The morning alarm goes off early, blaring harshly as we stumble out of our bunk beds at the boarding school. Another morning. The overseer swaggers in with his switch tapping his calves.
He yells down the hallway echoing the unkind sound of the bell. We line up in our pajamas for inspection and a head count; 60 young boys in a wing of the massive cinderblock dormitory. We line up to throw cold water on our faces, after which we again line up to head out into the predawn chill. In our government-issued Converse, we stretch, push, pull and hop out on the concrete slab of a basketball court.
The overseer yells instructions more to keep warm I suppose. This is our exercise routine each morning. He yells some more and we are out running the circumference of the whole campus. Through sage brush, rabbit bush and snake weed we run. Occasional yucca finds our shins. We sing at the top of our lungs while running. This is when I feel the most freedom from B.I.A. grasp, running in the weak light of the morning outside the campus, running as if after goats.
Sometimes we make two laps, four miles. In our sweaty jeans and flannel shirts, we stand in line again later for breakfast. The bullies gesture to their victims to sneak out an egg and bacon sandwich, an act termed “taking out between”—“between” referring to the stuff between two slices of toast. It must be humiliating and terrible to be deprived of your meal through threats. I am fortunate to be left alone because I have a big brother in another wing who is known to punch hard. These bullies run the school between the overseer’s attention. The time before classes are spent cleaning the dormitory. We all are assigned alternating duties in this area and we do it well. We stand in line again as our clothing and chores are inspected—shoes spit-polished and beds bouncing quarters. For all intents and purposes, this is a military school. We are trained, regimented and punished mercilessly. I am 10 years old.
We go through the day in class with a break for lunch. Mealtime is always accompanied by Hank Williams and other classic honky-tonk on an old record player. I sit next to girls as we are taught table etiquette, practicing it while blushing. The school days end with the last hour drawing, a great incentive to do my work diligently and quick. Some small boys gather just to watch me draw some super-war-hero guy.
The time between class and dinner is taken up with more physical activities, grounds work and playtime. Some boys get called in to receive clothing and money from a secret place—later I find out they are recipients of the Save the Children Foundation. I never knew how one got on that program. My friend Amos wears orange jeans and a white belt through the kindness of S.C.F.
Dinner is done and the hours before bedtime are taken up with homework; little boys huddled in the day room with pencil and paper. Mine is done so I draw unbothered by bullies whose work I do for a quarter each—movie money for next Tuesday night. A movie with Gregory Peck are on the flyers; I’d see him in anything.
The shift ends for one overseer and begins for another. These short periods between shifts were the most dangerous. Someone is beaten bloody. Someone is threatened. It is a very unsettling time.
If my uncle Jack was working, we would have a war story from the Pacific Theater and be enthralled. Not tonight. A brutal overseer comes in, twists a few ears and sends everyone off to bed without our occasional ration of gingersnaps. As I close my eyes for the night, the last thing I hear is another command yelled by the overseer just as the light goes out. The only true peace is sleep. Even nightmares seem normal. Another day in a life inside the B.I.A. compound. Good night.
