From The Eyes of A Foster Child

I was reading some upsetting comments about a current foster child from the foster parent (FP). Other foster parents offered advice and support for the FP. No one spoke up for the "bad" child. This was my motivation for the following poem. It's certainly represents how I feel and I do not pressume to speak for all foster youth, former or current.

We deal with a past
That has mentally and emotionally
Kicked our ass.
We are tossed aside
Because of what we represent
We lost our esteem and pride
And it’s this life that we resent.
We’ve been through more
In our young age
Then most adults endure
And we are filled with rage
You cannot hide us
Though try you must
You want to protect us
From the abuse that we face
Telling us we are now in a safe place
Now there’s a different foot in the shoe
And I wonder who protects us from you?
Now that we’re older
You turn a cold shoulder
We live our lives in a style
That was created for Society’s Child.

The Cost of A Broken Window

It's hot outside today. It's been hot for a few days with tempratures in the 90's with the feel like temprature over 100. Everyone is seeking a cool place to hide from the heat. Everyone but me. I'm outside pulling weeds from around the inground pool. This is my part of my punishment for breaking a window at school.
It was close to the end of school or maybe it was the last day of school, I'm not real certain of which. I know it was at the end of the day. A day that had gone pretty good, see I was in Alternative School. This is where kids with behavior problems go for their education. I was here because I wasn't doing my school work. My grades were straight E's in all my classes. That day, though was a good day. I had done all my classwork, handed in my homework, and did what I was instructed to do. The bell rings for the end of the day and we rush out to get on the bus. Suddenly I realized I had forgotten an assignment I needed to take home and work on. I went back in the school and when I got to the classroom the teacher had already locked the door and left. There was no other way in the room that I knew of. So, I started back down the hall to the buses. I turned right. There's the double door. It's a metal framed door with thick glass that has what appears to be wires going through it making a pattern of cross hatches. There's a bar that goes across the middle of the door that, when pushed, will open the door. I get close to the door and instead of using my hand, I used my right foot. I was frustrated because I had a good day and a missing assignment was going to screw things up for me, at school and at home. I raise my right leg to kick the door handle, which in turn would force the door open at a faster rate. I watch as, in slow motion, my foot goes above the bar and through the glass. Shattering the window. I knew I was in trouble now! I ran to the bus. Jumped on and begged the driver to "please leave." Of course he did not.
The window cost $98.96 to repair. I say repair because they used plexiglass in its place. So part of my punishment was to weed the flower garden around the pool. I worked all summer long and part of the fall too. When I got hot my adoptive mother would call me over to the steps of the back deck and pour pots of cold water on me. She would then have me remove my shirt and then send me back out in the hot sun to pull weeds. I don't know the demensions of the flower garden, I can say that it starts small on the east side of the pool. As it goes around to the north side it gets wider and is now a hill. From ground to the concrete that surrounded the pool is flowers, mulch, and weeds.
I spend all summer pulling weeds in the heat from 8 am until 5 sometimes 6 pm. After 3 days of having been in the sun with water dumped on me and no shirt on it finally happened. I got the worse case of sun poisoning I had ever had in years. One of her daughters threaten to call someone if she didn't at least allow me in the pool to cool off and try to keep from getting worse.
I walk into the chlorine pool water. Its coolness feels great on my feet, legs and waist. All of a sudden there's pain as it hits my back.My skin starts to get tight. As the water reaches my shoulders the pain starts to subside. The coolness starts to feel good, soon my back doesn't hurt. After a short time I am told to get out. Shortly after getting out my back starts to tighten up again. Sleeping is very difficult.
Come morning putting on a shirt is out of the question. Moving my arms in certain directions sends tears to my eyes. I catch a glimpse of my back in the mirror and I see my back is bright red with yellow bumps. Some big and a lot of them not so big. Blisters. This was my punishment for a $98.96 window.
Once my back heals I finish pulling the weeds and start hauling wood to the house. I am bringing up branches, logs, and even tried bringing up a tree stump. My adoptive brother and father would use a chain saw to cut up the logs and branches. I use a sledge hammer and wedge to split the cut up logs for burning. The branches I break into small pieces for kindling. I have the same schedule as before.

The Past Repeats

There are some movies about foster care and foster children and the effects that each have on the other. These movies are more educational then entertaining. Entertaining in the sense that they aren't comedies or action films, rather drama or "chick flicks". These are not the kind of movies that people leave the movie theater saying "Oh I have got to watch that again, it was cool!" instead people leave hugging their significant other a little tighter. They go home and look at their children and are thankful that their lives are a little easier then one they just saw unfold. Hopefully these movies touch people so deeply that they want to help and make a difference in the life of a foster child. These movies in no way, shape, or form sensationalize being a foster child who is being given a raw deal. With all this said, I ask you, why would some people want to take the life of a foster child and make it theirs? Why would you want to tell people this is your life? It makes me down right mad when I catch someone in their own web of lies about a life that isn't theirs. Some children in foster care are lucky enough to have wonderful placements with wonderful outcomes. Those of you who take a foster kids horrible life and try to make it yours need to seek therapy. It's bad enough we have to live with it, we certainly wouldn't want someone else to live that. Hell we didn't want to live it ourselves. We had no choice, no help, and no one to turn to. By the time we ran across someone to turn to we were already cold against the world. I certainly don't trust people easily and those I do are few and far between. So I would consider it a personal favor if you would just be yourself. Don't take a foster kids horrible life or stories and make them yours. Don't you know it was painful enough to live through the first time? By doing this your making it possible for the past to relive itself, again.

