I believe that the term that would be used to describe me today would be a “child of the system”. In the latter part of 1971 however, most people would have used the word “orphan”. My biological father was a Navy man who had served in Korea. My biological mother was a teenage victim of molestation, who escaped an abusive home life only to marry my alcoholic, biological father who was not much kinder to her. It has been speculated that my oldest brother was actually an offspring of my biological grandfather and biological mother; as sick as that sounds. Needless to say, dad was not kind to him either.
I was the youngest of ten children and was five years-old when my biological mother passed away in the spring of 1972. She was diagnosed with aggressive lung cancer (carcinoma) in late summer of 1971. Surely, the 41 years that she spent on this earth were harsh and rather brief, but I still remember her face and her kindness; that is the legacy that she left with me, and it lives on.
My birth parents split up shortly before mom’s terminal diagnosis. My memories of dad are brief and faint. He was an angry and violent man, who was either yelling at or beating my older brothers when he was ever around. He was drunk a lot of the time and to ensure that he had money for beer and smokes; he trafficked my mom and sisters for cash to anyone who was willing to pay. After the death of one of my older brothers, mom finally worked up the courage to send him away for good. He was not around to see her die and certainly not the type of man who would have taken proper care of her children.
The following short stories are memories that I have of being a foster then adopted child. Many of them are very ugly and have been hard for me to share, but I assure you that they were very real events. Each short story is based upon flashes of memories that I have, and I will add a new memory and my adult reflection every week. It is not that I wish to play the victim here but to help provide hope and insight for both the survivors of childhood trauma and the people trying to help them. Truly mine has been a unique life, and I would hate for my struggles to have been in vain.
Not all who go through similar circumstances to mine escape in the same shape or manner that I did but I believe that the feelings and scope are similar; some just cannot get beyond the pain and the anger to compartmentalize and share. I sincerely hope that there is some good that comes from the memories that I have to share.
As I Corinthians 15:10 states, “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me.” I am living proof that this is true, and I thank God for showing me that all of us have meaning and purpose.