If you saw Alfred on the street, you'd probably think he was just another nameless, forgotten, lonely old homeless guy. Nothing special. Not particularly noteworthy. Easily forgotten. I think that's how he got by for years before becoming a client of the agency.
He was of the generation begun well before the founding of social service agencies for persons with special needs. In his day, folks like Alfred were still known as morons or idiots, and despite the harsh tones of those words today, they were not meant as pejoratives back then. They were the early 20th century medically acceptable terms for people with mental retardation.
By the time I met him, Alfred was a man in his early sixties but due to his shuffling gait, a result of painful foot problems, and a cantankerous omnipresent frown shrouded in a seemingly also-ever-present cloud of cigarette smoke, he looked a lot older. A loner, he had few friends either at the day-program workshop or at the group home. His placement in both, according to him on any given day, was highly tenuous. Over the slightest infraction or irritation, and there were plenty, in his mind, every day, he'd scream loudly to all who would hear that he was going to "get the hell out of here!"
I was probably the least liked staff of Alfred's at his group home, at first. Perhaps it was because I was the manager, and despite Alfred's diagnosis, he was quite perceptive. He knew that meant I was the one that called the shots. I made sure all us staff "hassled" him, as I'm sure he saw it, into being nice, being respectful, keeping himself and his home clean.
According to his record, Alfred had been through it all. And it had been undoubtedly rough on him over the years. A product, as is the case of so many clients, of an alcoholic and impoverished household, his learning difficulties were overlooked and he somehow avoided diagnosis until he was already an adult. His rebellious attitude, constant truancy and eventual drop out from school before puberty was not unusual for kids brought up in this economically depressed city. Especially ones, like him, who had been abandoned by his parents and left to fend for themselves.
Once diagnosed, Alfred traded homelessness for institutionalization. From the frying pan and into the fire, some would say. It was likely during his decades of existence there where he apparently developed his second diagnosis of what was then called schizophrenia.
During the push towards deinstitutionalization in the 80's, Alfred remained one of the last "patients" of Ladd School to enter into a group home residency. And it was here, at Gaskill, one of the few "behavior" homes of the agency, he was placed. But it was far from a good fit.
Gaskill Street group home was still too much like a miniature institution and Alfred's attitude reflected that. He hated having to share a room although, luckily, his roommate was one of the most benign and easy-going gentlemen in the house. He disliked the family-style eating arrangements and waiting his turn for the bathroom shared with 3 other guys.
Many staff, especially the younger girls, were afraid to work with Alfred. He'd yell at the top of his nicotine-coated lungs, red-faced, dentures falling out of his foaming mouth, glazed eyes, enveloped by his wildly-furry white eyebrows bulging from their sockets. He was a fearsome sight to behold. And man, did he know some choice cuss words!
A funny thing developed between Alfred and I as the years went by. He learned he didn't scare me and I learned he wasn't all as crazy and mean as he wanted people to believe. I became his go-to guy if he had problems with other residents or staff and, lo and behold, I listened. But he also knew I wasn't about to take any shit either. He didn't demand things be as he wished just because he could out-scream people. Not with me. I treated him with respect and honesty. He hadn't gotten that end of the stick from many staff over the years.
Before long, I wasn't a staff person to him, I was his friend. We'd get together for bowling and go out to eat. I'd bring him over to my parents house on the lake and he'd fish off the dock for hours and then we'd kick back with non-alcoholic beers as the sun went down beyond the horizon. One summer we even went up to Maine. Why Maine? He'd always heard it was nice up there but had never been.
When Alfred was placed in a semi-independent apartment program, I just happened to be transferred there as well. This home was a much better fit for him. He had his own apartment, less staffing and the other apartments on the first floor of this building housed other clients he knew well, and liked better, from the day-program.
Along with some well-timed medication changes, Alfred seemed to transform, almost overnight, into a much happier and calmer person. He became friendly towards his fellow client neighbors and even nicer to the staff. Even the new ones. Although, with the younger girls, he still complained to me saying they were stupid.
After a while, he and his fellow client, next-door neighbor, Mary struck up a relationship. They dated for about a year or two and then they got married. Alfred moved out of his apartment and into Mary's. He and Mary were so cute together. He never raised his voice to her. And she could be a stubborn lady. If she told him to do something he didn't want to, he made a face, but he did it, mumbling his displeasure. Just like any other married man.
After seven years of working with Alfred, I sat down with him one evening and let him know that I was leaving my position and moving down to Florida. I saw he was hurt. For much of the remaining two weeks of my employment, he seemed to avoid talking to me.
Then, on my last day there, he shuffled slowly up to me while we were alone. His eyes were glassy and red.
"Why don't you take me and Mary with you to Florida?" he asked.
When I was at a loss to come up with an answer for him, he begged, "I want you to be my dad."
