Taken

Yes, normal exists. We are living normally, we are examining the world with curious eyes and open minds, wondering, questioning. As the book suggests, many of us Eat, Pray and Love. Childhood is our kiln; we bake until hardened. We ripen under the sun and grow from love. And so, now I can accept my own place in this world, my own normality; now I embrace it, because I remember grabbing a jar of crunchy peanut butter and sitting down with my brothers and digging spoons into the jar. We devoured the peanut butter, our bellies bursting, and I thought, "I never want to see peanut butter again." What is more normal than that? But sometimes interruptions come. Sometimes we are taken out of the kiln before we are done. Sometimes we are removed from the vine unripened, only for someone to tape us back up after taking a bite and deciding that we were bitter. And so, this is how I felt when I was taken.

We were young. My brother was 5, I was 7, my youngest brother at the time was 3. It was a time when we played and laughed and were care-free, and although I had my own room, I would occasionally sleep in my brothers’ room, telling them stories. Trying to scare them so bad that they wouldn't be able to sleep. Tickling them until they begged for mercy. Sometimes doing arts and crafts with them. One night, after a day of crafts and fun, we were cutting out drawings we had just colored, we each got under the covers and we began an epic tickle fight. Rolling beneath the covers, tossing sheets, laughing until we drooled. Then, suddenly, there was a scream, no a shriek. A high, trill sound, piercing me. Something was horribly wrong.

My mother came running into the room. She grabbed my brother from under the covers and examined him. He was cut. She wrapped him in a blanket, threw a coat on over her night gown, and rushed to the hospital leaving my younger brother and me with her boyfriend. In between the hours of her departure and return I replayed everything in my head. We were having a tickle fight. There was paper and scissors on the bed, but the scissors fell behind the bed while we were kicking and squirming. As only a child's mind could, I drew the conclusion that I scratched him with my nails. I bit off my nails as I lay in the bed and cried. It never occurred to me that my brother was cut by the scissors and didn't feel it until after they fell to the floor. No, it was my fault, I was the oldest and it was my fault.

When my mother returned, she wasn't alone, police followed behind her, but there was no brother. The police asked me what happened, I told them the truth as I knew it, that we were playing and I scratched him with my nails. My mother was hysterical. I later learned that my brother had been taken into foster care due to the severity of his injuries. The only saving grace of the situation is that my uncle and aunt were allowed to act as his foster parents.

Months went by, it seemed as though we lived in family court. I was interviewed several times by several people and it was always the same. They would ask me what happened, I would tell them, and then they would tell me their version of what happened. According to my interviewers, either my mother or her boyfriend held my brother down and cut him in some ritualistic practice. I vehemently denied this, but they always 'comforted' me and told me that I didn't have to take responsibility for what I didn't do.

One day, after a grueling interview that lasted for what seemed like hours, my brother and I were herded into a room. When I looked towards the courtroom, I could see my mother being escorted out by paramedics, she had fainted. People were rushing by, my thoughts were a jumble, I didn't understand what was going on. A woman approached my brother and me. She had a friendly face and a soothing voice. She led us away from the chaos of the crowd. We went to an office and she ordered us sandwiches. She explained that my brother and I were going into foster care. I asked if we would be going to my uncle's house like my brother, when she said no, I didn't know what to think.

We were herded into a car, and several hours later we arrived at an older couple's house. We saw our other brother sitting at the kitchen table. The woman asked us if we were hungry, by then it was past 8pm, we said yes. She fed us spaghetti. Silent tears fell to our checks as we ate.

Tomorrow, Life In Prison. . .

Detour: Temporary Housing

Here it is again, that question: "Who's normal?". . . and why exactly is it normal to eat pb. Why is the peanut, or peanut butter more specifically, such a staple in American households? More important than that though, is my need. . . my need to eat the stuff and have a moment when I think, "There are thousands of people, at this moment, eating peanut butter. At this very moment, I am just like them."

I know I made a promise to you all, a promise of an uncle's death today, but instead I'd like to detour. I'd like to take you to "temporary housing".

                         

As with many of the great tragedies in my life, this one started with an early morning phone call. "Get down here, you have to come to family court, they’re about to put your nieces in foster care. You can take them instead, just make a request of the judge. Hurry." It was my mother, frantic with worry, my oldest brother's children were about to be taken away. There is something you must understand before I go on, I was raised by my mother, and he was raised by his father's family. We didn't meet until we were teenagers. I always knew he existed, but the reality of him was another thing. We grew up with different values, different ways of communicating, different ways of thinking. We weren't close. So, although I didn't hesitate to go to the court, I wasn't sure how I would be greeted.

