Allan B. Goldstein

Writing Seminar--Disabilities

2011-12-31T09:56:00.004-05:00

I'll be running three sections of the Disabilities Writing Seminar, as described by this article in the NYU-Poly fall 2011 Alumni bulletin. (click here)

"Shellshocked"

2011-12-28T14:53:00.001-05:00

Smith Magzine has featured "Shellshocked," Fred's winter beach visit.

Fred's new digs

2011-12-21T09:46:00.002-05:00

Fred's new group home provides less supports and more responsibility.

Congratulations Fred!

a Musical Celebration

2011-12-12T11:16:00.000-05:00

Fred participated in his third Daniel's Music Foundation concert, "A Season to Smile," this past weekend at the Dalton School as a member of the percussion group called the DMF Rebels.

Fred is moving uptown!

2011-12-03T11:00:00.001-05:00

Thank you to AABR, AHRC, CAB and JobPath for making possible Fred's move from a lovely caring group home to the same, but with less supports.

Fred and Daniel's Music Foundation

2011-12-03T10:55:00.001-05:00

Fred will be performing percussion at the Daniel's Music Foundation Season to Smile concert on Sunday, 11 Dec. between 1 and 2:30 PM

NYSARC Convention

2011-09-19T11:50:00.003-04:00

I'll be joining Pace University Prof. Jim Lawler's presentation of his work with AHRC at the NYSARC Convention 21 Oct. to discuss my Disabilities-based Writing Seminar at NYU-Poly. I will focus on the writing development of one of my JobPath Writing Workshop participants.

At Sproutstock

2011-08-24T11:15:00.004-04:00

Fred at Sproutstock with Sprout Director, Anthony Di Salvo.
Fred reports having had a great time; he wants to go back "next week!"

PS--Fred participated in the filming of ONE QUESTION, the latest film project directed by Anthony DiSalvo. It will premiere at next Spring's 9th Annual Sprout Film Festival at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

off to Sproutstock!

2011-07-29T16:26:00.004-04:00

A weekend of outdoor music and country living.

Fred's first trip to Sproutstock!

Rootin' for the Mets, June 2011

2011-07-24T14:01:00.000-04:00

GIVE OUR REGARDS TO BROADWAY

2011-05-24T19:06:00.005-04:00

Every seat in the theatre was taken for DMF's slam bang afternoon of tunes.

Fred wll play the drums at the annual Daniel's Music Foundation Music Celebration

2011-05-16T08:39:00.006-04:00

Fred will be jamming with his percussion class from 3:30 to 4 PM and then performing in "America" from West Side Story during the Celebration that begins at 4 PM.

invite from from Daniel: "You are cordially invited to join us on Sunday, May 22nd at The Dalton School, 108 East 89th St. (between Lexington and Park Ave.) for one or both of our Music Celebration concerts - 1:00PM-2:30PM and/or 4:00PM-5:30PM. Our theme for this semester is "Give Our Regards to Broadway - A Musical Celebration." Each show will have eleven different performances and will also include a video clip of our Member Leadership Program. We will be performing songs from Guys and Dolls, The Lion King, Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music and Cats, among others, and our members will be introducing props into their songs as well, for the very first time. Should be a wonderful day!"

Free admission!

Smith Magazine Member of the Month

2011-05-10T15:45:00.003-04:00

I'm proud to report that "An Unanticipated Love," the story of Fred and Michele, has earned Member of the Month status at Smith Magazine. Scroll down to bottom of the page. You'll find our pic and more.

Sprout Film Festival a SUCCESS

2011-05-02T10:39:00.007-04:00

The 9th Annual Sprout Film Fest at the Metropolitan Museum of Art Educational Center, featuring FINDING FRED among fifty films from sixteen countries, was heavily attended. Many films may be streamed via Sproutflix.
Here, Fred signs his autograph for a student from Frank Sinatra High School, Astoria, Queens.

