Sad is the story of a life gone past
Muddled in secrets and memories cast
The tears of a child who fears his own home
Ended in a basement dark and alone
Edward Farrar was a "Paste Eater." He was the kind of kid who didn't seem to have a lick of sense. His hair was greasy black and combed in a Pompadour like Elvis used to wear. Strands of it would break loose from the rest and hang in front of his eyes. His clothes were dirty and out of date and he smelled of poverty. He had a maniacal laugh that reminded you of the Joker from the old Batman series and he could be counted on to disrupt every class with his outbursts and antics. He was hyperactive, out of control, and was put on Ritalin by our school. The only time Eddie seemed in the least bit restrained is when the Ritalin would take effect and he would nod off. I don't believe anyone knew why Eddie was like he was, and I don't think anyone really took the time to care. Sadly, this included me.
Eddie entered Merrill Elementary School on the north end of Flint in third grade and right away it was obvious that he was a troubled child. In those days, acting out was not tolerated, children who misbehaved were sent for spankings by the Principle. So common was this form of discipline that our Principle's office included outlined hands drawn on the wall. When you were to be punished, you put your hands on the outline and then your feet were moved back to put the pressure on your hands. This method was devised to keep kids from putting their hands in the path of the swinging paddle. After you were paddled, you were then told the reason for your discipline and what kind of behavior was expected of you. It seems cruel now, but back then it was totally excepted. I have to say one thing about that form of discipline; very few kids acted out and classes were far better behaved then now.
Eddie was clearly the exception to that rule. No amount of punishment seemed to effect him. He beat a path to the Principle's office and soon the Principle gave our teacher permission to paddle him herself. The first time our 60-something teacher tried to spank Eddie, it didn't turn out so well. She lead him out into the hallway to receive his discipline and seconds later, in burst Eddie paddle in hand, our teacher in pursuit. Around and around the desks Eddie ran, laughing and tormenting his pursuer in a game of "Keep away." The class, sensing a rare moment of chaos, roared it's approving laughter. After Eddie was finally caught with the help of two other teachers, his Ritalin was increased to a point where he rarely raised his drugged head from off his desk.
When we were both graduated to Emerson Junior High I knew Eddie's life was going to get far worse. Some of the black kids immediately recognized him as an easy victim and Eddie was tormented endlessly. His tattered clothes and dim intelligence gave the poor oppressed black kids a rare chance to feel better than someone else. Even better for them, someone white. Eddie soon found himself being ridiculed by the lowest rung on the social ladder. For him, it must have seemed life could get no worse. I always watched from a distance, glad that it wasn't me. Glad that their attention was directed on someone else. In hindsite, I could have been a better person, a better human. It's a guilt I still feel today. Normally the few white kids banded together, co-miserating at their mutual misfortune. Eddie suffered alone and walked home alone.
On the day we were told that Eddie had killed himself. I remember that there was no crying. No one walked around with a vacant stare, in fact, no one seemed to care at all. His obituary read like a life wasted. No baseball trophies, no school accolades, no achievements. It described his 9 brothers and sisters and grieving mother, nothing else. For some reason, I started asking questions about Eddie. I realized that despite knowing him for 4 years, I knew nothing about him. I rode my bike past the address I had read in the obituary. His house was a small 235 house (houses given to the poor that only had only about 600 square feet of living space.) I tried to envision how 9 kids and an adult could live in one. The house was in complete disarray; broken bikes, chewed-up lawn, dog feces everywhere and broken windows. I learned from one of his brothers that Eddie had been molested repeatedly by one of his many step-fathers and severally beaten by all of them. His mother was an obese women who tolerated any behavior by her men as long as they would stay. I tried to envision even one happy moment in such a scenario. I could not. Eddie, it turns out, had hung himself in the basement during a very rare moment alone.
The more I found out about the sad life of Eddie Farrar, the more shame I felt for having laughed at him, for being part of making his already pitiful life even worse. I still think about Eddie sometimes and wonder why God had seen fit to treat someone so badly, who had so little to begin with. Life is filled with regret and all you can do is ask for forgiveness. I have tried to make up for my transgressions by being a better person now. Part of that process is recognizing what you have done wrong. The purpose of this post is part of that process. I now recognize that I wasn't as good a person as I could have been to Eddie. That I could have tried to help him or at least listened to him. For that, I am truly sorry. Forgive me Eddie, I didn't know. H.C.
Hillary Clinton claims her supporters need a "catharsis", a healing, to get over their loss. To hear her tell it, it would seem that her supporters are the first in history to be disappointed and to have to deal with their candidate failing to meet their expectations. In an effort to placate her supporters, Barack Obama has agreed to allow Hillary's name to appear on the nomination at the convention and to be voted on. For Barack's people, or the DNC, to believe that Hillary's supporters will be pacified by losing yet again in a very public fashion seems insane to me.
