By: Bill Cumming & Bill McIntosh

Albert C. Boothby was an extremely quiet man. He taught history in a small independent school, nestled in the rolling hills of central New York State. During the late 50’s and early 60’s, he realized that education was the most important issue in the process of leveling the segregated playing field of public education in the United States.

There were two school systems really, one white and one black. One that provided opportunities at an unprecedented rate and another that fostered a recurring cycle of mediocrity and challenge. During the summers of the early 60’s, Al began teaching in all Negro (black or African American were not used until the early 1970’s) colleges. He taught in three of them and in the fourth year, he taught at Palmer Memorial Institute, an all African American independent school. He was introduced to Wilhelmina Crosson, the Headmistress of Palmer by his former student, Watts Hill, Jr., then Chair of the Board of Education in North Carolina. There is a direct connection between North Carolina leading the way in the integration of public schools, Watts Hill, Jr. and the influence of his mentor, Albert Boothby. Watts Hill, Sr. fought vehemently for the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill to remain the state’s only “true” state university because he wanted no race mixing.

In 1964, Mr. Boothby made it possible for me to spend six weeks at Palmer Memorial Institute as an exchange student. I learned that students there were starving for answers and creativity. When they discovered that I was an advanced math student, my time became about what I knew and how they could know. The following summer, we wrote a grant to the Ford Foundation that became the Palmer Summer Program, a year later, one of the pilots for Upward Bound. The fact that that program was based on creating inspired environments was directly the result of the work at Palmer.

It was not easy and the Boothbys taught us about courage. A building was burned down, bullets were fired and Mrs. Boothby was run off the road by the Klu Klux Klan. Albert Boothby taught me in that instant to hate the action and love the person. My life would never be the same. So what does all of this have to do with Bill McIntosh and his story? Everything. Albert Boothby’s hands and heart run through the story you are about to read as surely as rain is required to grow anything. It speaks for itself.

One Person

This letter is for a very good friend of mine, and I don’t take the word friend lightly. Seeing that I really don’t have any others. So, this letter is to whomever it may concern and everyone else.

My name is Bill McIntosh and I have a story to tell. So please listen.

I’m a 34-year-old male, average build, average height. Have a wife, been ten years now and a seven year old son. We ain’t well off by any means, and we three still have our disagreements. But the bills get paid, and there’s food on the table everyday. And at the end of the night we still tell each other “I love you,” no matter the disagreement.

I’ve recently started my own business, building custom furniture. Haven’t sold anything yet, but I have a handful of pieces about ready for display. Should be kicking off real soon. Really can’t complain, now can I? But I sometimes still do. Residue of the programming I was taught growing up I suppose. Which is the point of the story.

From a very young age (birth to be exact), I was programmed to be a failure. See, even at birth the actions of people around me, and for that matter, the people/persons not around me, had an effect. My dad, I learned he didn’t care about me (why, I don’t know). He left my mom 8½ months pregnant with me and her dad died a month earlier. He pushed her (my mom) down a flight of stairs and told her he was going on a fishing trip. He never came back. Heard he went to Florida to produce smut movies. “Who cares?” Right? That’s what I learned from my dad. I also learned my mom became an emotional wreck. Odd, me being a newborn and her crying more than me. She’d cry when she woke in the morning, in the afternoon, at night, whenever I’d cry and when she fed me. I think the combination of my mom’s dad dying, my dad leaving her and the fact that she didn’t want me (reasons being: my dad leaving her and me not being a girl) led us down the path we took.

She remarried shortly after. Four months later, I think. She must have felt abandoned, vulnerable, unprotected. Like I said, she had lost her dad, husband and had a newborn baby. So she clung onto anyone who took notice. He ended up being this big, fat, dirty, mean guy. I remember the guy couldn’t even clean himself completely. My mom had to get areas he couldn’t reach. I knew this cause I was made to watch. Now I didn’t remember this all from the beginning. She was with him a few years, and some of it stuck with me. But who cares, right, dad?

