Even in times of trauma, we try to maintain a sense of normality until we no longer can… We never become whole again… we are survivors. If you are here today… you are a survivor. But those of us who have made it through hell and are still standing? We bear a different name: warriors.

— Lori Goodwin

For the next couple of years, my living situation became one of constant change and upheaval, a revolving door. Before the age of three, I lived at different times with my mother, my father, my grandmother, my great aunt, a foster family, and a welfare family. There was no stability in my home life. In between, I was in the hospital.

— the search begins —

My mother was desperate to find me and immediately contacted the police. She was told she had to wait at least 24 hours before anything could be done. The following day she obtained an arrest warrant for my father, but it was only valid in the State of New York and my father was not at his residence. She went to the New York Bar Association and Family Court for legal help, but was told that until she knew where I was, no legal action could be taken.

During the next two weeks I looked for them. With police accompaniment I went to his loft where the elevator man told me had been sublet to someone else. I called everyone I could think of including relatives of my husband but to no avail…

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 3, 1969

My father had taken me from New York to Anne’s family home in Boston, where he immediately went to the Barnstable County Court to file for divorce and full custody. Even though my mother had custody of me in New York, each state ruled independently, so my father was granted custody in the State of Massachusetts.

No one in Anne’s family liked my father, especially Kit, Anne’s sister. She alerted my mother when I arrived. She described how when I first saw her from behind, I got excited because she had the same long blonde hair as my mother. When Kit turned around and I saw she wasn’t my mother, I got sad. Kit said I had been admitted into the Children’s Hospital Medical Center (CHMC) of Boston. My mother immediately moved to Boston, abandoned most of her belongings in Al’s apartment and barely saying goodbye.

When my father placed me in CHMC, he told the doctors that I hadn’t been properly cared for while I was in my mother’s custody. She had been ignoring my medical treatment, he asserted. He never mentioned my weekly visits to the HSS or that my casts, which were now filthy, had been clean when my father took me that day at the park. Instead he blamed my unkept condition on my mother’s poor care. The doctors believed him and I was promptly admitted.

[Kit], who saw Eliza in Boston before her admission [to Children’s Hospital] said the casts were filthy and smelly and she had a diaper rash with lesions.

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 8, 1969

They removed my casts and did surgery that placed me in traction. When I awoke I was strapped down to a metal frame with my legs in slings that were hooked up to ropes. There was an intravenous drip in one arm which was taped to a stiff board so that the movement of my fingers wouldn’t push the the needle out and the other hand was strapped down also to ensure that I couldn’t pull the tube out of the other arm. The frame I was strapped to was tilted so my legs were higher than my head. Metal bars latticed above and ropes and pulleys intertwined. Weights hung at the end of the ropes holding my legs in place. The sensation of being trapped, a suffocating feeling of being stuck was overwhelming. I remember wanting to reach my toy penguin, my favorite companion at the time, but both arms were restricted. I tried so hard to move but I was held in tight. All I could see were my bundled legs. I couldn’t sit up and barely was able to raise my head.

As an adult, my neck is permanently curved slightly forward from being in the hospital so many times, strapped down in bed and always wanting to see what was going on around me. I would crane my head repeatedly to look around and that eventually created the curve.

— foiled plans —

As soon as my mother arrived in Boston, she went directly to CHMC to see me. The staff confirmed that I was a patient there, but could not legally allow her to visit because she did not have custody in Massachusetts. My mother needed legal support and contacted a well-know lawyer from the Cape, Frank Richards, the same lawyer who represented my father and Christine in the family property case. My father blamed him for losing his inheritance and considered him an enemy, but my mother did know the connection. It was a combination of bad luck and being in a small community that led her to hire Frank Richards.

