Content Warning: Child abuse and neglect
I grew up in and around a quirky small town in Ohio where my father had also been born and raised. My mother set a remarkably useful foundation for me in my youngest years, but my father died just after my seventh birthday, and well, to use the clinical term, shit went sideways.
I know my own motivations for covering up the neglect, hunger, and abuse I experienced for nearly six years, but I’ve never understood those of the adults around me who looked the other way, even as some of them “did what they could” for me. The few I’ve been able to talk to claim without exception that they “just didn’t know” how bad things were, an excuse which only holds up till I poke around a bit. Those conversations usually end up with various explanations for why they looked the other way, reasons why they didn’t think they “should get involved.” I try not to hold grudges, or be judgmental, because that’s not helpful to my own healing and my ability to reflect on the strange joys of my childhood. But then, every so often, I hear about a child abuse or neglect case, and the wounds are ripped back open, and I flash back to being locked in an empty apartment, or forgotten in dirty motel rooms for weeks at a time. Stories like this one out of Houston, where four children—one of them dead, and some with special needs—were left alone in an apartment for months, their mother dropping off food every so often. Their neighbors also did what they could, but it wasn’t enough, and they also claim they didn’t know how bad things were. And that’s when the angry tears flow.
One day maybe we will know why the 15-year-old boy at the heart of this story finally decided to call 911. Maybe we’ll find out how he got to that point where, despite his mother’s threats, this young man realized that the best thing he could do for himself—and the two little brothers still alive and left in his care—was to ask for help.
It’s extremely important to note that it was the eldest brother who saved himself and his siblings. Something changed for this brave teenager, who reportedly texted his mother to say that he “couldn’t take it anymore” before taking action for himself and his siblings; despite the flood of interviews these folks are now doing, it was not a family member or a concerned neighbor who stepped up. Instead, adults in a position to effect real change looked the other way, even when warning signs blared.
I don’t doubt that these neighbors feel immense guilt, and they should. But it’s only when we accept this hard truth—that it takes a village—can we figure out how to do better for the children in our respective communities.
My mother conditioned me to keep secrets, to lie to adults in the position to help me, to tolerate suffering, and to fear the unknown. That last one was the most crucial part to her plan to keep me, despite being unable to care for me. By touting the potential horrors of foster care, and threatening that we’d be separated forever, she ensured that I would choose my bad life with her—and even fight for it—when confronted with the promises and threats made by authorities, every time. This was our cycle for over 10 years.
Children, to oversimplify things, are often neurologically hardwired to be deeply attached to their caregivers beyond reason; they don’t always know better, or what’s possible, even in the best of circumstances—circumstances which these boys did not enjoy. Instead, authorities in Harris County, home to Houston, note that the children lived in “absolute fear” of their mother, 35-year-old Gloria Williams, and her boyfriend, 31-year-old Brian Coulter, who was not their father.
Couple the neighbors’ inaction with the children’s fear, and then add the pandemic, which added to isolation worldwide and eliminated in-person classes even in ruby-red Texas, and it’s somewhat easier to see how these particular kids and their suffering could have gone undetected.
But only somewhat easier.
The children were living in an apartment with no furniture or bedding for nearly a year, according to preliminary investigations, a space swarmed by cockroaches and flies. After Coulter allegedly beat to death eight-year-old Kendrick Lee last November, he covered the body with a blanket. He and Williams then simply moved to a new home less than 30 minutes away, leaving Kendrick’s body and his three brothers—now 15, 9, and 7—behind. Despite sporadic food deliveries, the 15-year-old reported not having seen his mother “in months.”
Just one neighbor reports complaining of the smell of human decomposition, and she only complained to building management, not authorities. When management did nothing, she turned off her air conditioner to mitigate the stench. The neighbor also claims she thought the apartment was abandoned.
After initially being interviewed and released the day after the children were found, Coulter and Williams are now in custody, with $1M and $900,000 bonds, respectively. Stunningly, they were arrested at a local library, where they were reading news coverage about the case.
The surviving three boys are now being cared for by Harris County Child Protective Services, and have to navigate the long path forward to whatever healing is possible after such trauma. Meanwhile, family members and neighbors, educators and others, must live with their failure to protect these young Black boys from harm, and find a way forward. Hopefully the future means they look a little closer, and take action if they ever find themselves in a similar position to save a life.
It’s been nearly 25 years since I walked away from my mother; I haven’t seen her in over 24 years; we last spoke on the phone 19 years ago. I’ve come to terms, as best as one can, with the fact that I’ll never see her alive again, but this is exactly the fearsome scenario that she promised me: If I left her, I’d lose her forever.
It turns out that it wasn’t much of a loss; I feared the unknown, but my new life turned out to be better than what I knew. I can only hope for the same for these three boys, even if it’s too late for little Kendrick.
In the end, the lesson from this is a simple one: If you see something, say something. It’s on each of us to protect the most vulnerable among us.
