A wonderful article by Dallas Morning News reporter Jon Nielsen:

By JON NIELSEN / The Dallas Morning News
jnielsen@dallasnews.com

D.J. carried his demons in clenched fists. The 13-year-old lashed out at teachers, siblings and foster parents. When reprimanded for his behavior, he stared at his feet and apologized in mumbles. D.J. needed hope. That much Andrea Calloway knew. Normal efforts to reach the boy failed. But Mrs. Calloway, his caseworker, recognized D.J. wasn’t a normal child.

When his biological parents finished beating each other, they turned to their five kids. With D.J., they punched him and told him he was worthless.

Siblings and schoolchildren endlessly teased D.J. because of a disability that steals function from his right hand.

In the three years after the state took over custody, D.J. languished in four foster care homes. Families adopted his two brothers and two sisters. They left behind D.J.

Mrs. Calloway called him the invisible child.

“He walked around like he was ashamed of being alive. Nothing you did or said would help him be proud of himself,” said Mrs. Calloway, who works for Court Appointed Special Advocates, better known as CASA.

Mrs. Calloway knew that D.J. needed friends – people who cared.

So she took a chance. She found an old business card, picked up the phone and dialed the number for one of the most boisterous, rowdy bunches that society offers.

Kristy “Mustang” Aston, Stan “Tequi” Richardson, Jessie “Chili Pepper” Lopez and Brad “Wolf” Davis rode out on a scorching summer day to meet the boy who struggled for acceptance.

As members of the nonprofit Bikers Against Child Abuse, they wanted to help. But they weren’t sure they could.

“He was on Last Chance Street,” said Mustang, the assertive biker chick with a penchant for motorcycles and Ford Mustangs. “He risked living the rest of his life knowing that he wouldn’t be liked.”

The BACA members look rough, dressed in black boots, black leather vests and doo-rags. But most days, they seem like any other professionals. They teach, police, doctor, nurse, drive trucks and answer phones.

But they also will ride in the rain, in the heat, sometimes a thousand miles or more to support a child.

BACA works with child advocacy groups to empower neglected children.

They “adopt” children into their band of bikers, giving them a road name, a leather vest and a new attitude toward life. They’ll sit in the courtroom when the child testifies against an abuser. They’ll stand sentry at the home if the child’s abuser threatens harm. And, most important, they’ll offer the protection of friendship.

At the start of every chapter’s monthly meeting, a member reads the group’s mission statement.

“We do not condone the use of violence or physical force in any manner,” goes the statement. “However, if circumstances arise that we are the only obstacle preventing a child from further abuse, we stand ready to be that obstacle.”

Today, they’re riding in Ellis County to see whether D.J. will accept a few bikers as his friends.

Sitting on the porch of the boy’s foster home, they fire questions. D.J. responds with a low mumble toward the ground.

What’s your favorite color?

Do you like school?

What do you want to be when you grow up?

“A biker,” the boy says.

Then Wolf seizes the opportunity to get down on his level.

“A good-looking young man like you has to be swarmed with girlfriends.”

D.J. looks up, and a crooked smile crosses his face.

A breakthrough.

D.J. must have a road name. He tells the bikers he likes pirates and points to a giant skull on Chili Pepper’s T-shirt. The bikers decide to call him Skull.

By the time the get-to-know-you session ends, Skull climbs on the bikes, shedding his shell.

He’s getting to know his new extended family.

Around the same time, Diana and Matt Morrison of Sachse talk about expanding their own family. It’s long been Mrs. Morrison’s dream to adopt a child in need.

Mrs. Calloway calls the couple the salt of the earth. But the Morrisons add a dash of wild pepper.

Mr. Morrison is a fun-loving guy who wears his short-cropped dark hair in a fauxhawk. He likes motorcycles and is a member of the Peacekeepers, a biker outfit representing public safety personnel and their family and friends. His road name, Papa Wheelie, has a double meaning because of his wheelchair stunts – he has spina bifida – and the fact that he is a prospective stay-at-home dad.

For years, Mrs. Morrison worked for nonprofits, most recently as an administrative assistant for Equest, the therapeutic horse riding group in Wylie.

