China Springs.

“We’re here!” shouted the van driver from under the bill of his weathered U.S.M.C. baseball cap. “Say hello to your new home.” I quickly snapped my tear stained face up from a dead gaze to look out the window and discover what was to be at least for the next six months, my new home. As the driver slammed on the brakes, the van came skidding to a stop on the old washboard dirt road and it caused a dust cloud to accumulate that would last the next five minutes. This made it nearly impossible to make out the scene, until after the dust settled and I could make out my surroundings.

It was fall of 1992, and I was somewhere out in the Nevada desert, with nothing in sight besides sage brush and jack rabbits. The place was right in the middle of nowhere, and we were told the backcountry here was so deadly we better not to even think about running. I estimate we were about three miles from the closest road, and there was nothing else in sight for miles in all other directions.

I did as I was instructed, and tried to learn my surroundings. From what I could tell, there were five separate buildings that made up the facility. The first building I saw was a nicely painted stucco structure, with big windows that served as the main office. There were flowers and grass out front, which seemed to be out of place since the rest of the property was strictly dirt and sage. In the front lawn, there was a large wooden sign that read “China Springs Youth Camp.” Down the dirt road a bit, there was a small three-room schoolhouse off to the right. Then the main dormitory was just to the left, which was basically a large windowless building. Down the road from there was a big mess hall on the left and a huge empty dirt field on the right. Finally, there was one more building far in the distance, which I later came to know as “the hanger.”

As I take it all in, I wonder what life will be like in this wasteland for the next six months. Suddenly, the camp counselor shouted at us “Let’s go God damn it! I gotta get you little fuckers checked in before dinner!” We were all shocked by the sudden shift in tone but jumped to our shackled feet and started to quickly shuffle out of the van. As I stumbled past him, I took a quick glance at his face for the first time, and he yelled at me, “What the hell are you looking at boy?” “Nothing.” I stuttered nervously. “Nothing?” He asked, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there. Then he directed, “Nothing sir!” so I agreed and repeated him, “Nothing sir.” I said it as genuinely as I could, but he still gave me a dirty look and told me to get moving.

He had us line up single file, and marched us into the large building to the left. Our wrists were still shackled to our hips, and our ankles were shackled as well, so this was difficult and we did not make a very straight line, which in turn just made him all the more irate. As we entered the dormitory, I saw two large rooms divided by a big bathroom and shower area. The room on the left was filled with meticulously made bunk beds. Every detail of the room was spotless and there was not even one item out of place. The other room had a few couches, tables and chairs, shelves lined with games and books, and even a television.

Our guide directed us past the bunks and right into the bathroom. He finally removed the shackles, first the hands, then the feet. The bones on my wrists were bruised and worn raw, and the instant relief to my ankles was immense. My relief was cut short however, because next he instructed us to strip down. I had to use the bathroom badly after the long ride out, but when I asked if I could use it, I was told it wasn’t time for “head calls”, it was time to strip down. I had no idea what he meant but did as I was told and continued to hold it. I could not believe that I was not even allowed to use the bathroom, when I was literally standing in the bathroom? I had only been on the property about five minutes at this point, and I had already been humiliated.

The bathroom was basically one big tiled room, with a dozen shower heads on one side, a bunch of toilets on the other side and two rows of sinks down the middle. Everything was spotless and looked to have been cleaned with a toothbrush. There were no stalls, no walls, and there was no privacy. There was a big glass window on the far side of the bathroom that allowed the counselors to monitor us at all times from their office.

So I go into the shower section of the bathroom, and I start taking off my clothes with the rest of the guys. Most of the guys were 17 years old and were built like men. I was a 13 year old pudgy kid who didn’t even have hair under my armpits. I was told I was the youngest kid to ever get sent to this camp, lucky me. I hated having to take my clothes off in front of these guys, but I had to. This was not entirely a new experience for me, as I had been strip searched before getting checked in to juvenile hall. And I had to shower in the open also back at juvie, but this was so much worse. This was my first communal strip search, but definitely not my last.

Now we are all standing there completely naked waiting for our next instruction. He starts to give orders step by step, “Lift up your balls. Now open your mouth and stick out your tongue. Okay now turn around, spread your cheeks and cough…” After he finishes totally degrading us with this nude little dance, many of us wonder if he is enjoying this a little too much. When he is sure we don’t have any contraband tucked away, he walks over to the small camp counselor office next to the bathroom, opens a medicine cabinet and pulls out a big brown gallon jug.

Without a word, he walks over to each of us one by one and pours a heavy dose of the thick syrup on our heads and down our backs and tells us to “Scrub everything real good now, I don’t want any of your bug buddies in my camp!” He says this with a sick grin as he gestures his genitals, which is enough to completely creep us all out.

The thick cloudy syrup wreaked strong chemicals and almost immediately, it burned bad. I felt like I had fire ants all over my body and I seriously feared the acidic ooze was eating my skin!

All of us began to jump around and scream because it became clear the chemicals were burning our skin, until finally our camp counselor finally yelled as he laughed at us hysterically, “Okay that’s enough. Now hurry up and rinse off!” We all rushed to turn on the water and get the toxins off of our body. Not ten seconds later, I hear “Time’s up. Let’s go.” I hadn’t even gotten the bug killer rinsed out from under my hairless armpits, but the water was cut off and we followed orders and lined up in the nude single file.