In his mind, Alfred was still, and would always be, a child. And over the years, I'd become his father figure.
But little did he realize that for me, he was like the father I never had.
He was of the generation begun well before the founding of social service agencies for persons with special needs. In his day, folks like Alfred were still known as morons or idiots, and despite the harsh tones of those words today, they were not meant as pejoratives back then. They were the early 20th century medically acceptable terms for people with mental retardation.
By the time I met him, Alfred was a man in his early sixties but due to his shuffling gait, a result of painful foot problems, and a cantankerous omnipresent frown shrouded in a seemingly also-ever-present cloud of cigarette smoke, he looked a lot older. A loner, he had few friends either at the day-program workshop or at the group home. His placement in both, according to him on any given day, was highly tenuous. Over the slightest infraction or irritation, and there were plenty, in his mind, every day, he'd scream loudly to all who would hear that he was going to "get the hell out of here!"
I was probably the least liked staff of Alfred's at his group home, at first. Perhaps it was because I was the manager, and despite Alfred's diagnosis, he was quite perceptive. He knew that meant I was the one that called the shots. I made sure all us staff "hassled" him, as I'm sure he saw it, into being nice, being respectful, keeping himself and his home clean.
According to his record, Alfred had been through it all. And it had been undoubtedly rough on him over the years. A product, as is the case of so many clients, of an alcoholic and impoverished household, his learning difficulties were overlooked and he somehow avoided diagnosis until he was already an adult. His rebellious attitude, constant truancy and eventual drop out from school before puberty was not unusual for kids brought up in this economically depressed city. Especially ones, like him, who had been abandoned by his parents and left to fend for themselves.
Once diagnosed, Alfred traded homelessness for institutionalization. From the frying pan and into the fire, some would say. It was likely during his decades of existence there where he apparently developed his second diagnosis of what was then called schizophrenia.
During the push towards deinstitutionalization in the 80's, Alfred remained one of the last "patients" of Ladd School to enter into a group home residency. And it was here, at Gaskill, one of the few "behavior" homes of the agency, he was placed. But it was far from a good fit.
Gaskill Street group home was still too much like a miniature institution and Alfred's attitude reflected that. He hated having to share a room although, luckily, his roommate was one of the most benign and easy-going gentlemen in the house. He disliked the family-style eating arrangements and waiting his turn for the bathroom shared with 3 other guys.
Many staff, especially the younger girls, were afraid to work with Alfred. He'd yell at the top of his nicotine-coated lungs, red-faced, dentures falling out of his foaming mouth, glazed eyes, enveloped by his wildly-furry white eyebrows bulging from their sockets. He was a fearsome sight to behold. And man, did he know some choice cuss words!
A funny thing developed between Alfred and I as the years went by. He learned he didn't scare me and I learned he wasn't all as crazy and mean as he wanted people to believe. I became his go-to guy if he had problems with other residents or staff and, lo and behold, I listened. But he also knew I wasn't about to take any shit either. He didn't demand things be as he wished just because he could out-scream people. Not with me. I treated him with respect and honesty. He hadn't gotten that end of the stick from many staff over the years.
Before long, I wasn't a staff person to him, I was his friend. We'd get together for bowling and go out to eat. I'd bring him over to my parents house on the lake and he'd fish off the dock for hours and then we'd kick back with non-alcoholic beers as the sun went down beyond the horizon. One summer we even went up to Maine. Why Maine? He'd always heard it was nice up there but had never been.
When Alfred was placed in a semi-independent apartment program, I just happened to be transferred there as well. This home was a much better fit for him. He had his own apartment, less staffing and the other apartments on the first floor of this building housed other clients he knew well, and liked better, from the day-program.
Along with some well-timed medication changes, Alfred seemed to transform, almost overnight, into a much happier and calmer person. He became friendly towards his fellow client neighbors and even nicer to the staff. Even the new ones. Although, with the younger girls, he still complained to me saying they were stupid.
After a while, he and his fellow client, next-door neighbor, Mary struck up a relationship. They dated for about a year or two and then they got married. Alfred moved out of his apartment and into Mary's. He and Mary were so cute together. He never raised his voice to her. And she could be a stubborn lady. If she told him to do something he didn't want to, he made a face, but he did it, mumbling his displeasure. Just like any other married man.
After seven years of working with Alfred, I sat down with him one evening and let him know that I was leaving my position and moving down to Florida. I saw he was hurt. For much of the remaining two weeks of my employment, he seemed to avoid talking to me.
Then, on my last day there, he shuffled slowly up to me while we were alone. His eyes were glassy and red.
"Why don't you take me and Mary with you to Florida?" he asked.
When I was at a loss to come up with an answer for him, he begged, "I want you to be my dad."
In his mind, Alfred was still, and would always be, a child. And over the years, I'd become his father figure.
But little did he realize that for me, he was like the father I never had.