Bird

Better, today. The storm clouds have given way to mile high puffy cumulo. Rohan did his 'bird' yesterday, ironically, at an animal shelter.

Now he wants a dog, oh well!

A boarding school in an neighbouring town seems a possibility. It will remove him from evil influences and offer more positive role models. I've heard some good things about the school and my fingers are crossed we can get the funding.

After the panic last Friday, things seem a little easier at work. There's a little more understanding of the problems we as a family are facing. There's something of a relief I don't have to watch my back all the time.

Financially, it's still a bit of a soup, but I'm hoping we can deal with the worst of our problems in the next week or so. In that case, we can do stuff that had been put off, such as getting the car serviced and putting the landline back on.

We do have phones, now, thanks to a bit of good fortune. The Social Worker from the HDA organised one for Tine and I found my old one. This I converted to a prepay and so dodged the huge bill we still owe the phone company. An old Nokia had been given to us and I passed that down to my son. He was hoping I'd give him mine, which, of course, is way fancier but, slim chance.

The ground is still saturated so there's little lawn grooming possible. I'm making myself busy with some weeding in the reserve, but, it's taken a toll on my back. I'm working near a flooding stream and I'm dreaming of losing my footing. At least it keeps me gainfully employed and the boss off my back.

I've misplaced my iPod which is driving me nuts. I'd just loaded my new 'workmix' and was looking forward to it. The 'pod' keeps me sane, raising my dopamine up to agreeable levels. The silence is deafening.


Don

Cops

It's not that I've anything against the local police here. There's is some residual uncertainty, sure, from the time when cops meant I was in trouble. But, I've had more to do with the police this year than I've ever had in my life.

My boy was returned, again, his morning having disappeared from 4.30pm yesterday. They found him with an 18 year old youth, known to groom young teenage boys. It's becoming so serious, now, that I fear there's little recourse but to have him taken away by Child Services.

The Police Youth Aid officer s a good guy. I feel he cares as much about my son as do I, but he's growing frustrated. It flows in one ear and out the other. My boy knows how to placate, to appear remorseful before muttering 'fuck you' under his breath.

This paedophile arsehole is 'a cool guy' and everyone is mistaken about him. Rohan repeats this refrain constantly with the certainty of the well-manipulated. Of course he knows he's gay and he has a boyfriend the same age. In fact, his 'boyfriend' is only 14.

We have lots of gay friends and I'd trust any one one of them with my children. They don't prey on kids. This guy is not gay, he's a paedophile and my boy is not sophisticated enough to tell the difference.

A 'friend' has only your best interests at heart. A friend doesn't draw you away from school, from responsibility, from maturity. A friend doesn't exploit you but offers companionship without strings attached.

I went around to this guy's place one day. I wanted to scope him – see for myself, what he looked like and hear his story.

He told me Rohan clambers in the window and wants to hang out. He explains he sends him away, because he knows he shouldn't be there and his older brother would beat him up. He says so with conviction, but with a matter of factness which is almost compelling. I ask whether he sends him away all the time and he replies, 'of course.' Compelling, maybe, but a complete lie.

He lives with his grandmother. I wonderful old woman in her eighties and completely oblivious to what's happening under her roof. Either that, or she's a past master at covering for him. She's of German/Maori ancestry and in other circumstances I could share a cake and a cupper with her and listen to her story.

The cops don't understand why she doesn't throw him out, but the familial ties are strong. Her generation don't do those things to family.

They locked him up yesterday – suspecting him of burglering a liquor store. Rohan denies his 'friend' had anything to do with it – even though the cops found stacks of booze in his house. How this guy can suck every ounce of reason out of my boy is a fascinating study, if it was anyone else but my son.

The guy's not even smart enough to stash the loot some place else. What burgler plants the evidence in his own bedroom? A real stupid criminal imagines the cops are as stupid as them. A smart criminal doesn't do a job five doors down the road from where he lives.