We were then taken to a linen closet on the dorm side, and issued our uniforms and our bedding. We were told to quickly get dressed and make our bunks. It seemed everything was to be done quickly in this place. I tried to get dressed as fast as possible, but the clothes they gave me did not fit. The dingy white underwear was three sizes too big and required a knot to stay up. The standard issue blue jeans however were somehow both too tight and too short. Like most kids in the 90s, I was used to wearing huge jeans. I assume I must have been given the smallest size they had to make me look ridiculous and to be sure I didn’t sag. Wearing your pants below the waist in China Springs was considered “gang member activity” and could put you back at day 1 in your program with one citation. One thing they hated in China Springs was gangsters, including little 13 year old white boy gangsters like me.

The rest of my uniform didn’t get any better. My white t-shirts were grease stained, and smelled of Clorox. Every pair of long white tube socks they gave me had holes in them and were stretched so bad they didn’t stay up. The one item we were allowed to keep from the outside was our shoes. I had a fresh pair of all white leather Nike Cortez that now stood out awkwardly from the rest of my camp uniform. I learned later, this was part of the initiation process, to give the new-comers the absolute worst uniforms possible in order to start the process of taking your dignity and crushing your spirit.

So after I got dressed in my new outfit, I looked like the rest of the boys in the camp, besides the fact that I was 3–4 years younger than almost every other kid. The dormitory was a large windowless room with concrete floors and bright florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. I estimate there were six rows of bunks with eight bunks in each row, leaving about three feet to walk between each bunk. Every person was assigned a three-by-three square wooden box that was made to fit in pairs under the bunks. This is where we were to keepall of our belongings, which at this point was only my poorly fitting uniform and my bed roll.

Like the other new guys, I tried to get my bunk made without success. None of us had a clue how to make our bunks the way like the others we saw, with the gray wool blanket wrapped perfectly over the three inch mattress, making it look like a carne asada burrito. I was scrambling trying to make it look half decent, but it just looked terrible. I was sure the camp counselor was going to come back and see my bunk and I was afraid what he might do.

Fortunately, the counselor didn’t come back right away, but instead a few kids who were on the other side came over to show us how to make our bunks. A tall white kid came up to me and said shortly, “You need to get this right or we’re all gonna pay for it.” He pulled all my linens off the bunk and started from scratch making my bed for me. Within less than a minute, he had it transformed into a perfect replica of all the other bunks. Then he said, “There, you got it? I’m not gonna show you again!” and he marched back to the other room. I hadn’t got anything? He made the bed so fast and I could hardly see what he was doing anyway, since it was the top bunk.

Before I knew it, the counselor was back and told us to line up. I finished putting my stuff away in the wooden box under the bunk, and got in line. A few kids didn’t move quite as fast, and the counselor shouted at them, “Get in line, and let’s take a look at those bunks.” He began to walk around our freshly made bunks and lean in closely to inspect each one. As he approached my bunk, he looked surprised at how tightly it was made, and I thought he almost cracked a half smile in my direction to acknowledge my work. Then he turned the corner and saw the next bunk in the line and his face turned dark. He shouted that the bunk was not made right and started flipping all of our freshly made bunks upside down and onto the floor. Within minutes there were wool blankets and white sheets flying through the air and all our work was wasted. The whole time I was just standing in line, wondering what the hell was going on.

The counselor abruptly leaves the room again and we are standing there stunned. Then a few boys come from the other side of the dorm again and remake our beds for us. This time they are clearly mad but do not say a word. They only give us angry stares as they work hard at remaking our beds for the second time. This time, we don’t try to help, but only stay in line and watch. Then, just as quickly as they arrived, they soon vanished through the bathroom and into the other side again.

Finally our counselor comes back into the room, gives us all an excited look as if nothing insane has just happened, and announces, “Let’s go! Time for your haircut boys!” We marched single file out of the dorm and into a small little building before the mess hall I didn’t notice before, that turned out to be an equipment room/barber shop. This ultimately included only one white barber chair in the middle of the room, with junky old sports equipment stored in a closet.

One by one, we were called into the room, placed in the chair and had our heads shaved. When it was my turn, I sat down in the chair, and within two minutes, I was told I was done. I still had long hairs all over my head, and I was sure he was kidding, but he was not. He shouted, “This ain’t no beauty salon boy! Get the hell out of here! Who’s next?” I left the room and sent in the next kid, and tried to get the hair off of my clothes but since I was still damp from the debugging shower, little hairs just stuck to everything.

Now we looked like official fresh meat, as you can always identify the new kids by their short hair cut. The further along you are in completing the program, the longer your hair is. If you screw up and try to escape or get in a fight, you start your program over, and you get your head re-shaved. It turns out I was given six months in this place, but that meant six months straight with no big problems. Most kids are there for far more than six months, and I was no exception.

After our hair cuts, we were assembled back into a single file line outside the small building. I had hoped we would have a chance to at least clean the hair off and thought it foolish to have us shower right before our hair cut, but instead our counselor announced, “Chow time!” I was confused at first, not exactly sure what he was referring to, but soon I realized he meant it was time for dinner. I had only been locked up for about three hours at this point, so I was still learning the lingo. I was happy to head to dinner however, because after the long drive and the brutal check in process, I was starving. (To Be Continued...)

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