~*~THE DUMP~*~
Michael Adams held tight to his red knitted cap, clasping both hands to the top of his head to hold it down. A whole gang of children were surrounding him laughing and trying to pull it off. They sang a cruel song mocking him. "Garbage Boy, Garbage Boy, Michael is the Garbage Boy!"
"Stop it! Get away from me," Michael yelled. His cries were barely audible above the demeaning mantra. "My daddy gave me this hat. Leave me alone," he pleaded.
"Your daddy got it out the dump," one of the bullies shouted back. This got the crowd even revved up, laughing and taunting him even more.
With all the strength an eight year old boy could muster, Michael held on to his cap. He used whatever strength he had left to fight back the dam of tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to be strong like his daddy was. He was a big boy.
When Michael finally made it home from school, he brushed past his mother in a huff without even speaking. He plopped down on the sofa, folded his arms across his chest and sat glaring at the blank T.V. His mother glanced up from her writing and noticed the pouty scowl on his face and his disheveled clothes. Her eyes softened as her focus shifted from being a technical writer to being a mother. She walked over and sat beside him on the sofa and spoke to him in a quiet, soothing tone.
"What's the matter, Baby? Something happen at school today?"
"I ain't no baby, and I hate that stupid school," he replied.
"Well, I'm surprised to hear that. You told me just last week how much you like your teacher this year, and you've been doing really well. What don't you like about your school?"
"Those stupid kids that ride my bus."
"You mean the kids that live in our building? Why?"
Michael poured the whole story out to his mother about what had happened that day. She listened and tried to console him with motherly wisdom and assurances. But when Michael told her that he was being bullied everyday, and that the kids at school had given him the nickname Garbage Boy because his daddy worked at the dump, she had to excuse herself. She told Michael she needed to "check on a pot" although she didn't have anything cooking. Once she had composed herself, wiping at her tear-filled eyes, she came back into the living room with a big piece of chocolate cake and some milk.
"You've had a rough day, Honey," she said. "Today is Friday and you've got the whole weekend to do your homework. So why don't you take this in your room and put one of your favorite videos on.
At 5:45 pm, like every day, the door to their small apartment swung open wide and Michael's father enacted the same playful ritual he always did coming home from work.
He leapt through the doorway in a crouched stance with arms wide open and a big grin, and called out "Where's my boy?" But this day Michael did not rush to him screeching, "Here I am daddy!" as he usually did. Instead, the house was quiet and Michael was nowhere to be seen.
His father kissed his mother, and with a puzzled look on his face asked, "Where's Little Man - at the rec center?"
"He's in his room. He fell asleep watching a movie."
"That's unusual. Is he sick?"
Michael's mother didn't bother to answer the question as her anger exploded."
"I can't believe what those little hoodlums have been doing to my child. Who do they think they are?
"Whoa, whoa, what's going on here, Honey? What hoodlums did what to Michael?"
"Those little untrained thugs at that school; they've been bullying him and picking at his clothes saying they come from the dump. Nobody in this neighborhood is rich and it's not their business where his clothes come from."
Once Michael's father understood the problem, the concern his wife's disposition had caused him melted from his face. Instead he held a look of resolve and determination. He pulled his wife to him and wrapped his arms around her.
"Sheila, they're just kids. It's not a nice thing to do but that doesn't make them hoodlums or thugs. I'll have a talk with Michael. We'll work it out. Just let me handle it."
Michael's mother was in protective mode and was not yet convinced her cub was safe.
"Barry, I think we should just take him out of that school. They're calling him Garbage Boy! Once kids target another kid to pick on they don't usually stop.
"Sweetie, we're not going to teach our boy to run away from problems. Instead we'll teach him how to fix them, O.K.?"
Michael's mother nodded reluctantly, the fear and uncertainty still showing in her eyes.
Although the neighborhood they lived in was poor, the parents all did what they could for their children. Two years ago they had come together as a community and forced the city to add a recreation center to their apartment complex. The parents took turns volunteering with homework and afterschool activities at the center. Michael's father went to see the center director to propose an activity he'd like to do with the children.
"Barry, I think that would be a wonderful idea," the director told him. "It would be a great lesson for the kids on respecting honest work and it would be educational for them too."
The recreation center was packed with kids on Monday after school. Michael sat on the floor with the other children proudly watching his father tell them all about how a dump operates. Everybody was listening attentively, especially Billy McClain who had been the leader of the cap-snatching mob. Michael's father asked the children questions often to keep their attention.
"Who can tell me the four ways trash is gotten rid of at the dump?" He asked the group.
Billy's hand shot up.
"Go ahead Billy."
"You can dump it, burn it, bury it, or recycle." Billy's face beamed with pride when Michael's father replied, "You're absolutely right. Good job Billy."
The highlight of the event was a video Michael and his father had gotten from the library. It showed all the things Michael's father had told them about the dump. The children "ooh-ed" and "ahh-ed" when they actually saw the trash being burned up in the incinerator, or tamped down into the ground by the monstrous machine.
After the video was over several of the children made positive statements to Michael like, "Man, your dad has a cool job." One of them was so excited that he asked Michael, "Do you think your dad will take us there to see it one day?"
Michael looked to the front of the room at his father, who had overheard the boy's question. He smiled and winked at his son letting him know that would be O.K.
Michael was thrilled. He shouted, "Hey, everybody! We're going to the dump."
All the children began to jump up and down singing, "Yippee! We're going to the dump!"
They had a new song that they all could sing. Michael was no longer the Garbage Boy. He was just the boy with the cool dad.