What It Was Like to Enter Foster care

Twenty-nine years ago, my life was completely altered. It had started like any other day; My brother and I woke up deciding which fantasy play we would engage in.

A vacant lot immediately adjacent to our apartment served as our playground. Though it was an empty, concrete lot, it doubled as a field of dreams for my brother and me, where we could be anyone but ourselves.

Though the neighborhood kids had all started school, it had been months since we had even walked into one. DCF frequently frequented the apartment, and our parents were getting sloppy. It felt inevitable that one day, it could all come to an abrupt end.

My tiny forty-pound frame allowed me to fit in places a social worker would never suspect when looking through the house. It became second nature to hide every time we heard a knock. Towards the end, we’d even become paranoid about footsteps.

Grandma always did her best to make sure we were taken care of. But she was old and senile. Our family of five lived off of whatever check she got during the first of the month. I always dreaded the time.

Though we weren’t allowed to cross the street, we knew when we could and couldn’t take advantage of our parents. What I now know as a drug addiction seemed like aloofness to me as a child.

Physically, Mom was there. However, she didn’t have the same warmth she’d always had. Once vibrant and full of life, her eyes seemed dull and lifeless. Once incredibly affectionate, but now the only attention received was when she needed something from me.

The day DCF finally caught up to us, they caught us off guard by coming twice in one day. We hadn’t prepped for that. I was seated in the one bedroom in the apartment when there was a knock on the door, but it was already too late.

Though our tactics hadn’t improved, theirs had, and this time, they had police officers at every escape route.

The banging on the door was deafening, announcing themselves as the police and a social worker. I remember feeling frozen, unable to move as my mom shooed us to hide. But there was no use; this time, they would use excessive force if they had to.

Once the door was slightly ajar, it was pushed open, and what seemed like the swat team entered, tearing my entire life apart.

The police stood by, intimidatingly watching the encounter as the social worker gave her spiel. She noted she was taking us on a sleepover; there was nothing to fear. I don’t want to go on a sleepover, I thought. I want to be with my mom.

Amid tears, some of my belongings were shoved in a plastic bag, and I was ushered down the stairs and into a police cruiser with my brother while we waited. The officer, probably sensing our fear, made light of the situation by showing us how to operate the lights and siren.

The red and blue flashing lights from the cruisers reflected off the brick houses in slow motion as I peered at my mother through the window. She was yelling and crying hysterically about “her babies.” Fueled with pain and uncertainty, my brother and I make a pact to run away together should things turn out poorly.

Though we only drove for about ten minutes, it felt like an eternity. Night had fallen, and the September air had begun to crisp, a significant difference from the near summer-like weather during the day.

As we approached the new house, anxiety started to set in. I couldn’t remember the last time my clothes were washed; I was filthy. Would they even let me stop foot in their house? What kind of people would they be?

As my brother and I reluctantly walked to the front door, I mapped my surroundings for my escape. Several knocks later, when no one had come to the door, the social worker noted the time and how they must be sleeping; we would have to return. Relieved, we began to retreat to the car when the sound of a door opening stopped us.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” The daughter explained excitedly. She spoke a mile a minute, explaining that her mother spoke broken English and that she would help translate. Her mother was a short, European woman with an almost porcelain face and soft eyes. There was something about her that was incredibly loving and inviting.

She invited us into the kitchen, where bags of groceries were laid out everywhere. My brother and I looked at each other wide-eyed. The only time we had seen that many groceries were in the grocery store.

While we were made to believe foster care would be this horrible place, it wasn’t looking like that after at all.