Don’t look so hard at my past; I don’t live there anymore

Photograph of a boy in a striped shirt, staring at the ground.

Pixabay

 Who am I? I’m a 29-year-old African-American born in Washington, D.C.  I was taught to panhandle before I even learned how to read or write. Learned how to con a man or a woman out of their hard-earned dollars.  

Who is going to turn down a hungry child at two or three in the morning? For me, it was easy, at the age of five, sticking your little hand out and asking for change. But to my surprise, I was just helping my mother get her next fix. Not to feed me, but to get her high.  

I saw my mother do things for money like sell herself and sell her food stamps, while I stood there not knowing really what was going on. Even at a young age, seeing what my mom was doing, I felt it was wrong.  

My grandmother and my mother used to argue to keep my young a** in the house after hours. But it was like I was my mom’s golden key to the streets, for her high and for her safety. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment around Mayfair Mansions. I shared the room with my grandmother and my mom slept in the living room on the couch. We were like families back in the day: broke and poor, living off of stamps.   

Around 1995, the city was hooked on crack and most neighborhoods were selling crack to take care of their families. My mom was a smoker and a heavy alcoholic. When I was born in ‘89, my mother was using while I was in her womb.  It amazes me today. “Boy, I was high and drunk with you in my stomach,” she told me. “I had you on the curb of Minnesota Ave., between the gas station and the fire department.”  

In ‘96, my grandmother passed away from cancer and my mother lost custody of me. I became a ward of the state due to a case of neglect.   

I soon met my first foster parent. She was a crossing guard for an elementary school and had two kids of her own that attended school with me. She was very abusive to me because I used to cry a lot for my mother and grandmother. I also caught her doing things I was not supposed to see at a young age. So, she probably thought I was going to tell my social worker what I saw.  

After I did guardianship with that family, I was placed in kinship care through Child and Family Services. At the time, my caseworker got in contact with various family members and, to my surprise, no one wanted to take me in. My uncles and aunts all said “no,” except for my mother’s oldest sister.  

Aunt Evonne took me in and moved me to uptown, Georgia Ave., around Park Rd. There, I met my cousins LaKesha, Bernard and LaKendra. They were all young adults,18 and older. LaKesha had two kids of her own at the time, both of whom are very successful in their young lives today. I still don’t know why my other family members turned away. I ask myself, “What did my mother do to them that makes them not want her child?”  

I was introduced to marijuana at the age of 6 or 8, after I met my first cousins, including Evonne’s son, KJ. That was my first introduction into the world of drugs.  

We moved near North Capitol St. in ‘97. That’s where I learned how to read and write. Lakesha and my aunt found out I had an educational problem and a mental health problem due to my mother’s drug use. I also had dyslexia, asthma and a whole lot of issues that still need to be addressed today.  

The next year, Aunt Evonne went to prison on drug charges and sentenced to 20 years. Her apartment got raided and KJ moved in with his sister and us. My aunt told her kids to keep the family together. After that, things started to go downhill.  

LaKesha did her best to raise me and her brother. But in 2005, during my sophomore year of high school, Child and Family Services opened up another case of neglect and abuse.   

I started to use drugs more often on my own to deal with my little cousins teasing me for not being good at reading or math. They would tell their friends, “Oh, he can’t read and he don’t know eight times four.” So, I used. I became a loner. I wrote poetry and cut myself. Pain was pleasure. My life was in shambles. 

I started working for a nonprofit organization that helps kids in foster care, The Young Women’s Project. It was my first summer job, paying $7.50 an hour, part-time. And it turned into a real job during the winter. I was a part of the Allowance Campaign, where I met D.C. councilmembers who I believed approved of providing an allowance directly to youth in foster care, such as Tommy Wells, Vincent Orange and Vincent Gray. The foster care system provides money for youth in care, but it is/was very easy for their guardian to misuse that money for anything else.  

As I got older, I realized I needed to give up the streets for a better education and a better me. As a young man, my goals are now to stop chasing fast money, complete school and go to college to become a nurse.   

My goals motivate me to be greater than past situations. I have experienced many setbacks and successes in my life. I have had to repeat classes, which I eventually passed, as well as go to rehab at a young age so I could get over my own drug problem. My successes have led me to a better life and a smarter me. I contribute to my successes by trying to do something constructive every day. These constructive activities include doing chores, looking for a job and helping others.  

My past has taught me how to be a stronger and wider man. I won a poetry contest, worked at my first job at The Young Women’s Project and worked with first-time youth offenders. I’m grateful for my progress because I used to always doubt myself about everything. Now, I believe that any and everything is achievable.   

I hope my story can show other people and foster youth that they are not the only ones struggling. We foster youth have to believe that if there’s a will, there’s a way. There’s a lot I still have to achieve. But at least I have made it this far in my life. If I can do it, so can you.

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