My mother had no money to pay Richards but she knew he had a child with special needs so suggested a trade of legal services for child care. Richards would have preferred a romantic exchange, but agreed to the arrangement. My father knew my mother didn’t have any money and was surprised she retained a lawyer. When he realized who her lawyer was, his paranoia went into overtime imagining a conspiracy against him. My mother must have chosen Richards just to get back at him; he was convinced there was an elaborate plot. My father believed my mother had no value other than her beauty, so therefore, she must be trading sexual favors for legal aid. Richards was disreputable, corrupt, and had criminal ties, which meant my mother by association was a criminal too. The possibility that Richards was an honest lawyer who entered into an honorable arrangement with my mother was never considered.

Richards contacted CHMC to request that they honor my mother’s custody judgment in New York which predated that of my father’s in Massachusetts. The hospital’s lawyer told them that unfortunately, my mother’s custody was worthless in the State of Massachusetts. They had no choice but to honor my father’s custody judgment. Richards went to court to challenge the custody ruling.

There was a call from the hospital attorney who said that David was planning to remove Eliza from Children’s the following morning at 6am and fly to Hong Kong with her… Mr. Richards spoke to a judge who issued a restraining order to keep David from taking Eliza out of the hospital.

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 12, 1969

Meanwhile, my father had concocted a plan to take me far away so she’d never see me again.

1969: I took [Eliza] to CHMC for full examination. Judge Knight had given verbal permission for me to take her to Hong Kong… Eliza was placed as an inpatient at CHMC until my ticket came. I had signed a contract with Farkas Film Studios to writ and direct a spy thriller in Singapore…

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

My father had been offered an opportunity to direct a feature film in Singapore. It would be a career accelerator and also offered an opportunity to keep me with him permanently. He traveled to Singapore several times to lay the groundwork to bring me there. The official reason was for the film. Richards got wind of the plan and filed an injunction to prevented my father from traveling with me. My father was still free to direct the film, but chose to abandon the project because he couldn’t bring me with him. He blamed my mother losing the “big break” he had been waiting for.

Around the same time, he also had an opportunity to film a rock music festival in upstate New York. He he turned that down because he despised popular music. The Woodstock festival, which was held in August 1969, became an international symbol of the counterculture movement for decades to come. Years later my father would masking his disappointment at blowing his chance by deriding the film made of the festival, claiming he could have done much better job.

I was offered the chance to direct the filming of the Woodstock Rock Festival by one of the producers, Mike Lange, but declined.

— David X Young, Letter to Walter Hoffman/Hong Kong, Oct. 6, 1969

— legal recourse —

Back then, custody of a child was granted to the mother in almost all cases. My father knew this, which is why he portrayed my mother in such extreme terms. In Massachusetts Family Court, he repeated and embellished the same wild, slanderous accusations that he had made in New York. My mother endured it with as much composure as possible. It must have been brutal.

Mr. Young claimed that the mother was disturbed, sadomasochistic, and involved in drug use… Upon evaluating the nature of this case, it seemed apparent that the father… [was] unable to accept the mother’s decision to leave Mr. Young. This seemed to be a Separation (Divorce) Custody issue rather than abuse or neglect.

— Child Protective Services, Letter to Children’s Hospital, Aug. 28, 1969

She attended every court appearance with by her sisters, Alice and Chrissy. The court struggled to resolve how the quiet, sweet, and beautiful woman who stood before them could have done the awful things my father accused her of. The previous judge who had granted custody to my father was currently on vacation. The new judge was torn on what to do. Not wanting to fully reverse the original ruling, the judge agreed to temporarily change the custody from my father to Christine — the closest relative who was a legal resident of the State of Massachusetts. My mother was granted the right to see me from 10 am to 5 pm each day.

I went to Children’s Hospital to see Eliza for the first time in two weeks. David was standing by her crib and there was no nurse in the room. I was so happy to see Eliza I was trembling. David muttered every conceivable obscenity to me from the opposite side of the crib…

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 14, 1969

The conflict between my parents was extremely stressful for me. When they fought, I’d become inconsolable. My mother knew the only way I would calm down was if the fighting stopped, and my father would not stop. She spoke to the hospital director and told him how upset I was. The director agreed to arrange for separate visiting hours and Richards obtained a protection order.