SMITH Magazine "Member of the Week"

2011-04-13T09:28:00.006-04:00

Good news for the week of April 13th: Just received--"We've made you Member of the Week at SMITH Mag. You can see your featured story about your brother Fred on our front page."

Disability Writing Seminar students interview VA Hospital patients

2011-04-08T16:48:00.004-04:00

VA Hospital reports on NYU-Poly students learning how people with visual impairments overcome challenges

Nominated for the NYU-Poly 2011 Jacobs Excellence in Teaching Award

2011-04-08T16:28:00.008-04:00

I am pleased to report that my NYU-Poly Hu/SS Department Chair, Writing Program Director, and Writing Program colleagues have nominated me for the prestigious 2011 JACOBS EXCELLENCE IN TEACHING AWARD ($10,000), which is made to up to three individuals or groups who have demonstrated educational innovation and excellence.

Recorded essays go live

2011-03-04T08:11:00.004-05:00

Fred and I are honored to participate in Broadcastr, a new app launching--you can now listen to a selected essay while on location. I've recorded Finding Fred: Death and Ice Cream, The Last Lesson and Asking for Love, all of which appear in written form on Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. To hear a piece, just type "Allan Goldstein" in the Broadcastr search box.

PACE University alerts students to Finding Fred, the film

2011-03-04T08:01:00.002-05:00

Assoc. Dean, LIU, to use "An Unanticipated Love" for training P/T students

2011-02-14T17:53:00.007-05:00

Associate Dean, School of Health Professions, Stacy Gropack of Long Island University (Brooklyn Campus) has requested to use "An Unanticipated Love" to train students in the Doctor of Physical Therapy Program. Fred and I are flattered. And Michele would be if we could tell her.

SPROUT 9th Annual Film Festival selects Kappenberg film

2011-01-12T18:37:00.011-05:00

Fred's person-centered-project created by Geoffrey Kappenberg will be featured in the 9th Annual SPROUT Film Festival on Saturday, 30 April at 2:30 PM. (Program 8, film #1/Siblings)

SMITH Magazine features "An Unanticipated Love"

2011-01-12T18:29:00.001-05:00

"I never thought that my younger brother Fred, who sported permanently crooked eyeglasses, spoke with difficult to understand sounds and required assistance with daily living, would be involved with a significant other: a partner, someone to relieve his not quietly fitting into this world."

PACE U./AHRC PERSON-CENTERED PROJECT--Filmmaker Geoffrey Kappenberg and brothers Goldstein

2010-12-10T21:46:00.005-05:00

Fred's Person-Centered Project--a Service Learning collaboration with Pace University

2010-12-05T07:50:00.004-05:00

Fred, in collaboration with Geoffrey Kappenberg, a Pace University student, will be one of three featured Person-Centered Projects presented Thursday, 9 December between 10:10 AM and 12 PM.at the AHRC Redfield Center--156 William Street (just east of Park Row, north of Ann Street, and south of the Brooklyn Bridge).

Sailing on the PIONEER

2010-07-30T13:59:00.002-04:00

Right down the block from Fred's place is the PIONEER, providing public sailing and educational programs through the South Street Seaport Museum. Volunteers always welcome.

Brooklyn Cyclones baseball w/Daniel's Music Foundation

2010-07-09T17:46:00.009-04:00

With Daniel's brother Mike, selling raffles for DMF

Writing Workshop, 23 June 2010

2010-06-25T13:20:00.005-04:00

Participants and I thank Fredda Rosen of JobPath for hosting an introductory writing workshop for People with Intellectual Disabilities and both she and Carole Gothelf of AHRC for suggesting potential members. The result of the two-hour workshop, which included discussions about writing and doing writing exercises, was an agreement to formally begin bi-weekly meetings in the fall.

Daniel's Music Foundation 4th Annual Spring Concert

2010-05-17T14:54:00.013-04:00

Fred performing with DMF instructors John and Stewart.

