FOSTER CARE: UNDERNEATH THE MASKS
if you've never experienced it, i wouldn't wish it for you. even if it were you who subjected me to-consciously or unconsciously-the vile behaviors of my meekly vetted, state-approved foster mom. an egregious entity that functioned through an ego so dark, light required its permission to exist. i would absolutely hate for your children, your children's children, or anyone you love to undergo the types of psychological, physical and/or sexual abuse and trauma most youth are unfortunately exposed to in a corrupt system designed to develop young criminals-searching for an escape-who evolve into adult criminals, which, for the government, advantageously increases the amount of free labor and funding within the prison & shelter systems. or, a species of adults-reaching, unsuccessfully & with inconsistent hope for freedom-are fashioned, addictively dependent upon legal & illegal vices in their everyday lives, to assist in lessening or temporarily suppressing the memories and flashbacks of their inauspicious childhoods. the staggering proportion of hurt people who hurt people that i've encountered in the shelters where i've lived, on the streets where i've slept or suffering in abusive spousal relationships-an experience i can relate to wholeheartedly-carry, with aching muscle, the burdenous weight of their youthful misfortunes on shoulders, heavy like watered down concrete. after years of life's abundant challenges and scattered victories, they're unable to articulate the ruinous events they've endured/witnessed without wishing to somehow disappear.
growing up in foster care, after losing my beautiful mother veronica in 1989 to an unforeseen asthma attack and never having known my biological father, forcefully nudged a once dead-bolted gateway of love & protection wide open for trauma, abuse, toxicity, neglect and darkness-from the very beings who'd signed up to provide a safe and nurturing home for me-to harshly and profoundly reign over my life. the deeply-rooted, expertly tucked scars-some, i gratefully allowed time to consume ad interim-that i've had to discretely transport my entire life, should belong to no human soul. as the oldest female child in both foster spaces, i was, without granted consent, the designated caregiver to all the fellow foster children that bravely entered and exited the residences on 12034 kings grove and 4706 burning tree. i was responsible for bathing, dressing, grooming, helping with homework, waking up for school, sometimes cooking for and even rising in the middle of the night to cradle or bottle feed the babies entrusted to the care of bishop and carolyn berry. these tasks, appallingly mine alone, consumed precious energy, all while i clumsily juggled my own adolescent-teen crisis and dreams. the word no, one i feared with bruised passion, was artfully etched into my frame, akin to egyptian hieroglyphs. asking for assistance or guidance from anyone, for anything, introduced an embodiment of crippling anxiety. this learned behavior produced an imbalanced form of hyper-independence which rendered me, throughout my years, consistently verging on self-harm and destruction. the clothing vouchers, for school & otherwise, that were redeemed at our local weiner's department store, required a percentage be spent in her honor as a manipulative, screaming thank you for any unacknowledged effort. the monthly payments, on my behalf, that fell fruitfully, into their laps, were refused to me and i went without most of the time. i hadn't been privy to the knowledge of this well-received monetary abundance until i was adopted at thirteen and repeatedly lied to about the checks stopping once this mission had been accomplished-a devious tactic enforced to ensure a sense of gratitude be displayed at all times for housing me without the aforementioned governmental assistance. so, hungry at school and dolorously afraid to ask "friends" or teachers for help, resulted in trickery and/or stealing to acquire what i desired-a skill i honed from my older brothers who'd conveniently stuff my backpack with snacks from the local market-which is now a daycare-located at the end of our block on homestead. i discovered this brick-and-mortar modification when i courageously journeyed back to northeast houston-riding shotgun on the metro-to release and alchemize the anger and resentment i harbored due to the psychological abuse, physical abuse and starvation i suffered at the hands of my mom's step-mother.
during that oppressive period, myself, my younger sister, and three older brothers were shackled into surviving off of the stale potato chips our next-door-neighbor would leave in a box by the fence for us. it was he, who dutifully phoned child protective services during my elementary years, concurrently flipping my flinty world anew. i'd usually grab the knock-off funyons-a favorite of mine that i refused to purposely reject until i seriously began my vegan lifestyle transformation. i forwarded these survival techniques into my college experience, quietly filling up on family size bags of my favorite flavors when funds were low and stealing from just about anywhere or anyone i deemed ungrateful for their prosperity-or from those who'd wronged me in some way-to satisfy my wants & needs. a mindset of scarcity that i'd unintentionally ingurgitated was asserting territorial claim over my life, bringing about seasons of mental anguish, physical discomforts & ignorant rationalizations. it wasn't until i was offered a holding cell and itchy orange scrubs with no door to close while using the restroom as ramification for a misdemeanor theft, that i began to truly comprehend the realities i'd cyclically encounter on my d.i.y. hamster wheel unless i adjusted my moral compass. at the time, i had no idea that my reckless conduct correlated to my upbringing and was a normal behavioral trauma response. now, stemming from a spiritually based guided alignment of my internal and external values due to a few years of beneficial healing work, i simply remind myself that if i do not have the money to purchase something i desire, then it is not the right time for me to acquire it. yes, this may seem an undoubtedly simple shift in perspective, but being raised in an environment where begging for acknowledgement was a common occurrence, and justifying negative behavior with meaningful intentions granted contrasting perplexity, i expectedly reacted by warranting confusion an autonomous supremacy.
