RICKY -- My son by default

By the time Ricky came to live with me he had lived in seventeen foster homes. It was 1978, and he was fourteen. The social worker brought him to my house on a beautiful fall afternoon. He arrived with the traditional green plastic garbage bag that held all his possessions.

"Ricky is a car thief and a fighter." The social worker warned. Ricky turned his head and gazed out the window to the streets of Main South. He acted as if we were not there.
The social worker continued; "We don't have high hopes that He'll stay here. We just need some time while we find an institution that will accept him." I smiled stupidly and nodded agreement. The social worker left. Ricky turned to me and inquired; "What now?" I had no idea "What now." Ricky moved in, and at once I knew he was different from the other children who lived with me.

Ricky shunned groups of people. He liked to hang out by himself. When he did associate with other children, he associated with one at a time. He was, as the social worker pointed out, aggressive. After time I noted that his aggressive behavior was exclusively in defense of his space.

Ricky was surely no angel. On more than one occasion I went to retrieve him from the police station. He "Chew & screwed" the Spanish Grill.. He "borrowed" my Plymouth Station wagon. He shop-lifted everything he could carry from The Mart. This behavior was not unique in my home. The Department of Youth Services referred these children. Most of them needed some re-directing.

A miracle, three years went by, and Ricky remained in my home. His behavior improved, and he did quite well in school. The trouble with Ricky in the early eighties was that he never seemed to be happy. While other children in my home went out on dates, Ricky stayed home and watched TV. Ricky never used the telephone. He was never late returning from school. He never went out in the evenings or on the weekends. He sat around the house, never really sad, but never quite as happy as the other children.

When Ricky turned eighteen he got a job in New York and moved there. We wrote to each other for a while, then one of my letters returned as undeliverable. A year later Ricky called me at my Parents home in Whiting.After fumbling around for a while, he told me he was gay. This revelation stunned me. No one that I have ever known less fit my stupid stereotype of a gay man then Ricky. I told him so, and he laughed.
"If you had known would you have treated me differently?" He asked. I thought of the times I ruffled his hair, tucked him into bed, and hugged him when he was sad. I told him I hoped not. In truth, I do not know.

Harry H. Snyder III