Fred and friends participating in Music Concert

2010-05-10T10:55:00.004-04:00

Fred will be participating with friends in the Daniel's Music Foundation concert, Sunday, 3-5 PM, at the Dalton School, 108 East 89th Street. He's been attending the Daniel's Music workshop weekly, starting with the Conga drums and presently working on the keyboard. Thanks to Ken Trush for this wonderful opportunity.

Fred's Photography Group exhibits its work

2010-05-05T18:41:00.005-04:00

Fred, a member of the AHRC "William Street" day hab photo group, at his group's exhibition at the Hamilton Fish Public Library (through June 2010).

Sprout Film Festival

2010-05-05T18:29:00.006-04:00

I've accepted the invitation to join the Sprout 2011 Film Festival selection committee. The festival shows films from around the world by and about people with developmental disabilities. Thank you Sprout founder and Executive Director Anthony Di Salvo.

Sib reading at YAI Network International Conference

2010-05-05T18:17:00.005-04:00

I joined five other contributors to THICKER THAN WATER to read our essays to people attending the YAI Network 31st Annual International Conference at the NY Hilton on April 28th.

New York Times--

2010-01-26T17:29:00.002-05:00

My experience of trying to turn myself in for inadvertently hacking into a stranger's credit card account . See Michael Winerip's Generation B column in the Sunday NYT, 23 January 2010

IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS

REEL ABILITIES NY Disabilities Film Festival

2010-01-26T17:16:00.009-05:00

Reel Abilities Film Festival

29 January-1 February, enjoy films exploring lives with disabilities.

Guest speaker/JCC Manhattan and JCC Westchester

I will be participating in post- discussions of Mark Haddon's COMING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN and reading my essay from THICKER THAN WATER.

Publishing news

2009-09-11T13:54:00.005-04:00

"The Last Lesson," about our Dad, has been published on Mr. Beller's Neighborhood as a Story of the Week.

Publishing News

2009-05-05T15:04:00.009-04:00

Out now: THICKER THAN WATER:ESSAYS BY ADULT SIBLINGS OF PEOPLE WITH DISABILITIES, edited by Don Meyer and published by Woodbine Press: "The Hidden Brother."

Coming 26 July: LOST AND FOUND/STORIES FROM NEW YORK VOL.II, edited by Thomas Beller, published by Thomas Beller Neighborhood Books and distributed by WW Norton: the first chapter of FINDING FRED, "Death and Ice-Cream."

Intellectual disabilities in Copenhagen, Denmark

2008-04-01T13:41:00.001-04:00

FindArticles - Choosing independence
Scandinavian Review, Spring 2003, by Goldstein, Allan Benjamin

At Suffolk University

2007-04-08T15:57:00.000-04:00

Congratulations to Best Buddies College Buddy Director Melissa Demir and Treasurer Katie Martin for the large turnout at the Suffolk University Unity Week presentation. Fred immediately asked to return "next week."

Suffolk University (Boston) visit

2007-02-08T09:37:00.000-05:00

Fred and I will present on 29 March from 1-2:20 P.M. at Suffolk University during its Unity Week.
41 Temple Street, Donahue Building Room 311, Boston.

Newsday OP-ED

2007-01-30T14:14:00.000-05:00

NOTEBOOK
In Willowbrook's wake

BY ALLAN B. GOLDSTEIN
Allan B. Goldstein teaches English at Polytechnic University in Brooklyn. He is working on a memoir about two brothers.

January 28, 2007

I didn't know why the sparkling green-tiled hallways of Building 6 at the Willowbrook State School for the Mentally Retarded always stunk of urine, but I did know that while Mom, Dad and I took out my younger brother, Fred, weekly, most of the 50 children in his ward rarely saw their parents. They ran to grasp my legs and waist as their misshapen faces bellowed with excitement, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!"