Societies Child

When I was a child you couldn't keep me safe. You failed to protect me. You allowed me to experience things that most adults don't. You place me homes with people who are afraid to deal with me. Some families don't want to be bothered with me and don't care where I am or where I go. Some families treat me as cheap labor that they get paid for. You see this and yet turn the other way. I guess if you don't see it then it didn't happen huh? As I grow up finding placements for me becomes harder because of my attitude. In my teens I figured you owed me something for giving me the fucked up life I have to live. Always bouncing around, no security, no love, and no one cared. Hell yeah you owe me! I am resovled in knowing I have a better chance to get blood out of a turnip then you paying for your blind eye, screwed up thinking, and more harm then good. So, I release you of your debt as I see it. I age out of foster care and try to live my life as a carefree kid. I was not prepared for the world or what I was supposed to do. You looked down on me. Talked about me behind my back. Laughed at me when I had nothing. Not once thought "We created this. We need to fix this". I was an untreatable, uncurable sore. You couldn't figure out how to get rid of me. Now I am older with children who look to me for guidance, support, and love. I give them everything I didn't have. I have not nor will not conform to your idea's or so called way of life. I will continue to be a thorn in your side because I am your creation. I am societies child.

A Family Of My Own

This is the radio show I was a guest for. Listen with a open heart and open mind. Lets change the way foster kids feel.

Listen to internet radio with Ms E HeartLady on Blog Talk Radio

A Letter To My Son

Dear Aaron,

        It's been less then 24 hours since you left and the emptiness has set in good now. Watching you leave was the second hardest thing I had to do. As we have discussed, I may have missed the first 16 years, but I am here now. All you had to do was open yourself up and let us in. Your youngest brother cried for about an hour after you left. At 8 years old, he knew it wasn't such a great idea. Maybe for selfish reasons, but he knew. You chose not to say bye or anything at all, for that matter, to your other brother and sister, Aunt, or step-mother. That really hurt them the most. You leaving was hurtful, but not saying bye to everyone was more hurtful. You were a part of our lives for 7 wonderful months. We had some harsh words with each other, but that is a part of growing up. Thats what sons and fathers do. Not all of them, but some. I can tell you all about the path your going down until I am blue in the face, but you won't learn until you find out for yourself. I tried to provide some stability and give you a support system. You don't want anything I have to offer. You made that clear when you left. Son, I gave you my hand and you didn't want to take it. When you get older and are reflecting on your life, I pray that you see this as a missed opportunity and not a mistake. I have always loved you son. Even when I hadn't even met you yet, I loved you. Even though you don't want anything to do with me, I love you. How many times can I say "I'm sorry"? This is your life. You'll be 18 in about 8 months, all I can do now is watch as you make your mistakes. Mistakes, if you had allowed me to guide you, you wouldn't have to make. I really hope you finish school and recieve a diploma. Thats a concern of mine. I am feeling like I am rambling so I will close with this, I will be here for you to talk to, offer advice, or just to vent too. But I will not, can not rescue you from your mistakes anymore. You have to learn and apparently it's going to be the hard way. These things I am writing to you are not things I want to write, but the need to be written. Good luck in accomplishing your goals. I wish you the very best that life has to offer you.

Love,

Dad

They hurt..............

Each of us have our own reminders of a life that we would rather forget. My reminders however, can not be covered up with clothing in the middle of summer or while swimming. My wedding day came crashing down on me when it came time to place the rings. You see, my scars are on my hands and fingers. Way back then I was a fighter. See these are defensive scars. These scars hurt me because of what they represent to me. They represent a child who was maliciously beaten. Who at a young age, had to protect himself no matter the cost. What kind of pressure is that to be putting on a young child? Then you have the scars that aren't seen. The mental and emotional. But I degress, we are talking about my hands. The instruments I use everyday, driving, meeting new people, purchasing items. Holding my wife is especially hard. Someone, somewhere, once told me they loved me yet my hands say differently. How could a woman feel safe in these hands of pain? How could she want to place a ring on the finger of the hand that will remind her of a time in her husbands life that will always be ever present? These hands will hold her children. Can she trust them? It's not that I don't like my hands. I don't like the scars on them. They hurt.........I'm sitting here now typing and stopping to look at my hands and crying. Crying because I just realized my wife and kids see my hands. My kids have asked me where the scars are from and I respond by lying, "I dunno". My hands that are supposed to do good things, which they do, also cause pain when doing nothing. They hurt..............