The Foster Home.

After surviving a horrific automobile accident, I was taken in the back of a police car to the Hawthorne Police Department. This all happened so late into the night that by the time I got to the police station the sun was starting to rise. I was taken into a room where a cop asked me if I was okay and looked me up and down to check for injuries. They were not really mean to me, but they were not friendly and I assumed they were mad for how my mom shouted at them and fought with them. Other than being dirty from all the dust at the accident and a tear-stained face, I was fine.

I don’t remember ever going to see an actual doctor or going to a hospital after the wreck, which seems strange, but I believe the police just decided I was okay on their own. I was asked again a long list of questions that I did not know the answers to, about my mother and her boyfriend’s relationship, her alcohol consumption, and details about the evening. I did not know anything and just cried for my mother or my grandparents. Not long after, a tall white man with his wife came to the police station, and I was told to go with them. The police told me they would take care of me while they figured out what was going on, and not to worry because everything was going to be okay.

This was the first time I had ever been apart from my family and I was scared. I had no idea what happened to my mom, as the last time I saw her she was badly injured and fighting the police not to take me, and I was afraid she was gone forever. I cried to the police to please call my grandparents to come get me, as they cared for me most of my life up to that point before my mom took me back. I pleaded with them but the police would not listen to me and did not contact my grandparents. Nothing I said made a difference, and they just ignored me. So in tears, I reluctantly went with the strange couple because I was given no choice, but I was certain everything was not going to be okay. I left the police station, and got into the back of the sedan I was led to by my assigned guardians, and before I knew it, I fell asleep on the back seat.

The next day was my first day as a foster kid, and it is a day I will never forget. I immediately hated the foster home as I was convinced that they hated me. I was in this house with tons of other kids, half of them somewhat related, the other half were foster kids like me I guess. I wish I could remember the front of the house, or even the interior of the home, but I can’t. I only remember the boys room I was given a bunk in, the bathroom I puked in, and the backyard shanty I played in. The rest of the home was off limits to the foster kids, so that is probably why I can’t recall the details of the rest of the home. I was not allowed in the kitchen because they assumed I would steal food. I was not allowed in the living room as that was where the tall man who was the foster father, would sit in his chair and watch hours of T.V. and he was never to be interrupted.

My memory of the foster home always begins in the boys bedroom where I was given a small bunk among what felt like dozens of others. I was an only child, and so I always had my own room or else shared with my mom, so I had never experienced anything like this. The room was dingy, with holes in the walls, and way too many mattresses to fit, most without even sheets to cover their urine stains. There were lots of boys in this room, some young like me around four or five years old, and some older boys probably ten to twelve years old, and a few teen-agers who kind of ran things. They had an attractive gang mentality that I soon understood was to protect each other from the real danger in the home, the father and the mother.

They were extremely religious and enforced strict discipline to match. I was raised to believe in God, but we never went to church much, and was taught to basically keep religion private. This was the first exposure I ever had to this kind of fundamental radical Christianity, but this was an experience that would stick with me and affect the way I thought about religion forever. They had the mindset to enforce severe and strict discipline to turn a kid into a good little Christian. Conversion by force does not work with kids any more than it works with adults, and all they did was make me resent their religion altogether. This misunderstanding of how God looked at me would take years to undo, and made me extremely cautious of religious people.

One day after living at the foster home for a week or so, I made the mistake of using bad language. When I say bad language, it was not even the big ones, but only words like: shoot, darn, and hell; a few of my favorites at the time. Apparently this was happening enough that they decided I needed some serious discipline. The mother chased me through the house shouting at me that she had enough of my filthy mouth and was going to wash it out once and for all! I took off running to hide in the boy’s bunk room, but was caught by the father in the hallway. I was held down on my knees by the father, with my hands bound behind my back, like a prisoner of war. With my head being cocked back by the mother as she gripped a fist full of my hair and yanked my head into position, she proceeded to pour liquid soap down my throat. This was apparently a literal attempt to not only wash my mouth out with soap, but to cleanse all my internal organs as well. As the soap filled my mouth overflowed into my nostrils, I began to gag and started to vomit repeatedly. They poured so much soap down my throat, I continued to get sick for about two days straight every time I tried to eat something. Of course, I was not taken to the doctor but was told to stay in my bed until I stopped.

On another occasion, I was playing in the backyard fort that was made from old boards. This was a kind of club house where the older boys would hang out, and so naturally I was attracted. I had been there a couple weeks now and I was terribly bored. So one day, I was spying on them hoping to get noticed and be able to play with them, but instead they would try to run me off and shout at me to get lost. I accepted this as the best I would get so I began a little cat and mouse with the boys and got them fired up enough to really chase me! It did not take long before I had the majority of the group on my tail seeking to pound me and teach me a little lesson. To be clear, the kids were jerks, but they were all just very mistreated children, and really I liked how they looked out for each other. They never really hurt me, besides a few casual shoves and pushes to keep up the tough act, it was the parents I was afraid of!