This month marks 35 years since Geraldo Rivera's exposé of the infamous "school" on Staten Island, where many of the 5,300 children and adults in an institution built for 1,500 wallowed in their own feces, served as guinea pigs for hepatitis experiments and fought for attention from a staff outnumbered by a ratio of 50 to 1. Public outcry forced a court-ordered decree stipulating that every resident would thereafter live in a "normal homelike setting."

But although "Willowbrook survivors," as the families call them, are living in private group homes funded by the state and are receiving health care, they still are fighting for attention. My brother is capable of learning, as we all are in middle age. But since he left Willowbrook when he was older than 18, the state has been absolved of educating him.

Until I became re-involved in his life eight years ago, he lived with a group that attended movies together, shopped together and traveled together. Their hard-working counselors received minimal training and a state-dictated minimum wage. They were not trained educators.

I became my brother's guardian when I was 49, after our mother's death in 1998. Angered because of losing so many Sundays to Willowbrook visits, I had avoided him for years. I'd hear about him from my parents and see him only at family gatherings. Yet, when I informed my brother of our mother's death, we bonded as if connected by a taut string.

"You know Mommy has been very sick."

"Yeah." His wide-lens eyeglasses lay cockeyed across his nose, balancing the droop of his left eye.

"You saw her lots of times in the hospice."

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Mommy died."

Pointing upward with his left arm, he said, "She's in heaven. I'm going to heaven. I'm next."

"Not now," I said.

That expression of a profound abstract thought startled me: This was a man with a trapped intellect. When we talked on the phone, he could call over a counselor if I asked. When he visited me, he wondered how the radio worked - not how to turn it on, but why the sound came out.

The more time we spent together, the more questions he asked. "What's that?" he'd say, pointing at the Triborough Bridge. "What's that?" he'd ask, pointing at my foyer.

I got his residence to offer speech training, and his questions became clearer and clearer. Friends and family began a group effort to uncover his interests. He didn't just have to do the few day-program activities of tending a garden and coloring. Mopping the floor would not be the end of his world.

We could explore his enthusiasms for music, going out for coffee, working with animals. My brother's emotional intelligence defied his label of severe mental retardation. Women with and without disabilities had always clustered around him, wanting to dance with him, wanting to marry him.

But when my brother decided he wanted to learn to read and write, we were told that the day program staff didn't bother with this when a client reached his age. Shortly afterward, my brother stopped shaving, bathing and brushing his teeth. His supervisor justified this, claiming it was his choice. He'd run screaming through his apartment, and his counselor would say, "The guys get like that sometimes, and we just let them go."

At that point, two years ago, I moved my brother to a residence run by a different agency with a larger, more mature staff. His teeth are no longer crusted with food, his tantrums have ceased, and he has become a student of numbers and letters. With his speech therapist, he has created a book containing pictures and drawings so he can point to what he's saying. And he's improved his label from "severe" to "moderate" retardation.

It's sad that the anniversary of the exposure of Willowbrook is not something my brother and I can really celebrate. Certainly his life is better in many respects, especially since we switched homes for him.

But when will it be routine that those paid to work with people like him are professionals with the proper training to help residents grow their minds? When will it be commonplace for him and his housemates to have opportunities to form friendships with people other than those being paid to work with them?

My brother and I were at a baseball game. As each home team player was announced, he cheered. In the moment, I had forgotten that he was different until the teenage girl in front of us stared at him, open-mouthed. We will celebrate when the staring stops.
Copyright 2007 Newsday Inc.

@ the Best Buddies 2006 Interntional Leadership Conference

2007-01-01T11:17:00.000-05:00

Fred and I at WestConn

2006-12-03T20:56:00.000-05:00

Myself, Connecticut Best Buddies Program Director Jen Suzio, College Buddy Director Whitney Nelson, Fred, and College Buddy Matt Macaulay after our presentation encouraging people to join in educating the public that people with intellectual disabilities desire to add the community.

