Run, Run, Runaway

Run, Run, Runaway

By Joseph Parish 

            In the 60’s, thirteen years of age seemed like a ruthless time in my life as situations were developed which were entirely out of my control. Generally, undesirable factors were transpiring in my young life that were not in my best interests. In addition, I was undergoing excessive turmoil entailing family dilemmas, especially the ongoing deteriorating conditions with my mother. Nothing which I had ever accomplished for her was adequate, she was an extremely problematic woman to gratify. I could execute back flips in the morning, noon and night for her, all to no avail. Regardless of which path I chose to follow, she remained steadfast critical of me. I simply could not please her.

            I suppose after a substantial number of petty daily conflicts, I inevitably distinguished the undesirable topping on the cake, which appeared in the form of a debate concerning my clothing style. I struggled unsuccessfully to enlighten her that clothing styles have changed since she had attended school many years in her past, but it was nothing short of a waste of my time. She rejected my arguments and utterly refused to heed to reason. Finally, one morning I emphatically decided it was time to end these disagreements and quickly depart Millville and go wherever the road will take me.

            That morning, I awoke early and prepared my gym bag with a limited number of essential items which I reflected that I might deem crucial for my imminent expedition. I next donned my school clothing as was customary, and when all my preparations were finalized, I departed my house to catch my morning bus to the Millville Junior High School. The other school kids on the bus were jovial and friendly, but I had other pressing matters on my mind that particular morning. Although I was not precisely sure where I was heading or when I would get there, but deep inside I knew it was going to be somewhere other than Millville.

            As I aged later and attained a healthy measure of wisdom, I came to appreciate that there were countless failed concepts which I had not adequately contemplated when devising my escape scheme from my home. I now recognize that running away should be a teen-agers last resort. Over the years since this episode in my life occurred, I have attained an understanding that running away only renders a predicament worse than it originally was.

            I left home with the solitary clothes on my back and my lunch money of thirty-five cents, far less than one dollar in cash. I declined to possibly pack some indispensable articles which I ultimately determined that I could have benefited significantly from. My recommendation to any teenager pondering the necessity of running away, is to at least procure objects that you may require. Do not place yourself in a position where you have no food to eat or in an environment where your life could be in jeopardy.

            Be confident that you possess a rudimentary understanding of street smarts. Never wait until you are actually on the street to foster these valuable skills. Discern in advance how awkward it will be to earn money or to locate a place to live. Avoid making hasty decisions, remember your safety is of utmost importance.  With this said, let me now explain to you the off-adventure which took place with me.

            My goal was to head south. I had no immediate whereabouts in mind. Just to head in a southerly direction. On my upside-down thinking, I merely intended to leave home and did not vigilantly ponder all aspects of my decision. My mode of transportation was via my thumb. Believe me, this is not the most effective method of travel devised. In my travels, I encountered a vast assortment of crazy people. There are many prevents on the road just looking for kids who have run away from home.

            I finally arrived in Washington, DC.  It was dark, I was unusually tired and all I really wanted to do was sit down comfortably and eat. For some reason my last ride dropped me off in a very undesirable section of Washington DC. As I walked down the lonely, deserted street, I received a rude awakening by the reality that DC was a ghetto and a very dangerous one at that. Where I ended up, even the police officers failed to show up to enforce the law. The few that did come by looked in a different direction as if they knew they should. Every alley in this section of the city always had people clustering within it and coming and going. I guess, what I was witnessing first hand was the drug trade activity in DC.

            Imagine being a thirteen-year-old, white kid walking in a black section of the city during the early 60’s. I was unfamiliar as to where I was at or where I was heading. I had never been to DC at all. I was attempting to keep a low profile in this run-down area of Washington, and immediately I realized this was not going to be an area where I would delight the neighborhood with my wise-ass antics. I quickly discovered that assorted areas as Anacostia, Barry Farms, Clifton Terrace, were less than desirable, whether it is daytime or nighttime, simply because I did not belong there. I dressed differently, I carried myself differently and I spoke differently, which made me stand out.

            Like most cities in America, there are some nice neighborhoods, and there are some shitty locations. Unfortunately for me, I was in the crappy area. Throughout the 60’s the city had experienced some activities which made it essentially a wasteland. The various civil rights marches which took place in 1963 left nothing of usefulness in the city. The later burning of local business in 1968, and the associated riots left the city in despair, employment has been just about unknown. Over time, I discovered that to survive you cannot walk around like a frightened Chihuahua sniffing banana peel. Thinking this way has saved my ass many times over the years.

            I was extremely glad when I escaped the neighborhood that I had been in and very happy to see a White Castle hamburger stand nearby. Remembering that I still had about thirty-five cents in change, I entered the store and sat down at the counter. There was only one person working the night shift and he appeared to be a very pleasant person. I asked the clerk, “what could I buy with only the little change I had in my pocket.”

            At first, he looked at me kind of strange, but almost immediately asked if I was a runaway. I replied in the affirmative, and he smiled and said put your money away. He proceeded to bring me three of the small White Castle burgers, which I consumed rather quickly. He next informed me that if I wanted, I could stay in the restaurant for the night. He motioned to one of the booths as he handed me a drink. There was a big difference between this man and those who picked me up along the way. Here was kindness without a request.

            In the morning, I left the restaurant to do a little sightseeing and the gentleman invited me back that evening, after he started his shift. I thanked him and left the shop. I arrived at the restaurant that evening and informed the gentleman that I had something to do, but would return later that night. He said that was fine, and for me to stay safe. I left the diner and went immediately down the street. Several blocks from the White Castle Diner was a Striptease Bar. Naturally, due to my age there was no way they would let me in, however, that did not stop me from peeking into the door. I must have stood outside the bar for approximately twenty minutes, when a police squad car stopped at the door. The two officers got out of the car and approached me. They asked for ID of which I did not have. They were polite and courteous, but I suspected they already knew I was a runaway. They took me to the police station and confirmed that I was in fact a runaway person and telephone calls were initiated to get my parents to come to Washington DC, and pick me up.

            While awaiting the arrival of my parents, the police officers placed me in a holding cell with other individuals in it, many of which were children the same age as me. Before long I was heading back to New Jersey and to the life I had hoped to leave. In closing, let me reiterate once again, only run away if there are no other alternative solutions. I have since come to realize that I placed myself in grave danger and could have risked a mugging, a kidnapping or even becoming a victim of murder.

            Just in case you decide to run away and later have second thoughts or if you run into difficulties or develop problems here is the telephone number of the National Runaway Safe Line which is manned 24/7, 1-800-786-2929.

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