I grew up in and around a quirky small town in Ohio where my father had also been born and raised. My mother set a remarkably useful foundation for me in my youngest years, but my father died just after my seventh birthday, and well, to use the clinical term, shit went sideways.
I know my own motivations for covering up the neglect, hunger, and abuse I experienced for nearly six years, but I’ve never understood those of the adults around me who looked the other way, even as some of them “did what they could” for me. The few I’ve been able to talk to claim without exception that they “just didn’t know” how bad things were, an excuse which only holds up till I poke around a bit. Those conversations usually end up with various explanations for why they looked the other way, reasons why they didn’t think they “should get involved.” I try not to hold grudges, or be judgmental, because that’s not helpful to my own healing and my ability to reflect on the strange joys of my childhood. But then, every so often, I hear about a child abuse or neglect case, and the wounds are ripped back open, and I flash back to being locked in an empty apartment, or forgotten in dirty motel rooms for weeks at a time. Stories like this one out of Houston, where four children—one of them dead, and some with special needs—were left alone in an apartment for months, their mother dropping off food every so often. Their neighbors also did what they could, but it wasn’t enough, and they also claim they didn’t know how bad things were. And that’s when the angry tears flow.
One day maybe we will know why the 15-year-old boy at the heart of this story finally decided to call 911. Maybe we’ll find out how he got to that point where, despite his mother’s threats, this young man realized that the best thing he could do for himself—and the two little brothers still alive and left in his care—was to ask for help.
It’s extremely important to note that it was the eldest brother who saved himself and his siblings. Something changed for this brave teenager, who reportedly texted his mother to say that he “couldn’t take it anymore” before taking action for himself and his siblings; despite the flood of interviews these folks are now doing, it was not a family member or a concerned neighbor who stepped up. Instead, adults in a position to effect real change looked the other way, even when warning signs blared.
I don’t doubt that these neighbors feel immense guilt, and they should. But it’s only when we accept this hard truth—that it takes a village—can we figure out how to do better for the children in our respective communities.
My mother conditioned me to keep secrets, to lie to adults in the position to help me, to tolerate suffering, and to fear the unknown. That last one was the most crucial part to her plan to keep me, despite being unable to care for me. By touting the potential horrors of foster care, and threatening that we’d be separated forever, she ensured that I would choose my bad life with her—and even fight for it—when confronted with the promises and threats made by authorities, every time. This was our cycle for over 10 years.
Children, to oversimplify things, are often neurologically hardwired to be deeply attached to their caregivers beyond reason; they don’t always know better, or what’s possible, even in the best of circumstances—circumstances which these boys did not enjoy. Instead, authorities in Harris County, home to Houston, note that the children lived in “absolute fear” of their mother, 35-year-old Gloria Williams, and her boyfriend, 31-year-old Brian Coulter, who was not their father.
Couple the neighbors’ inaction with the children’s fear, and then add the pandemic, which added to isolation worldwide and eliminated in-person classes even in ruby-red Texas, and it’s somewhat easier to see how these particular kids and their suffering could have gone undetected.
But only somewhat easier.
The children were living in an apartment with no furniture or bedding for nearly a year, according to preliminary investigations, a space swarmed by cockroaches and flies. After Coulter allegedly beat to death eight-year-old Kendrick Lee last November, he covered the body with a blanket. He and Williams then simply moved to a new home less than 30 minutes away, leaving Kendrick’s body and his three brothers—now 15, 9, and 7—behind. Despite sporadic food deliveries, the 15-year-old reported not having seen his mother “in months.”
Just one neighbor reports complaining of the smell of human decomposition, and she only complained to building management, not authorities. When management did nothing, she turned off her air conditioner to mitigate the stench. The neighbor also claims she thought the apartment was abandoned.
After initially being interviewed and released the day after the children were found, Coulter and Williams are now in custody, with $1M and $900,000 bonds, respectively. Stunningly, they were arrested at a local library, where they were reading news coverage about the case.
The surviving three boys are now being cared for by Harris County Child Protective Services, and have to navigate the long path forward to whatever healing is possible after such trauma. Meanwhile, family members and neighbors, educators and others, must live with their failure to protect these young Black boys from harm, and find a way forward. Hopefully the future means they look a little closer, and take action if they ever find themselves in a similar position to save a life.
***
It’s been nearly 25 years since I walked away from my mother; I haven’t seen her in over 24 years; we last spoke on the phone 19 years ago. I’ve come to terms, as best as one can, with the fact that I’ll never see her alive again, but this is exactly the fearsome scenario that she promised me: If I left her, I’d lose her forever.
It turns out that it wasn’t much of a loss; I feared the unknown, but my new life turned out to be better than what I knew. I can only hope for the same for these three boys, even if it’s too late for little Kendrick.
In the end, the lesson from this is a simple one: If you see something, say something. It’s on each of us to protect the most vulnerable among us.