Free I Beat the Odds by Michael Oher

anger. Some expert might say that these emotions were the same, but to me they felt very different. I never wanted to lash out; I just felt a build-up of intense sadness that I didn’t know how to express. I never felt like an angry kid, but I did feel upset because the situation seemed so hopeless, so I think that is what they were observing.
    Whatever the case, Carlos was always good at calming me down. We shared a tight bond and I felt like he understood the confusion and sadness I was feeling. He was always a polite kid—when I talked to Velma recently, that was something she brought up: “You were both very well behaved and never got into any trouble.” It was true. We really were good kids who weren’t rude and didn’t back-talk to adults like a lot of other kids at school. Ms. Spivey remarked on that, too. She said we were a pretty polite family, especially given the circumstances.
    But the caseworkers seemed to worry that all that politeness was hiding something else within me. They thought that it was coming out in a physical way even if I wasn’t putting the anger into words. I used to bump into things and pound my fists a lot, which the people at DCS felt was a sure sign of anger that I didn’t know how to express. I can see how they could think that, but I don’t think it was anger at all—I’m pretty sure it had to do with having man-sized hands as an eight-year-old. I had a huge body that was growing way too fast for me to figure out how to move with it. I wasn’t hitting things because I was letting out rage; I was running into things because I wasn’t sure yet how to handle my size. I was an elementary school kid trapped in a middle schooler’s frame.
    Because of their concern about my emotional situation, when I was ten I was moved to St. Joseph’s Hospital on Danny Thomas Boulevard, near the famous St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. At the time, I thought I was just being kept in a ward for kids who didn’t have anywhere else to go. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had been placed there to be observed and treated for anger issues.
    It’s funny, now that I know better what all is there in Memphis, to realize how close we were to St. Jude’s, one of the best places in the country for sick children to receive top-notch care. But our hospital was just the opposite; at least on our floor, it was filled with kids who no one seemed to care about at all. I also learned later that St. Joseph’s was the hospital where Martin Luther King, Jr., was declared dead after he was shot. But I didn’t know that at the time, and I don’t think it would have mattered anyway. I wasn’t impressed with historical stuff; I just wanted out.
    The adolescent unit felt like an institution, with nurses and quiet voices and fluorescent lighting. At the ends of the hallways were keypads that required passwords and card scans. It just felt very impersonal and a little dehumanizing. At least in foster care I was living in a house. There, it felt like I was getting locked up in prison and no one would tell me what my crime was. The whole atmosphere made me even unhappier and very uncomfortable. I wanted to be home—even if that was just an old car or a tiny room. I wanted to see my mother again, even if she was going to go off on her own. I kept hoping that if my brothers were allowed home, maybe she would be happy enough to stop doing drugs.
    It’s interesting now to learn that I was sent to St. Joseph’s for emotional monitoring because one of the things that bothered me most at the time was that I thought that no one realized I had any legitimate feelings about the situation. It felt like they thought I was just angry, or else a robot who didn’t care about what happened to me. But I knew I had very serious and strong feelings: I wanted a normal life like I saw on TV. I wanted my family together in a steady place where we wouldn’t have to wander around to bum a sandwich or a place to sleep at