Western Conn. State University

2006-10-24T13:10:00.000-04:00

Fred and I will be guest speakers at WCSU in Danbury, Conn. at 2 P.M. on Saturday, December 2nd. Thanks to Whitney Nelson, WCSU Best Buddies College Buddy Director, for making the arrangements.

The Best Buddies Leadership Conference

2006-07-27T09:24:00.000-04:00

Allan B. Goldstein
Fred received more than one raucous standing ovation at the 17th Annual Best Buddies Leadership Conference held at Indiana University (Bloomington) where he and I were guest speakers. Of the more than 1,200 attendees, 250 colleges were represented from twenty-five countries. We presented Fred's life: at the infamous Willowbrook State School for the Mentally Retarded and his last twenty plus years in two group homes. He's ready to go back to Bloomington "next week." What I want to know is, where did he learn to bow?

Mr. Beller's Neighborhood chooses first chapter of FINDING FRED as "Story of the Week."

2006-07-19T20:54:00.001-04:00

Mr. Beller's Neighborhood

Allan B. Goldstein: Chapter One of our memoir FINDING FRED

2006-06-21T17:11:00.000-04:00

Allan B. Goldstein: Chapter One of our memoir FINDING FRED
If you wish to be notified when FINDING FRED is published, please leave an e-mail address.

"Asking For Love" essay link: Selected as "Story of the Week."

2006-06-19T10:05:00.001-04:00

Mr. Beller's Neighborhood selects ASKING FOR LOVE as "Story of the Week."
Access by going to the above site and under "topics" select "siblings."

Chapter One of our memoir FINDING FRED

2006-06-18T16:48:00.000-04:00

Allan B. Goldstein
PART ONE
Chapter One
DEATH AND ICE CREAM
1998

I was riding in our friend’s red, rattling car. The car that had been filled with balloons to celebrate my last birthday—the time we traveled to visit Mom. Now my wife and I were going to inform my forty-five year old brother of her death. To inform, support, console my kid brother—the brother who relied so heavily on Mom for a connection to the world uncontrolled by people paid to care for and teach him, society’s recompense for his sixteen years of neglect in the Willowbrook State School for the Mentally Retarded. The brother who would stroll on the boardwalk, holding her hand, and consider it an exceptional day. The brother who would spend an occasional Saturday night in “his” bed at her house, watching television that day and looking at picture books or coloring with his horde of crayons the next morning, freed from group living. Listening but not hearing Lisbeth's words, I looked at the passing concrete wall on the right, the moving traffic in front, the river browning in the dusk on our left.

I was going to tell Fred Mom had died. He knew she was sick, had visited her often at the hospice. Direct care workers had spent much time discussing death with him and his housemates—what it meant, why it happened, how to acknowledge it. They knew to expect me. I felt Fred was prepared. But—the event had finally occurred, and I was afraid to tell him.
It hadn’t yet settled in with me, even though my daily visits to the Bronx hospice over the past two months were now finished. I needed to recover from firing the first hospice doctor because he referred to my mother as “those kinds of patients;” I needed to recover from the always unavailable hospital surgeon who told my mother she was completely cured, three weeks before the tumor returned; I needed to recover from hearing my mother’s refrain of “I can’t, I can’t” when she was asked by a doctor and social worker in the cancer hospital to decide whether she wanted to undergo chemotherapy. “My hair will fall out! I’ll feel sick!” And with tears spotting the hospital sheets, “I don’t know…I don’t know!” I needed to recover from speaking with psychiatrists called in to deal with my mother’s hysteria, nastiness, and fear. “She ripped out the catheter?” the hospital doctor asked once. “WOW!” The wrong concoction of drugs had temporarily created a hallucinatory person running away from spirits.

I needed to recover from more than the past two years of illness. I needed to recover from the woman debilitated by her husband’s death, who’d call me from a Brooklyn bank: “I can’t sign the check. My hand shakes too much. Come here!”
“Mom, I’m in Manhattan. Tell the customer service rep your problem. You can make an ‘X’ like the last time.”
My mother was now dead; she was free—“I’m going to Irwin,” she had often said with a smile when we knew her fate—her wish since my father died.

