as she talked, her daughter who was there with her,
walked intently back and forth along the tiled hallway, turning when she
reached each end and heading back the other way until she again reached
the end. She said nothing. She responded to no one. It was as if she
didn't realize any of us were there. As though she was in her own world.
Her eyes were a million miles away, seeing things that no one else saw.
Occasionally, she would speak to no one. Responding to questions that
hadn't been asked. Making comments on beautiful dresses that no one was
wearing. In spite of myself, my immediate reaction to the young, crazy
black girl was to be frightened of her.
And in one very terrifying moment, as I was standing at the end of the
hall she was walking toward, she made a slight variation in her walking
routine. Instead of reaching the end of the hallway and turning
immediately back to begin her excursion the other direction, she paused
when she reached me. For a brief moment, she lifted her eyes to look
into mine and seemed as though she might have joined us in reality for
just a split second as she grabbed my hand.
She squeezed hard! Looking into my eyes the whole time. And as I
watched, her eyes and mind again wandered away to some unseen place. But
she kept the grip on my hand. I was terrified! I kept looking toward
her mother, hoping that this was some kind of recognized behavior she
could ease my mind by telling me it was something she always did. I
didn't help that her mother's expression was as surprised as mine was.
The girl began her walk toward the other side of the hallway, holding my
hand tightly in her's. So, I went with her, holding her hand the whole
way. When she got to the other end, she turned around, still holding my
hand, to begin the 20 second journey to the other side. I followed.
The girl never looked at me again. She never said another word. But as I
walked with her, her agitation seemed to melt away and her walk turned
from a desperate search into a casual stroll. I still remember her
mother remarking in the background that she'd never seen her take to
someone the way she was taking to me. I remember hearing her mother say
that it was the most relaxed she'd seen her daughter in years.
I walked up and down that hallway with that crazy girl clutching my
hand, as though it was something she desperately needed for some unknown
reason, for about an hour and a half. I have no idea what the girl was
thinking. I don't know what in the world holding my hand meant to her. I
was never even told the girl's name. But I have never in my life felt
more needed by anyone.
Sometimes I think about that girl. I wonder where she is.
he in an asylum? Because he was a crazy fuck. That's not the point.
For the year and a half he was in the asylum, my family would come to
visit him about twice a month. And during that time, I met some of the
most interesting people I've ever met. There was the paint sniffer who
could do cryptograms in 17 different languages. The maniac who killed
his whole family but saved a helpless kitten from a sewer drain. The man
who believed with all his heart that each cigarette he smoked would end
with his death, and then rejoiced with the happiness of a cancer
survivor each time he put one out and was not dead.
Obviously, security in a place like this was pretty tight. There were
several security checks to go through before you were let into "E
Wing"... the place they kept the violent and unpredictable patients.
Sometimes, the waits were pretty long. They could only allow so many
visitors at a time so they could keep track of everything. And when
there were a lot of visitors to E Wing, sometimes you spent a lot of
time in the waiting room.
The waiting room was a perfect scene for a crazy-house film. A long
hallway with bars on all the windows. Built sometime in the 1930's, it
had the old timey black and white tiled floor. Doors with square glass
windows in each, complete with the painted names of the occupants who
worked in those rooms. Ceiling fans hung from a ceiling perhaps 15 feet
high. An ancient stairway leading to upper floors. Occasionally,
psychotic screams would echo down the stairwell. This isn't a story,
this actually happened.
One time, while my family was waiting in this "lobby" to get to the next
checkpoint and hopefully E Wing to visit my father, my mother struck up
a conversation with another woman who was waiting to see a doctor. This
was a black woman... someone white people didn't normally converse with
voluntarily in Arkansas, even when I was growing up.
The black woman was frantic to see a doctor and have her daughter
committed. And as she talked, her daughter who was there with her,
walked intently back and forth along the tiled hallway, turning when she
reached each end and heading back the other way until she again reached
the end. She said nothing. She responded to no one. It was as if she
didn't realize any of us were there. As though she was in her own world.
Her eyes were a million miles away, seeing things that no one else saw.
Occasionally, she would speak to no one. Responding to questions that
hadn't been asked. Making comments on beautiful dresses that no one was
wearing. In spite of myself, my immediate reaction to the young, crazy
black girl was to be frightened of her.
And in one very terrifying moment, as I was standing at the end of the
hall she was walking toward, she made a slight variation in her walking
routine. Instead of reaching the end of the hallway and turning
immediately back to begin her excursion the other direction, she paused
when she reached me. For a brief moment, she lifted her eyes to look
into mine and seemed as though she might have joined us in reality for
just a split second as she grabbed my hand.
She squeezed hard! Looking into my eyes the whole time. And as I
watched, her eyes and mind again wandered away to some unseen place. But
she kept the grip on my hand. I was terrified! I kept looking toward
her mother, hoping that this was some kind of recognized behavior she
could ease my mind by telling me it was something she always did. I
didn't help that her mother's expression was as surprised as mine was.
The girl began her walk toward the other side of the hallway, holding my
hand tightly in her's. So, I went with her, holding her hand the whole
way. When she got to the other end, she turned around, still holding my
hand, to begin the 20 second journey to the other side. I followed.
The girl never looked at me again. She never said another word. But as I
walked with her, her agitation seemed to melt away and her walk turned
from a desperate search into a casual stroll. I still remember her
mother remarking in the background that she'd never seen her take to
someone the way she was taking to me. I remember hearing her mother say
that it was the most relaxed she'd seen her daughter in years.
I walked up and down that hallway with that crazy girl clutching my
hand, as though it was something she desperately needed for some unknown
reason, for about an hour and a half. I have no idea what the girl was
thinking. I don't know what in the world holding my hand meant to her. I
was never even told the girl's name. But I have never in my life felt
more needed by anyone.
Sometimes I think about that girl. I wonder where she is.