Tears

Blighted: Sick

My journey through the fostercare system was worse than some but better than most. My mother was mostly absent from my life until I was 17. My father spent years in prison. A healthy relationship has never existed with either of my parents. Foster parents are the only true parents I have ever known.

From the age of 4 months until I am 10, this is my story. Like a stone skipping across the waters of a pond, I will touch briefly upon several points in time. Some parts of this story I remember fondly. Other moments cause my stomach to churn and pulse to race.

Ruffians: People of ill intent

My father grew up in a strict household, strongly influenced by alcohol and abuse. His father came home drunk and socked him in the gut. It was to toughen him up. My father was nice enough to pass the same lesson on to me.

My father joined the Navy right after high school rather than being drafted. The only action he saw was the fall of Saigon. He saw far more action on home turf.

A man tried to rob him of his meager, Navy paycheck. He stabbed the man. He left the thief to bleed out on a San Diego dock.

My father loves to go to bars. He isn’t picky about which ones he goes to. One time, when he came out of a California gay bar, a bunch of thugs tried to gay-bash him. One of the thugs had a pair of nunchucks. My dad disarmed the man and proceeded to royally kick the man’s ass with his newly acquired nunchucks.

Eaux-de-vie: French for Brandy

At age 11, when she went in to get her lady parts examined is when my mom realized she was being abused by her step-father. The suppressed memories came back in a flood of horror. She violently reacted as the Gynecologist probed her. That exam is also when she found out that she was pregnant.

She gave up for adoption, the byproduct of her trauma. She never saw the baby when it was born. It was taken and put up for adoption immediately upon delivery. I have an older sibling of unknown gender somewhere out there.

The abuse of her step-father being more than she could handle. My mother fled home as a pre-teen. Over his perversions, she chose homelessness.

While roaming the streets as a teenager, my mother did many distasteful things to get by. She took the name of her favorite cheap booze as her street name. Brandy became a stripper at the Skyway Lounge on 8th and Hennepin when she was old enough.

Rennet: Enzyme used to start a controlled fermentation process

My parents met while she was working at the Skyway Lounge. It makes me laugh to consider the image of two strippers fighting over my dad. Yet that is exactly what happened. My mother and her white-haired coworker competed for my father’s affection.

“Your father was very charming, and fun to be around back in the day.” My parents started out with a good relationship; as most are in the beginning. Nobody chooses to date someone who is emotionally disturbed or an asshole right out of the gate.

My parents drank copious amounts of alcohol, used many illicit substances, and fought like cats and dogs. My father repeatedly raped my mother while they were drunk, per her interview. She allowed this abuse because it was all she knew of men. My mother says, my younger sister was conceived from rape.

My mother spends Columbus Day weekend in jail after an alcohol-fueled struggle with my father. The dispute was over the last couple of slices of cheese. She doesn’t remember what kind of cheese it was. She only remembers that he wanted two of the three slices, and she wanted to divide the odd piece in half.

My father spent a night in jail once for knocking my mother out. Why did he knock her out? She tried to shoot him… and missed.

My mother was working at a drug store in south Minneapolis during the pregnancy. She lost her job because of complications with my pregnancy. This put yet another strain on my parents’ relationship. I am born, not into a loving home, but into a home of addiction, abuse, and violence.

Naissance: The gentle state of a newborn

My mother’s water breaks prematurely while waiting at a bus stop at 15th & Nicollet, in south Minneapolis. She rushes to the restroom of a nearby restaurant. There she uses toilet paper to staunch the flow of leaking amniotic fluid. My mother takes a cab to Hennepin County Medical Center. The driver is less than thrilled with the tip she leaves saturating the back seat.

I am born ten days later. My parents disagree on how early my birth was. My mother says four months early. My father says six weeks early. Either way, my delivery is early. Chaos ensues.

Back then smoking is allowed in hospitals. Not in the rooms; just the hallways. My mother gets very angry with my father because he repeatedly steps outside the room for a smoke.

She is not mad because he is smoking, she is made because she cannot. She has contractions while he is out giving in to addiction.

I keep slipping back inside. She has trouble pushing me through the birth canal. My body is tiny, yet my head is full-sized for being premature. My labor, stresses my mother’s body to the breaking point. She dies twice during labor and awakens twice to find burn marks upon her chest.

I am born at 2:50 a.m. My head is shaped more like a potato. Four pounds and twelve ounces is all that I weigh. With my head resting in his cupped hand, my father can fit my entire body on his forearm.

