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© St. Petersburg Times, published July 21, 2002
Our car hurtles through California's San Joaquin Valley. My brother, Carlos, and I share the back seat. I am 8 and he is 6. I glance at fields that stretch for miles and then at my parents who sit silently in the front seat.
About 45 minutes south of Fresno, my father leaves U.S. 99 and turns east onto the blacktop of a county road. A huge hill looms before us.
Carlos grins and grunts. He stares out the window, pressing his bony fingers against the glass. Car rides make Carlos happy. I tap Carlos on the shoulder and point to the hill. We can see an enormous "P" stamped on it.
I stare at the letter, wondering what it stands for. My mind runs through all the words I can think of that start with "P." Then I see a sign ahead. It says "Welcome to Porterville."
Another sign tells us that Porterville State Hospital is just 5 miles farther. The hospital cares for developmentally disabled children and adults. My parents had spoken to me about it.
Carlos scoots forward. He leans over the back seat and reaches out toward my mother. She turns her head toward him and he gathers her face in his hands. He pulls her toward him. He gently bumps his forehead against her forehead. It is one of his ways of showing affection. He looks up. He smiles. She smiles. But a moist film fills her eyes.
I remember our talks. Carlos wanders into the street too often, my parents had said in preparation for this trip. He can't hear our frantic cries, or the honking horns of cars that whiz by. The social worker, they said, stressed that Carlos needed a place where people were trained to work with deafness and mental retardation. She told us about a place nestled in the verdant valleys of central California.
The social worker's advice shook us. My father hated the idea of losing a son. My mother faced an unbearable choice: keep Carlos but feel overwhelmed and unable to care for him properly, or give him up and hope professional care would improve his quality of life.
For me, the prospect of losing Carlos meant the loss of my only brother, friend and companion. We shared a bedroom. We played our own version of cowboys and Indians, exploring our surroundings as wild-West brothers. Me with my red cowboy hat. Carlos with a red, flame-sized birthmark on his forehead that I imagined as a feather. I had protected him when other kids made fun of him. He had shared his smiles, his hugs and his unconditional love. I had envisioned many things that we would do together.
The road winds up the hill, spilling into a campus filled with one-story, pastel-colored buildings. We park in front of one of many housing units that sit beneath the "P" on the hill above.
My father pushes a buzzer on the front door. A tall, muscular man in a white jacket lets us in. He leads us to another door, pulls one of the many keys that hang from his belt and takes us down a long, narrow corridor. We walk past a woman sitting in a wheelchair. Her head moves from side to side. She squeals when I look at her, her eyes dart one way, her mouth slides the other way.
Laughter, cries, yells mingle in the cool air of a unit filled with other children. Some stand against the wall, arms hanging limply by their sides. Others amble confidently through the unit, waving at staff and friends. A few reach out to me. They pat me on the head, or caress my arm. I wave to them and smile.
The bodies and faces seem slightly out of kilter. It's as if a fun house mirror suddenly released its images and they began walking about. I hold my brother's hand as we make our way to the main desk.
Carlos takes it all in. He smiles. He waves. He stretches out his arms, greeting some of the people who walk by. He loves to touch people. He sometimes hugs me so hard I can barely breathe. Nothing dampens his affection. His love fills every move he makes. Someone shows us Carlos' room. A young boy rocks back and forth on one of the three beds. Carlos watches us unpack the clothes that once hung in a closet we shared at home. He looks at my father, who's talking to one of the staff. Then he looks at me. I put my arm around him and pull him close. My parents finish filling out the paperwork and talking to the staff. They kiss and hug Carlos goodbye. As we walk out of the unit, Carlos looks at us, his arms outstretched. Is he waving goodbye or bidding us to return? I can't tell. My parents, their eyes awash in tears, force themselves to keep walking. "Bye, Carlos," I yell, even though I know he can't hear me. I wave one more time as we slip out the door and get in the car. As we drive west, I look back at the hill. I see the "P."
Many things changed in the four decades after we traveled to Porterville. My family moved seven times in almost as many years. My parents had another son. Eventually, they settled in Florida, as I have. They aged. My father died and my mother moved to Virginia. Carlos left the hospital setting for a group home in a nearby community.
But some things never changed. We always returned to see Carlos. After my father's death, my mother and I would visit him. Now that my mother finds it more difficult to travel, I visit him when I can. My wife and I are hoping to take my 7-year-old daughter to visit her Uncle Carlos this year.
Some things change. Some things don't. Like my brother's hugs. His broad smile when he sees me. And how I feel when I remember the "P" on the hill.
-- Aly Colon is on the ethics staff of the Poynter Institute, which owns the St. Petersburg Times.