I was raised in a home for boys.

My brothers and sister and I were raised in the small, brick, maybe haunted gatehouse at a residential home and school for boys called the Paradise Protectory out of Abbotstown, PA (now called The Paradise School). The Protectory started as an orphanage for boys. Both of my parents worked at the school, and because it was residential, it was easier for us to live on the property. My dad eventually became the Director of the school and maintained the position for 35 years. It was his heart. My mother was a teacher at the school and took incredible care of her students. Some of the boys who lived at Paradise held felony records and some were homeless. Some had reliable families, some did not. As a family, we did everything on a larger scale. Day trips to the zoo included all the “boys” (about 52 residents). We’d stop by the Hope House (mothers and children with AIDS) and Harrisburg Homeless Shelter to grab anyone else wanting to join our day. We’d pack huge coolers of sandwiches and cartons of orange “drink”. Dad drove a bus most of the time. Our family vehicle was the 15 passenger van. Trips to McDonalds were a treat. We’d order 30 milkshakes at a time. We learned early how to balance bulky packages on our laps. On beautiful days the industrial-sized grill would be rolled out and everyone would take the time to be together, play together and eat government-subsidized chicken quarters and ham steaks (still today I crave this food). This was a formative time for my siblings and I. We learned how to swim, we learned gang words and slang words, we learned about flat-tops and fades. My sister and I carried a little black comb in our back pockets. We learned vocabulary that indicated serious convictions. We shared Easter candy with a set of brothers who were on trial for killing their parents. We learned young how to read the energy in a room and when to get the hell out. That’s how I learned how to ride my bike and go fast. 

We learned advocacy and activism and we surely witnessed the most organic and early forms of social reconstructionism in education. We witnessed the most rustic and grassroots form of true, authentic professional collaboration that happened much of the time over kegs of beer and 55 gallon steel-drum barrels of unshelled peanuts. Sister James, being from Pottsville insisted on Yuengling Lager.

It was a truly fascinating time and probably started my moderate obsession with understanding what makes educational systems work.