JoseF’s recommended reading for JMac: John Steinbeck, Upton Sinclair, Carl Sandburg. Dis list havin been compiled wid my help in response to JMac’s latest written submission. He seems to have gone completely fictional on us.

Wait a second! Was dat JMac’s intake or Spark’s? Maro! Can you help me out here?
Spark feels dat he cannot make himself understood. Da’s what de’xpression on his face is tellin everybody. He is tryin to say, “I am not just a jock.” He is sayin dis quite slowly, but somehow dey all missin it. I s’pose cuz i’s completely outta context here, given de situation. Distinctly. I can hear him sayin dis quite distinctly. His eyes are closed. De whole room has gone silent. He is sayin, “I cannot make myself understood, now.” He is speakin slowly an distinctly, but no one is understandin at all, cept for me, dat is. “I am not just a boy who skateboards. I have an intricate history. Experiences and feelings. I’m complex.” He opens his eyes and says, “Please don’t think I don’t care.”
As Spark is lookin out and attemptin to rise from his chair, I can see d’horror expressed on de faces of everyone else in de room. I see jowls saggin, eyebrows spiked into thoroughly wrinkled foreheads, cheeks flushed and somehow sucked in. Suddenly the door opens and in walks a bunch o’people in white coats. Someone has pressed’panic button. At d’head o’dem all comes Kretschmar. She is a woman who looks to be about forty years of age, wid pleasant but very penetrating eyes and a polite manner. Dis entirely new entourage is poised to show Spark attention an respect, until dey see d’expression on his face.
“I’m fine,” Spark tries to tell dem, standing.
Yes, i’s quite obvious dat Kretschmar is in charge here, now.
“Please don’t worry,” Spark is saying. “I can explain.”
He is tryin to soothe d’air wid what he believes is a casual hand. But before he knows it, both of his arms are pinioned from behind, and he is wrestled roughly down to de floor.
Durin dis time, Kretschmar has seated herself upon a nearby stool. A man from her team also seats himself upon a stool, introduces himself to Spark as Doctor Stravinsky, all the while continuing to smile amiably at him.
Dey must have put together d’whole case already.
“Nothing is wrong,” Spark is continuing to attempt communication wid’ese people. His forehead is pressed into de floor. He has definitely been arrested. He is tryin to be perceived as limp an pliable. His face is mashed flat; dis makin it hard for him to breath, so dat his words come out even more mangled.
“Try to listen,” Spark says very slowly into de floor.
All de while maintainin his amiable smile, Dr. Stravinsky turns to Kretschmar an says, “WHAT are those... those SOUNDS?”
Spark is now raised up by his underarms, all de while sayin, “I am not what you see and hear.”
Spark is now encircled by a crude half nelson.
“I’m not,” Spark says. The disorder he has somehow caused revolves around him. He is half-dragged, still pinioned, through a loose mob of Administrative people. Spark is brought to Room 117, a cell situated in an otherwise cement corridor. It had formerly served as a sick-room for several patients. It has a high ceiling and gives d’impression o’bein spacious, dat is, until one spends all of one’s time in der. Spark is rolled over, until he is supine on de room’s biodegradable linoleum tile. Here one word makes him shudder (I can see his response), and dat is de word ‘schizophrenia’. De weary doctors look at him and discuss his condition listlessly, “Speech and motor excitation... delirious episodes... clearly a complicated case... Schizophrenia, one must assume. And alcoholism too... The boy needs care... here to enroll, compete...”
***
Oh, right. How could I get dem’ixed-up like dat? Didn’t’hey have completely different admissions? Right. Dey came in on de same night. Da’s why.