Besides, I had a new dad and mom wasn’t crying no more. They even had a new baby and this dad stuck around. I didn’t get this, but I learned real quick that my new sister was his real daughter and I was only my mother’s son. But he still paid attention to me. He’d scream and holler, sometimes even hit me. My mom would make him take us kids to the park. In the car, he’d reach back and give me a good smack just to show he still cared. Left a bruise a couple of times to show my mom how much he cared. He told her I fell off the slide. I later learned my mom knew he was hitting me and that when I was younger, he was performing sexual acts with me. I also learned this to be acceptable, normal. It had to be. I had a dad who showed me he hated me and a mom who approved.

About this point, I was five and “Uncle” Butch came along. Now “Uncle” Butch was an awesome guy. Really big and strong, made my mom laugh, took us places, and best of all, he seemed to like me. He started spending more time around, but always leaving before dad got home. Well, come to find out “Uncle” Butch wasn’t really “Uncle” Butch, but the guy mom was cheating on dad with. She became pregnant and there was a big scene between mom and dad. They hadn’t done anything in a long time for this to occur. Dad beat mom up pretty good, mom kicked dad out and Butch moved in. Dad didn’t like this and called Butch outside. Dad was no match. Butch pistol whipped him and urinated on him while he was down. Dad was never seen again and Butch was the new dad. This is here my real learning and programming began.

See Butch was a successful convict. He was into insurance scams and burglaries. He was good at it, too. I remember coming home from school and seeing VCRs and stereos stacked from floor to ceiling. Looking on my parent’s bed and seeing jewelry and cash covering the blanket. It was so cool, I wanted to be just like him. He had so many friends. These friends would come over and drink and smoke marijuana. Do other drugs I wasn’t allowed to see. They’d all laugh and have fun until everyone went home and then dad would become real mean to mom. I’d sneak out of my bed and listen at their door. I’d hear him hitting her and her crying for him to stop. I was so scared, sometimes I’d wet myself. So scared, I didn’t dare help her. Remember, I said he was big and strong and he had hit me once already. Punched me in the chest. Hurt pretty bad, too. So, I’d go back to bed, wet pajamas and all and cry myself to sleep, real softly mind you. Dad had a rule. Men don’t cry. And if you were caught crying, you got something to cry about. But this was all normal and besides, “who cares,” right, dad. Getting hit became a normal part of life for me shortly after that. Not saying that I didn’t deserve some of it. I was out doing some of what I learned. Let’s see, I was hitting my sisters, fighting in school, stealing, drinking and smoking a pack of butts a day by the time I was seven.

At age 9, I was sent to a boys’ home. My mom had abandoned me. Visits and phone calls became less, home furloughs were taken away because my dad had shot himself with a rifle while I was in front of him. I started to really hate my mother. Not only for the abandonment but for not caring what went on with her son in the boys’ home. The physical abuse, mental and sexual. We had it all. Details really not needed. I ended up getting kicked out of the boys’ home shortly after twelve. They only harbor children up until they turn twelve. I got to stay a little longer. My case was special. It wasn’t that I wasn’t ready to go home, I was. I completed everything they had to help me. Including fornication with staff. It was the home that wasn’t ready for me. Reluctantly, the state allowed me to go home. Six months later, I was admitted to Jackson Brook because of a suicide attempt. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, it was a stupid dare with classmates on a field trip. It was an excuse for my mother to get rid of me because my dad didn’t want me around. I don’t know why! I was turning out just like him. Maybe it was I messed up the balance. My mom had my sister from her previous marriage as her favorite and my dad had his daughter from this marriage as his favorite, and my real dad, well, he just didn’t care. So they got their happy family and I’m in the nuthouse getting EKGs and shots of valium up the butt in the padded room so they could figure out what was wrong with me. I wasn’t crazy, I was confused, mad, and maybe a little scared. Though I wouldn’t admit to that one. I don’t need wires on my head or drugs in my system to figure out what’s wrong. I just need someone to listen. No one does. I was released, no conclusions on my mental stability. No shit! Nobody listened. Put these blocks together, what do you see in the picture? Who’s the President? Always these questions, but no one hearing.

