"The Impossible Dream" It seems that about as long as I can remember, I've identified with the old "Don Q."-man. Most of my adult life has been spent in advocacy, in one form or another,for the dienfranchised, marginalized, and powerless against the various institutions of power and influence which tend to keep them / us in our place and use us to advance their own agenda. When I see folks, especially kids and the "disadvantaged" (like the "Mentally Retarded" people I worked with for about 13 years)being used as pawns by a bunch of politicians and beuraucrats in a scheme to enrich and furthur empower themselves, I tend to get a little crazy and pick fights with those "windmills" of power against which I stand no chance of surviving, much less prevailing. Several careers and lots of "jobs" have been hard-won only to be lost by my unwillingness to accept "the way it is" or become part of the corruption. There was the NH State Police; usually in trouble for not writing enough summonses or giving too many "breaks" to people, We were discretey told who to stop and who not to on the basis of campaign contributions to the incumbent Governor at the time. My badge was not for sale. Then the Captain of the SWAT Team took me aside one night and confided in me; "Clarkey; you're such a nice guy that you're going to get your brains blown out some night". He was probably right. After 5 1/2 years I took the hint and turned in the badge and the S&W M-66 .357 Magnum. I was ready; burned to a crisp mentally and physically... but it hurt just the same to see a Dream die. We tried opening a Family Business in Maine with my In-Laws; thanks to the oil crisis and the Carter inflation explosion, that went belly-up after only two years and Wife Sue worked over 11 years just to pay off our debts. We were too damn proud to go Chapter 11. I managed to last 3 years as a Security Guard, but was passed over for promotion and eventually laid off when the construction job was over. It seems that I held the wrong people accountable for a few things. The "Milkman" career was rather short, and a dismal failure. Somewhere along the way I got Religion, and thought I might have a "calling" to the Christian Ministry. Wife having had about enough of that foolishness let me know on no uncertain terms that she was not about to be a Preacher's Wife. Besides; given my proclivity to call 'em like I see 'em and let the chips fall where they may (usually right back down on my head), that was likely to be a disaster as well. She was probably right. So, having acquired an interest in Psychology and a couple of College courses under my belt (I had dropped out of high school in 1966 hoping to go to VietNam and get myself killed in somewhat of a patriotic manner; failing that, I got my GED) I took a job that few wanted; as an Aide in a State Mental Institution for the Mentally Retarded. That was a "Ministry" more than a "Job" to be sure; I didn't think I was going to last the first week. But I prayed my way through every day and hung in there for over 12 years. After clawing my way to an Associate's Degree in Human Services, with a major in Developmental Disabilities, I was able to transfer out to the "Infant Development Center", doing Case Management in actual Social Work - working with Families of children with "Special Needs" in Southern Maine, doing something which I was an enthusiastic proponent of: "Early Intervention". After developing a rapport with about 30 children and Families, however, I was found somehow lacking by the Management and sent packing back to work the night shift at Pineland Center. It seems that certain problems are required in order to maintain and grow lucrative beuraucracies, and we don't really want to solve them. For some reason, pragmatists just don't fit in all that well. Besides, one is expected to have a certain political perspective in this field, and as I quickly learned, alternative opinions are not well tolerated. Telling those Parents and kids who had come to trust and rely on me that I would not be coming back was like having to shoot my horse. About 30 of them. With a heart now thouroughly shredded, I returned to cleaning up the messes and trying to keep the insane from killing and eating each other. The windmill really did a job on me that time. Back in the institution, I saw Patients eating meat that had roaches running out of it as it was served and muffins with flies baked onto them, while "Administrators" took home over $100K a year and lived in luxury. When a Federal Inspector (ICF, for those of you in the business) asked me how things were going, I told her. A couple of hours later I was being reprimanded in the Superintendant's Office for my "bad attitude", and the reprimand joined others in my personell file. They had lots of company in there, and there is no doubt that I was being set up to be fired when at last my back caved in from all of the lifting of handicapped people and I was essentially disabled for about two years while in rehab. After being unable to return to work for a year, I was "let go". Shortly thereafter they closed the place down. As best I could, I worked on getting my body and head back together; by then I had been diagnosed with chronic, clinical depression and Attentional Disorder, for which I will probably be on medication and struggle with for the rest of my life. Trying to get back into service