It's awful to be placed into the child foster/homeless system. I spent time homeless with my mother, as a young child. We were homeless 6 times between my ages of 6-8. During that time we lived in a car, hid out/squatted in a person's shop, under a bridge, and 3 times I was transported to the local children's shelter. During those 3 years, I was assigned a CPS/DHS Case worker. She became my legal guardian, and had me in the shelter until my father was able to be awarded custody. The case manager had to track him down, as he didn't live in the area/state. It wasn't a good experience, to say the least.
My mother was a single, divorced mom. She was a beautiful Cherokee person, with long dark hair, a dark olive complexion, and beautiful hazel brown eyes. She was a sex worker, ran her own housekeeping service, and a crack-cocaine addict. She would disappear for days at a time, leaving me home alone, in our meager, metal trailer, to fend for myself. I reached out the the Salvation Army, and asked if they could put me on the weekly food delivery list for the disabled/invalid, and elderly. They said yes! Each week on Sunday afternoons, the volunteers would deliver a box of food items to include: rice crispies, peanut butter, vienna sausages, potted meat, a box of saltine crackers, powdered milk, powdered eggs, mashed potato flakes, and sometimes even a can of spam. This is what I lived on for a couple years. We would receive food stamps, but momma would often sell them for half the value for cash. We also got child support from my father, which would usually pay the rent, unless momma hadn't any money for her drug habit. It got pretty bad at times, strangers coming into our home at all hours, even into see me. In the recent #MeToo Movement, I opted out, because I didn’t know how to really voice my experiences. In my life, until the last few years, it’s been hard to voice things about myself, and my past to others. And, unfortunately, at a very young age I was used as payment for my mother's drug habit as well. Men, even teenagers, would take advantage of me, and since my mother was very open about her sexual practices, I would witness things no person should ever, ever see. Once we were attacked by a group of men, I ran to hide, until I heard my mother screaming, I ran back nervously, to look under her door (which had a two inch gap at the floor) to see what was happening. I felt so helpless, I wanted to make them stop, but all I could do was be there as a witness to her tragic circumstances. There were times she would be absent so long the neighbors would notice and call the police, I'd get shipped off the to Mark Mitchell Homeless Shelter for Children. There, I was bullied and teased by the other children my age, and thankfully the house manager caught the kids treating me that way, and moved me to the teenager room. The teen girls made me feel accepted, and would play with my hair and braid it, putting in pretty decorations. It made me feel nice, helped to ease the fear, and shame. Eventually, things did improve. But not for a very long time. Once placed with my father, he would threaten to kick me out, wrestle me to the floor, hold me in body holds/choke holds, leg locks, and use hand vicing/crimping to punish me. Spankings would have been preferred, but I got those as well. My first step-mother (though she did apologize when I was 24) used to use switches, metal hangers, and other random objects on me and scar my legs, back, and backside with whelps, then force me to go to school with shorts on, so "everyone can see what a bad little child you are". Don't get me wrong, as a kid, I was kind of a brat, but I don't know of many children that aren't bratty at times. I would rebel against their abuse by sabotaging them, which only made things way worse. When I was nine my father and step-mother had my sister. Which began the cycle of being used once again. My sister would be left in my care after we both got home from daycare/school, while my step-mother would pamper herself, kick back in the recliner and relax. The last straw for me was when her brother sexually assaulted me, and she admitted to me she also was sexually assaulted as a child by her brother. Yet, didn't believe me. So they made me go see a psychologist. Who they told I was a liar, made up wild stories, and was obsessed with being rebellious. So, of course the psychologist believed the adults. They all ganged up on me about lying, and insisting I couldn't have possibly been exposed to those type of things. They blamed me. So I turned inward. I also took all her expensive office dress clothes out into the rain and jumped on them in a huge mud puddle, most of them were dry clean only, in retaliation, obviously I was not good at verbally expressing my emotions. That was the worst beating of my life, up until that point. I began to write in my journal instead. I filled 6 of them in 8 years. Never really speaking outwardly about the things I