The complications from my untimely birth continue for some time. I am kept in an incubator. My weight drops by a full pound during my first month of life. I am fed through a tube because I refuse to suckle.

I am put under a Bilirubin Light, after removal from the incubator. Bilirubin is a byproduct of when the body creates new red blood cells. Normally the body gets rid of this waste all on its own. A yellowing of the skin, called Jaundice, occurs when my body fails to do so. The special light stimulates my body to rid itself of the waste material, either through urine or stool.

Tears: Moisture shed during times of great emotion

My siren wails are more than she can handle. How can I be so loud for one so small? Mom tries to feed me. I rudely decline. She tries burping me, gentle at first, then rough. My diaper is clean. Nothing helps. If anything, her endeavors make me louder. She pleads with me and screams at me to stop.

She picks me up to give comfort. I repay her efforts by howling right into her ear. She throws me down on the bed and runs out of the room. She slams the door and collapses upon the un-sanded, wood floor in the hallway.

Child Protective Services forbade my mother from being unsupervised with me after the last marks were discovered by the county-assigned health worker. My father is at work.

The county doesn’t foot the bill for a babysitter. What other option does she have? She sobs hysterically. Even the sound of her bawling not being enough to drown out my incessant wails. She takes a long, slow drag from her cigarette to calm down. She went too far, throwing me like that. She left marks again.

Distension: Unnatural swelling

I am left with my Aunt and Uncle so my parents can go out to bars. I am only four months old. I cry long into the night. When I get quiet, the relatives take notice. They see my swollen head and the drooping side of my face. They look at each other, pick up the phone and press three times. Sirens wail in the distance.

Sacraments: Religious acts

The priest performs the rite, says the words, sprinkles the water, and anoints the oil. Yet, the emergency baptism has all the sentiment of a funeral to those in attendance. Tears are shed as I am wheeled into the operating room of Children’s Hospital. In their hearts, the on-lookers say goodbye. I am unlikely to survive in the coming hours.

Familia: Italian for family

My foster-sister waking me up is the fondest of my early memories. I am two years old. She giggles and blushes as she says “Mom and Dad, are kissing!” We run into our parents’ room and jump on their bed. It is covered by a heavy multi-colored quilt with tassels in the middle of each square. “I caught you! I caught you!” we squeal with excitement. My fostersister and I scandalously cover our mouths, as our ‘rents smooch. We laugh care-free, still jumping. It is Saturday morning and this… this is family.

Torn: Something that has been ripped forcefully without care

I am taken away from my foster family at the age of four. I scream and wail in protest. I don’t want anyone but them. I am forced me to go and live with my biological father, and two-year-old sister. I already have a father. I already have a sister. I don’t want new ones!

I cry for days. I only eat when forced to; barely even then. I miss my family.

Corroboration: Evidence proving what happened

The teacher keeps pulling me out of class. She is concerned about the marks on my neck. I talk to the Principal, a Social-Worker, and a Police Officer. I spend less than twenty minutes in class all morning. It is the first day of first grade.

An officer takes me out of school shortly after lunch. The officer drives me a few blocks away, to the police station. My sister is already there. We hug.

Our new surroundings are uninteresting to kids. We are given a tour of the jail to keep us out of trouble. My sister drops her pound puppy into the filthy porcelain toilet. I climb high on the painted steel bars. She cries. I laugh.

Our father is brought up on sex charges shortly after we are removed from his custody. He is in prison before Christmas the following year. My sister and I are put in trauma therapy.

Sanctuary: Where you are safest during troubled times

The social worker is giving my sister and me a ride to the next foster home. She lets me play with her carbon-copy paper during the long drive. I think it is cool that what I draw on the top sheet transfers to the sheets below.

Without thinking, I rub my sore arm. She asks what is wrong. “Nothing,” I reply. The fosterhome we stay in the first month is decent if you ignore the fact that the lady running it tried to break my arm by bending it around a bedpost.

We arrive at the new foster home. Before we were even introduced, I flee to the basement. I ball up tightly in a corner, behind a steel and wood desk. For a long time, I numbly stare at a green and white plastic frog. I pick it up after the passage of a few minutes. I hold the frog as if it were the last object left on the planet.

I look around after what feels like an eternity. There are toys everywhere. I am in a toy room! I venture out of my sanctuary.