to the "Developmantally Disabled" (Label Du Jour) I hired on as a Residential Director of a Group Home. When the Residents arrived, I knew right away that they were all inappropriate for such an environment (one was elderly and not supposed to climb stairs; the only bathroom in the place was upstairs). Some were violent, another was an Arsonist, placed in a 19th Century restored Farmhouse. When they got there, all they had was their clothes in paper grocery bags and a mattress on the floor to sleep on. No blankets. No clothes hangers. I brought in some furniture and a TV that I had around the house or salvaged from the dump; As "Director" I had no discretionalry budget for such luxuries. The Owner, by the way, was driving around in a new Volvo. And I was working an average of 16 hours a day. When the Regional Director of Mental Health and Retardation (what they called it then- it's changed since to be more PC) called and asked how things were going, I told him. (I was really "P'd"). Within two days I was again unemployed. That windmill didn't waste much time on me at all. Then there was the "Educational Technician" gig with Elementary School "Special Education" kids. I loved it; I loved them - but they were a challenge. One little girl who had been sexually abused and badly damaged was regularly subjected to regular abuse and harassment from a little boy, whose vocabulary and demeanor towards females of any age or size was both revolting and aggressive. The classroom was regularly a battle zone in which no learning of any substance was apt to occur. It seemed to me that this would simply not do, so in conjunction with the Classroom Teacher I developed a very effective behavior modification strategy / program for the little guy. His divorced Parents didn't like their "baby" being held accountable for anything, however, and there was some political turmoil; they even tried to falsely accuse me of abuse, but could not make it stick. That is, however, one of the more reliable ways to ruin a male Teacher's career - if not his life - regardless of any basis in fact in the accusition. Other teachers were amazed at the improvement of the boy's behavior, and not only he, but the little girl and the other students in his class were able to actually start learning something for a change. I was supposed to continue the next School year with these kids and keep up the good work... It wasn't until 2 weeks before School was to open the next year that I got my termination notice in the mail from a Special Ed. Director whom I had never even met. They never said why; didn't have to. For a while I "Subbed" at the local Schools from time to time, but my dream of being a Teacher was gone - my heart was no longer in it. The windmill scored another one. Since then I have retired from the "People Business" and only do "things" now. After about 4 years making lanterns out of copper and brass (which I rather liked) the circulation in one of my feet gave out, and after quite a bit of lost time from that, the lantern shop put me on "furlough" last June. A couple of months later I happened by to pick up my tools and met the fellow who replaced me. So much for that "career". During the last Election cycle, I was politically active in an attempt to slow down the "Socio-Economic Cleansing" whereby the fixed-income elderly or lower working-class Natives are being systematically taxed off of their lands and out of their homes by the Urban Refugees (sometimes known as "Yuppies") who move in, take over, demand all of the perks of the big cities they escaped from, and soon hike the tax base up to where the Working People who grew up there can no longer afford to live in their own home town - or Home, for that matter. So up from the ditch I pick myself, dust off the encrusted mud, manure and dog dung, collect the shattered remains of my lance and a stack of political signs, chase down my mangy old Rosinante, join and become Secretary - Treasurer of our local Party Committee, and heigh-Ho; off we tilt at another damned windmill. All of our local Candidates were soundly defeated, of course. So you get the picture; currently the score is about: Windmills: 67; Uncle Jaque: 0. And I don't know for sure if I'm ever going to pick myself out of this ditch to hunt down my horse and tilt another windmill... but if I could, I probably would. Some of us learn slow... and hard. http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.com/~quixote/impossibleDream.mid ("The Impossible Dream" - lyrics by Joe Darion, music by Mitch Leigh) "To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, to bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go, to right the unrightable wrong, to love, pure and chaste, from afar; to try when your arms are too weary; to reach the unreachable star. "This is my Quest---to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far, to fight for the right without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause! "And I know, if I'll only be true to this glorious Quest, that my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest... "And the world will be better for this; -that one man, scorned and covered with scars, still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable star." No doubt about it; That's it. Thanks, by the way, if you have bothered to read this far.
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