My Side Of The Story: Largo

What does the system do when they have no placement for you? They place you in a different respite (temporary) foster home every night. EVERY NIGHT.

It drove me crazy. I don't even remember all the places I went to; all I remember is that the number of placements I'd been in was well over fifteen by the time they were done. And all this was in just one year.

I tuned everything out. The world around me didn't exist. If I paid attention to my surroundings, I wouldn't have been able to take it. Therefore I poured myself into my songs, and that was the only thing that was ever on my mind. I wrote well over two hundred songs by the time they finally found me a more permanent respite placement (one that could keep me for longer than a night) in Largo, and then for some reason I just stopped writing altogether.

I was exhausted.

They enrolled me in Largo High, which I tried to attend for a day. But by this time I'd developed an abnormal fear of schools. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me; when kids skipped, they usually did it to go have fun or something. But not me. I'd lock myself in bathroom stalls until the day was over. I started skipping school because I didn't want to deal with the racist bullying.

By this time, I'd become so good at tuning out everything around me that I could stand there and wait for the day to be over (and even miss the school's ending bell at times) with ease. Another thing I'd started doing was to not even enter school grounds. My new foster home was within walking distance from Largo High, so I did not ride a bus (and thank God for that).

I just walked right past school and hung out at the nearby shopping centers. I didn't have any money, so I wasn't doing anything but walking around by myself, trying to pass the time so I could go home at the right time and make it look like I'd attended class. I didn't see the point-why force myself to go when I could be lifted up out of here and sent packing to another foster home the next day? I know now I should've been wiser about it, but at the time that was how I felt.

And the school didn't even report anything to my foster mother.

Around this time, though, a blessing came into my life in the form of a new case worker. Her name was Sarah, and she was one of the extremely few "professionals" I'd come across who actually knew what they were doing and did their jobs right. She was a good listener, she was well informed about the things she'd need to know about in this field, and she wasn't judgmental. If it wasn't for having her on my case, I might have lost my mind.

She was a bit heavy-set with a short blonde bob; she wore glasses and looked kind of childish. She once told me about a time she was conducting therapy in a school and was mistaken for one of the students despite being twenty-five. Sarah was with Mentor Maryland (I'd come across a different agency with the same name later) in PG County, a foster care agency that specialized in having a higher level of foster care for kids with more emotional needs, such as anger, behaviorial problems, rebellion, running away (or in our terms going AWOL; Absent Without Leave), eating disorders and yes, self-injury. These foster parents had more training and received a higher salary than the average foster parent.

That's not to say that they lived up to their expectations, but they were supposed to be better foster parents. Supposed to.

On our weekly visits, Sarah would sit there with me and just talk. Talking to her was more therapeutic than talking to any of the so-called therapists I'd come across. I actually liked talking to her, and did not sit there watching the time.

And after I left Mentor Maryland, I stayed in touch with her for years to come through letters.

God bless you, Sarah, wherever you may be.

I don't remember my foster mother's name, but I do remember that I got into continuous confrontations with her daughter Toya, who was also twenty-five but could have easily been mistaken for fifteen.

I'm pretty sure I overreacted to some of the things she said. I don't remember what all the arguments were about except that one time when she found me not going to school. Of course I denied it like hell. We got into a screaming match in her car, and somewhere down the line, she hit me on my thigh.

If you could call it a hit.

"No, the fuck you didn't." I'm still surprised I had enough restraint not to hit her back right then and there with the bottle of Snapple I had in my hand while she was driving. "And what are you gonna do if I call the cops?"

She was shaking a bit; I think she was still surprised she actually hit me...sort of. "Call the fucking cops!"

"Alright, then."

And she dropped me off at Largo High, and I skipped again. I didn't call the cops on her. It was too laughable. It felt like a baby had accidentally tapped me or something.

Is it any wonder I don't believe in the "wisdom comes with age" bullshit, when they can be the exact same age and yet Sarah can be so mature and Toya can still act like a stereotypical middle schooler? I'd always gotten in trouble for saying things like that, but it's true.

Wisdom and experience do not come with age. One person can go through more in one year than another person does in twenty. People all live at different rates, they learn at different rates, and just because someone's older doesn't mean they're immediately right, more mature, more experienced or wiser. Especially with the amount of older people walking around acting like babies.

And you don't have to have any respect for someone who doesn't deserve any just because they're older than you, especially if that person can't respect you.

Of course, everytime I said that, I'd get plenty of disapproval from foster parents for speaking my mind (even if it was true). But back to the topic at hand.

Even though I don't remember what my spats with Toya were about, remembering my mental state back then, I'm pretty sure it was because of my overreaction. I had a habit of taking things too personally, and once I got mad it took a while for me to cool down. I'd sit there banging on things and breaking things until I felt better and that understandably caused people to be more alert about me.

