Good Morning. Fuck you. I send Chaz away for the day. Just get out of here. Leave Chaz. You are out and don’t come back until tomorrow. That was nine days ago.

This day, mid July one of those unholy fights breaks out between Chaz and me. The ignition spark was small; the fight rored into a blaze.

The problem this morning, I am explaining a matter of importance to our two younger boys. It does not involve Chaz. He is not the subject of ire. He gloats taunting his brothers, a rare time when he is not the trouble. He’s interrupting me. I ask him to be quiet. He yammers on. The words just keep vomiting from him. Chaz, shut up! I can’t hear myself think and I can’t continue to help the other two understand. This does not concern you. Is he high?

Moments later, Chaz is back antagonizing Norman, stirring the pot. It had to stop. I bend down cornering him. He won’t listen. Verbally I lay into him. Spraying it while I say it. So angry….again. The argument was on, back and forth. Loud, we are both enraged. Nearly violent. I make my point, I think & return to the kitchen.

A moment later Chaz comes up stands facing me and spits in my face. “You spit in my face first” he shouts. I am agog. He is right, so he hocked a loogie in mine.

Humiliating as it gets. Another son, Frank is there to see the lovely display.

“Go sleep somewhere else.” “Chaz, just leave” I say resigned.

I kick him out. Made him homeless and made myself crazy.

Skateboard, backpack and he’s off.

Next morning, I go out to use my car. It has been keyed from the tail light to the driver’s side door. Our one good car. We check the security camera which reveal Chaz is the culprit.

I ponder what to do. This son. This lovely son. This angry son. The daily drinking and early morning pot smoking son. Sitting alone in the garage all day garage door open. His late night, early morning kitchen raids. When noone else is around. Sleeping till noon. Arguing with his mother. The mess, the smell and constant anger. The ranting.

Addiction is such that we are unable to protect our child. He must go. He is driven to feed his head that is all that matters. Stoned with dope and drink, usually both. Once the chemicals are consumed the person is not the person anymore. He is a twisted Frankenstein, a sad caricature of the person you love. A person, normal in every way, but who spends their time in this state becomes confused, angry. The drink and dope speak from him. The angry monster is now your son, daughter, father mother, friend. Quite a rip off. Of course the addict/alcoholic is the one who loses the most. They just can’t see it.

That night he finds a nearby neighbor who puts him up, a kind mother with a son who knows Chaz. The next day I allow him back to gather some clothes and belongings. There he goes.

“You have the tent and sleeping bag. Enough clothes, Money. No reason to contact us anymore. Good Luck to you.” I text him.

Minneapolis has become crazy. The George Floyd murder. The Covid 19 lock down had been in place for four months, summertime. There are tent cities popping up in parks across the city. Perhaps he can land there. This I nothing I would wish on anyone, but Chaz is impossible to live with. He needs to go. I have offered treatment or move out. He is not interested in either.

Thursday, a week after the banishment, I stand in front of a family court judge, downtown. She asks about the incident and other complaints I have written. He is a threat. He is absent. He drinks and uses drugs. She tells me the county sheriffs delivered this document to him at work on Tuesday. Today is his chance to face me in court. I suspect, at least in his mind, he may never face me again.

The order states he is not to approach nor communicate our family nor come within a quarter mile of our house. The house he has grown up inside and slept nearly his whole life. His house. It stays in effect for two years. Can I really banish him for two years?

We are two who should not mix. I’m scared all that could be true.

Thank you, Thank you to to Loring Nicollet Alternative School and Casey Wall the head teacher. Thank you to various school counsellors, teachers and anyone who encouraged us while dealing with Chaz. A Herculean effort. An ovation please. As his senior year went on he stopped going to school altogether. The threats and fights as a consequence of being the pot salesman at high school gave justification to skip classes. His anxiety was palpable. I could see it in him mornings when I would plead that he go. I implored him to continue school. He just stopped. The few days he went he would bolt from class; head straight home or skip with a friend and get stoned.