And I was free. “It’s just you and me kid,” said Lisbeth, a psychoanalyst, referring to us both being parentless. I was free from the person who had so influenced my moods and choices that I fled to Denver and then Denmark for college, returning only because New York was the Mecca for theater actors. But I was freed from the person who had born me, so every minute away in time was a minute closer in memory. And memory improves the past, especially when it’s your mother.

We arrived at my brother’s Brooklyn Intermediate Care Facility (group home for eight) in what seemed a momentary breath. How I seemed to be wearing a long, black cloak, advancing without feet, without effort as we neared his first floor apartment. I opened the door to blaring light that smacked my eyes as I sought my small-framed brother among scurrying blurs of two counselors and seven other residents. Hearing, “Why don’t you go into Fred’s room?” I followed my brother down the narrow hallway.

He sat at the head of his bed, pictures of him with Mom, Lisbeth with me, Dad on the wall above. It was a neat room. He had just directed counselors to straighten it up. I sat at the foot of the bed, his stuffed animals, picture books and music cassettes on the dresser behind me. Lisbeth sat on the roommate’s bed with her coat still on. I looked at him. His usually unruly head of hair was combed to the side, and his smooth face showed that he had been assisted with his electric razor—no missed spots.

“How are you, Fred?” said Lisbeth.

Quiet.

He looked at me.

“You know why we’re here, right?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, permitting more words to roll from my stomach. “You know Mommy has been very sick.”

“Yeah.” Composed, and unusually focused, his wide-lens eyeglasses lying cockeyed across his nose balanced his left droopy eye.

“You saw her lots of times in the hospice.”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“You saw she was getting very weak.”

“Yeah.”

“Mommy died.”

I studied this stranger’s face harder than I had ever studied it before.

“She’s no longer in pain,” I continued.

Pointing upward with his left arm, he said, “She’s in heaven.”

“Yes.”

I was surprised at the immediacy of his response, and I was happy that I understood his incomplete sounds. The speech therapist assigned to his residence had stopped training him years ago.

“She’s with Daddy,” he continued.

“Yes,” I said, thinking how painful this process had been ten years earlier when Mom and I needed the assistance of his counselor to give that information about Dad.

“I’m going to heaven,” he said. “I’m next.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going now.”

“Not now,” I said, realizing his connection of hospitals, doctors, death, his five years of three-time-a-week kidney dialysis keeping him too much in touch with the medical profession. His ability to create a connection would later haunt me.

“No?” he asked.

“No,” Lisbeth and I chimed in at different decibels. “You’re going to be here a long time.”

Quiet.

“Mommy loved you very, very much. We love you too,” said Lisbeth. “You’re not alone. Allan is here, I’m here, everyone in the house is still here too.”

Ideas never immediately sank in with Fred. He processed information about ten beats after hearing it. So—we waited. There was no aftershock—Fred was still composed, maybe even happy to have visitors in his room.

“Would you like to go out?” Lisbeth said. “Maybe for some ice cream or McDonald’s?”

“Ice cream,” Fred said, and we began a new life. He was no longer the “son,” and neither was I.

We both loved ice cream. Dead parents bonded us. It was my turn to advocate for Fred, be there for Fred, listen to his continual comic complaints about this body part hurting, that person bothering him, having a broken watch, and needing new clothes. This search for attention would no longer be received by the sighs and guilt of a mother, but the skepticism and humor of a brother. A brother up until then protected from caring for his sibling. A brother as yet ignorant of the “businesses” that had evolved to care for the socially unwanted. A brother who was a hero without effort. A brother who rarely visited during the year. A brother who would again be in his sibling’s life, like when they were children, before every other Sunday became visiting-Fred-day.