And the tension gradually built up until it exploded.

Me and my foster mother were in the car talking about something (I still don't remember what it was about) and she raised her voice at me. I didn't take it well and I started shouting too. One thing led to another and somehow, for some reason, I ran out the car when she parked it. I didn't get too far for she called the police and they caught up with me.

In my anger, I argued with them. It especially pissed me off when one of them told me that he could treat me however he wanted because I was fifteen. After that I cursed him out.

If I had some common sense, I could've found a home earlier. But I was a stubborn, pig-headed idiot. So after two months I was removed from her home and placed in another to stay in while the state looked for a more permanent foster placement for me.

This story isn't just for me. It's also for the people I've come across who deserve to be remembered who otherwise might not get a chance to be heard. Such as the lady I'm about to tell you about now.

Next I moved in with a single woman of African descent. They didn't even bother to enroll me in school this time. They wanted to save that for later when I wasn't in respite care. She lived in a half-million dollar house and made pretty good money (I think she worked with computers); she had enough of it to hire a live-in housekeeper. Once again, I do not remember either of their names.

It was nice downtime for me. I didn't really do anything at all. I'd just wake up, eat, watch TV, hang out with the housekeeper and that was it. It was like when you're on summer break. I think I really needed something like that at the time, seeing as how I was so mentally fucked up. True indeed, this time I managed to keep my temper in check and not start screaming my ass off at her or punch the wall. Thank God for that.

What was weird though, was that I found it impossible to make myself do the things I used to love doing. I couldn't make myself draw. I had a hard time picking up a pen to write songs. Maybe I'd just been tuning out the world around me for too long.

She was bossy as hell, though. Me and the housekeeper would sit and talk about that. I got pretty close to the housekeeper, for that's who I spent time with. My new foster mother was never around. She was always working and did not come home until late at night.

And she assumed that I was lazy cause I was in bed all day when I was actually emotionally and mentally drained from all the changes and was suffering from MDD, but she'd probably never had that herself cause she'd had it so good. Careful not to label someone who's lost the will as "lazy" especially if they're suffering from a disorder.

But the person who suffered because of that was not me. It was her aging mother who lived alone in a room upstairs.

"...can't even remember my own age...how old am I? Eighty...eighty-six years old!" I overheard her rambling one day as the housekeeper left her room, giving her a nasty look. Out of curiosity I peeked in and saw her empty bed. It was connected to the bathroom door by some sort of rope and when I followed it, I saw her sitting on top of the toilet seat.

"Um..."

"Who is that?" She asked, for my voice was unfamiliar (I think). "I'm sorry, I can't see you. I am blind."

"I'm new here." I answered. "I'm the new foster child."

"New? I thought we already had two? Oh that's right, they only visit during weekends. I'm sorry, can you help me back to my bed?"

So that was what the rope was for. Carefully, I took her hand and guided her back where she wanted to be. That was it for that day, but from then on I made sure to visit her from time to time. She told me about being unable to leave her room on the top floor-and it was no wonder she couldn't for that wouldn't be safe. She was blind and in her old age, very fragile-can you imagine her trying to climb up and down the stairs? I only saw her leave that room once, and that was to go to the doctor. Me, her daughter and the housekeeper worked so ridiculously hard just to get her to and from the car safely.

No one ever came to visit her except me. Her daughter was never there for her; she was always away working. And she didn't get along with the housekeeper.

She was so skinny and frail.

"The lady that's here now, I don't like her." She told me, pulling her white hair out of plaits. "The lady who was here before was very nice just like you are to me. I don't like this lady. Can you turn on the radio?"

I did as told and turned to a station I usually listened to.

"No, no." I saw her smile a bit for the first time since I'd met her. "Not that kind of music. I'd like to listen to the stations with the pastors preaching about Jesus."

I still believe in an afterlife and higher power and in Jesus being some sort of heaven-sent savior, though not definitely in the way that is laid out in the Bible. Like I said, I'd gone through some doubts about religion before and did some soul searching. The Bible was written over such a long time by so many different people that even if some parts are true, there's no telling if all of it is. Anyone could've changed something, left something out, and added something in-that is why it's so hard for even Christians themselves to completely agree on their interpretations of it. Now I consider myself a spiritualist.

If she is not alive at this time, I pray that only the best happened to her. Please remember this nameless woman.

Life is so ridiculously fragile. I couldn't imagine living the way she had to. And yet, I know that if I make it to be her age, I probably will. And so will everyone who's reading, provided that they are young enough to not be living that way yet-and provided that they do not die before they get a chance to be that old.

During my stay there, I went to an interview with a couple who had just recently gotten out of training. They, too, were of African descent and they were strict Christians. With Sarah's help I managed to keep my head level enough to leave a respite home the normal way instead of getting thrown out.

And after another two months, I moved in with the Dunyos in their apartment.