Chaz’s mom, Kim pulled a meeting together between the school counsellors a few of Chaz’s teachers. It is clear that all of us are more determined that Chaz graduate than our son. Six of us met, the school safety officer, some of his teachers. A counsellor, Mr. Lundholm has been working with our son for the four years he has been in high school. Lundholm has helped with Chaz’s IEP (independent education program), which allowed him to get extra time for taking tests and completing assignments. ADD, attention deficit disorder was diagnosed earlier. The IEP helped, along with careful selection of courses but Chaz has hit the wall. Everyone agrees Chaz is likable friendly, and polite. One of the teachers has a son living at home. His child is mid twenties and had already spent a few years in jail because of drugs. We are not alone.

Winter semester, senior year we are referred to the Loring Nicollet Alternative school. We brought Chaz to meet with the head teacher, Casey Wahl. She laid out their program, all the students there are challenged with behavior or situational problems. All given a reduced course load that target the minimum scholastic requirements of the Minneapolis School District for graduation. The school day starts late, 11 am and ends at 3pm. Group classes are held across several grade levels. It is a fresh start. There are no jocks or science fair blue ribbon winners. Just Kids with challenges. They come together at this school and move their lives forward. The teaching staff is compassionate and at times pull them along. This is the island of misfit toys. Together they help each other.  

Talia, another student from Chaz’s high school, made the move to Loring Nicollet earlier and is thriving. She is a promising filmmaker, who has shot Chaz performing his skateboard tricks and skills. Along with other briany shorts posted on her youtube sight. Her stuff is quite good and she is devoted to learning film making.

Chaz, fortunately has nearly enough credits to graduate. Just 3 more months of school here and he’s done. Light at the end of the tunnel. I am relieved, a bit. It is hard to guide someone so obstinate and self-destructive. To not complete this education would be a shame. He would feel shame. Another sorry mark for a young man with declining esteem. Though never a class leader he did show up and made his way through school for most of those years. A high school diploma, that is something, without one, it is an obstacle to get a job.  Men I know, now in recovery, regret that they bailed out of school. I see them early in their recovery start again; get a GED, a general education diploma. A high school-level certification. It is important and good to obtain. For some it is a scarlet letter, identifying one as a screw up who couldn’t finish high school. 

Chaz did. 

 

What a parent may find…

Found it, the stash and the cash. This has happened twice now and I’ll retell the first time, the worst time. September 9th, School has been in session two weeks. I am home grabbing lunch. Swinging home often discourages Chaz from hanging out here when he skips out of class. I go upstairs to be sure he is not curled up in bed either staring at the phone, or hosting his girlfriend Kate. He’s not, but that smell is there. The heavy pungent smell of unburnt marijuana.

Pushing open the door, difficult due to floor bound clothes and crap. I open the top dresser drawer, the sock drawer. There is the box. The box is a wood casket for a wine bottle that has hard closing hinges. Inside is cash mostly $20s and a large Zip-lock bag of weed. Uh-oh. What to do?

I count the money $580. I take it and the bag of weed.

I call Kim, my wife and Chaz’s mom to let her know this discovery.

I text Chaz: “Mom and I found your stash and cash. We took it. Discussion to follow. This is not ok, selling dope.”

The fuse is lit. I go back to work.

Text from Chaz:”Don’t touch it. I can’t have you touch it”…”Dad please don’t do anything with it.” “I’ll go to treatment.” I just can’t have you touch it”.

Several weeks earlier one of Chaz’s buddies was sent off to a 30 day treatment for chemical dependency. When he got back the kid said he liked being sober. That lasted a week for him. Chaz knows I go to Recovery Meetings every week. We have talked about going together.

I threaten to call the police. I have no idea what to do or say. I should be mad; I’m just sad.

I call Barry E., a lawyer and my good friend. I tell him what’s up: “I found Chaz’s stash. A bag of weed and a few hundred bucks”

“What should I do? Call the cops?”

“No don’t do that, do you want to double your trouble?” Barry says. “Chaz will then have a police record and you will be sorry.”

I explain the amount of weed, the money and that I have it.

“Oh great!” He relies: “Now you’re the villain”. He laughs.

I’m pissed: “Are you going to help me?”

“Think about it. You have the dope; the money. If a cop walked into you with that, who would they arrest?” “Nice play Shakespeare.” he laughs and continues:

“Christian, I can’t tell you how to parent and this sucks. Where is Chaz now?”

