I sit here, laptop opened in front of me, a blank screen waiting to be written on, and not knowing where to go from here. The truth is I have hundreds of stories to tell, but which ones are important enough to share. Which ones will paint the picture I want you all to see?
Maybe that is the bigger question: What is the picture I want all to see? I want everyone to see Love. Beauty. Perserverance. Patience. Healing. Acceptance. Everything I am now, but the truth is it took a lot of ugly, hurtful, painful experiences for me to get here. So, here I am again, ready to open my heart and my soul to you in the hopes that my story will reach as many people as possible.
I think I may have skipped too many important events in my life when I settled on the theme of the last chapter. I think maybe the thought of holding that huge life event in, after I had opened the book, was too much for me. So, I will digress and go a bit back in time. To before my Dad passed away. About one year before, the summer of 1988. I was 12 years old. That June, I was taken away from my parents and into Child Protective Custody. My parents went under investigation and were deemed to be unfit. I'm sure that doesn't come as a huge surprise after reading about the living conditions and their addictions, but, I still believe it could have been worse. As a child, I was never physically abused or molested. I was never unloved or directly mistreated. To be honest, thinking back on my childhood, and into my adulthood -- before my Mom passed away -- I've always, always, always felt loved, adored, and cherished. As important as all those things were, there were still some serious issues that needed to be dealt with at home.
In 1988, I was in 6th Grade. During this school year I somehow ended up seeing the school counselor on at least one occasion that I can remember. I cannot remember if this was a mandatory thing that all students had to do, or if I was targeted for this counseling based on the signs of neglect at home. What were those signs?
They included coming to school with dirty clothes, hair, and body every day, not having school supplies, cutting school on a regular basis since 2nd Grade, never having any homework, book reports, or projects done...hmm, yeah, I think that about covers it. I think any one of those things warranted an investigation, so looking back now, it makes sense. At the time, I was clueless. They probably told me it was mandatory for everyone to make me feel better, who knows. What ended up happening was I met with the counselor, Ms. Eraser. I remember thinking what a funny name that was. I remember her huge, frizzy, curly hair. I remember her desk, cluttered with papers. I remember her calm, sweet voice trying to make me feel comfortable while asking me questions about life at home.
"Did your Mom or Dad every hit you"?
WHAT! NO! How dare she ask that!
"Did your Dad ever hit your Mom"?
Was this lady for real?
"Was there food in the refrigerator"?
(silence)
"Who does your homework with you after school"?
(silence)
"Who cooks dinner for you"?
(looking down)
"Who is home when you get home from school"
(a tear starts to run down my cheek)
I was shaking. Why was she asking me these questions? I felt ashamed. How did she know? I was scared. I will never tell this stranger anything! It's not her business. I sit there, silent.
Ms. Eraser senses my apprehension. She comforts me. She ensures me that nobody outside of this room will EVER know what I tell her. It's a secret. I can trust her. I slowly start to believe her. I was a broken egg with the egg whites slowly dripping out. I can't hold it in any more. I start answering her questions. A weight is lifted off my chest, and it pours out of my eyes. I've never talked to anyone about any of these things and it feels like I've just been set free. She continues to ask question after question and continues to tell me that no one will ever know, It's our secret. She's here for me, and me alone. It will never leave this room.
Well she lied. It was a big lie. Do I know and realize now why she lied? Sure. My 12 year old self does not have the mental or emotional capacity to understand or see that she was trying to protect me when she called Child Protective Services. For all I knew, that session was over and I was moving on with my life feeling a little bit lighter and more free. I see her in the hall and I smile, knowing I have someone I can confide in.
I am not sure how long after that session happened that it was when I was taken out of school, right in the middle of class and placed in an unmarked police car outside of school. What is going on?!!? Will someone please talk to me, instead of just looking at me with pity. STOP looking at me like I'm a freak! Where are you taking me!? I want my Mommy! Why am I here!? Who are you? Oh, you're a police officer? Who CARES! I want to go home! WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!!???
I put on an angry face the entire drive to the police station. The officers asked me if I wanted ice cream. The look on my face told them exactly where they could put that ice cream. They take me to an upstairs room on top of the precinct. The room is huge, but made to feel like a coffin with all the filing cabinets lined up in rows, almost up to the ceiling. Papers and folders are everywhere. I can't breathe. I am numb. I withdraw inside myself and start having out of body experiences. When I think back to this place, I see this room, me, the officers, the filing cabinets, the folders all from a above. I'm mentally in the corner of the room because I just cannot comprehend what they are telling me.
My parents are not fit. What does that even mean? I'm better off out of those conditions. Oh, really? Am I? Thanks, but I don't remember asking for help. Then, that's when it hits me. Ms. Eraser. My heart starts to break. I thought she wanted to protect me! I thought what we talked about was a secret! How could she do this to me!?
I end up sitting in that room, denying food and water, denying comfort and sympathy for hours. It had gotten dark. The lights are blaring at me. Florecent and awful. Making me feel exposed. I sit there for hours as they make phone call after phone call, talking about me like I'm not even there. "Who will take her." "Have you tried the Aunt?" "If we don't hear back, it'll have to be a foster home until trial." Finally, something is happening. I am swooped up. I go blank...I can't remember what's next, only that I end up at my Aunt, Grandma, and Grandpa's house.
