Happy Everyday

I was too tired last night to do the math to figure out how old I am. I stopped counting about 10 years ago. I remembered it was my birthday about 4:00 PM yesterday when I looked at the date. I said to myself that date looked so familiar, and then started laughing to myself when I occured to me that it was my birthday.

I am genuinely surprised I am on this earth each day, let alone each birthday. At 12 years old I didn't think I would make it to 16 because of the circumstances of my childhood and the chaotic and violent home my parents provided for me. I bet myself at twelve that I wouldn't make it because of my parents. I thought that no one would care to stop the violence they visited to me, and that when I was gone no one would care. Trust that at the age of twelve I wanted to live a long life and I fought with literally tooth and nail to stay alive. I know that my resistance to and returning of violence to those who put it upon me helped in diverting a lot more violence I knew would have been directed my way. I knew that should I have been complacent and accepting of beatings they would have come more frequently. I fought back like I was fighting for my life. And I was.

I am here at an age I envisioned but did not think I would reach. I fought for it to happen, and the fight was worth it. I am proud of my ability to overcome dire circumstances. I look back and know I created my own destiny. A birthday is a milestone to many, but every day lived to me is a milestone. It proves that I am a survivor. I am victorious in every day I live as my presence evidences that hard times can be overcome.

Happy Everyday to me!!!!!!

Crush

I often have a crush on men that epitomize my ideal man. Vin Diesel does it for me in this moment in time. Nice brown skin (when he's tanned) killer body, deep deep voice. I swoon when I hear him speak. He fits my ideal of a handsome man.

When riding transit, to break up the 1 and a half hour round trip ride, I look at the occupants of my car, specifically those of the male persuasion and think of them as a potential mate. I glance nonchalantly and sum them up. Not tall, is a instant disqualifier. Big and brawny makes for 75% of the mark to a keeper for mate potential. I daydream about men, and think it strange as I have one at home.

Why do I daydream about men I would never approach, or meet, knowing instinctually there is a great possibility they would be idiots because they think more of themselves than anyone because they know they are pretty boys? Do I think of these strangers daily because I'm hot in the pants? Because I am bored? Essentially I do it because there is no harm and therefore no foul.

I love my man, and if I say so myself, he is quite the looker, and what attracted me to him was that he has a body like Vin Diesel, and a honey complexion, and light eyes and an incredible deep voice. All that he is all that I lust for when looking at the men on my trek to and from work.

Looking and lusting breaks up the monotony of my long train ride, and adds thrill to my day. I don't act upon it towards those strangers that I am looking at clandestinely. Only when I get home do I then act upon these glances by being somewhat aggressive with the Hubby because I have those thoughts I have had on the train. This adds spice to the love life in a voyeuristic way.

I like my glances for cute men as it allows me to daydream and create wonderful moments with the hubby. What's the harm in innocent voyeuristic dalliances. So, here's to more wonderful train rides with beautiful men to scope out.

Invoking the Spirit

I want to evoke the spirit of family members who have been successful. So many in my family have been persons who are of no consequence. Drug addicts, thieves, prostitutes, liars, and thugs. I want to be like those in my family who are homeowners, college graduates, business people, dignified and beloved by their family. I strive for the success that they have achieved, and think of them all the time in trying to replicate all that they have done.

When my mother calls me I wonder often how I could have been born to such an evil, dysfunctional individual. I am saddened that her inability to be a good person has impacted on me in ways that repercussion throughout my life. I often wonder were it is that she got lost and did not want to emulate her forefathers, but instead, acts like a thug and wants to spread pain and misery to all who meet her. Or perhaps, she never had the desire to emulate her mother and all the other wonderful people in our family and just took after the element of the family that is bad.

I remember being told of the family member who graduated from Columbia University during the early 1900's. I also remember being told of and seeing the deeds to 100's of acres of land my Great-Great Grandfather purchased in the 1800's and left to his descendants and has provided a livelihood for some family members who sell timber and rent out camp grounds on this land. I think of my Grand-Aunt who is well into her 80's who had a stable marriage of over 50 years and purchased 2 homes in the suburbs of NY, one of which she and her husband rented out for over 30 years.

It is those family members that I wish to invoke spiritually. I want to replicate their success. I wish to be as poised and respected as they are and were. I want their dignified lives. Their lives have provided a road map upon which I want to travel. I admire them and wish their success for me. I hope they are looking at me and hearing my wanting of this success, and will guide me.