I reply: “He’s not at school. I’m not sure.” “he’s texting me again right now. Talk Later?”

“Yes, of course” “Be safe.”

“Bye Barry.”

From Chaz: “I’m about to trash your house if you don’t talk to me right now.”

“Don’t make me dad.”

Here I am about 1979. Senior in high school.  I work at Wendy’s on Blake Road, Hopkins. Every other Friday night, I work an evening shift and close. On the way home I stop at our store manager’s apartment to pick up a quarter pound of marijuana. The scene of her smoky living room and husky boyfriend is still clear: dirty dishes, dim lights, hanging crocheted plant holders, black and dayglo posters; a lava lamp. There’s a table and a scale and he weighs out 64 ounces. I point out that there are too many twigs and seeds he pulls out that crap and adds better buds. I’m satisfied. It’s fronted to me, which means the dealer gives me the dope to sell and I owe him $125 due in two weeks. I hand over the $125 for the last batch. He counts it. Fine.

I have buyers, friends who want weed and would never do what I am doing. They are not addicted like me. I need to feed my head. Whether it’s marijuana, coke, crack, crystal meth, Xanax, Oxy, or whatever. Our habits have grown too expensive.

Basically I get the quarter pound, 4 ounces. I split it into six half ounce baggies; selling at $20. Classmates in high school buy several of the bags; friends in my neighborhood buy the rest. The plan leaves me with an ounce to smoke and share, or sell. That’s the junkie business plan.

What happens: in my little business, the amount sold to friends decreases while the amount I consume increases. I start making the bags smaller and claim they are the same.  I sell them for the same price. I add leaves or powder to stretch the bags sold, this is called cutting or stepping on the bag. My friends notice and are pissed at me.

Whatever the junkies drug of choice, our morals decline in order to stay high. So I sell dope. Then I steal dope. Then I steal from my friends and lie about it. Desperate we consume and can not repay the drug dealer. I take money out of my dad’s wallet. I steal from our family. People steal pot from me. What a mess.

The dealer does not like to be stiffed and serious consequences at the hands of these lawless predators happen. People die.

The other trouble is robbery and getting jumped for the dope. What I had going on never lead there. Chaz has been jumped twice and people steel from him. Poor kid. I last maybe six months selling pot. I am not meant for this business.

Chaz has arrived. I dash for home.

Upstairs I hear Chaz stomping around as he searches every drawer, every nook and cranny. Door slams and falling things. I climb up the stairs.

I ask: “Is it fronted to you?”

He demands: “Tell me where it is.”

“Hidden. I want to talk to you about it.”

Chaz replies with another F-bomb. He notices and says: “The cops aren’t here yet.”

“I will only call them if you hurt someone or yourself.” I reply.

He is in his room, and looks at me. Says: “NO NO NO!” and pushes past me. I watch him head down the stairs. CRASH the mirror at the landing is pulled down and shatters. I follow. At the bottom he tips over a small cabinet and stomps on it. Then runs into our kitchen. I follow. He turns and swipes hard at a basket of silverware sending forks and butter knives my way. They crash into our new cabinets scratching the drawers.

He runs out and off.

I go upstairs, stepping around the busted cabinet and mirror. I return the cash to his weed box.

Three hours later and a string of foul texts we meet in a parking lot behind a coffee shop. He gets in my car and I hand him his dope. I feel like a drug dealer.

Consequences a parent can’t give…

Chaz is now a senior. Everything else is the same or worse. Worse. This year he has been jumped beaten and robbed twice: fall at the park by a so called friend, Charles B, a former classmate who dropped out. Chaz got big blow to his head, a lump. A month ago three boys attacked him in the school bathroom, leaving him bloodied and needing stitches above his left eye. He picked a fight with a gang of thugs, petty thieves, who were tormenting a friend of his. Now he fears going to school. 

For two years Kim and I watch him. Now he barely attends school. He is not a drop out, and he’s not a student either. We don’t know his friends anymore. They walk into our house and go straight to Chaz’s room. I insert myself with a handshake and introduction. They look down mumble a name. Buzzed often. The smell of weed.

Chaz rolls his eyes and says: “Go away.”