Another bout of Belt tightening

Last night I threw all that I could from the food parcel into the pot. It came out okay, a kind of fried potato, Tuna and vermicelli hot pot, finished in the slow cooker. There was a pile of it and we all woofed it down, even the kids. I put on a large pot of porridge this morning before work and it was scraped clean.

Rohan eats like it's his last meal. We have less than 70 bucks for groceries this week. I buy rolled oats by the sack, five loaves of bread, and tons of tinned baked beans and spaghetti. It ought to get us through, providing Rohan doesn't scoff it all.

We're waiting on whether Rohan can get into Hato Paora College. It's a Maori boarding school but has a day school attached. It's had some problems in the past and has a declining roll. One ex teacher's been up on sex charges and there was an issue with playground bullying. It ain't ideal, but it might be the only one we can realistically get.

Tine's chasing the legal angle. Rohan was supposed to be interviewed by the school in our presence. He was forced to confess without representation - a clear breach of process. We think we've nailed them.

A lot of people have expressed support for our stance. Feilding High School has expelled huge numbers over the years and no-one has mounted a legal challenge - as yet!!!

Don

Today

Things are a little better today. We found we have names to drop and might get my boy into a Maori High School.

"Huh?" his jaw drops to the floor. He's not a Maori, no Iwi or Whakapapa, and he thinks they'll kick the shit out of him.

I tell him to wait and see, have a look and keep an open mind. There's definite advantages in becoming bilingual.

"Huh?" More expressions of terror. 'Bilingual', I tell him, is being fluent in both languages, Maori and English, not a deviant sexual practice.

We hear from the lawyer from the Children's Commissioner. She's adamant we can ping the school on several points of law in their dealing with my boy's expulsion. It's unlikely to do him much good, however, because, if he gets to go back, he can't put a foot wrong. There'll be strict conditions, and the school will likely ensure he breaks every one.

Meanwhile, I mow in the rain, wondering why me sweats keep drifting down my arse. Could I've lost so much weight? A cold breeze stings half acre of flesh below my waist.

Don

Broke

Anxiety levels are right through the roof - so much so, I'm barely able to function. Like all addicts, I plant emergency supplies or have known sources from which to tap. A packet lies concealed in the truck with a couple of cigs. Around mid morning I take advantage, but it has little effect and I resist the temptation to smoke another.

I sit outside in the cold rather than participate in the lunchroom banter. It's isolate behaviour I learned from an early age. I always used to lose myself somewhere or sit out in the hallway at school - deliberately provoking the teacher for the privilege. There I'd read uninterrupted without being asked dumb questions or told it's math's time, not reading.

It's cold and the smokers come out for a puff. The air's suddenly thick with smoke and dumb comments about laptops at work. I field them okay, but the smoke's making my head reel.

Earlier, I sweep by Presbyterian Social Services to organise a food parcel. We're worse than flat broke at the moment and we've nothing to feed the kids. We had to pay mortgage arrears or lose the house. It was eleventh hour. They oblige, and I pick it up at 4.

Tine's nearly out of gas, but she reckons she'll get home okay. We've been there before, and I'm not confident. The Primera's fuel clock doesn't seem to read properly when it drops below a quarter. I've had to bum a ride to take her some fuel a couple of times. Women always run on empty, they tell me. Tine's faith doesn't run to gas tanks.

So what's to be done? The hits keep coming and logic tells me it's not a coincidence. Misfortune surely doesn't strike this often. Maybe Tine's God is trying to include me in the fold? If I declare myself a Muslim, maybe Allah will take better care of us? My cynicism is well-earned, unfortunately, and I'm not ready for religious dogma at this time. Next Ramadan maybe we'll see?

It's lunchtime now and I'm still cold. I hide outside once again so no-one will notice I've brought no lunch with me today. They've put in coffee machines, but the coffee's foul. Powdered milk, I think, and the word 'Nescafe' should've alerted me. Soup's vile, chicken allegedly, and I'm still starving.

I've had nothing to eat for 24 hours. I dreamed up excuses, but, the truth is I can't bear to see the kids go hungry. If I don't eat, that leaves more for the children. I'm from a long line of martyrs.