The carefree, compassionate couple wants to start a family. They want someone who needs them. Someone they could build up and make to feel part of their family.

Ronda Paddack, an adoption prep worker for CPS in Denton County, knows D.J. needs a family who can overcome a challenge. The Morrisons’ name pops up in her search.

“It’s obvious that the family has dealt with huge issues, and it’s strengthened them,” she said. “They made their home a loving and positive environment despite all the physical and medical hardships.”

Mrs. Paddack wants the Morrisons to visit with the boy. Her nerves tell her the first-time parents might not work out. But her heart tells her to give it a try.

They set up a meeting at the Morrisons’ house for the first Saturday in January.

D.J. sits with his hands in his lap and eyes to the ground, ready for rejection.

When D.J. sees the couple’s biker vests draped over a chair in the kitchen, his eyes widen.

“I’m a biker, too,” D.J. says, telling them about his friends who ride with BACA.

After a long talk with D.J., the Morrisons discuss the uncanny connection.

“If we would have given birth to him, we would be interested in the exact same things,” Mrs. Morrison says.

D.J. asks to see Mrs. Paddack outside. He wants permission to spend the night with the Morrisons. A test ride for what could become his new family.

D.J.arrived with four sets of clothes, a radio and a basketball, his only possessions. The Morrison home has become D.J.’s temporary foster placement. But the traces of emotional abuse lingered.

Nearly every day when talking with D.J., Mrs. Morrison reached down, put her finger under his chin and lifted up his head.

“You are a good person. You deserve to look people in the eye,” she told him.

Chin up, D.J.’s confidence grew.

The first day he enrolled at school, he asked about the basketball team. A woman told him it was too late to join the squad. Maybe next year.

Knowing D.J.’s love for basketball, Mrs. Morrison asked around and found that D.J. qualified for a Special Olympics team. He dribbled a ball a week later for his new team.

“The first time he walked out on that court, his head went up, his whole world lit up,” Mrs. Morrison said.

As D.J. began to find his niche in life, he wanted to remove the last reminders of his life as an abused child.

“I can’t wait until my last name is the same as yours,” he repeatedly told the Morrisons like a refrain to his favorite song.

Only a legal adoption would change that.

Skull hears the thunder, then sees the 12-bike caravan heading to the Denton County courthouse. He jumps up and down on the grassy berm, waving at the bikers as they rumble into the parking lot.

“Skull, did we bring enough?” yells Joseph “Coonie” Reed, the Buffalo Creek chapter president, after parking his black Harley Davidson with its Superman logo on the side.

The shy boy nods his head, his red puffy cheeks clashing with his blond buzz cut. The BACA members, all 18, erupt in laughter.

Normally, the bikers ride to the courthouse to support children who give court testimony of the abuse they’ve suffered. Today, they’re riding to attend Skull’s legal adoption.

Coonie, a jolly bear of a man, howls an infectious laugh. He smiles almost constantly, like life is a never-ending punch line. His patience for child abusers is as short as his stubbly beard.

This is the first time Coonie’s seen one of his BACA brothers or sisters become part of a real family. Most children he works with end up back with a parent, or they age out of the foster care system.

This adoption day illustrates BACA’s ultimate goal – to empower children.

“Any time we get to see a happy ending like this is just totally, totally awesome,” Coonie said.

At the sight of the bikers there to support her new son, Mrs. Morrison can hardly contain her emotions.

“I’m excited. I’m giddy,” she said, holding up her trembling hands as proof.

The biker contingent gathers in the courthouse lobby as men in suits and ties and women in pantsuits make their way past. The group in full leather draws sidelong glances and nervous smiles.

“What did y’all do wrong?” asks one of the attendants at the front door. “Is there a criminal case going on today?”

The bikers laugh it off as they head to the courtroom.

After the judge signs the final order, he congratulates D.J.

“I hope that you have many happy days with your new mom and dad,” said Monte Lawlis, the senior district court judge in Denton County.

The judge says because of the momentous occasion, the family can approach the bench to snap pictures. The new family, with grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts, gathers around the bench, and flashbulbs fill the room. The bikers grin from their seats in the gallery. Some tear up.

