Stile Parso

Growing up I was autistic. I wasn’t so debilitated that I couldn’t achieve the classification”high functioning” but emotions, morals, aesthetics, anything that wasn’t so black and white was very difficult to understand. My father being a workaholic did not help this. I know I was not alone. My paternal grandmother had Aspergers, every single one of my half siblings (from Mom) had either epileptic symptoms or fell somewhere on the autistic scale. Of the two that managed to overcome their symptoms, one was fostered in a strictly military home, the other (I think) was thrown in state supported foster care. I was not in that two out of six ratio, but I was fine. I had my grandmother.

Because of the way my grandmother was raised, (females had little to say or do in the way yings ran) she largely let me run myself. Which, at the time, was great(I thought) I was king of my world, so long as I did not stray far from my grandmother she could protect me from the monsters of my dreams. This was fine from three to five years old. Then the monsters become real (father knows I must be punished for a wrong I did commit, but is too absent to do it himself) left with no corrective guidance, (that I would call competently in control) I was left with the reality that nothing I did was wrong. (Other than the obvious don’t pull wings off insects, stay away from roses they bite, try to follow the Golden rule, etc.)

Thinking myself virtually perfect, I was a right little monster from 5 to 12. It started to calm down when I was 10 because of two things, one my father remarried someone with grandkids, so I was an Uncle, and two I stopped sleeping (nothing sexual) with my grandmother. For a while, I tried to be an example of what I thought was a good person for my niece and two nephews. I had a better understanding of such an indescribable being, but obviously still short.

I’d like to say between the age of 10 and the age of 13 I was a good Uncle. I was adequate. I did not harm them during this period, we enjoyed each other’s company. My nephew’s loved my funny faces, my niece shared my love of Pokemon. At 12 I began to notice girls in the biological sense (not just dudes with boobs, nor silly emotional creatures) living in a small town(less than 1,000 people) everyone remembered the kid banging his head on the special education room wall a half hour before lunch regardless of whether I knew the time consciously or not. No one had any desire to experiment with THAT. I understood, and I’d like to say I moved on. But this is where my story starts.

The summer of 2012, I was 13 years old. Our baptist church had a new pastor. He was Catholic. He had a daughter four years old. Anyone who watched her suffered her wrath. She would still her willfullnes for no one, save her mother and… me… there were much more capable adults to watch her, yet I often felt pushed to the forefront. Often I let her be for a while before one of those adults directed me back to my task. Such incidents grew less common as I realized something. She doesn’t not know the kid who screamed for attention in elementary school, she doesn’t know the brat who came up with the wildest and the most outrageous stories whenever he got in trouble that they’re talked about for months past the actual incident had been forgotten. She didn’t know of me. She didn’t see me as the world saw me, she saw me as God had intended to make me(and every other child on this planet) perfect, and whole, without blemish. She was innocent in a way I could never be. I did not think to harm her in what I had thought of as ”our” experiments. (though they were really mine) and indeed when I heard the words ”no” or ”it hurts” I often pulled away like a frightened rabbit.

The mother finally caught on during the beginning of the new year. I was 14. I knew I was guilty and said so. I went to their appointments, I went to their meetings, but court session after court session, they said they were waiting on my psychosexual evaluation. Which had taken place at least a month before I got fed up. Being confused and upset that a dozen odd people were spending a little less than an hour each session getting what appeared to be absolutely nothing done, I turned to the lawyer that they appointed me one session and asked in innocent confusion why they had not arrested me yet. They knew I was guilty, I knew I was guilty, so what was the hold up?

The judge heard me. Looking back I can see how it might have offended him, but that was not my intent. Regardless he promptly issued me a sentence. (I know what it entailed, not what it was called) After sentencing, he put me in temporary custody of my mother (on the promise that I met my D.O.C. officer the following Monday) because my father had ”beat the shit out of me” (barely a scratch but it still wasn’t nice) We went camping for the weekend. (Second time in my entire life) We show up for the appointment when the officer informs us that the judge was senile and should have put me immediately into her department’s custody. They put me in full body cuffs and hauled me off to Juvenile Services Center where I stayed until late Summer of 2013.