I offer food to them, a meal. It is a triumph to get them to eat.

He misses every football game, school dance, play, party and events. I ask him: “Why don’t you go enjoy events at school?”

He replies: “They are all fuckin loosers. No one cool goes to those daft things.”

I am sad for him.

He misses every family meal. He lays in bed watching skateboard videos, meems, other more nefarious shows. Sheets cocooning him. The room is a wreck: empty chip bags and take out sandwich wrappers; stacks of dirty clothes mostly thrift shop fashions. He has a flair. I shut the door. Angry. He is always angry.

Mornings his brothers get up dress for school. There’s coffee, breakfast, music and homework.

Afternoons, when everyone is away, or at least out of the kitchen, Cahz cooks an egg or wolfs down cereal. We know because of bread crumbs, dirty plates or bowls and open food boxes. He is rail thin, underweight.

Then he bolts, exiting our house. He will be gone for hours; maybe a day or two. Summer he steers his skateboard into the middle of the busy street, cars passing him in both directions. A daredevil maneuver. Winter he’s out of the house with a hoodie, no hat or gloves. January Temps in Minnesota dropped below 35 below this year. Summer he is often out all night. Sometimes returning sometimes sleeping at a friend’s house. No call home.

One January night, he’s out under dressed. It’s 35′ below 0′ and the wind chill makes it -75′. I can’t find him; his phone is dead. Frantically, I drive to the usual spots. Nothing. I’m frozen in the car. That night two people die at a bus stop on Broadway in North Minneapolis.

Our only tether is my Find iPhone app. When his phone is on and charged I can see where he is staying. There is some assurance. This need to know his whereabouts keeps us from taking the phone. He lives without consequences. At least from us, his parents. I can see the world is already kicking his ass.

The moral high ground has loose footings…

He is charming, handsome.  He speaks well. Humorous. Mom laughs. Mom allows. Ultimately I do too. His bedroom door is back in place, retrieved from the garage. All the grades improve. He is now passing all his classes except one. The school work done receives high marks.

We have a lucid conversation. Encouraged, I tell him:

“Get your grades to 2.7. If you have a decent GPA you will have more options in the future”

“It gives you freedom and that is what you are after. Isn’t it?”

Mom tells me he repeats that too her. He puts in effort; we see that. I am quietly pleased that something I said to him landed.

The removed privileges return to him. I hate how unable we are to stand our ground and maintain long lasting punishment. We have fallen into this pattern. He acts poorly; we punish removing the iPad and phone and his bedroom door, which is heavy and awkward for me to carry back and forth to the garage.

Then he disappears all day again. I call his phone, one he took from his younger brother. No answer. Sunday family dinner is at 6:30. Where is he? At 8:00 he texts me that he will be home at 8:30. I tell mom. Anger arises in both of us. Sad parents of the erring child. She says: “take the Ipad”.

I do. I hide it in a cabinet in the living room, telling mom the location. That night I leave for my Sunday night hockey game. He comes home after I leave.

Next morning it explodes.

I slap him. I hate this me. Last week went so well, too.

Monday mornings, Mom is gone to work. I sleep in til 7:30 Mondays, tired from playing ice hockey the night before.

7:00 am Chaz knocks pushing my bedroom door open: “Can I get my iPad? I have homework and need it for the work.”

”Too early! I’m asleep.” I reply: “OK it is in the cabinet in the living room” “For home work only.”

This is a problem. I know that there may be homework, but the iPad is also the source of entertainment, communication, and distraction. When he has it he is in bed watching. In the morning upon awakening he is in bed watching it. At night he watches to fall asleep. I hate the thing.

I step into the kitchen 30 minutes later there is Chaz watching “Family Guy” on his iPad. I take it saying: “This is taken in punishment.  It is not for pleasure use right now.”

He yells: “Screw you. I’ll use it how you want!”

-“You know you told me it was for homework, and now you’re watching television” “You’re lying to me.”

Our other two sons, also in the kitchen, scatter. Morning is wrecked. They see this confrontation more and more often. It is not pleasant. Chaz yells and screams and interrupts. I try to parent. The emotion and tension rises to white hot in an instant.

I leave with the iPad.

He cries: “You’re an asshole!”