When I reached the courthouse I saw my mother sitting on a bench being comforted by a cousin of mine. She kept saying how she didn't want her grandchildren to go to foster care. She was rocking back and forth and the hard wooden court bench and breaking my heart. Of all the people in my family, the many brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, I was the only one who could stop this.

When the case was called, I saw my brother and his girlfriend. I couldn't believe my eyes! Here I was in a Tahari suit and heels, and they were in jeans and sneakers. My brother’s girlfriend actually had a scarf on her head! How do you fight for your children when you can't be presentable for court? I was astonished. I walked into the courtroom and listened to the charges. Neglect. I listened as lawyers and social workers described the condition of their home. I was in shock, and I wanted to sweep away my nieces and nephews into my arms to somewhere safe. As the judge was about to order my nieces and nephews into foster care, all 8 of them, I stood up and said I could take 3 of my nieces. I explained my situation, that I had a one bedroom apartment and a husband, and that I could help support them financially with some savings I had although I was in between consulting jobs. Thankfully, I was given the approval to take them.

At home, I blew up an air mattress, moved some furniture, and put up shelving to keep their things. I put snacks on the table, sat down at it letting my eyes glaze over trying to mentally prepare myself for taking on the responsibility of three little ones aged 4, 6, and 7.

When they arrived, I gave them a good once over. Their physical condition was appalling. One had sores in her head and a thick mess of dandruff, all of their teeth were rotten, and they had severe personal hygiene issues. The first thing we did was get a large piece of construction paper and write down the rules of the house; no lying, no stealing, no hitting, no going into the kitchen without an adult. There were consequences written too. No snacks, no tv, no games, no going outside, and time-outs - depending on the severity of the "crime". There it was, we created order for children who didn't know reasonable discipline and who had never had well-defined rules. Next was hygiene. That night I showed them how to brush their teeth properly and how to wash. I scheduled time to make phone calls for doctor and dentist appointments. I had already enrolled them in school earlier that day and I readied their book bags with supplies for class the next day.

I felt so in control of the situation, I felt so prepared. I had a plan, and I was ready to implement - I wanted to get their young lives back on track. But most of all, I wanted them to know that they were loved and safe and protected. I wanted them to know that no matter what they had to say I would listen. I wanted them to know that this was a home for them.

And so it began, the doctors’ visits, the dentist visits, the sibling visits, the parental visits, the social worker visits, the psychiatrist visits, the school visits. It was exhausting keeping up with the appointments to evaluate their physical and mental health, but they were troopers, and we got through it together.

My husband and I worked on homework with them, we took them to parks, we had fashion shows and danced together, we took them to fancy restaurants and places they had never been before. To see the look of wonder in their eyes and the joy on their faces was priceless. I loved them so much, I wished they were mine, but I never forgot my place, I was their aunt - not their mother.

Each parental visit became more and more difficult, the girls had begun calling my husband and me mom and dad despite my constant corrections. Sometimes they would do this in front of their parents. Then there were the discussions about the children's health. I always wanted to let my brother and his girlfriend know what was going on with the girls, but they were often defensive. I told them of the many teeth that needed to be removed due to the over 20 cavities between them, I told them of the treatments for vaginal infections, and the scalp and skin ointments. They took this as accusations; they weren't good parents. Often my updates would lead to arguments. Meanwhile I was in a position where I had to report when the girls were hit in front of me, and how the girls squirreled away the food and snacks I would leave on the table as if they were used to being hungry, how they brought food from school and asked for more. . .

The girls were precious to me, I couldn't understand how my brother let it get to this. To me they were jewels, I treated them no differently than if they were mine, and I could not forgive the absurdity of the situation, the pain and hurt he helped to cause these girls that they couldn't voice. One day, at a museum, the girls were unhappy about a punishment of no snacks for destroying some property. Their parents wanted to give them a snack despite the fact they had broken the rules. I disagreed with this, they needed to be taught discipline, and I told the girls that if they took it they would have an extra day added to their punishment. This set their mother off, she was screaming at me on the street corner a few blocks from the museum; I would never be their mother, I was a bitch, I would make an awful mother and probably wouldn't have children. Then she charged at me, she wanted to fight. Meanwhile my brother was threatening to hit the girls if they didn't take the snacks. That was it for me, to see my nieces trembling at the sight of this fiasco made me realize that I couldn't keep them. I couldn't have their parents threatening them because of me, and so, I lost my little jewels. I lost my diamonds.

After months of working with various agencies, my brother was able to get all the children back on a probationary basis, the girls are still being visited.

Tomorrow, the death of an uncle - I promise :)