It's all nothing more noble than guilt, of course. Guilt because I can't provide the basic necessities for my family. My upbringing was strictly 60's Protestant where the man was the provider and women raised the children. 70's deprogramming ejected all that, of course, as gender equality raised their colours. But, my responsibilities have been planted so deep no amount of modern rationalisation has shifted it.

Left the yard early this morning. Storm front coming and there's not much chance of work. Yesterday, I arranged a food parcel from PSS and picked it up after work. No milk or bread, unfortunately, so I don't know what Tine's going to organise for school lunches. Vegemite on Weetbix, the kids have already rejected. No fruit for four days but the PSS gave us some apples the size of grapes. We thought they were cherries at first.

The nicotine withdrawals have kicked in big time. I can't take so many meds for the depression it's not funny. Pretty much nothing's completely safe for me. By morning smoko, I've had enough, mumble to a supervisor and split.

Tine's home as well - there not being enough gas in the car to get her to work. It's crappy weather and I don't want her running out somewhere. She's exhausted, in any case.

Don

The Good Fight

It always used to tingle. We'd all travel together - sharing last minute ideas - arriving at the venue with a mixture of apprehension and sense of purpose. Tine and I had done this many times in the past as part of a Union team - negotiating or advocating on behalf of a member in trouble.

I reminded her in the car last night. I said 'it felt like old times.' She agreed with a sheepish grin. This time, however, we were trying to rescue our son's education. He was going before the School Board to decide whether he was to be 'excluded', expelled!

He'd been involved in a couple of schoolyard fights, both on the same day. He'd been an idiot - as only 13 year old boys can be. He needed reprimanding and some sanction, of course, but to be kicked out seemed an extreme act.

The Chairman was unsmiling, a bad sign. She was taking prompts from the dean and principal, also a bad sign. I should have realised it was a done deal, but we must keep our focus - remain optimistic.

I'd been a Union President for four years. On top of that, I'd graduated from a three year Drama course. I went into the meeting bringing those skills to the table. I felt 'buzzy' and confident.

There was a little roughing up at first. I charged in, seized a point and demanded an answer. Eventually, she caved - I'd made a point - we weren't going to be screwed with.

We had with us a Social Worker and a ton of research. We knew my son's and our rights and I listened to every remark carefully, waiting to use it to our advantage.

I even convinced myself we were on a level playing field and we had a chance of restoring our son's education, but, it was 'process' - his fate had been decided before we ever left home.

An offense against natural justice it must be, but virtually impossible to prove. These guys were used to throwing kids out of school and must be relied on to keep on the side of the law. The High School here has one of the worst reputations in the country for 'excluding' pupils. It offers token support to their 'problems' then dumps them on other schools to repair.

Those 'other schools' are fed up with it and our information is that none of them will take our boy as a pupil. The High School is the only game in town, in any case, and those 'other schools' are far away in the city.

Tine used to have the tenacity of a pit bull in negotiations. She could always be relied on to spit venom at the smug suits. She was great, with her orange, cropped hair - English working class attitude - Persian fire.

I watched her beside me last night struggling to focus, to process, at times confused - it was sad. It was left to me to lead.

I took over, as I can when I'm in form. I spoke at will and reset the agenda. The Chairperson was on the defensive, I could tell from her expression. Everyone told me how well I advocated for my son, with the right amount of levity, charm and emotional intensity - all a colossal waste of effort in the end.

They were never going to allow him to return to that school and we had no chance of persuading them otherwise. We were devastated - it's only slowly sinking in - my son's education is fucked and I couldn't save him.

Could've I done something differently? I've never known a negotiation where one hasn't had misgivings - where there isn't a nagging feeling one could screw a bit more out of the system. I don't know what else I could've said or done.

We continue to pursue the legal angle and are determined to challenge their ruling. It's unlikely to make any difference to my boy, but it might help future pupils and their families from having to go through this.

One last point. One of the board members I felt I recognised. I'm sure we knew each other in the past. It only hit me afterwards.

