Supervised visitation

Paul Clements

What an emotional stew! I was filled with joyful anticipation of seeing my six year old son again, after two years of legal wrangling with his mother and the Department of Social Services. At the same time, I was filled with foreboding at the prospect of walking into a supervised visitation center staffed, I knew, by staunch women's advocates.

I was scarcely aware of other traffic, traffic lights, people on the street, or much of anything besides my jumble of thoughts as I drove to the assigned meeting place. Parking the car, I approached the door on foot, and stopped to look at the building, an old Victorian mansion on the outskirts of the business district. How austere it looked, how intimidating it felt. I knew that once inside the building, I would be in the enemy's camp, under their control, subject to their whims. I didn't know if I had the fortitude to proceed. The image of my son prodded me onward, however, and I entered the building determined to acquiesce to almost anything, just to see my son once more.

I was met in the entrance by a young girl, scarcely half my age, and obviously fresh out of college. She looked at me disdainfully, I thought, and rather smugly. "Mr. Clements?" she asked. "Yes," I meekly replied. "You're five minutes early," she said, as if that were a crime. Didn't she know how badly I longed to see my son? Didn't she know that it had been two years since I saw him last? She shoved a paper at me, not handing it to me, but shoving it under my nose, in a rather condescending manner. It was an identity form to be filled out. Who am I? Where do I live? Where do I work? What is my telephone number? Child's name, insurance company, details on restraining orders, custody decrees, the works!

Most important of all, they wanted to know how I was going to pay the $50 hourly fee. As I sat in the empty room, off the main hallway, filling out the form, I asked myself why they needed all this information about me? I was only there for an hour to see my son. Of what use to them was all this personal data? I felt like a prisoner being stripped naked, so as to strengthen the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability.

When I was finished with the form, she shoved another piece of paper at me. This was a list of the rules and regulations of the visitation center. According to that list, I was to arrive 15 minutes earlier than the scheduled visitation time. Any tardiness would mean a cancellation of the visit. There was to be no attempt to communicate with either my son or ex-wife until the ex had left the building. I was not to be allowed to bring any presents, toys, clothing, games, food or photographs to share with my son. I was to visit with my son only in the presence of a staff person, and would not be allowed to mention his mother unless the comments were favorable to her. I was not to deny to him anything which she might have said about me. I was not to ask him any questions about where he lived, where he went to school, or what his phone number might be. I was not to discuss my own personal life with him; could not reveal my address, phone number, or employer.

Mention of child supports to his mother was strictly forbidden. I was not to attempt to coerce him into asking for additional visitation time with me. If he indicated that he wished to end the visit, I was to acquiesce immediately, and ask that the supervisor recall his mother to come and pick him up.

It all seemed very punitive and oppressive, but I wanted so badly to see my son.

Finally, at ten minutes past the appointed time, another staff person knocked on the door, and brought in my son. I flung my arms open wide, indicating to him that I wanted to embrace him for the first time in two years.

The young supervisor shouted, "No, you can't do that!" She explained that the child had to initiate all physical contact; if the father tried to get physically affectionate, the visit would end. Josh was shy with me, after a two-year absence, and was obviously startled by the supervisor's outburst, and so was reluctant to embrace me.

My heart hung heavy, like the breast of an overweight, elderly matron. My eyes became watery, to the point where I could see nothing but a blur. I had to stifle a sob, lest the show of emotion cause the visit to end. I wanted to see my son, to establish a relationship once more, and must not allow anything to interfere with that goal.

Josh went to the toy rack, which the center had stocked with dolls, games, puzzles, and assorted toys. He selected a set of toy soldiers to play with, and asked me if I wanted to play war with him. Of course I agreed.

Josh set up a dozen or so toy soldiers, carrying a variety of tiny weapons and guns. Then he put a cork into the spring-loaded cannon, laid on the floor to aim it, and released the cork into the assembled troop of plastic infantrymen. I tossed back the cork, and set the toy soldiers back up again, and the process was repeated, to Josh's delight.

He squealed and yelped with each shot, seeing himself, perhaps, as General Grant at Gettysburg, or Davy Crockett at the Alamo. His delight was contagious, and he soon had me forgetting that we were being closely watched.

After what seemed like only minutes, the supervisor announced that time was up, and Josh's mother would soon be arriving to take him home. I wanted to hug him, give him a big kiss, and tell him I loved him and would hardly be able to wait until the follow week's visit to see him again. But I had been warned about "inflicting emotional distress" and said, simply, "So long, Josh, it was nice seeing you again. I enjoyed playing with you." That got me a dirty look from the supervisor, but fortunately, she said nothing.

She quickly grabbed Josh's hand, and whisked him away from the room, telling me to wait until she returned to release me. I felt like a prisoner. She, on the other hand, looked relieved that the hour with me was over.

After she left with Josh, I noticed she had left her notebook on the chair where she had been sitting. She must have been really anxious to leave, I mused. Curiosity overtook me, and I walked over to take look at what she had been writing. Most was pretty factual, and mundane, but one phrase jumped off the page an hit me between the eyes like a hammer. Instead of commenting on the companionable play which Josh and I engaged in, I found she had interpreted the toy soldier game differently. She was reporting that I had encouraged my son to participate in "aggressive and violent activities."

My head swam, and my knees went weak. I realized I had been set up. Josh had picked the only toys in the rack which were typical boy toys. It was either an action figure set, or dolls and sedentary games. The center had provided them, not me. But they were going to use that to document my "violent nature," and further reinforce the mother's portrayal of me as a violence-prone father.

I knew then that the people who ran this visitation center wanted me to become an accessory to my son's feminization. They expected me to warn him against playing with toy soldiers and guns, and instill their ideas of pacifism and gender neutrality. They were using my love of my son, my longing to be with him, to turn him against me. I knew then, that to continue to see my son, I would be required to betray his masculinity. I could either betray him, or abandon him. It was a satanic choice, and I left the center in a rage.

Part 2: Academic underpinnings

Part 1: Supervised visitation center guideline exposed

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