I'm given a bedroom upstairs. I'm fed I'm sure, although I cannot remember if I ate. I stay there for I think two days. In those two days, I am completely in the dark. No one is telling me anything. The only time I am ever at my Grandparents'house is for holidays and this sure was not a holiday. It felt weird. It was wrong. I was in this house that was "normal" and clean. A house that all of a sudden takes on new meaning to me. It feels different. On holidays it feels right. We go to Grandmas, have dinner, pretend to be regular kids and color, laugh and play til it's time to go home. We get leftovers from a turkey or ham dinner, which are immediately devoured like our lives depended on it. On holidays we could play and pretend to be regular kids. But, not today. Today it feels like a prison. I see a house that is well taken care of and think of my dirty, cockroach infested apartment. I see a house with a stocked refrigerator and pantry and think of the refrigerator with dead cockroaches embedded into it's door frame, filled with nothing but maybe old cheese donated from the church, and if we are lucky, some ketchup packages. I see function here where there is such tremendous dysfunction at home. My Grandparents and their house will forever take on new meaning. I no longer will get excited to go there for holidays, because, there are 360 days out of the year that we are sitting in filth.
It will take me many years to learn about the relationship my Dad had with his parents and why we were only a few miles apart in distance, but lightyears apart in reality. My Dad married my Mom without the consent of his parents. They both got tangled up in drugs, but that's not how his parents saw it. Could I blame them? My dad was a borderline genius. He was going to be a scientist. Then he met some girl from Brooklyn and all hell broke loose. Then Vietnam and my Mom got pregnant. From their point of view it all made sense. I see that now, but as a kid I had no idea just how far that resentment went. My mother never came to my Grandparents house for holidays. We had to leave her behind and we did because she would love us all the way out the door. We would bring her home food, but she wasn't exactly welcomed there. I doubt she put up too much protest. My Mom had her social issues. I never got the feeling that she exactly wanted to be there. It was just how the holidays went.
Now here I am--at the holiday house, but this is not any holiday I ever planned. I just wanted to go home. My Aunt took me to see my parents at some point that weekend, but we weren't allowed to go into the house. We had to meet at the park across the street. Right out in the open. Right out where everyone in the apartment complex could see. I remember being absolutely humilated. I knew people were talking by the way they looked at me. I played it cool as any 12 year old would. I pretended everything was normal. Just hanging out on this bench. Nothing to see here. I got so wrapped up in what people were thinking that it's all I can remember! I don't remember seeing my parents. I do remember seeing my friend, the two closest friends I had: Marie and Lena. I remember them asking me if I was ok. When will I be back. What's going on. I remember driving away, off to spend another night at the holiday house. I am sitting in my Aunt's car with my walkman on, blasting "It Takes Two to Make a Thing Go Right"....It takes two to make it outta sight. I had it so loud that I knew she could hear the very inappropriate lyrics, and I just didn't care.
That Monday we end up in Family Court. Now, don't go thinking this is all fancy like Law & Order. It's not. It's the first time I remember being reunited with my parents. Actually, it was just my Mom. My Dad was... I don't know at the time, but, I find out later he was in rehab. We sit in this big waiting room, filled with rows and rows of hard plastic chairs for hours. My Mom is loving on me as I pull away. Instead, I start looking at peoples' shoes. Taking note of the fashion of the grown ups, or the lack thereof, we are in Jamaica, Queens for Pete's sake. Finally, we are called in to a room where a judge decided that our house is unfit for children and that I am to go to live in foster care unless there is any family that would like to step up. My Grandparents and Aunt decide that they cannot take us for the summer. I don't know the reason behind this, as I never asked.
At the very last second, one of my Mom's sisters, Carol, stands up and says she will take us. Quite honestly, I don't even know this woman. I think I may have been at her house once? I'm not sure. My Mom was one of 14 siblings. I have so many Aunts and Uncles and cousins on my Moms side and I barely know any of them at this point in my life. I have a quick snap shot memory of a few, but nothing lasting. They've all gone their separate ways.
Off I go to my Aunt's house on Long Island, an Aunt I barely know, but treats me like her own. She takes care of me like I was hers. She loves me just the way my own Mom does. Shes funny, sarcastic, loving, and a hard ass.... just like my Mom. I stayed there from June through September of 1988. I went to the park, I got ice cream on Sundays--but only if I ate all my dinner. I had DINNER every night. I had clean clothes, I had a warm shower every night. Suddenly, the dysfunction of my house is all the more clear. This is a normal, happy, functional life. Tuna fish sandwiches at the park. Play dates with cousins I barely knew. Swimming in my other Aunt's pool. My mom had three sisters that all lived within a few miles of each other. They did everythng together, and that summer I was along for the ride. Sure, that summer is an overall piece of a bigger puzzle, but that summer will always be the best summer of my life. I was able to be a kid. I called my boyfriend once a week, I got goosebumps talking to him while sitting at my Aunt's table. I went to Bingo and had sleepovers at my cousins. That summer will always be one of my fondest memories.
Then. It ended. I came home one day. A day the court decided, I guess. I came home not knowing what to expect. How to feel. How to move forward. I remember walking in, and the first thing I notice was the smell. It's like musty, but clean at the same time. Like Pine-Sol mixed with dirt. I walk through the house in sheer shock. It's clean. It's painted. We have real mattresses, and not dirty, holey foam pads. The beds are made. There is food in the fridge. What's more amazing? My parents are sober. It's an odd feeling. I don't even know how to interact with them when they're sober. They are over the moon to see us. Hugs and tears. A tour of the "new" house. Promises that they will never let us go again fill the air.
Did any of that last? No, none of it. Sobriety was fleeting. Slowly, but surely the house got torn apart. The food got eaten. The walls got dirty. And the beds were never made again.