her biological son, daniel-a stuttering habitual nightmare-was the worst type of menace. he existed, rotten to the core & expertly trained as her villainous protégé. he had no responsibilities, his name was never added to the chore list-which strategically hung for all to look upon-and he could escape punishment with everything from inappropriate sexual advances to verbal abuse. he took pride in ratting on me for the smallest inconveniences-aware his word would be accepted as truth without any proof or opportunity on my account for a counter argument-and i'd often be met with physical torment in the form of a switch, belt or fist. i can recall a time where i'm lying in bed and he climbs in behind me and starts to rub himself on me, while insisting i wasn't his "real" sister therefore, it wasn't wrong. the way i walked, danced and even spoke was an issue and he'd build mountains out of molehills assuring subsequent wrath. this animosity created an intentional atmosphere of fear since i dared to outwardly express my child-like freedom. the light i threw-unprovoked and with innocent pride-despite their attempts to catch and blanket, exposed their unhealed trauma wounds, resulting in an overwhelming need to extinguish joy from my aura by any means necessary. memories like slaps across the face, pushes, punches and being thrown across the room are prevalent. so are harsh phrases like, "you're gonna grow up & be a whore just like your mother." this one i can never forget-her low-life attempt at foreshadowing an existence for me she hoped would manifest-just to see me dwell in the same personal pain she harbored. in another tucked away memory, she grabbed her spoiled, deceptive son like the wingman that he was and walked away, hand-in-hand, while smiling, figuring her words had left their mark with, "jasmine can go straight to hell and i hope her leg falls off." this transpired my sophomore year of high school during a time of dependency, recovery & discovery for me. i'd torn my acl during basketball practice and was, coincidentally, becoming my own best friend-finally standing up for myself and refuting her bullying ways and ideas of me aloud-something i now realize she hated & feared in unison. it terrified me to actually see, hear & feel the darkness she oozed while strategically hiding behind the pulpit to protect her image. even after i poured my heart out to her sister-in-law and other members of the church she headed-explaining in detail all i'd gone through-they rejected this visualization and instead ingested the lies she spewed to them, falsely expressing me as the problem. i hated our relationship-one that'd conveniently flip to forced adoration when strangers were around. the psychological abuse, which intensified after i caught her arm mid-swing my senior year ending the physical abuse, lasted until i moved to prairie view for college. after a couple of attempts to retain some fashion of contact, thinking it's what my dad would've wanted, i abruptly released them both from my life for good during a rocky freshman year.
to combat the intensity of life in secret captivity, i often found solace in calming or equally intense outlets. in nature, a gift from GOD harboring the potency of celestial gold, i'd climb trees and happily balance on branches, swaying in the safety of their limbs. as the sun'd slide away for rest, i'd grab a ladder and climb to the roof where expressing my anger, fear, doubt and pain to the clouds and stars seemed a natural zen. the confusion abuse brought into my life left me with so many piercingly troubled thoughts. why am i going through this? what did i do to deserve this pain? why does she hate me? why isn't anyone protecting me? i hate it here! i don't want to be here anymore! this isn't fair! i want to die! i'd scream into the sky as tears flowed and fell like hail, wishing someone would witness my distress, come to my rescue and magically transform my life into the beautiful fairytale movie i knew i deserved. sports-an intense outlet i utilized all year round-opened my eyes to competition, uninhibited fun, wilful discipline, a way to physically release my inner cries-freeing me from the rigidity stress piled on my soul-and an isolated shot to commune with neighbors. i raced full speed ahead, against anyone, beating out all the competition with my natural quickness. i'd energetically tackle, with focused confidence, all the boys who dared challenge me in our countless front-yard football competitions. i was gifted the coveted nickname baby swoopes, since i'd usually be the only girl hoopin' in the all male street ball games and in open gym at the local ymca-an often crowded space i entered with curiosity and necessary grit. books, however, graced my life and instantly swept me off my feet. through this creative exercise, i could relax-free from speaking or overexerting any unnecessary energy. i'd grasp this tangible treasure, find the perfect corner to slide into, sprout wings and vividly fly away. when i discovered my love of music, i held it close to my heart. everyday, i'd crouch in front of my teal boombox, cassette tape inserted, record the top 8 at 8-a pyramid of songs rated by popularity on houston's beloved 97.9 the box radio station-and jam to my mixes all night. i also had the privilege of singing alongside bishop as he artistically swooned the church pews with his saxophone harmonies, opportunistically, finding my voice and awakening a dormant melodic tone of my own. this backfired on carolyn's futile attempts to crush my aspirations by repetitively comparing my voice to a nearby neighbors'-alerting me with condescending lyric-to the illusionary qualities that rendered me an incompetent candidate for success. in middle school, my younger self, an optimistic dynamite, beat out the competition for the role of susie snowflake in our holiday spectacular and after walking into a studio with my choir teacher and recording my first song that same year, i became the light of my own life, dimming all residual doubt of musical stardom. being able to access these luxuries as a source of temporary freedom, saved my life. i appreciatively pull from my past lessons-dipping into these outlets for clarity-when i'm feeling weighed down by life's circumstances and am in need of the warrior-like courage i exuded then to persevere on my current path. i'm inspired by the tenacious resilience i expressed in my youth and will always be proud of my powerful desire to thrive in spite of the suffering.
i hope my story encourages you to release the version of you that wants to burn so a new you can rise victoriously from the ashes. i wish you peace, love and light on your life-changing journey.
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PSA: THIS EXPERIMENT THAT FORCES CHILDREN INTO FOSTER CARE, GROUP HOMES AND HUMAN TRAFFICKING - TEENS AND ADULTS INTO DRUGS, PRISONS AND SHELTERS - MUST COME TO AN END!! NO MORE LIVES TAKEN AND NO MORE LIVES USED FOR ANYONE'S SPIRITUAL AND MATERIAL GAIN!!!