Boxes

I am an African-American Adult Woman. Because of these facts, I feel that I am often treated like an inept woman. I have people that I work with, many of whom are subordinates, assume that I must lead a tragic life because I am African American, and therefore need their advice on how to make my life more endearing. I am often thought of as a quiet woman, and that further burdens me with the perception that because I am a minority who is quiet, I am ever the more tragic. Because I am not incessantly speaking of the things I do in my life must mean I do nothing in the time that I am not seen by the person who has this perception of me. These same people are certain that during the years before meeting them I could not have done anything worth merit as I do not brag of my accomplishments in those years prior, and as such, are shocked to learn of my being in a stable relationship for almost 20 years, homeowner for almost 25, married mother of 3 children, well educated and traveled.

I can only think that racism influences when those hearing me talk about my children assume I must be a single mother. I believe racism plays a big part when it is assumed I have never traveled, and that when hearing of my taking a vacation to Egypt assume I must be visiting relatives' homes (I am not Egyptian). Or ask incredulously how I got into a Ivy League School as though I couldn't have done so without a pistol to the head of admission unlike all other students who filled out an application and waited with baited breath for an answer. I have actually had people question if I was telling the truth about my attendance at an Ivy League School. Whenever it gets to the point of someone literally calling me a liar about my accomplishments, it is very upsetting.

Why must I be perceived negatively? Why are there any assumptions about any aspect of my life? Why if assumptions are made are they made negatively and not positively? Why can I not be perceived as the brightest woman ever who went to an Ivy league school, instead of thought as a stereotypical single Black female with 3 kids by different fathers.

I am proud of who I am, but perturbed by the general assumptions people make about me. These general assumptions are like boxes that you are placed in and locked in. The pity that often ensues is equally infuriating. These same people who though view me negatively think that I am worthy of their guidance in getting out of the quagmire of inaptitude because I do not "act" like the usual stereotype which is classified by the word "ghetto". And as such, am deserving of their help. It is often during this phase of trying to "help" me that they usually get screamed at by me because they have stated a misconception and assumption about me during their role-playing of savior of "The Poor Black Girl". I had one little boy, all of 28 years old, who seemed perpetually high off of some drug, tell me he felt like he was my father and wanted to give me career advice. One co-worker, a guy, who admitted to me some months earlier that he was a recovering heroin junkie and that during his active phase of addiction received welfare and sold food stamps to support his habit, told me that I should do something more endearing with my life. After calming myself down for two hours, he was reamed and raked over the coals for saying something so disrespectful to me, and doing so based on assumptions. This person knew nothing of my efforts and success in helping to establish two birthing centers in some of the poorest congressional districts in the US. These birthing centers are located in The South Bronx and The 5th Ward of DC. I did not tell him of my efforts and success in establishing these entities as I don't have to validate myself to anyone, especially a junkie. He was just told to never speak to me about what I should do with my life, keep his mouth shut, and to worry about his own life.

I am confident in my abilities, and I am confident in others inability to think of me as an able and adult human. Racism is at the core of people's inability to think of me as their equal or superior. I know that it is immature to think racism will disappear. But as long as those that perceive me negatively don't voice their racism to me I don't care about their thoughts of me. Words do hurt, and I will not be hurt verbally without returning fire with a dignified response.

Anonymous

I live in NYC, and often seem to be looked upon as a non-entity. Many times I have stood on line to purchase items in a store, and upon getting to the counter I am looked through and beyond to the person behind me by the person at the register. This gesture seems to signify that they will help the person behind me. I am straightforward in telling the counter person that I am standing in front of them and that I was next in line to which they often act surprised.

Why does that happen every so often? Am I invisible? Or do some want me to be invisible? Perhaps they think if they treat me as such, I will cower and not say anything so that they can continue with their disrespect towards me?

But lo and behold, I speak up. And then I am no longer invisible, and the counter person snaps into an air of realization that they have a live one who will not be subversed into an abyss. And then I am served in the fashion to which I am accustomed, and have just trained that counter person in the art of treating me: with the ultimate respect.

I then take my purchase, and leave. I will often revisit events like this and contemplate why someone would be so nasty. Why would someone who didn't know me try to hurt my soul by being so blatantly disrespectful, and wonder what purpose does being disrespectful serve to their spirituality other than to diminish it?

But then I leave the thoughts as the events that made me contemplate are inexplicable other than to describe them as hate-filled, and leave it at that.

I am a person of worth and dignity and when hateful people sniff that out, they will try to chip away at what they see and want but can't have as they are evil and nasty. With these thoughts I can get through every day life. I am a person of worth and dignity.