Still 14 years old they put me on the prison bus heading south to my treatment center. Like everyone else I was in full body cuffs, unlike everyone else I’m pretty sure I was the only one younger than 21 years old. The bus cellmate (that’s what I’m calling it) next to me was balding and spoke only Spanish. I only knew a few words and used them to communicate that I wanted to learn more. He promptly barfed all over me, which I thought was funny as hell. Then his eyes started to twitch. Obviously concerned I called the guards. They took him out of the cell and moved him to the back of the bus. At that time we stopped to switch busses me and seven others went to another bus. We watched our old bus as the prisoners were let out two at a time whether they needed to use the restroom or not. My bus cellmate did not come out.

After boarding my new bus we continued on our journey for another hour or so after nearly six on the road, with several stops to switch identical buses, I was surprised to find a rather nondescript white van. I got out alone and took the last twenty minute stretch in silence as I arrived at treatment.

The staff were kind, they took a lot of shit during my stay there, with very few exceptions, but they had a system. And in that system I was a statistic. More on that in a bit. Only two restrictions I found I disagreed with in treatment. One: unless I allowed my father to talk to me I could not contact my mother despite never committing a crime in her custody, during the early to middle portions of every Summer, despite the allegations of my father’s actions, they did not care. My mother was a truck driver who hung her cap in Missouri, while my father was a respected mechanic who had a respectful Navy record. Same conditions applied for visitation. Then there’s the other disagreement. Two: My grandmother died in December of 2013. At 14 years old I could not attend her funeral. Yes she spoiled me, yes she was not a good caretaker of me, yes you’re entitled to the opinion that she was molesting me, but damnit what she gave me was the closest thing I knew to love. (Looking back I realize that the affection my sister shows me was closer to a mother’s love than anything else I got in life but I wasn’t looking at that at that time)

One other thing that rubbed me the wrong way about treatment was a letter I got in the harvest months of 2015. Nearing my 16th birthday I found it odd because the only letters I had gotten from that point had been from my grandmother. The eagle with the Stars in stripes were a little too gaudy for her but I had hope. It was my registration letter. I know this because I had to ask the staff on duty what it was. His explanation was satisfactory as long as I stayed in treatment. What kinda rang some bells is when he dashed around the corner and radioed in asking who was on mail check duty. He was busy so I thought it was likely unrelated, but I always wondered.

Some of the positive points of treatment were; I watched my first football game. Didn’t know about football, still don’t like football, but I loved the snacks (because it was the Superbowl) and the lack of deep cleaning chore duties despite it being a weekend. I watched my first movie with more than four people in attendance, outside of a school setting. (Every weekend unless our group was on GT restrictions) I played baseball for the first time in my life. On field trips I went to my first zoo, engaged in community service picking up after a tornado, (ER found a severed pair of calf’s testicles, thought it was a rabbit’s foot, was going to keep it for good luck) I had a blast in treatment as far as firsts went. Then there’s how I did in treatment.

Based on the opinions of the staff, the education was sort of a sit in college. I don’t know what that is but I can’t imagine it’s anything like the Sp. Ed. room I was used to. Obviously I failed at the academic side. But in treatment assignments I flourished. Most of it was practical, and made sense to me. Progressing level after level. I came to my polygraph which I failed. I didn’t see anything dishonest in it so I tried again, I passed. I had two assignments left and I would be done with treatment. But I wasn’t passing class. Until I could pass class. They wouldn’t let me finish treatment. So I got stuck, until I aged out as a failure.

Spring 2017 18 years old D.O.C. put me in a halfway house for the summer, and put me back with my father to start high school in the fall. Couldn’t ride the bus, so I rode my bike three miles downhill to school then three back. Rain, snow, ice, only hailed once, but it didn’t matter I’d never had to call in before dad wasn’t about to let me now. I enjoyed the rides, (except for the rare occasions where I had fun kissing the back of some vehicle, eating asphalt, or the one time I was so tangled in barbed wire, you’d swear I had a bdsm fetish) I met people on the road, some of them joining me on my journey to school others simply passing through. The ride was probably the only time during the day I could get lost in my own thoughts.

