In 2007, a mother found herself struggling on the streets with a drug addiction and two beautiful children, one 5-year-old boy and one 7-year-old girl. This mother did everything she could to care for her children no matter what they went through. Unfortunately, this mother sent her kids to the godmother’s house where she assumed her children would be safe. These two kids stayed at the godmother’s house for a short while until the godmother decided to drop them off somewhere else. The little boy had fallen asleep and didn’t understand where he was going. Little did he know he was being sent away to strangers and would never see his mother again.
While the little boy was sleeping, they arrived at the police station, where the god mother lied to the police with accusations of abuse and child neglect. The children were left there and taken by the police to a foster home. En route to the foster home, the little boy had woken up, not knowing where he was or what car he was in. He was so terrified; all he could do was cry. All he could see was a cage separating him from the driver and guns on the other side of the cage.
Upon arrival at the foster home, the little girl was taken out of the car. The little boy held on to her, screaming, crying, and begging that they don’t get separated. Both children were left at the same foster home with their mother having no knowledge of what just happened to her children. The little boy clung to his sister and never planned to let go as if his life depended on it. Weeks went by, and the little boy was emotional and angry because he didn’t understand why he was at this new place where he didn’t know anybody. He asked for his mother constantly and was forced to stay in his room away from his sister as he cried and curled up in the corner of the room.
Unfortunately, that little boy was me. I was sent away from everything I knew. I was confused, emotional, and angry. All I did was take a nap. Was this my punishment for napping? The foster mother locked me in my room with the door knob reversed, so she could lock me in from the outside of the door. I was unable to leave the room for anything, not to eat or use the bathroom. It didn’t matter how loud I screamed and begged to be let out or expressed that I needed to use the bathroom. Not a soul in the house was allowed to open the door for me. Even when my sister tried to open the door for me, they would yell at her and get her in trouble. Therefore, I was forced to defecate on myself. When the foster mother decided to open the door and finally let me out, she got angry, threw me in the shower, and beat me for “making a mess.”
I was forced to eat super hot chillies and promise I would never scream again while being locked in the room. The foster mother would wash my mouth out with soap and tell me to stop asking for my mother because she didn’t love me. The foster mother said, “If she did, you wouldn’t be here in my home.” I just wanted to go home and be with my sister and mother again! Although it may not have been a physical home, being able to see my sister and mother everyday where I could hug them, talk to them, and be happy was home to me. I never knew that the lies I was told to tell the social worker, like saying my mother burned a cigarette out on my head and hit me in my private parts, was not going to make the DCFS case any better.
This foster home was no better than the lies I was telling about my mother to the social worker. As each day went by, the abuse in the foster home got worse. I was thrown in the deep end of the pool wrapped in a blanket and was told to swim or “the Llorona is going to grab you from the bottom of the pool.” I was just still so confused because every time the abuse occurred, I had just fallen asleep. I would be woken up because of pain, being touched inappropriately by my foster brother, or being thrown in the pool, all when I was napping as a 5-year-old child. Was this my punishment for napping?