Rage

I read somewhere that depression is rage turned inward. I sometimes am depressed and I am sometimes filled with rage. Both emotions scare me as they epitomize my being out of control. I'm neither often, but when I am I fear the end results of these emotions. Will I lash out at the ones that I love? Will I crawl into myself and fester in a slumber or darkness. I worry about what these emotions will manifest.

I am able to contain both emotions, when they occur, so that they don't impact on anything or anyone other than myself. I have sought counseling when I was much younger to deal with these emotions and from my sessions of counseling have developed coping mechanism that allow me not to act in ways that are destructive. The coping mechanism allow me to understand that often things are not as bad as they seem, and should they be, they are surmount. I do not have to act enraged or turn that rage inward, turning it into depression.

I rage when I feel if I've been disrespect. As an African-American Woman living in a society that sees me automatically as inferior acts of disrespect happen daily. There are stupid comments based on assumptions such as, "It must be hard raising three children by yourself," when I've been in a stable relationship with the father of my children, my husband, for 18 years. Or, "You're so well spoken," which, like the aforementioned, is a comment that reeks of racism. I tell myself that those that have uttered such comment of racism are inferior in their thinking, and in no way are their comments a reflection of me. Their comments relay their perception of me, and their perception of me is viewed through the prism of racism. That type of perception is based on inherent racism. I don't react with rage nor do I acknowledge the act of racism other than to sometimes say to the person making the statement that they are racist. Sometimes I will just sigh inwardly and note internally to stay away from the person as they have proven themselves to be toxic and unworthy of my presence. It is at such times that I have to choose if I will act with rage and perhaps scream or hit the person who has brought it out in me or not, and in not letting out the rage, allow it to travel inward which ultimately leads to depression. Or I can release it from my being, in ways I've learned in counseling, without verbal or physical violence and know that I have dealt with an ignorant person justly, and leave it at that. I often choose not to rage and release whatever hurt the person has conjured.

With time has come maturity in dealing with the rage. I can reflect and know that I can deal with rage as it is usually a manifestation of my dealing with a situation of ignorance. My wanting to control my rage is paramount to me subsisting in the world and appreciating all that it has to offer.

Do I have to?

It is so peculiar that I have to remind myself that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. I have many in my life that scream the words to me, "You have to ....," And to them I say, of late, "I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do." To this reply I often get a perplexed look, and I then explain to them that because I am a grown woman, and pay my own bills, and am not their slave, I can do or not do anything.

Unfortunately, choosing to do what you want to do is a novel concept to many who live in our society as we have been trained to follow social norms such as kissing the over-perfumed aunt on the cheek during the holidays as a child though she terrified us. This is usually the start of doing things that you don't want to do.

I recall a particular incident of my childhood that was a pearl of wisdom in how to not let anyone push you around. My best friend's Grandparents drove her home from school every day, and because I lived on the way, they dropped me off near my home. My friend's Grandfather said to his wife in an agitated tone that she had to do something to which she responded that all she ever had to do in her lifetime was, "Be black and die." I pondered that statement. She was of a hue that would always obligate those who met her to know she was Black, as there would be no way for her to ever disguise her Blackness, and all humans must die someday. From this statement made that eventful day in that car I gathered that anything anyone does is their choice, always, and as such, they cannot be forced to do anything. One does not have to do anything, one can only choose to do something.

I remind myself of what my best friend's Grandmother said to her beloved. I knew she loved him dearly. I knew she would do anything for him. But from that conversation I knew that she chose to do things for him, that she chose to love him. Those things that she did for him were choices and not things that she had to do for him. They were things she did for him because she wanted to and not because she was his wife and therefore had to do. Whatever things that he told her she had to do was not going to get done because she reminded him that her choice was not to do it.

I recall that lesson that I learned as a child that all that we do consists of choices we have and will make. We can never be forced to do anything good or bad or indifferent. If I don't want to kiss my over-perfumed Aunt, I will simply say no. If someone asks me to help them move to another apartment, I will say no. I don't have to do anything that I don't want to do as I have choices. Choices are the root of what defines you. You choose to be moral or immoral person. You choose to do the wrong or right thing. No one forces you to do wrong things, if that's your inclination. Choices are the embodiment of what we are as a people.

Shopping

Did you ever go shopping and find everything you need and have enough money to purchase these items?

