Foster Care 101I went to my first foster home when I was eight; the year was 1975. My twelve-year-old half-sister Jillian (AKA: Kiki) and I were home alone when we were taken away. I remember it was a really hot summer’s day, the kind that curdles milk before it comes off the shelf. Kiki and I were trying to get a tan on the roof outside our attic bedroom. Really only Kiki could tan, my fair skin would just burn so I normally stayed in the shade. Even so, the roof was still nice because we had tranquility there and each other… (Break in narrative) When Mom was AWOL (as she commonly was during that summer, sometimes for days at a time), Kiki and I intentionally avoided the most frightening areas of the house. I personally rarely left the attic, even more so after my other half-siblings, Jessica, Jake, and Jack had moved away. They went to live with their biological fathers. Jessica and Jake, full-blooded siblings to each other and the oldest two, had left years previous, but my other half-brother Jack had departed for his father’s house just days before Kiki and I found ourselves relaxing on the roof unaware of the terrible things that were about to happen. Bang, bang, bang! Kiki and I jumped as an unexpected knock echoed up the attic stairs. I remember having a bad feeling as soon as I heard it. I wanted to ignore it but the banging was repeated with firm persistence that demanded attention. Kiki and I sat frozen silently staring at each other not sure what to do. “Jean, go get the door.” Kiki ordered after the initial shock wore off. She pushed me back inside through the attic window. “No! I’m scared. Maybe we should just pretend we’re not home.” I said quickly as I crawled back into the house. “Don’t be such a baby, go get the door!” Kiki demanded anger growing in her voice. “No, you get it! You’re not my mom. I don’t have to do what you say.” I replied as I stood with my arms crossed defiantly across my chest as Kiki crawled into the attic window after me. “Go open the damn door or I’ll hit you!” Kiki yelled as she stood up quickly and pushed me towards the attic stairs. “OK, OK.” I replied holding my hands up in surrender. With a feeling of dread, I went down the stairs and headed towards the front door. It was too late when I heard Kiki exclaim from the floor above me, “Shit, there’s a cop car outside!” By then I had already unbolted the door and opened it. Shit indeed! There on the porch is a very tall police officer. My heart raced and a knot of fear formed in my stomach. Although I probably felt less disdain for the police than the rest of my family, most of my previous exposure has been negative. My sister Jessica, eleven years older than I, had runaway countless times before she left to live with her father. Her escapades, along with the petty crimes of my brothers, made the back of police cars and visits to juvenile hall as common in our house as trips to the food bank for surplus government cheese and potted meat. Plus, my parents fought violently in the years prior to their divorce. Over and over again I observed the arrival of the police at our house with their lights flashing and sirens blaring. Even when I covered my head with my pillow or hid in the closet, I still could hear strict orders they issued from bullhorns. From those experiences, along with direct urging from my family to hate the police, I had instant regret that I had opened the door. “Hi, are you ..., are you Jean?” The tall officer asked looking down at a small pad with names written on it, his voice is kind and full of concern. I nodded fighting the urge to bolt past him and make a run for the woods. “Is your sister Jillian here too?” He asked gently. I remained quite while looking down at the scabs on my boney knees. “Hey Jean, I’m not here to hurt you. Something has happened to your mom and I am here to make sure that you and your sister are OK. Tell me honey, is your sister here too?” he asked me again squatting down to make himself my size. I nodded. “Can you please go get her for me?” I nodded again, but reluctantly. With guilt that I was about to expose my sister to something seriously bad, I went upstairs to get her. Silently we both walked down the stairs. I want to tell her “I told you so!” but I was too chicken. After we were outside on the porch with the officer he explained why he had come. “Your mother is sick and in the hospital. She will likely be home in a few days but you can’t stay here alone. Is there anyone you can stay with, any relative or friend’s parents?” He asked… (Break in narrative)
The cop told me I could sit up in the front seat of the squad car with him, but Kiki was in the backseat calling him angry names and telling me I shouldn’t sit next to him. I really want to sit up front, but both fear and loyalty towards Kiki made me decline the officer’s offer. I should have taken him up on it, because over the course of my life I would ride in police cars several more times, but never again would I get an offer for the front seat. I settled in beside my fuming sister and I asked, “Are we going home?” I regretted the question as soon as it left my lips. Kiki’s barely contained rage erupted. “No Jean, this fucking pig is taking us to the police station! We’re not going home.” She hissed throwing herself back against the vinyl seat. The officer tried to sooth my sister’s undisguised hate and anger. “I’m sorry but your mother is sicker than everyone thought. She won’t be able to come home for awhile. I am only taking you to the police station so that I can find somewhere else for you to stay temporarily.” He said in a kind tone. He didn’t explain where somewhere else might be. As we drove the winding mountain roads I began to feel very afraid. When we arrived at the station, the officer offered us snacks from the vending machines lining the back wall. He told us to sit down while he figured out where we were going next. Kiki continued to mutter angrily at him under her