went through. Since the age of six, my journal had been my best friend, my only real friend, that I could be real with too. Thankfully, she left, divorced my dad, and he had to pay very expensive child support (way more than he had to pay my mother for me), leaving us with a portion of a paycheck to survive off of, and my sister living in privilege in a nice three bedroom brick home, with her mother's full income, plus the $796 dollars a month in child support (my father only paid a little over $400 to my mother). The only thing we could afford was a very tiny trailer, out in the country. I spent most of my childhood isolated, alone at that trailer. At the age of 12, my father's best friend, whom my sister and I lovingly referred to as our "uncle", had given me a horse. That horse saved my life. Had Peanut not been in my life, I would have killed myself, and often made attempts before he came into my life. After school, I would be driven home by a neighbor, then immediately go saddle Peanut for a ride around the country-side. School let out at 2:30, and my father would work 7 days a week, and not be home until around 8pm. After a long ride with Peanut, I would return home, brush, feed, and water him. After our afternoon ride, I would retreat home, to start a load of laundry, do my homework, take a shower, and cook dinner for my dad and I. I'd have it ready by the time he got home, we'd eat and I'd go to bed. At 5:30 am it would start all over again. I'd have to say these were the most peaceful days I could remember, as long as I could walk a very tight and narrow line, I wouldn't have to be punished, so I strove for perfection from then on. Things weren't all bad, from the time I moved in with my father, in the country, I would walk alone down to the little country church. I got very involved with the youth group, even began to organize and lead the fundraising efforts, and eventually became the youth director, at age 17! Church was a refuge for me, where everyone greeted me with smiles and hugs, that actually felt genuine, instead of obligatory. In high school, I gained several friendships that lasted 21 years (until I came out as trans and became homeless). Although, there are a few that still hung on, that I wasn't expecting to stick around! All the hardships I've been through, all the violence witnessed, experienced, and the blatant, overt favoritism shown to my sister over me (way too much for this blog post, and really wouldn't do much more than just provide sad examples of choosing one child over the other). The first person I fell for, was my spouse Katherine. Though we were young, we had been secretly seeing one another for 8 months, when our parents found out. That did not go well at all. My father strangled me, dragged me by the hair outside, laid me over the bed of his truck tailgate, and began to kick me in the back, legs, and backside with his steel-toed work boots on. Then told me I had to stay isolated from the family, all my friends, quit my extra curricular activities, and surrender my tv, radio, for a year (restriction). Which was absolutely no lie, that's exactly what happened. As an adult, at one time, I was a charge nurse. Was making nearly $30/hr, had a 5 bedroom brick home, and a nice small car (paid off!) Eventually, I had a back injury that broke my back, displaced 3 vertebral disks, and caused bilateral sciatica in both hips. This caused me to be in a wheelchair, although I still walk with a cane, that began a long road of struggles. Eventually, my spouse and I came out as trans, and experienced violence/discrimination based on gender identity. We became homeless, and since I was still disabled, it was difficult to find work. No nursing community would hire me as I was a "liability". I lost my career and had to go back to the drawing board, to figure out what I could actually do with my limitations. Working my way out of a wheelchair and into using a cane to walk with physical therapy, was quite difficult and took a lot of inner strength to push through the pain to restrengthen by back. It's been a long road, but I'm so thankful for the experiences. Pain has been my greatest teacher, it taught me to focus on the best things, be thankful for the little things, and the steps towards triumph over an invisible disability, and incredibly disadvantaged circumstances. I appreciate the hard times I've been through, and know that now that life is better, we've worked hard with much determination to make a happy, rewarding life that works for us! Every homeless person has a story, if you just take time to listen!
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Authors:James and Katherine are a transgender couple raising two kids. They were southerners when coming to understand themselves as trans. Ultimately it lead to a nearly three year road trip to find home. Now they are re-housed and still focused on outreach in the transgender community! Archives
October 2020
Categories |