I remained hospitalized for several months. My mother stayed with her uncle in Brookline and found a job as a waitress. She visited me every day she was permitted. It was torturous for her to see me there, strapped down, unable to move around, and barely able to play. On November 10, 1969, Sesame Street came on air, the first of its kind to offer both fun and educational programming specifically for children. Finally, my mother thought, there was something I could enjoy while in traction. She was grateful for any experiences where I could just be a regular kid. Seeing me giggle as I watched Sesame Street brought tears to her eyes.

— foster care —

In January 1970, I was discharged from CHMC after months of skeletal traction. My mother was not notified, but the nurses had become friendly with my mother, seeing how devoted she was to me. When my mother came to the hospital for a visit after I had been discharged, the nurses told her that I had gone to live with an “impartial” family from Wellfleet. Christine, it turns out, did not want to take care of me.

With the help of Richards, my mother found out where I was and went to see me. I had been placed with a foster family called the Ryders. They were not an impartial family as my mother had been told, but one hired by my father. At first, the Ryders were scared of my mother because of all the lies my father had told them, even commenting when they finally met her that they “expected her to arrive on a broom.” Once they got to know her, however, they developed a rapport. Even though I was away from her, my mother felt comfortable with me living there.

I was worried from the first when you talked so unconcernedly of chatting with her – Kathie – over coffee, even lunch, listening with obvious fascination to her blatant lies. I spoke to you about this more than once and begged you to be careful. You were hired by — and paid by — us not her. And she was — and still is — the enemy.

— Christine Young, Letter to Pam Ryder, Apr.14, 1970

Once my father learned that the Ryders were friendly with my mother, he turned on them for their “treason.” He was rude whenever he would see them, both verbally and emotionally. He used language and manipulation as a form of power, knowing exactly what to say to hurt you or get you to do what he wanted. The piercing power of his words, combined with the sheer intensity of his rage had allowed him to get his way in many cases, but also alienated him from people.

I stayed with the Ryders for about five months. One day in the summer of 1970, my mother was alerted by the Ryders that my father had not returned me to them after his designated visit. He had decided to defy the court by removing me from the very family he had originally petitioned for me to be placed with. He claimed that the Ryder’s were not good guardians for me after all since they “didn’t have a college education,” but it was actually because they supported my mother.

David Young… began to insult and threaten our family. We were very afraid of what they might do to our own children… [He] came to our home late one night returning Eliza to us [after] drinking heavily… yelled and screamed obscenities at us… Eliza cried and was considerably upset by this incident and we had quite a time adjusting her.

— Pam Ryder, Affidavit, Mar. 1971

My parents, accompanied by their lawyers, arrived at an agreement where I would live with my father four days a week and with my mother for three. The arrangement worked for a little while but each time I had to part from my mother, I’d cry and cling to her. My father was always angry and would say horrible things to her.

One time when my mother dropped me off, I had a new haircut called a pixie cut, made popular by the supermodel Twiggy. It was short with longish, jagged bangs which framed the face. Seeing my hair, my father unleashed a slew of obscenities at my mother. She begged him not to yell in front of me, trying to explain that it was a popular hairstyle that was easy to care for, but my father continued his abusive tirade, claiming that she gave me the haircut because she wanted me to be a boy. I became very upset.

I returned her with the haircut and an empty hypodermic syringe that I had given her for a squirt gun. Well when David saw her haircut he picked her up and started screaming at me and she cried in terror.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

On that same day, my mother had given me a plastic syringe to play doctor. It was my favorite game, one that many children play, and especially natural for me since I was exposed to so much medical care. I played doctor all the time with my stuffed animals, my dolls, and even myself. My father was able to twist even an innocent game into something awful. He took the plastic syringe, placed a needle in it, and went to the police station to accuse my mother of letting me play with a dangerous object. The police did not believe him.