-“I’m holding you accountable. The iPad is removed for this reason you did…”

Interrupt: “Fuck you! no one likes you!” You’re an asshole.”

-“Don’t interrupt!”

-“Fuck you!”

-“Ok. Leave. Chaz just leave.”

N0! I’m eating … more F-Bombs from him.

-“Yeah food we provide you. Leave. You don’t get to address me like that. Go now!” I repeat. I walk away ….and then return to take the cereal bowl.

-“No one likes you, none of your kids like you,” He chides.

That is not what I’m after. I know that’s not true. “Please Chaz just leave.”

I try to take the bowl, he jumps up challenging me laying forth a litany of curses, swears his voice shouting. Some-where somehow this is that moment when restraint is needed and impossible at the same time. It boils over in me and…

I slap him. He pushes me. I slap at him. He draws back to punch. I block it and slap him pushing him back.

-“You FUCKER! You FUCKER! You’re an asshole.”

He states: “I have won fights you know.”

-“I’m sorry you’re fighting.”

He tries to punch me again. I’m bigger.

I push him over a chair. He jumps swinging. I push him into the chair and hold him there. We stop. We both have tears our eyes. I hate that I am unable to allow him to slander and curse me without getting violent. No one else on the planet talks to me that way; he is the only one I hit.

Truth told, I have spanked all my children on the rare occasion after suitable alternatives did not work. I was spanked but never fought my father like this. Chaz has been hit by me before. I have been vicious and yelled. Big man I am. I hate me for this. I do not have the reserve or mindful alternative.

I have won fights with men too. This one I am losing.

Friday I smell pot in the house again.

The start…

Our son has decided that smoking marijuana is a good thing. Part of me has been waiting for this sad day. It happened for me too, 40 years ago. The decisions made from that point on in my life lead me to compromise standards for school and sports, lie to parents and peers, steal. I compromised my passions and ability for sense of spiciness, a light headed high that became paramount to everything. There was alcohol too, first wine and beer proffered by my parents at the holiday diner table. That was allowed. Then weed and other drugs: white powder, first snorted then smoked. These are things I thought made me free. The very opposite occurred.

His transition to high school last year went all right. We were proud, he was making grades and has many friends. He has always been  a marginal student grade wise: “a ‘C’ is a darn good grade”. I am fine with that. We know he is smart. There are challenges too. He is young for his grade. There is a diagnosis for ADD. Symptoms I recognise in myself from that age in my life. The Adderall which changed him and he hated. The school decided to lighten his academic schedule. They have assigned a counselor to help him organize himself. He is required to attend a supervised study session with her each week.

Late fall the class skipping became daily. Ignoring school work; zero participation has lead to fails in every class. When confronted he becomes defiant. School is a bother. He claims this teacher does not like him; that teacher is boring.

Two weeks ago that marijuana smell permeated the first floor of our house. Brazen. Does he really think we won’t smell it or that we are liberal enough to accept it. There are two younger children in our house. This is NOT ok!

“Look it is legal” he shouts.

“No, no it is not. Your nine year old brother is across the hall” I reply.

“It’s not addictive” he states.

“That is is true somewhere else and it is not OK here in this state now. I would not endorse misery”. I continue: “The hell it’s not addictive. It really is addictive. If you’re an addict, I am not saying you are. To an addict it is a disease and this is addictive.”

“I haven’t smoked since Wednesday” he admits, looking down, deflating. “I’m not smoking cigs”.

With him there is no conversation just shouted rebuttals. Frankly I am worried. Very worried. I know it is easier to buy pot than get alcohol at this age. Neither are good.

He is mad about consequences. Consequences that we hate to do and also feel there is no other choice. I remove the bedroom door until his grades are better and attendance is constant. The phone and IPad are taken. He then sneaks his brother’s phone or makes ‘Deals’ with either parent. We love him and relent.

The friends have changed too. The fun and goofy crew that he has played with through middle school are not coming by anymore. He  disappears into cars driven by kids a bit older who he has met at the skate board parks.

This week he claimed to be sick. Later at noon the police caught him along with eight or nine others in the nearby park smoking dope and cigs. Citations were threatened and the school notified.

I want to shake him. Slap him out of it.