So I’m running through this plywood shanty with the older boys chasing after me, having fun for the first time in weeks, and without any warning I felt as though my foot had exploded out from under me and I went crashing to the ground. A nasty old rusty nail as long as a witches finger stabbed its way right through my shoe and deep into the flesh of my foot. The oldest boy immediately jumped down to my side and helped me. It seems this was not the first time this had happened as the kids knew just what to do.

First, a couple kids detached the board from my foot, which took the nail with it, and then removed my shoe. After they got the blood-soaked sock off my foot you could see where the nail had pierced the sole of my foot. I expected to see a second hole on the top of my foot from the nail exiting, but it did not make it all the way through. I was crying bad and through my sobs, I begged the kids not to let the parents know! I was sure I would get in a lot of trouble for this, but it was too late. Before I had a chance to sit up, the mother had come out with towels and bandaged me up. She was very efficient with the bandages and surprisingly not mad at all. She helped me up and led me into the house and into the kitchen to finish getting the blood cleaned off. I was waiting for the lecture about playing where I wasn’t supposed to or something, but it never happened. Instead, she just told me it was okay and explained how these things happen when boys play, and that everything would be okay. This was the kindest she had ever been to me and I began to wonder what was really going on?

Shortly thereafter, the foster mother explained that I may need a shot so I was taken to a doctor for the first time. The doctor was a pretty nice guy who joked with me and cheered me up quite a bit while he re-bandage my foot. I liked him immediately, and soon I practically forgot about my throbbing foot completely. He let me choose a huge round lolly-pop from a glass jar he had on his shelf, right before he gave me a nasty shot in the left shoulder. It hurt worse than the foot now, and I squealed with pain! He gave a chuckle, and told me the lolly-pop should take care of the pain. I said thank you for the sucker and we were quickly out the door.

The moment we got into the car, everything changed and my foster mother was all of a sudden furious. She asked me why I was running around back there in the first place? She informed me that I was no longer going to be playing in the backyard and that her husband was not going to be happy when he heard what I did! I said I was sorry and told her I would not do it again. I asked her to please not tell her husband but she just drove the car quietly with a mean stare out the front windshield.

After dinner that night, the foster father came into my room to confront me about the incident in the backyard. He lectured me for harassing the other kids and told me I deserved what I got. He told me I was causing trouble for everyone and I needed to stop. I was finally given multiple spankings and told not to go in the backyard again. The spankings did not hurt to be honest, but I was deeply afraid that spankings were just an introduction to what was coming if I messed up again.

After that I pretty much kept to myself, and stayed in the room unless it was time to eat. I don’t know how long it was but finally the day came when I was told I was going home and to get ready to go. I was so glad to get out of this place and to finally see my grandparents. I gathered the few personal belongings I had and got into the car.

I realized after a short while that we were not going to see my grandparents like I thought, we were going to court. I had never been to court before, but I remember I was impressed by the massive stone building. After we entered the courthouse, I immediately spotted my Grandma and Papa and ran as fast as I could into their arms! I started crying right away and I wanted to leave right there. I just wanted my Papa to take me out of that horrible place, away from the whole thing. Unfortunately, we still had to go to court, and have the judge give them custody. We got to visit in a private room for what felt like an hour or more, and soon my Papa had me laughing and having fun. They brought me my favorite toys, a big black Darth Vader-shaped suitcase that held all the action figures from Star Wars.

I don’t even remember actually going into the courtroom, but after a while the court people came back in and told me to say goodbye to my grandparents, and that I had to go back to the foster home for now. I didn’t understand? I could not go back there? My papa told me it was just for a few more weeks until they could get custody. Apparently my mom messed up so bad the courts would not give me up until they were sure I was safe. I guess they had to investigate my grandparents before they would give me to them, I am not sure exactly, but it would be two weeks before I would see them again.

After saying goodbye to my Grandma and Papa, I did as my Papa instructed me and tried to be strong and held back my tears. I got my Darth Vader briefcase and went with the official back to the foster parents who were waiting near the door. We drove back to the foster home, and I think I cried the entire way. After we arrived back at the house, it was even worse because I had to explain over and over to each kid why I didn’t get to go home. I wasn’t really sure myself, but at least I knew it would be over soon. I made it this far, I could make it another two weeks.

And I did. Two weeks later, we went back to the courthouse but this time I left with my grandparents. We were only there for 15–20 minutes and I was soon with my grandparents on our way home. This nightmare was finally over. I got to my grandparent’s house in Carson City, and spent the next few days just sleeping and trying to forget everything that just happened.

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