Coonie can’t take it any more. From across the courtroom he hollers, “You said family, right, judge?”

Judge Lawlis smiles and allows the BACA brothers and sisters into the picture. They hold their fists high in the air, a symbol of strength for abused children.

“The only thing missing is a Harley,” Judge Lawlis said.

After the ceremony, the group travels to the home of Bill and Gaye Morrison, D.J.’s new grandparents. After sharing cake with Skull, a few of the bikers meet outside to talk about bikes and rides and reflect on the day.

Bill Morrison interrupts. “Guys and girls, I want to thank you all so much for coming to our house and being a part of D.J.’s life.”

“He’s a good kid. He just needed the right situation,” Coonie says. “You know that we’re not going anywhere. If he still needs us, we’re still going to be there.”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Morrison says. “That’s what friendship is all about.”

Later that night, at Grandma Gaye’s house in Garland, helium-filled balloons dance on the ceiling. Instead of popping them, the Morrisons decide to let them float away outside.

Diana Morrison tells D.J. to write a message on each balloon and release it into the air.

“What should I write?” he asks his mom.

“Write about your emotions about the day,” she said.

After thinking for a moment, he scrawls his name: “David Morrison” and his adoption date “6-18-08.”

On the second balloon he writes, “I’m free,” and the new family traces its ascension into the evening sky.

************************************************

Bikers Against Child Abuse is not your average biker gang

Bikers Against Child Abuse travels a landscape filled with the pits of cruelty and the pinnacles of empowerment.

Members ride to help battered children endure, lending friendship to those who don’t have a support network. They ride for themselves, many of whom were victims 20, 30, 40 years ago or have witnessed abuse.

They’ll “adopt” a child into their group and support that child through personal trials and triumphs.

“Once a BACA child, always a BACA child,” is one of the group’s mottos.

Texas has 21 BACA chapters, and there are others across the nation. Working with child advocacy centers and Child Protective Services, the nonprofit group has the potential to help thousands of battered children.

Prospective members of the club must pass a criminal background check and meet attendance requirements at organized functions. Once approved, members receive a patch that shows a white fist on a red background bashing through the chains of abuse.

The elaborate adoption ceremonies are heartfelt and can draw tears from the burliest biker.

So when the call goes out that a 7-year-old in Ellis County needs a friend, bikers from as far as Houma, La., saddle up to meet the boy they call Mew.

Weeks before, in an initial visit, a few of the bikers named Mew after a cartoon character he likes. Mew is said to be one of the strongest characters in the Pokemon series. But even the strongest needs courage. The bikers will provide a legion of surrogate brothers and sisters.

Joseph “Coonie” Reed, president of BACA’s Buffalo Creek chapter in Ellis County, briefed about 75 bikers in advance of the ceremony.

“Mew is a very timid little young man,” Coonie warned. “He’s afraid of the dark. He’s very scared any time anybody enters his room. So we know there’s definitely a problem. We’re going to be there to support him and be there for him.”

Then, with a police escort, they ride. The bikers form a winding parade of black leather and chrome until they reach the home where the battered boy lived.

From his front lawn, Mew and his foster family hear the roar.

“All this for me?” Mew asks his foster mom, Shontel Washington.

“Yes, this is for you,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.

“This is part of your new BACA family,” says Coonie, motioning to the crowd with his hand.

A wide smile jumps across Mew’s face, causing his nose to wrinkle.

“We’ve got to make this official. If you want us to be part of your family, then you have to be a part of ours.”

The initiation lasts two hours. The bikers give the boy a black leather vest with the Mew character on it and his road name across the back. Then each of the 75 bikers takes a knee and gives the boy a token of support.

As the ceremony ends, Mew’s vest is covered in pins.

“I’m afraid the vest is going to weigh more than he does,” Coonie says.

Mew even has a couple of doo-rags, some dog tags and a pair of cheap sunglasses he wears on top of his head.

The bikers let Mew sit on a bike of his choosing. Mew gets comfortable on a seat, pulls the shades over his eyes and holds out a clenched fist.

That’s BACA power.