Medford mail tribune., August 07, 1960, Image 39

There were two great crises in
Floyd Patterson's life; one he solved
recently in the ring the other his mother
now tells about, a comeback story
against the toughest opponent a man can face
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"Mom" Patterson and her one-time "problem child."
I still remember it so well. There was a heavy
' knock on the door of our tenement in the crowded
Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. When I
opened the door, I saw a grim-looking policeman.
"Mrs. Patterson, is this your boy?" he said.
"Yes, that's my Floyd," I said, looking at the gan
gling 10-year-old he held by the shoulder.
"Better come down to the station with me," the
officer said. "He's been stealing."
I've raised 11 children, but I've always worried
more about Floyd than all the others put together,
even before he made prize fighting his profession
and twice won the heavyweight championship of
the world.
As a child, he was awfully shy. He didn't speak
to anyone much, and it was so hard for him to look
right at somebody talking to him, I remember one
day when he was just a little boy, a lady, admiring
his long hair, ran her fingers through it. Floyd was
so embarrassed he cried and ran off. '
Realizing that some children are timid in their
early years, my husband Thomas and I didn't fret
about Floyd in the beginning.
"He'll get over this when he gets older," Thomas
said. I agreed.
But now, as I slipped on a jacket and left
with the officer and Floyd, I wasn't so sure. Not
that he was a bad boy. But our neighborhood was
' one of the toughest in the city, and now Floyd
seemed marked as a part of it. All the way to the
precinct station, I asked myself if Floyd could come
back from this start in life; if he'd fight back and
become the person I knew he was.
Floyd didn't do anything but hang his head in
shame while he went through the police routine.
But I felt if somebody held out a helping hand, he
would grab it. So that afternoon I set the wheels
in motion to tackle Floyd's problem head-on. I
talked to his school principal. He recommended a
social worker. I didn't spare any details in telling
about the boy I believed could be helped.
I told the social worker about the shell Floyd
lived in, and how it had gotten worse when he
started school. He stayed away from other children
and didn't answer much when called on in class.
When he fell behind in his studies, he became even
more withdrawn. He was sure other children looked
on him as a dunce. Soon he was finding ways to
skip school completely.
With a large family to take care of, it wasn't easy -to
spend time on the problems of one child. Thomas
worked long hours at the Fulton Fish Market as a
truckman's helper, and I tried to add to the family
income by going out as a domestic as often as I
could. I kept in touch with the teachers and the
truant officer, but Floyd still had too many chances
to play hooky.
My other children weren't like that They went
to school willingly, played street games with their
many friends, and babbled happily. Their brother,
meanwhile, would be wandering all over Brooklyn,
visiting the Prospect Park Zoo or meandering, all
by himself, along the beach at Coney Island. Some
times he'd ride the subway for hours, or simply
hide in somebody's cellar.
I tried everything I knew to get him back to
school rewards, extra kindness, punishment He
would promise faithfully to be good, and I always
believed him because it really hurt him to cause
us trouble. But the promises didn't last more than
a week or so. Then he'd be off roaming again. Once
he was so ashamed at breaking his word that he
stayed away all night and really terrified us.
Floyd Gets Into Trouble
During those years, many kids in the neighbor
hood joined street gangs and went out looking for
excitement Sometimes they got in serious trouble.
I worried about my boys, fearful they might get
mixed up with one of the gangs. For a long time,
none did. I was grateful for this.
And then, of course, came that knock on the door
by the policeman. Floyd, it turned out, had only
"swiped" some fruit from a nearby market while
with some other boys. But I told the social worker
that I couldn't help thinking that this might be the
beginning of his joining up with a gang.
After listening to my story and talking to Floyd,
the social worker explained that my boy was emo
tionally disturbed. Floyd needed careful, individual
attention. He couldn't get this in crowded Public
School 93. And the big city gave him too many
chances to hide from the tough parts of life.
Although Floyd couldn't read and could barely
write his name, the worker told me that he had
the potential to adjust rapidly. She also said that
Floyd was not a rowdy or a troublemaker; his
brush with the law was little more than mischief.
She suggested that we send Floyd to a special
school in the country.
The thought of sending Floyd away hurt me, but
Thomas and I agreed it was the right thing to do.
The next day, I signed Floyd into the Wiltwyck
School for Boys, a private institution at Esopus,
N. Y., in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains,
about 90 miles from our home. Floyd kicked up a
fuss; he was sure that he was being sent to jail
because of stealing fruit His tears made our part
ing even sadder for me, but I didn't back down.
At Wiltwyck, Floyd stubbornly stuck to his ways.
He didn't pay any attention in class and dodged the
fun of sports and other out-of-class activities. But
his teachers and superiors were very nice. They
didn't force him. He'd go to classes, do his regular
chores, and then he could roam as he pleased.
Most of the other kids played games, but Floyd
took to wandering over the countryside, and that's
when he made his biggest discovery. He'd never
seen much of nature before. Where we lived in
Brooklyn, even a sunset wasn't much, at least not
when you watched it through the rusted girders of
the old Lexington Avenue "el." And no one paid
much attention to the hungry sparrows and pigeons
that rummaged through the gutters for food. But
in the Catskills, Floyd got to see magnificent sun
sets, heard the songs of birds, and all the other
wonderful things that God had put out there for
us to see. He even experienced a kid's triumph of
catching a snake!
I visited Floyd at Wiltwyck every other week,
and once he'd made this big discovery about nature
I looked forward to the trips, almost like a kid
myself. I'd bring along a big picnic lunch fried
chicken, different kinds of sandwiches, and some
of the other things I knew Floyd enjoyed and
Floyd would lead me to some little spot he liked
on the hillside. We'd spread out the lunch, and
Floyd would chatter happily while he munched.
He pointed out different kinds of birds and told me
about the trees around us.
During each of my visits, I'd stop at the school
office for a report on how Floyd was doing. The
news always cheered me up. His teachers told me
about a big change in Floyd. He was taking part in
class and doing well. They'd even got him interested
in boxing. Floyd made sure the report was good
because he seemed to know how much happier I
was after my visits with him. One day he told me:
"This is like a different world up here, Mom.
Why don't we move here to live?"
It was hard to explain to him why we couldn't.
"Well, some day I'm going to live in the coun
try," he said, softly, "and I'm going to have a big
( Continued)
Family Weekly, Augutt 7, 1960
7