The social worker calls down the stairs. She asks me to join her in the living room. I ball up in the corner again, but not as tightly as before.

This place might be tolerable. After all, my sister is with me. I no longer hate her.

Eventually, the social worker comes downstairs and says she must depart. I scream accusations at her for leaving me. I am growing bitter and withdrawn.

Homestead: Where you put down roots

A small white house sits in the middle of six acres of grass. It is built on a hill. From the front, it appears a single story. From behind, it is two levels.

To the north is the play-yard. This is a fenced-off area just for us kids. We are free to roam everywhere, but this place is just for us. I get stung by wasps here.

To the east is a small sledding hill, this one is mowed, and can be rolled down during the warm months. At the base of this hill is where the good climbing trees are. This is where a nail gets impaled through my foot when I stepped on an old board obscured by fresh snow. I fall from the best climbing tree and impale my groin on a sharp limb below. This is also where I get run over by a trailer being pulled by a tractor.

To the south is the massive front yard where the bird feeders and the driveway are. The killdeers nest in this area. Their decoy antics amuse us endlessly. Never once do we find a nest. The only injuries here are bike related. We wait for our school bus by the road at the end of the driveway.

To the west, is the massive sledding hill. I will lose my front teeth in a sledding accident here at age ten. In the warm months it is of no use to us kids because it is covered in grasshopper and long golden grass.

Mom always wears long blue corduroy skirts, cooks big meals, and cleans. She hugs us often and tucks us into bed each night with a kiss and a vanilla ice cream cone. The house and everything within are her domain.

Dad watches Television, plays in the garage with his trains, and reads from the Bible each night at dinner. He volunteers as a firefighter and tends to the farm. Everything outside the house is his domain.

Several farm cats patrol the grounds faithfully for mice. When they return from the hunts sans-mouse, a bowl of food is overflowing in the garage, and the water-dish never runs dry. Each child has a kitten that we name. My sister’s cat is a long-haired orange tabby named Fluffy. Mine is a short-haired orange tabby named Rascal.

Many children come and go while we are here. Only one girl is there before we arrive. When we leave, she is still there. She is my best friend. We do everything together. She is also my sister’s roommate.

She teaches my sister to steal. They pilfer my room of the Christmas candy that I am going to give to everyone. They do this two years in a row. One year it is tootsie rolls. The next year it is a chewy cinnamon candy. My childhood friend will continue her habits into adulthood.

I am a regular boy on the farm. During the day that is. Nights are a totally different story. I am locked in the basement each night. It is a very clean and habitable basement. My room is in the basement. I have full access to the toy room, a restroom, and more books than I can ever read.

I suffer from severe separation anxiety. I have repeated panic attacks. The attacks usually involve me kicking the basement door hysterically until someone wakes up to comfort me.

I act out when I go to school. The crowds are more than I can handle. Once, I even refuse to get on a bus that isn’t the one I normally take to school. I am sent away after a few years of frustrating my foster parents and teachers.

Hades: Where the dead go to be judged

My sister and I are separated for ten months of hell. I feel lost without her. She is the second sister I have had, but the only one that is truly mine. I am angry, bitter, and hurting inside.

I am abused during this time. I am abused in a way that no kid should ever be abused. I don’t know how to let anyone know. I lash out for months at those around me. The abuses I suffer during this time will haunt me for decades to come. Every intimate relationship I will have is affected. It will be years before I can talk with people.

Calan Gaeaf: An ancient harvest festival

I am reunited with my sister the night of the Halloween snowstorm. We go trick-or-treating through the dorms of a religious college nearby. I dress as the King of Diamonds. My sister goes as the Queen of Hearts. Our grandmother helps us make our sandwich board costumes.

I move in with my sister and grandmother, the very next day. We are forced to take busesfrom near the state capital, to south Minneapolis. The trip takes hours because of the deep snow. We stop at Woolworths in downtown Minneapolis to buy boots. I ended up with two left-footed boots.

Around this time, we go out to see a movie. As my Grandmother is waiting to purchase the tickets, I am grinning. I love music, and we are about to see fantasia. She tells me to “stop grinning like a hideous monster.” She tells me this because of my broken teeth, in a public place, with lots of people nearby. I wouldn’t smile for the next seven years, because of that single callous comment.

The only time I have ever truly felt at home was while I was in foster homes. My fondest memories of family, are of parents that aren’t even my own. I greatly admire foster parents for opening their hearts and their homes to children in need.