Vol. 10, No. 2 • May 2006

In One Quick Moment
A former foster youth writes about a critical time in her life

by Shelly, age 19

I went in for my normal court date ritual. Every time I got picked up by probation I had to sit and wait in court for two hours, the judge would speak, and then I’d be released. This time, two seconds after my name was called I was released all right—into the custody of the bailiff. He escorted me to a side room where I waited to be put behind bars. I found out later that morning that my grandma wouldn’t allow me in her home any longer. I was assigned to juvenile jail until the system figured out what to do with me.

How had I gotten myself into this situation? I was 16 when I got sent to juvy, but the problems started much earlier.

* * * *

Who would have known that in one quick moment a person’s life could change so drastically? The moment my dad spoke the words, “Your mom died,” my childhood was shattered into a million pieces; from that instant I was never the same.

My dad told me, “Your mother was found dead last night; they found her body in a hotel room. She overdosed on alcohol.” All I could think was this had to be one his evil lies, but why would you tell this to a nine-year-old?

From that point on I was no longer a nine-year-old little girl, I was a nine-year-old who kept to herself, hated the world, and shut herself off from everyone and everything.

Shortly after my mother’s death my father started to drink more heavily. Every night he would stumble into the house and break and drop things, cursing. When this happened my brother and sister and I knew to hide. It didn’t matter. He always found us. There would be times when we had to hide our bruises by wearing beanies and gloves, even when it was hot. He would smack our hands so hard that it would create bruises. We had bruises on our ears from him picking us up by them and slamming us against walls. We couldn’t let our bodies be revealed.

We were all too scared to confess to anyone how we really lived each day. Who would believe us?

We weren’t normal kids: we were punching bags for his frustration. The thing I hated most was that he said he loved us.

Eventually I never wanted to be home. But I had nowhere to go and I couldn’t leave my brother and sister to take the anger he would take out on them for my running away. I would take a million whippings for my brother and sister. His belt hurt, but it didn’t compare with the pain I felt when I saw my siblings hurt, watching and knowing I couldn’t do anything about it. The sight will stick in my mind for eternity.

Police were constantly at our home over the disputes that carried on over two and a half years. No matter how many times he said, “It won’t happen, again,” we all knew this nightmare was never going to end.

Then one day he went too far and shackled my brother. My sister, Gina, could take no more. She had the guts I never had and revealed the secret. She went to my grandma, whom we were forbidden to talk to but discretely visited from time to time. Gina reported what was going on and grandma called the police immediately. They rushed over to release my brother from captivity. After my brother was free, they read my father his rights and arrested him.

We were then shipped off to a receiving home, not knowing what was going to happen to us. Court date after court date with each of us slowly drifting away not only from each other, but also from ourselves. We forgot how to feel; we couldn’t feel happy because we felt as if there was nothing joyful in our lives. We couldn’t talk to anyone because no one would understand the pain we felt. We just held everything in and felt the only way to express ourselves was to act out.

My brother and I constantly got in trouble. We no longer cared for our education. We thought smoking and hanging out with our friends was more important than showing up for class. My sister was different, though. All through it she acted out also, but she always showed up for school and put a lot of effort into it. She was even on the middle school cheerleading squad. Although I would never admit it, I was jealous of her.

Month after month we waited for the day to get released from the receiving home. Court date followed court date. Each time, nothing changed. Until one day our prayers were answered and we were given permission to live with our grandma, the mother of our now-deceased mother.

She was the only family we had left, but we couldn’t even keep things going well there. She did everything for us; we just wouldn’t listen.

For so many years we were like caged animals, never really getting to express ourselves in any way. When we finally did, we went wild and didn’t know how to stop. I even broke a promise to myself and to my mom’s memory the day I had learned of her death, which was that I was never going to drink. Not only was I scared, but I wanted to be better than that. But now, I thought that if I drank long enough or too much, then one day I would be able to die and that’s what I wanted to do at one point . . . at many points. But, thankfully, I never had the guts to drink myself to the point of death.

I was 15 when I first got drunk. I was with my old so-called best friend and there was a guy there I didn’t really know. I passed out. All I remember was being in a car and then waking up with blood surrounding me, not remembering what had happened but knowing that something was taken away from me that I could not get back, ever.

You would think that would have made me turn around but it did the exact opposite. I stayed out late, never showed up for school, smoked weed, got into doing lines of coke every now and then. That’s when probation came in. I got caught shoplifting, and that was it. I was no longer just in the system because of someone else—I was there because I put myself there.

But even probation didn’t stop me. I would show up for school a little more often, but other than that I was doing the same stuff. Until one day, I got caught and I was sent to the crushing, dragging slow routine of jail.

Getting sent to jail turned out to be my second chance. I feared I couldn’t change but knew I had to learn how or I would just remain there and lose more and more of myself as each day passed until one day I would feel no more.

Finally, I was given the chance to live with my court-appointed special advocate. Everyone was expecting the worst and acted as if there would never be any change, given the fact that I never had changed, no matter how many times I said I would. I guess I got that from my father, but it wasn’t a characteristic I was planning on keeping.

I wanted to change for me; I no longer wanted to feel like a nobody. I wanted to do something with my life, be somebody, and have the gratification of looking at everyone’s faces after proving them wrong.

I have succeeded so far. I’ve been on probation for seven and a half months and I haven’t returned to juvy. I haven’t gotten a dirty pee test and my curfew has gotten raised three times. I’m expected to get off probation in April 2004. I’ve proved to people that I can achieve the goals I set. I will keep on succeeding even after I’m off probation because I didn’t do it for them: I did it for me. I’m going to keep setting goals and reaching them.

Although I might not have much, I have enough. I still have a life to live, food to eat, and a family. It is not as big and functional as most, but it’s one I love and wouldn’t change for the world. We’re not together right now, but that just makes me realize how much I really care for them. Nothing will ever take that way from me again.

Shelly left the foster care system when she graduated from high school in June 2005. Now 19, she lives in her own apartment and is still very close with her foster mother. She is taking Early Childhood Development courses through the Regional Occupational Program, and plans to become a social worker so she can be part of the solution.

Copyright � 2006 Jordan Institute for Families