This happened to me on Sunday. My son's birthday is on June 9th, and he asked that we get his presents before his birthday. He showed me exactly what he wanted, and I purchased them at the time. We had a nice time. He hugged me and thanked me for the gifts. I pretended to grunt at the expense, but was pleased I could provide all that my child requested of me for his birthday.

I read recently President Bush will be signing into legislation The Draft. The modern day Draft will allow The United States of America to draft boys and girls. I wondered about my sons and daughter and immediately thought of the possibility of a move to Canada.

Life is so good right now, and I seem to be getting a leg up on it. I hope this proposal of drafting United States Boys and Girls does not come to fruition as that would be problematic for me and many other families of The US.

War may be a necessary evil, but I did not sign up for it, nor did my children. No one ever fought for me so why should I send my children to fight for anyone else.

My time with my son on Sunday was precious and it holds memories that I will never forget. He is a good boy who is caring and has a good heart. I look forward to him growing up, and not to him or my other children entering into anyone's war.

Music

I listen to music that moves me to tears. There are songs that I hear that help me to cleanse my soul. These songs help me to release all that ails me.

Angela Bofill, Patti LaBelle, Areatha, those are the singers that can help me to get ready to face the big bad world. I put on their cd's full blast and have a good cry. I release the anxiety and the hurt as their sons fortify me for the trip into Manhattan to a job that sometimes leaves me empty.

I have to do so much overtime to make ends meet as I do not make a living wage. In doing so, I am anxious that my superiors will question my long hours, and take them away from me, or worse fire me. There are constant bills that the money I make from overtime eats up. There are also every day regular problems with hubby, children, and just life in general.

So to hear a song that speaks to those problems, that tells me that all will be well allows me release, temporarily, but release none the less.

I can't help but think of the old adage, "Music soothes the savage beast." I feel like a savage as I work inhuman hours and worry astronomically about bills. The music I choose helps me to deal with these problems. I'm listening to Floetry as I write and I am soothed.

Now if I can get a way to get more overtime without living at my job.

DarkChild

I have a deep chocolate complexion, and am often complimented on it. But sometimes, throughout my life, I have been discriminated against because of it.

I love my complexion as it is unusual in its deepness. I have not met many in The United States who have complexion as deep as mine. Most persons I've met who have complexion that are similar to mine are maternal family members or persons from Africa.  As a child I was treated differently paternal family members because I was a dark skinned child. The treatment differed from those who were light skin in my paternal family. The light skinned children were told they were beautiful and much attention was showered on them while I and other dark skinned children of the family were often disregarded. We were thought of as less than the other, lighter children. We presented as less than because of the color of our skin.  Strangers have treated me differently than my lighter skinned friends as my dark skin tone seems to conjure the thought process that I am bad, and predisposition to doing illegal things more so than a lighter skinned person.  When friends and I have entered stores inevitably I am followed as I am suspected of stealing, but my companion is not, and the only difference between us is skin color.  Lighter is better and darker is bad. 
  
I have, through out my life, received  many compliments about my skin color.  Many strangers have thought my complexion beautiful and said so to me.  I am proud of my complexion, and have never wavered when the few that thought of it as a detriment voiced their opinion or treated me differently because of it.
 
I also have an unusually deep voice.  I am often thought to be a man by those  who talk to me on the phone, and often get, what I believe, is more respectful attention to the matters I am calling about from the person who thinks I am of the male persuasion.  I am quite amused as I am in love with my voice and the richness and tone that it presents, and the misplaced respect that it garners.  I have also been complimented on my voice by many.
 
My skin and my voice are rich and deep and allude to my ancestors of Africa.  These two elements of my physicality represent who I am as a person, and connect me to my heritage.  When I see footage of artists such as Paul Robeson, Odetta,  and hear and see their deep, resonating voices and complexion and see pictures of Sojourner Truth, and Harriette Tubman with their deep complexion, I know that they are not far in descent in a lineage that started in Africa,  as the deepness of both skin and voice tone reflect the continent.
 
Though there are people who look at me and hear me and think my skin tone and voice do not represent beauty or feminine qualities, I know better.  I am the embodiment of the continent from which my ancestors come.  I am representative of the beauty that is that continent and its people. 

Bragging

Why is it that some think if you don't speak of all the things you do or have done in your life on a daily basis that you are not doing or have done anything?

I have a work environment that consists of people bragging of their plans of vacations and other extravagant purchases, children's accomplishments, expensive hobbies, and famous people that they are acquainted with. My co-workers also tell of everything they've done from the time they were born until the time they arrived at the job were they've met me, and of course, on that day of introduction started the bragging as to what they had done that day and bragged of what they planned to do in the future.