I went home one more time. Actually hung out for a while. Went back to school and got a part-time job working with my dad, who was a manager at a fish plant on the wharf. He took the job with an ulterior motive. He planned a fake back injury and collected insurance money. I got fired. Guilty by association. Was still in school, but no job. With no job came no money. I was still too young for a job permit, and I liked money. So I took my few life skills I had learned and set out to make money. I wasn’t good at acting, so I opted for burglaries. Shortly after fourteen, I left home (tired of the bullshit) and continued my career. My career was halted within six months when I was caught for a house burglary and a chain of car burglaries. Spent 90 credits or roughly nine months in the Youth Center. Was released and continued my path of self-failure. In and out of the Youth Center two more times, graduated to the county jail (Cumberland County Jail) and finally prison (Maine State). Two trips there wasn’t enough. It took the third (worst and best by far). I got a seven and a half year sentence for burglary. Got a girl friend of two years, three months pregnant with my son. I was twenty-six and had a path of chaos behind me. I’d set out to be a failure and succeeded. None of the blame was mine, mind you, but something was definitely wrong and I knew it. So I set out to figure it out. I had plenty of time to figure it out – I took every program that became available to me, took all the job tracks to learn a skill. And, honestly, most of it was bullshit. Some of it had purpose, but most of it was out of books. Then in 2004, a new program became available. It was New Horizons and they wanted 25 participants. I signed up and was accepted. My first class we were introduced to a gentleman wearing a pair of overalls and a blue blazer. “Here we go,” I thought. But I remember three of the first things he said. “1. Hello, my name is Bill Cumming. 2. If I start to fall, let me. My leg is made of mostly chicken wire.” And, “3. I want to ask you not to believe anything I tell you.” This caught my interest. If I’m not to believe this guy, then why am I taking this class. For the next few weeks, we all met once a week for a few hours, and at the end of each session, we would get a silly homework assignment. Something like look at yourself in the mirror for a couple of minutes or self reflect. In prison, this is a little hard. To look silly or weak is not what you want. But I found a way and time to do it. Not really knowing what I was reflecting on. But found the more I did it, the more I learned about myself and others. Or rather not so much about others as I learned that the emotions and feelings other have, are just that. Their feelings and emotions. Now if these people are allowed to have their own feelings, then so can I. Therefore, I’m allowed to make my own decisions and choices of who I want to be. This started a new direction for me.

I didn’t speak with Bill after the program until I was released. He asked me what I wanted to do. What was gonna make my life complete? I gave him my spiel. Told him of past history. Obligations, responsibilities.

He asked me what I knew how to do, what I liked to do, what made me happy? I told him I liked to work with my hands, that I had been involved with the wood working program at the prison and became pretty good at it. He informed me of a program called The Starfish Fund. And that it was to help individuals pursue their goals. I jumped on the opportunity. I was given a chance. Someone listened.

And now here I am. Like I said in the beginning, a husband, a dad who is here, helping with my share of responsibilities. I take pride in the things I do and in myself. Happy with where my business is headed and have a new direction in life. I don’t completely know what will happen. But for now, I am complete. And as for what one person can do – well, it’s a whole lot more than what a bunch of people who want to do nothing can do.

So others might understand his achievements more clearly, I asked Bill M. to write his experience in relation to the New Horizons Academy, What One Person Can Do and The Starfish Fund. I have edited it only for clarity of meaning. It is my hope that it will allow you to know what I mean when I speak of the power that resides within all people. In my experience, each of Bill’s days is a tribute to that power and I also know that it is Albert Boothby who created the possibility for that discovery.