breath. He kept assuring us that things were going to be OK, but by then I was pretty sure they weren’t. After we were seated he picked up the phone. Since the station was small, just three desks, a few chairs for visitors, and a holding cell behind a closed door, I could hear everything he said. “Are you sure there isn’t anything? What about the older girl’s father? Alright, I’ll try there first.” He said as he shuffled papers around on his desk. I watched him hang up and dial several more times. Looking up from his desk he saw that I was listening and dropped his voice. I still caught the end of his final conversation, “I feel terrible about this, but I guess there isn’t any alternative. I’ll take them there.” He said as he hung up the phone with a sigh. Coming over and squatting down in front of us, the officer informed us that he was going to have to take us to a juvenile detention center located in a larger city about 25 miles from our small mountain town. I was shocked. He said things were going to be OK. Juvy wasn’t OK! I was going to Juvy, I couldn’t believe it; nor could Kiki apparently because the information shocked her into silence. We both sat staring at the officer trying to comprehend what was about to happen, none of it made sense. My older siblings had been carted off to Juvenile Hall; they had told us all about “Juvy” each time they returned home. I was pretty sure it was someplace I didn’t want to go. I could understand the officer wanting to take my sister to there, after all she had been pretty unpleasant to him, but I was only eight. How could I be going to Juvy? At this point I was beginning to believe that the cop was a “Fucking Pig,” just like Kiki said. We were ushered out of the police station and into the back of the cop car once again. Kiki remained hostile during the drive. I on the other hand was overwhelmed with fear, but somehow I managed not to cry. After a long and silent drive down the mountain we arrived at Juvy; sometimes referred to by its residents as “Hotel Hell.” Looming in front of us was a compound surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. After entering through main gate, we were pulled from the back of the police car and led deep into a building through a series of locked doors. The officer tried to assure us that we were only going to have to stay until a suitable place could be found for us. But by then, I didn’t trust anything he said; I expected to be in Juvy awhile. A stern woman took us from the officer. She led us through a series of corridors into the processing area for new arrivals. She told my sister that she would not be staying. Her father had been contacted and would be arriving soon to pick her up. I looked at Kiki terrified. On my last birthday my mother had told me that my father was dead, so I didn’t hold out much hope that I would be rescued like her. If she went, I would be left in Juvy alone. As I held Kiki’s hand silent tears began to run down my cheeks. “Please, can’t I take Jean with me? I promise I will take care of her” Kiki asked the woman her voice thick with emotion. Unmoved, the woman shook her head and calmly explained the regulations to Kiki. “No, I’m sorry your sister will have to stay. She can only be released to a relative. Since your mother is too sick to care for her and her father cannot be located, the only option we have is to keep her here until a suitable home can be found. I’m sorry.” The woman said directing Kiki towards to door where she would be reunited with her father. Kiki hugged me goodbye. I began to sob uncontrollably. The woman pulled me away as Kiki stepped through the door. It locked automatically behind her. I begged the woman handling my admission to let me go with her. “Please, let me go. Please. I don’t want to stay here. Kiki wait!” I cried trying to break free of the woman’s grasp. I craned my neck to look through the thick safety glass window. Kiki was gone. I was alone… (Break in narrative)
When my odyssey in Juvy finally came to an end I was different, somehow not the girl I used to be. I was just eight, but I knew what it was to be truly alone. That made some part of me die; a crack inside once hairline, widened; bits shattered; blackness filled me. From that moment forward I decided that it wasn’t safe to have warm emotions like love. I buried those emotions deep, replaced them with indifference. I decided I would no longer feel; I would force myself achieve a kind of emotional numbness, a protective cloak against the world. Others would not be able to injure me again. Instead I filled myself with unrelenting resentment; resentment towards the police officer that had taken me from my home; resentment towards those now charged with my care; resentment towards my father and siblings for leaving me; but mostly deep and heated resentment towards my mother. I resented her the most for having five children by three different husbands. In fact, over her lifetime my mother would have six husbands, five kids and nine pregnancies. I was live birth number five from husband number three. Suddenly, her promiscuity meant more to me than just waking up to strange men in our house; it had made me an only child for all practical purposes. It set the stage for the next seven years during which I would be shuffled back and forth between my mother and eight different foster homes, a total of 12 moves. Each time I was forced to do it all alone.
|
|
Excerpts from
|
|
A Memoir by Lisa “Jean” Madden,© 2007
|
|
Providing Educational Support, Personal Items, and Luggage to Foster Kids |
|
©2006-2010 Lisa J. Madden. All rights reserved. All audio, visual and textual content on this site (including all names, characters, images, trademarks and logos) are protected by trademark rights, copyrights and other rights owned by Lisa J. Madden or Lisa J. Madden licensors, licensees, suppliers and accounts. Use of this site signifies your agreement to these terms and conditions of use. |
