A Man Named Dave

upcoming deployment to Japan was only days away, I pleaded with Patsy to keep an eye out for Katie.
    As much as my heart went out to little Katie, my mind was on my lengthy trip. As always, the evening prior to leaving, after packing, I sat down with Patsy to ensure all the bills were taken care of and she had enough money left over for anything extra. Saving the best for last, moments before heading out the door, I’d cradle Stephen in my arms while rocking him to sleep from the music of my stereo.
    I didn’t give Katie any thought until over six weeks later, when I flew back home from Japan. While scanning a newspaper I came across an article about a stepfather who had “accidentally” murdered a boy, then buried the body. Years later when the family moved, both the stepfather and his wife dug up the remains before placing the child in the trunk of the car. In court the man’s defense was not only did he have a problem with drugs and his temper, but he was a victim of abuse at the hands of his father. I muttered out loud, “Can you believe this? This guy’s getting ten years for offing his kid, which means he’ll be out in … five, maybe six years for good behavior … ’cause he was abused? Man!”
    Standing beside me, a senior officer from my squadron overheard my outburst. After striking up a conversation about the article, Major Wilson slid closer, telling me his wife volunteered with kids who had been abused and were now in foster care. “These kids come from scummy backgrounds. You wouldn’t believe the stories my wife tells me. I gotta tell ya, it’s heartbreaking. It’s obvious you don’t hail from that arena, but if you ever get a chance, maybe you could do something — talk to the kids, make ’em laugh, whatever. The smallest thing would mean the world to them.” Patting my shoulder, Major Wilson added, “These kids, they have nothing. You, David, could make a difference.”
    Before Major Wilson had even finished, I had already made up my mind. In the last several months it seemed that every day I either read, watched on television, or saw firsthand from my neighbor something that related to child abuse, as if there were a sudden outbreak of children being brutalized. Since Stephen’s birth I had become more sensitive and aware, but as Major Wilson spoke I realized the subject matter had always swirled around me, but I had conveniently shut my eyes. “Yeah, Major, I could do something,” I said, committing myself. “I can imagine what it’s like … for them.” Besides, I said to myself, “It’s time. It’s about time.”
    Within a period of a few months, before Stephen’s third birthday, I found myself volunteering for practically anything throughout the state of California that had to do with kids who came from troubled backgrounds. I began by speaking to older teenagers in foster care about not becoming swallowed up by their negative past, while praising them for overcoming their situations by their own determination. “And if you can do that as a kid, without any help, without a college degree, without any training, coaching, or guidance,” I’d ask them, “what on earth could you now, as a young adult, not possibly achieve?” A few times a tough-acting teen would interrupt, asking, “Hey, man, what do you know? You ain’t one of us. Man, you’s a fly boy, what do you know?” I stopped for a moment to formulate my reply. “All right, I have no right to tell you what to do. I may not know exactly what every one of you has gone through, but I do know what’s it’s like to walk a few miles in your shoes.” So in order to qualify my message, I felt I had to reveal parts of my childhood. I felt I owed them that much. And whenever I gave an illustration, I always told the audience what I had learned from the situation that somehow made me a stronger, better person. I had no need for bells and whistles or any other hype. I always spoke from my heart, treating every group like young adults instead of children. I always gave them total respect while challenging them to better themselves. My premise was never one of being a victim or exposing a dark secret for sympathy, but one of resilience.
    Drawing further from my past, as I began working with adults who specialized with youth at risk, I offered reasons why some children who come from dysfunctional backgrounds react as they do and possible ideas to turn troubled kids around. To my horror, I discovered workers in these organizations rarely received any