He was a Hutt Valley boy, like me. He and I did rehab together about 15 years ago. The guy had a 'history.' He was one of us, who's now dogging on all that he came from. He knows what a troubled teen is because he was one. Folks gave him a break, helped him out, set him on the right track so he can pour judgement on kids going through the same shit.

I wish I'd realised that at the time. The Chairperson, herself, was just a dimwitted aparatchnik, but he ought to know better. Screw them!

Don

My boy

It's difficult to give a lengthy narrative. My son's problems probably started when he realised his mother was suffering from Huntington's Disease. Like most kids embarking on teenagehood, he often finds it difficult to express his feelings, and even understand them.

He's intelligent, but undersells himself because of the culture he's inclined to associate himself with. Kids who have few boundaries, disruptive home lives, or just plain emotionally damaged seem to gravitate to him - enlist him as one of their own.

A few weeks ago, we discovered he was becoming involved in petty crime. We knew he had an anger problem and we'd all gone to counseling. But the process didn't take. Now, he's been suspended from school pending an expulsion hearing next Wednesday. This was for assault - twice on the same day.

He's also been caught shoplifting, creating a disturbance, sly grogging. We have very little booze in our house. My wife is a Muslim and doesn't drink. My own consumption is the odd beer after work. He's never seen me drunk.

The booze is given to him by friends. We discovered he'd been using tobacco, he claims for a year. The smokes he pinches or is shared by his friends.

As a result of trying to steal from a chain store here, he has a month's sanctions which he has to follow. There are a number of non-association orders, a curfew, letter of apology to the store and community service. He's been trespassed from all three supermarkets and our version of Wallmart, The Warehouse.

I cannot say whether he is conforming to the conditions in a public forum. I will say he is trying hard and we're doing our best to keep him on track. I don't want to see him fail - we will likely lose custody and he'll wind up with Child Services in that case.

The weekend's are tough on us because of the numbers of teenagers out on the street late at night and early morning trying to smuggle in booze and dope. I'm having to patrol, sometimes till 4 in the morning, to keep my boy safe. Hopefully, these guys will now see me as not a soft touch and will stay away. They hang around outside our house and I'll call the police. They turn up with booze and I dump it down the drain in front of them. I then tell them to fuck off in no uncertain terms and if they try aggression , I will drop them, one by one. They now know the score - we will see.

Don

A Day in the Life

Rongotea, and there really is nothing here to speak of. They have a few town gardens that'll take an hour or so to tend.

The rig's steering feels too light and I'm not sure why. I doubt I'm hauling more than a couple of tonnes - tractor and mowing deck. Tyres seem ok - a mystery.

The Hino seems untouched since when I parked it up on Friday. Engine hours are where I left it. My shit is scattered about the cab as per normal.

I like the filled sausages they sell at the only store in town. There's a light rain falling on a slate grey day. There'll be snow about someplace, but not this near the coast.

There's really not much to do and I figure I'll rip into it and then to the store for a sausage and crappy coffee.....

.... And hideous the coffee was. It's now nearly lunch and I'm fetched up at a nature reserve called Mount Lees. There's a few hours of mowing to do, which is why I'm hauling around the tractor.

Frosts have curbed the growth so it'll be a cinch. The Manawatu is very green at the moment even though we haven't had that much rain.

Fantails witter at me and I see a big fat native pigeon glaring at the intrusion. In truth, few people make it here this time of year. It's too isolated.

The last of the agapanthus wave their deep blue flowers amid yellowing beeches, olive greens of ratas and titokis. Wispy maidenhair ferns peek out - yeah, it's pretty cool here!

Later, at home and safely knocked off, my boy tries to tap me for cigarettes. I'm just grateful he's home and not out creating mayhem. There can be few shops in town he hasn't been banned from. Why does he rebel in such a fashion? My own father and I fell out over politics - it seems more dignified than thieving.

Of course, I'm no shining example, but I know the end game and it isn't pleasant. The clang and crash of the cell doors, the drunken ravings, snarling authoritarianism and, above all, the excuses and denials of one's room mates. I never spent much time in the crossbar hotel - just long enough to realise I didn't want it for my future.