1970: Blake said not to let the child be with the mother again. I took the needle to Chief Chet Landers of the Orleans police. He took it and put it in his desk, did not investigate. He told me instead to go get full custody.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

My father’s anger towards my mother grew into an all-consuming fury. His paranoia was out of control, like a grenade with a loose pin. He became convinced that Frank Richards, who was of Italian descent, must not only be a criminal, but a full-fledged mobster with a wide range of illegal involvements. It was bad enough that my mother had left him for a “negro” (a reference to her relationship with Al Cotton) but now she was with a “wop?” According to his logic, my mother was Frank Richards’ whore, Richards was a major drug kingpin in bed with the police, and all had a plot against him. With each passing day, Richards became more nefarious in my father’s mind, his tactics more insidious, and my mother’s actions more salacious.

— Rescue deemed kidnapping —

During this time, my mother’s brother Joe, was the second oldest after her, who had been living in New Mexico, came back to the Cape. Joe had a very intense personality and odd way of expressing things that confuscated his ability to be taken seriously. He particularly disliked my father and recognized his true character from the onset. Joe had a intense personality, but with me he was sweet and gentle; I considered him a father figure.

1970: I learned that Ks sisters and brothers were moving into the same house with them. Brother Joe Merrick had come in from New Mexico and had been on about 70 LSD trips. He had been heard talking about “bad spells” around the cape.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, January 25, 1973

One day Joe accompanied my mother to drop me off at my father’s cabin. I burst into tears inconsolably when they went to leave. Joe told my mother that “something had to be done;” it was “not right” that I was separated from her and began to strategize a plan. My mother went to the family court that granted Christine temporary custody to find out what would happen if she took me to another state. While they officially advised against it, they admitted that custody was considered a civil matter, not federal, so no action would be taken. My father already knew this since that was how he obtained custody of me in the first place.

On July 1, 1970, the week following the pixie cut incident, my mother went to pick me up at my father’s cottage in Eastham but found his place locked up. Without a clue of where I might be, she had Richards file a contempt of court citation for preventing her visitation. Accompanied by Joe and Alice, the following day they returned to the cabin. My father opened the door and glared at them; he was alone. “You are never seeing her again,” he said forcefully. He slammed the door and ordered them off his property.

Mon June 29 K and Joe try to break into the cabin twice while I’m inside. I notify Landers and Jerry Edmonds, Chief of Eastman Police. K goes to Edmonds and throws a tantrum threatening suicide if she cannot have Eliza.

— David X Young, Track Record of Events April 1970 to Jan. 25, 1971

My mother promptly reported the incident to the police in the neighboring town of Orleans. When she came to the description of how I had braces on my legs, the officer suddenly looked up with surprise and asked “Does she make a squeaky noise when she walks?” Taken aback, my mother responded in the affirmative. Luckily for them, the policeman had just visited a local rooming house to see a relative on the previous day which also happened to be where Christine was renting a room. My leg braces caused me to waddle when I walked and the leather strapped to the metal made a squeaking sound. This sound just happened to catch the attention of the policeman.

The officer escorted them to the rooming house but Christine was not home. Other residents were questioned to see if they knew anything about my whereabouts. One elderly woman had trouble communicating, so she signaled for a piece of paper. On the paper, she wrote “Christine Eastham.” My mother interpreted this to mean that I was with Christine somewhere in the next town. Thanking them profusely, my mother, Alice, and Joe drove away in search of me.

They scoured the town, all on edge, with their eyes peeled for any sign of Christine’s station wagon. Finally, they spotted her car at the post office and approached the car cautiously. My mother’s heart was pounding hard; miraculously, I was sitting alone in the back seat. My eyes lit up when I saw my mother. “Hello honey,” she said and I reflexively reached for her. Then she scooped me up and put me in the car with them. Nearby, a woman was sitting in her vehicle watching. She seemed upset when she saw me taken out of the car, but my mother said, “Don’t worry, I’m her mother” to which woman turned back to reading her newspaper.

