Picking up where I left off

My brothers and I began our exciting journey into foster care.  My sister, who was pretty much a newborn, went to live with my grandparents where she was raised as their own child - not knowing about us - but that’s for later.

We were split up, my brother “J” and I went in one direction and my brother “R” and Ray went in another.  “J” who was technically my half-brother, unbeknownst to me at that time, had some mental and physical issues.  I suppose having your father try to drown you, and the fact he has one of the worst cases of ADD I’ve ever seen, made him a bit to handle (at that time ADD wasn’t a diagnosis) so they kept him with me so I could take care of him. 

“R” and Ray, I later found out, were put up for adoption.  Actually though, I know Ray was sold to a couple who no agency on Earth would have given a child.  “R” was adopted to a couple where only the husband wanted him, and the wife was a complete bitch.  I’ll go more into Ray and “R” later.

“J” and my first foster home was a group home in another part of town.  An older, churchgoing black couple ran it.  I’m sure they did the best that they could as we were not the only residents there.  My only real memory was of an old, senile lady who lived there.  She would, daily, go running down to the railroad tracks because she wanted to die.  The lady running the house would have my brother and I chase after her.  This stayed with me because we were constantly petrified.  Scared we would be too late, scared we would get hit by the train ourselves.  Just always scared.

This was temporary housing though, so our next stop was a “money maker” foster home with this couple and their children.  We were treated like the outcasts we were, called spics and other lovely names, and always on high alert.  The children in the home were also always calling names, hitting, taking our things.  One day one of the little monsters took my brother’s favorite toy and threw it into their basement.  He cried and cried - but I couldn’t unlock the door and we weren’t allowed down there.  I told the “mother” of the house who said I was lying so, I turned to the kid who did it and told him, “next time the door’s open I’m throwing you down there too.”  I got hit and we got thrown out, guess she didn’t want to see if I would do it.

Our next stop was my Aunt’s house.  My sister had a bunch of sisters and a brother, all of whom really couldn’t take the extra mouths to feed; however this Aunt wanted to help house all of us (she was the one who found the lovely parents for “R” and “Ray”).  We moved in with her, her husband and two daughters.  I thought it would be good, someone I knew, a familiar face.  It didnt’ work out that way.  This aunt and her husband were already on the route to divorce.  He was an evil piece of shyt who I only remember because of what he did to my brother.  My brother and I were accustomed to eating when someone would throw some food at us - and if we were hungry that was our problem.  So we went shopping with my aunt that day and each got a box of twinkies or ho hos or whatever.  During the night my brother, then about 4, got out of bed to get one.  He was caught.  This uncle labeled him a food thief and told him if he was hungry, here, and dumped mustard, hot pepper, all types of condiments in his mouth making him swallow only to vomit it back up.  Then, covered in vomit, he tied him to the top bunk and left him there to throw up beside and onto himself all night.  I could still smell that smell on my brother a decade later.  With this, our Aunt sent us to go live with his parents - which was likely the best part of our childhoods.

*To be continued