I am very private about my life as I don't think persons who are not family would be interested in my past, present, or future exploits. In fact, I know my family is not interested in my past, present or future exploits, but must listen to me wax on as we live in the same house and to escape my dialouges they have to leave the house. It gets cold outside, so they stay and listen. I know that they are incredibly bored when I talk about my future, past or present exploits because they tell me. Often. If a see a picture of Paris and I tell of how exciting it was when I was there, I often get a, "We know. We've heard the story 50 million times. Gosh." I get that they are bored with my stories, but their family and they simply have to put up with my repeated stories.

I would never torture a co-worker with such stories as I don't want to appear to be uncouth. If asked do I do a certain thing, such as travel, play a sport, partake in buying something expensive, etc. I then may talk of some of my expoits, but to mention such unsolicited is not appropriate. I know how I feel when someone comes up to me, and unsolicited, tells me of something that they have done. If it is a co-worker that I barely know I grin and bear it and am usually excited for them with the underlying question in my mind of, "Why did this person tell me about this and I don't usually talk to them, nor do they ask about me about what I do with my time?" It's situation like these when they arise make you ask those types of questions and when you answer them internally you come up with the solution: they are just braggining!

Those same people that brag conversely think that if you don't brag that yours is bigger than theirs you must not have or done anything. I once had someone give me a complete run down, unsolicited, of a European Trip. When I congratulated them on going, they then stated that when I finally got to Europe I would like it. I blinked for a moment as I was amazed that this person assumed that I had never been to Europe. Why not ask have if a person has been to Europe, and the conversation would continue from there based on the answer. This guy completely jumped over that logical step of asking a pertinent question that is viable to the interest of the conversation and skipped to acceptance of the impossibility of travel for the person to whom he was speaking. Suffice to say, he made an ass out of himself and I told him so as I have traveled to Europe many times.

Again, because I am often not asked personal question on my job as everyone understands that I am quite private, does not mean that I do not have accomplishments. My not speaking of my life lends itself to appropriateness at work as I am there to work and not to congregate. What it only means is that I am not speaking of my accomplishments, and not that I don't have any. I am sure that part of the reason I do not discuss my accomplishments is that I try to be modest. What then often happens is my co-workers filling in whatever blanks they feel they cannot glean from my conversations. And the fill-ins are assumptions. For people to assume is strange, but for them to assume to the "negative" is an even greater strangeness. The assumption is based on the impossibility and not the possibility.

The bragging is done to bolster one's own self image. It is done because of the insecurity of the person uttering these sometimes embellished claims. Bragging is also done to subjugate the person who has to listened to these words of self-praise. That aspect of bragging replicates a child saying to another, "Look what I have and you don't."

My Hair

My crowning glory is my hair. So why do I hate it so at times. Because it is difficult to maintain, and the maintenance is expensive. I love my hair. It is thick, thick, thick, and black. It has never failed me as long as I have paid an adequate amount of attention to it. But whoa if I didn't pay attention to it. I would get a backlash that would be exhibited in tendrils similar to Medusa on my head.

My hair and its condition reflect how I feel about myself and the environment I find myself in. Should I have a good run of days such as no drama at work, money somewhat abundant, bills able to be paid, husband given' good lovin', children actin' right, my hair can usually be found bouncin' and behavin'. Should my environment turn stressful, such as having to work massive amounts of overtime, working a job that doesn't treat people equitably, the stress shows in my hair. The locks are a bit awry and dry, and not as conditioned because the stress manifest itself through the shafts of my hair. The stress is projected throughout the strands as they stand at attention and do not lay down sleekly. My usually supple strands have been sucked dry by stress.

I love my curly hair and its abundance. It is a friend that deserves to not be affected by stress. It is a crown that should be polished with shampoos and conditioner and styled with grace as it shows the world that the possessor of such strands cares about her inner-self and the adornment that tops off the temple that is her body. It deserves my respect and attention, and will be treated as such.

The City

As hard as it is to live in The City of New York, with its intolerably high cost of living, the racism, the lack of decent and affordable housing, crime, lack of clean and inexpensive transportation, etc., it is fantastic.

I can be depressed and not at all feeling well about various issues of my life, but when I walk out of my home on a Spring like day such as today, I feel as if all my problems slip away. This afternoon in the city was glorious. I had to run some errands in my neighborhood in The Bronx and was pleasantly surprised at how beautiful a day it was. I then took the train to 42nd Street to take care of some personal matters and again was amazed because though there were teeming crowds of tourist rushing about I was nonetheless not perturbed by them as I normally would be (any blue blood NYer hates tourist) as my mood was bolstered by the magnificent weather.