When I was safely strapped into the car, they quickly drove away, hiding for a few days at a friend’s house on the outskirts of the Cape as they gathered the supplies needed for the getaway. They all agreed that New Mexico good place to go. It was far enough away and Joe had some connections there. So, they piled into their beat-up Volkswagen Beetle and drove west.

I just couldn’t stand to give her back to him another time. It was terrible for her emotionally.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

The drive was long and hot. They were afraid to stop. Out of necessity, they spent one night sleeping in the car parked at a rest stop several states away, until they reached Taos, New Mexico. They slept for a few days in the back of a gallery owned by Joe’s ex-wife. It wasn’t very comfortable, especially with a young child, but it was free. My mother set up outside as a portrait artist to earn some money. After a few days, she had earned enough money to get their own place.

Joe found a small adobe house in Los Cerillos for $40 a month. The house was rustic. Joe patched the holes in the walls with mud and painted the entire inside. It had no indoor bathroom, just an outhouse, and a communal shower outdoors which were shared with another home, but they made it work. The Native American and Mexican neighbors were very friendly. The landscape was barren with little vegetation, mainly cacti. Nearby, there was a farm with numerous horses that roamed free. Los Cerillos was about 45 minutes from Santa Fé.

They left the Cape so quickly that they could not bring my bivalve splints, the ones I had to wear at night, because they were at my father’s cabin. Shortly after they got settled, Joe fashioned some splints from sanded wooden slats, foam rubber, and ace bandages. My mother took me to a orthopedic doctor in Santa Fé for an evaluation.

When we left the Cape, Eliza was wearing braces… that someone… had hammered the knee [and ankle] joints… so that they would not bend… I took her to an orthopedic surgeon in Santa Fé… He thought her braces were now doing her more harm than good because she was swinging her right leg rather than bending it.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

Until new braces could be obtained, the doctor recommended I only wear them for part of the day. He said the homemade splints were a sufficient temporary replacement for the nighttime bivalves and suggested she petition the Crippled Children Fund to cover the cost of new braces. He remarked that my legs appeared to be improving and was hopeful that in the near future I might not need braces at all.

— retaliation —

When my father learned of the kidnapping he flipped out. He immediately went to “work,” contacting the local police and then the state police, but both refused to help since it was a civil matter. Then he contacted the FBI but they also refused assistance.

My father would not, could not let it go. He was determined to convince someone in a position of authority to do something. So he went to the press, suppling them with his version of events: the sadomasochistic, drug-addled, neglectful mother who stole their fragile, severely handicapped toddler and intended to harm her. He provided glamorous images of my mother from her modeling days, ominous images of Joe, and pitiful images of me in traction. Then he posed for pictures holding the bivalve splints that were left behind, careful to have a despondent look on his face. The press ate it up. Several articles were published that portrayed my mother as a villainous, abusive woman who refused medical treatment for me and was endangering my life. The biased reporting infuriated my mother; it was so inaccurate.

Aug 5 The general police attitude is “she’s with her mother, what harm can be done?? When I tell them of the medical problem and the past history they act as if I am merely a crazy jealous husband out for revenge.

— David X Young, Track Record of Events April 1970 to Jan. 25, 1971

Despite the press, my father could get no action from the police so he decided to focus on the agency that had the most power, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Even though he had already been told that the case was not a federal issue, he hounded them daily, even writing to Massachusetts Senator, Ted Kennedy, to pressure the Bureau on his behalf. Eventually, after months of telling them that I was a vulnerable, severely handicapped child whose life was in danger because I had been taken by my mother, his wild accusations paid off and the FBI agreed to request notification from the U.S. Passport Office if my mother decided to apply for a passport. Beyond waiting, there was not much that could be done. Nearly four months passed with no word of my whereabouts. My father was going crazy.

