I was 9 when my parents dropped me off at the youth center located atop a rugged hill in a small New Hampshire town. The center featured 3 dormitories or "cottages" as they called them, a barn complete with cows and tractors, a gym, school and cafeteria. It was a quiet setting with a small frog-pond and big open fields. You could hear the muffled sound of cars and trucks on the distant highway. A large steel swingset framed the the White Mountains, which stood tall and and proud in the background with their snow-capped peaks. The staff advised my Dad to just leave without saying good bye. "It will make things easier" the counselor said.
It was that day that I learned the manner in which the youth center disciplined their children. I recall that I was justifiably upset that my parents left without me. They had told me that we were just going to visit a school. I never imagined that they would abandon me in this strange place without even saying good bye. Apparently I threw quite a tantrum when I found out they were gone; so violent that they locked me into one of their time-out rooms. A cold, dark, isolated cell with a thick steel door. I could hear little of the activity outside of the dank dungion-like room with a cold tile floor. Screaming and crying as loud as I could, I pounded my young fists on the painted concrete blocks. When I kicked the door repeatedly, I was warned by a counselor that every kick would add more time to my confinement. Finally, tears streaming down my face, I slumped down onto the floor, broken, alone and wondering why I was here. A few hours later, when they opened the door, I blinked, rubbing my eyes as they adjusting to the light. Many of the other kids were gathered around anxious to see the new kid. Most of them had criminal records and arrived from the housing projects of Boston and its suburbs such Roxbury, Lowell and Mattapan. Their ages ranged from 8 to 18. I would learn later that the older kids abused the younger ones verbally and physically. Even some of the counselors had peculiar habits such as voyeurism but I was never personally touched by any of them. Tracy, a slight, anxious looking boy with short brown hair, resplendent in his superman cape and mask announced that I would be sharing his room. He then swooped off in a mock flight pattern apparently looking for his arch-nemesis, Lex Luthor. Gradually, the kids all drifted away and I tentatively emerged into the hallway looking around at my new surroundings. I was in Colcord Cottage. I was lucky as the cottage next door had tougher kids with longer criminal records. I was to spend the next two and a half years here. It would turn out to be the best years of my youth but at that moment I felt nothing but hopelessness and despair.
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