Because I was enrolled in school I was eligible for miners Vocational Rehabilitation. For a cycle of about 90 days I had a job. Granted all the money was in an account set up by my father… but the professional routine where I wasn’t playing Gopher Boy for my step mother really helped my attitude. Best part about VR was that as long as I was passing one class, they’d keep me working. This was fine as anything practical in my school was passed with flying colors. In American schools they do not focus on practical lessons. Instead they dip their student’s toes in theory, and focus on instilling behavior that prevents us from leaving our social niche. Why did I fail using this system? I had no social niche. I was a leper and everyone knew it.

So when it became evident that I would not pass high school, the school told my father if I didn’t change my trend I would be let go, as a student. I understand why they did that. What I didn’t understand was his response. At the time I was between cycles for Vocational Rehabilitation, so when they came asking for a renewal to start another cycle, my father said no. He cut me off from VR the only thing I considered stable in my life was gone. My grades plummeted. I think I was even failing some of the practical classes when he got the call. At 20 years old in the start of 2019 I returned my school laptop, cleaned out my locker, and spent the next month getting a GED. That’s it. One month. (Tuesdays and Thursdays were spent taking practice tests or studying the next subject. Wednesdays were the subject tests that could only be taken one at a time per week) What was the point of school again?

Anyway, having an education and being close enough (at least six months) to my 21st birthday D.O.C. let me go in the spring of that year. No longer being paid for my care, my father also let me go. No longer being supported by VR because I was now no longer in school, and didn’t know how to start the adult program, I was officially homeless. My only source of salvation was I knew the vague process of how to get money from my bank account that my father made me. Coordinating with my mother via a flip phone she mailed me, I made the first and last withdrawal I had ever made. Transferring a portion directly to her account to pay for bus tickets,(and only bus tickets) I was left with like a hundred and thirty dollars in my pocket to make my way to a state bordering the Gulf from a state in the dakota territory. This was not only for a place to live, but also because my mother needed a hand recovering from hurricane Michael.

I’ve never had or known how to use a credit card, I’ve never been on a boat, nor a plane, I don’t have a passport. I live in a tent. I make $200 a month for whatever under the table jobs I can get my hands on. $150 of this goes towards mother’s bills. $30 of this is paying my phone bill. And the rest is spent on food or drink. With help from my mother I have been in contact with this state’s version of Vocational Rehabilitation, and expect to start increasing my income. What free time I have(especially since covid) is spent living vicariously through the internet on free public WiFi, running circles around the property, reading, (got a good free source I can re-read Hamlet by Shakespeare?) Lifting bricks because we don’t have weights, and dreaming of sailing. Cause while I’ve never been, I’d love to learn.

Looking back I know what I did was wrong. I’d like to believe I knew it was wrong at the time, and on some unconscious level I probably did. Knowing that, I know I needed to be punished. As I see it there should have been only three options for a sentence. 1: Lifetime incarceration. 2: Immediate execution 3: A specific length of time served incarcerated, while learning the skills necessary to be a productive member of society. Lawyers might argue that I was given option three but to them I say, even if I was not on the registry, incarceration didn’t teach me shit for a professional skill. I’m fine with learning on the job, but the usual response I get is ”we don’t do apprenticeships here in America”.

Three options. All humane. All would have been welcomed with open arms at any point in my criminal history (from 12 to 14 years old, covers this periodwith room to spare). The first would have given me a routine where I would be able to learn exactly what was coming, when it was coming, and how to respond to it. The second would have led to freedom from a world I didn’t and still don’t understand. The third would have made me a productive member of society regardless of my thoughts or desires.

Living as (I’m told) a free citizen, not committing any more crimes, I still wish they would resentence me properly. Nearly TWO years AFTER being released from what they called my sentence I want them to RE-sentence me. If that doesn’t tell you our law and order is neither lawful nor orderly, nothing will.

Sincerely,

Stile Parso
Finally got a job. Still living with my mother but at least I’m out of the tent. On the downside rent and phone bill have increased.