Christine had initially told my father that one of her friends was in the car with me and that my mother must have “overpowered her,” but later admitted I was left in the car alone when she had gone into the post office. My father was livid. He considered Christine’s negligence a betrayal. He blamed her “carelessness” for my capture. As the days passed, my father became increasingly more unhinged.

On September 29, 1970, Christine was hit by a car. She was discovered lying on the side of the road with multiple injuries including a crushed pelvis and to the emergency room.

1970: That night Christine was struck down… behind the Land Ho,… the doctors said about 30-35 miles an hour. Her pocketbook and glasses were 22 feet in one direction, her scarf with a broken antenna 16 feet in the other direction. A large puddle of blood where she lay. Sergeant Donald Walsh of the Orleans police said to me “this sort of thing has got to stop”. I rushed to Cape Cod Hospital. All her teeth had been knocked out, her face very scarred, the back of her head split one, and her hip and upper thigh bone shattered.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

Christine had been walking across a parking lot when she was hit; the driver fled the scene. The police could not explain why she was out by herself at that time of night. They interviewed several witnesses and identified potential suspects, but there was insufficient evidence to close the case. My father told the police that Christine’s accident was “most definitely” caused by mobster Frank Richards acting on behalf of my mother but had no “proof” of Richards’ connection to the mafia other than that was of Italian descent.

The police quickly poked holes in his outlandish story. The mafia doesn’t execute a hit out in the open in a small, close-knit town on an elderly woman of little consequence. Furthermore, why would it be ordered by the lawyer who was representing my mother, a fugitive pursued by the FBI? The police could see how killing Christine would benefit my mother’s custody case. “Wouldn’t you be a more likely target?” the police asked my father. He had an answer to all of their questions. Christine must have uncovered some evidence of Richards’ drug dealing and that is why the “hit” was ordered, he asserted. Where the evidence of these crimes was, how Richards found out, and how any of this was connected to my mother was not part of my father’s explanation. None of it made any sense. The case was never solved.

Christine’s relatives, as well as many locals, believed my father had arranged the hit. His rages, abusive language, and deep resentment towards Christine was well known. He vocally blamed her for allowing my mother the chance to kidnap me, publicly calling her a “cunt” in front of others. Many were convinced that he accused Richards just to deflect police attention away from himself.

1970: The police only made a cursory investigation, stating it could not be termed hit and run because Christine could not “remember the moment of impact”. We were never able to get insurance. It is an angled parking lot where she was struck. The only place from which to get up that kind of speed is in the Main St. entrance to the lot, which is directly opposite Richards’ office. Several people… told me that it was Richards who did it. But I have no proof.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

— short-lived happiness —

Meanwhile, back in New Mexico, I was happy. I have fond memories. My mother went to Santa Fé every day to do portraits in the plaza. She’d carry me through a market and I’d see beautiful turquoise and silver jewelry spread out on blankets for sale that sparkled as the sun reflected off them. It hurt my eyes to look at them, but they were so beautiful that I’d look anyway.

While in Los Cerillos I made a friend — a little mulatto boy named Bood who lived next door. We were about the same age and spent numerous days playing together. I remember one day playing with him. We were both sitting on a big pile of dirt making mud pies. His skin was chocolate brown from the sun but when he smiled his teeth were a flash of bright white. It was a blissful time.

All summer we ate [healthy] and lived rather primitively but comfortable and HAPPY. O god we were so happy there. When I wasn’t doing portraits I was hauling Eliza around in her little red wagon. She eventually stopped wearing her braces all together. She still wore the night splints though… She was getting stronger all the time… One day in October she got up and started running and didn’t stop all day.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec.1970

Four months passed; it was November 1970. My mother made the mistake of applying for a passport which alerted the FBI. The two detectives in charge of my case flew to Santa Fé. My mother was working as a maid, cleaning rooms at a local ski resort. When she took a break to go to check her mail, she was arrested.

The FBI detectives were brusque, but the local police officer who accompanied them, a handsome Latino man, was very nice. He took my mother to jail. Alice had already left New Mexico for college by the time of my mother’s arrest, but Joe was at the house in Los Cerillos babysitting me. He brought to a separate cell in the same Santa Fé jail. I was placed in a welfare home.