# # #

“Go get Fred with Dad,” Mom would say in the parking lot, outside Building 6 at Willowbrook, a campus built for fifteen hundred that housed five thousand.

It was the part of the visit she couldn’t endure—entering the institutional halls that enveloped her son. Dad and I would walk along the concrete path leading to a metal door. The flat land around us green and peaceful in summer, either brown or white and peaceful in winter. It never warned of the activity within. The stench of urine on the other side of that door didn’t fit with the shiny floors and bright, pea-green wall tiles reflecting distant din. It was when one of the child residents spotted us from their dormitory forty feet away that all hell broke loose.

“Daddy,” this stranger would bellow, such a huge sound from such a little person.

“Daddy,” we would hear, and suddenly a cattle rush was on, only it was children three feet tall padding their feet to the ground, filling the eight-foot wide hallway with ferocious need. This tonnage of tiny humanity would pound its way toward my father and me, chanting, “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” smiles bigger than the sun, eyes wider than the moon, little arms reaching out to be the first ones to touch us. “Daddy,” I’d hear, the 3-D noise glancing off unyielding walls. Then, zoom, phumpf, splat—grasping arms would be around my legs, trying to touch my face, hugging my waist, and the attached mouths would now be yelling, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

My father and I would shift our weight from one foot to the other, wading in the accumulating mass, peeling little hands away, fending off their intensity.

“No, I’m not your Daddy,” I’d say, smiling. “No, I’m not,” I’d say, looking into misshapen faces. Over and over and over again I’d repeat my words of defense, while searching above their heads for my brother. We’d catch the attention of the Resident Nurse who took such good care of Fred, maybe because she saw potential, maybe because she often saw his family. Nurses. Nobody was sick. But society labeled children with mental retardation as nuisances, not people—menaces to society, without rights, to be treated with medication. Because imperfection was an embarrassment, they were to be isolated in self-sufficient institutions to “calm them.” The nurse would wave hello, disappear and then reappear holding the tiny hand of my little brother. Freddy’s face would beam, a searchlight piercing the dark. Nearing us, he’d pick up speed, his little legs and poor balance never taking him quite as fast as he wanted to go.

Standing on the other side of the metal door, the peacefulness would slam into us as something out of a storybook. The change would be too sudden, too shocking, too good to the smell. And we’d walk away, Freddy holding the hands of his father and big brother, looking forward toward the parking lot where he knew his mother would be.

Now when Fred talks of his years at Willowbrook, he says, “I helped them get dressed,” referring to his wardmates, as he moves his arms up and down as though pulling on a pair of pants. He doesn’t mention the rows upon rows of cribs. The many side-by-side malfunctioning toilets. The overwhelmed staff spooning mashed dinner down gullets within three minutes, often causing pneumonia. The sickness induced by medical experiments conducted without informed consent. He doesn’t mention the nudists, the hitters, or the simply defeated sitting on the floor in their own feces. Horrors our family did not even know.

“Do you want a cone, Fred?” I asked, bright lights bouncing off the Carvel store stainless steel counter.

“A cup,” he said, me not yet knowing his difficulty with hand dexterity.

“Vanilla or chocolate?”

“Vanilla.”

Waiting for our orders, we took a picture: Lisbeth's head is nuzzled between two stocking hat-topped smiling faces, a blue whale above us. It is winter. It is cold. It is dark outside. In that pastel-colored store, for a moment, we are a family.

End of Chapter One

Fred's birthday, January 21, 2006, at Coney Island with Allan

2006-06-16T16:57:00.000-04:00

Best Buddies International Conference

2006-06-16T16:43:00.000-04:00

Fred and I will present his story at the 17th annual Best Buddies International Conference at Indiana University at Bloomington on July 22nd, 2006.

Finding Fred

2006-06-09T12:46:00.000-04:00

First post--this page will be used to let you know the status of my memoir, FINDING FRED. I'll also post links to other writing, mine and others, dealing with intellectual disabilities.