NYC is resplendent when the weather is perfect no matter if you are in the heart of a ghetto or the heart of the upper East Side as it has a synthesizing energy that establishes itself in all of its residents. This energy uplifts all who partake of it because it is inescapable. You will feel the weather even if you are ensconced in an apartment. The weather of NYC on such a spring day will invigorate the homebound and the jet setters alike because the energy the city brings from the beautiful weather knows no bounds. It infiltrates all in the city because it cannot be shut out. Through closed blinds, closed eyes, closed doors the weather infiltrates and invigorates. I felt like the day awakened me from my winter slumber.

The weather has made me happy and aware that there are always new days no matter how bleak the last one was. The weather has made me aware that I should welcome each day though they may not all be sunny and glorious because the dreary days are surmountable. There will always be bright ones to follow.

Mother

My mother told me to when I was five to never call her that or any variation of the word mother. I was told to call he by her name. That was a sign of the kind of relationship we would have.

Recently L. admitted to me that she became pregnant with me to keep my father who was 17 years old at the time committed to her. I believe that is the reason why I was told not to call her mom as being a mother was not her intention in having me. She wasn't trying to be a mother; she was trying to keep a boy by having his child. Another reason for her not wanting to be called mother was her not wanting the embarrassment of people knowing that she was as young as she was and with a baby and had I uttered the word mother to her in public the secret would be out. L.'s trick of having a child to keep a boy didn't work as well as she thought as my father wanted a boy, and nothing else. I am a girl. Having a girl child did not keep him interested, and I'm truly not certain that had he a boy things would have been different. My father roamed the street with other girls at the time of my mother's pregnancy and had one pregnant at the same time as my mother. That girl's pregnancy resulted in a brother I have seen about five time when I was younger and whom I have no interest in acquainting myself to. My father ultimately landed in jail while I was in foster care.

My mother had me when she was 14 years old. She and my Grandmother decided to put me into foster care and retrieve me when my mother would be capable of taking care of me. She did so when I was 5 years old and she was 19 years of age. She wasn't equipped to take care of me mentally or physically, but put up a front that convinced the social workers and my Grandmother that she was ready for the challenge. I think, no, I know, my mother had been watching too many t.v. programs and was convinced per these shows that raising a child would exemplify the shows: it would be easy. L's job required her to leave home much earlier than the beginning of my school day, so she told me to go to school by myself, and to come home by myself. I was a latch key kid, and it worked out OK. But she handled it as a child would by saying gruffly to a 5 year old child that, "I have to work so you'll just have to just go to school by yourself." She stated that remark in a very confrontational and resentful manner with no encouragement or praise. That was the beginning of my understanding that my mother was not like the other adults I knew. Ultimately I guessed that she was a child trying to act like an adult.

My relationship with my mother continues to be strained as she has never been a mother to me. She, through the years I lived with her, exhibited that she only had me to try to keep a boy and only got me out of foster care to entice that same boy to live with her with the hopes that we would all live happily ever after. Well the boy came to live with us shortly after I got out of foster care, continued with his drug habit that he picked up in prison and started physically and mentally abusing the child my mother had to entice him into staying with her. When my mother came to the realization that her dream was deferred, she couldn't throw me back from were I came as that would be an indictment of her inaptitude as a parent, so she simply ignored and neglected me. She would have done the best thing for me had she given me back to faster care as the one family that had me throughout the duration of my foster care instilled in me the foundation from which I have prospered in being a responsible child, adolescent and adult. I am a credit to the foster care system.

All of my mother's time and energy went into trying to keep her boy/man. She worked to give him money to get him high and buy him the material things that he demanded. She dabbled also in drugs and drink but was a functioning alcoholic/drug addict that showed up to work most often. During that time I was abused I received no baths or attention. I dressed myself, and taught myself to bathe, and made sure I did my homework and chores. All the while my parents were doing their thing of getting high, fighting and acting as if there were no child in the house. I learned about explicit things at a tender age as my mother would do things in front of me to prove to my father that she would stoop to any depth to keep him, and he did things in front of me because he would be high all the time and didn't give a damn.

I left home at 16 to get away, and have done fairly well in my life. I think I have done so because of the foster care system and its ability to give me a foundation of principals. And in spite of my mother and father chipping away at that foundation, I am here to proclaim my victory as a somewhat normal person with a family and a career.