When my mother heard I was transferred to a welfare home, she got very despondent. The local police who ran the jail were sympathetic to her and assured her that I was in a nice home with a large Latino family. I remember feeling happy there with so many kids around but also confused as to what was going on. I wonder if that is where my affinity for Latin culture first developed.

My mother and Joe were in the jail Santa Fé for six days. It was rustic with no frills. Each cell had just a mattress, no sheets, and a toilet without a seat. My mother, who was vegetarian at the time, recounted how the first meal was spaghetti with meat sauce so she tried to clean the noodles off before she ate them, but it took too long. After only a few bites, the guards were back to take her food away. Another day they cleaned her cell, so she was moved to a temporary one. She walked past a group of scraggly men locked up in a cell. One of them yelled out with a thick Spanish accent “Wet you in fer?” and my mother answered “Kidnapping.” The man then said “I dun kilt a man.”

The FBI contacted my father and he flew out to New Mexico. My mother remembered looking out the small window in her cell and seeing my father in the courtyard outside. She felt panic rise up in her, knowing he would have access to me again, but there was nothing she could do. My father wanted to take me right away, but the detectives would not allow him. My father, mother, Uncle Joe, and I, all flew back together to Boston, escorted by the FBI.

Thurs Nov 5 Eliza has a frightening look on her face, is very pale, limping badly, with a protruding stomach, dressed in pants and a shirt. She first said “I got a new Daddy named Joe” and refuses to kiss me. I mention [Christine] and she “never wants to see her because she is bad.” She cries and rejects me. “I am a boy now.”

— David X Young, Track Record of Events April 1970 to Jan. 25, 1971

When they arrived in Boston, it was at night and raining hard. My mother was still wearing the same dirty clothes from her cleaning job that she had on when she had been arrested. No change of clothes had been provided. My mother held me during the entire flight, but had to hand me over to my father once the plane landed. It was heart-wrenching for her to give me to a man whom she knew was abusive. My father was allowed to take me home with him while my mother and Joe were transferred to the Barnstable County Jail to await arraignment.

This jail was like a luxurious hotel compared to the one in Santa Fe. There were sheets on the bed, magazines to read, and even a television set. My mother shared the cell with a woman who had been arrested for check fraud. She remembered watching The Beatles’ movie, A Hard Day’s Night, on the television with her.

After a week in the Barnstable County Jail, my mother was arraigned in court. She was lent some clothes by the matron of the jail that were several sizes too big, but she was grateful to be clean again. Her sisters, Alice and Chrissy, came to court to support her. My father’s cousins, the Quinns came to lend their support for my mother. My father’s own flesh and blood chose to help my mother instead of him.
The judge ruled probable cause for kidnapping in my mother’s case but dismissed the charges for Joe. A hearing was set for February for my mother to return. She was released from custody on $1000 bail. The Quinns offered to let my mother and her sisters stay with them. They moved in and Joe returned to New Mexico. My mother never saw him again.

As soon as she was freed from jail, my mother went to see me. While she had been locked up, my father disappeared with me again. She immediately went to the authorities to report it, but was told that there was nothing they could do. It would be over ten years before laws were passed to protect children from being stolen by a parent.

On Sunday, 28 December, 1980, President Jimmy Carter signed into law the Parental Kidnaping Act of 1980, … states will be required to give full faith and credit to other state’s custody orders; and Federal Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution Warrants (UFAPs) could be issued based on requests by states which have felony provisions for child-snatching.

— A Publication of Children’s Rights newsletter, Our Greatest Resource Our Children, Fall 1980

v

cold grey wood licks my eyes
to the pulse that steadies me
rigid brick stares me down
my purple wooded hole.

let me clutch your hand
and i shall lead you to my origins
of glowing rods and icy nails
that shatter in cellophane stars