No Shame!

Wow I wrote this a long time ago and have forgotten to publish it

Being adopted--it sucks. Plain and Simple. The odds are against you and you, for the most part, would rather not associate with where you come from. Why? Because it will, most certainly, bring up memories and certain emotions that you just don't want to deal with. How do I know this? Well, I was adopted in California and I really could care less for a lot of the places that relate to my past. Well, recently I spent some time on Google and found quite a bit about California and the places that relate to my past that I like and that I am interested in, such as:

Long Beach--It's the beach! Well, I really am not a beach person--not too big on the whole swimming thing either, but it's a pretty cool beach (so Google tells me). There's a place called Shoreline Village which has all these quaint little shops and places to eat. In one store, everything is purple! And one of the restaurants is a lighthouse--cool, huh?

Well, Long Beach doesn't represent the happy place of my past. In fact, it's just an emotional place to me--I mean, I once refused to go to my adopted uncle's wedding just because it was there and I remembered that as being a place I had once been on a visit to see my bio mother and that held some very strong emotion to me I also knew that she lived somewhere around there and wasn't up for that so I threw a huge tantrum, at the age of fourteenish, and refused to go.

Fresno, California--Okay, it's really hard to say anything good about this place! It's on America's Most Wanted way too often and totally represents a lot of turmoil for me. This is the HQ of my adoption agency, the place my bio father was first incarcerated, and, oh my, it's just so ghetto!

Fresno does represent some good stuff to me, though. It is where I was sealed in the temple with my family for eternity http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXgBmyKfyo0. Therefore, this very ghetto city will always hold some attachment for me. Also, I can't hide my pride--Fresno Grizzlies all the way!!!

Here's a vid on Fresno http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iL-Z-KHzgf4&feature=related (WARNING: don't watch if you can't stand a couple swear words, rapping, and gang pride--other than that, Welcome to Fresno!--the 559, Cen Cal, Grizzly Land!)

I remember Fresno and the Central area as being a place where cop car sirens there are just as common as seeing a Mormon in Utah. Here's some footage http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opCox5wuECM&feature=related of cops in the line of fire.

I think the best thing that Fresno has to offer is Blackbeards which is a family theme park with tons of activities, rides, etc. Well, it's not too much of a theme park but it's like the only wholesome family entertainment in the area. I only ever went when the foster agency gave every family tickets every year to show up for some type of foster family reunion night or whatever.

Madera, California--Little Mexico or Mad Town. Both are accurate. There are a lot of Mexicans! (a good thing, really!). The best place for Mexican food is Sal's--great taco's!

Don't let this ( http://tinyurl.com/7odz8f9 ) video fool you! It's a great and horrible place at the same time! The best thing I remember about Madera were the fairs they had every summer. I also loved working in the LDS church's vineyard every year--I don't know why, but I did!

Currently, Madera has a Madera South High and a Madera High. I lived there when both schools were just one school. Both schools, I consider to be ghetto. After my fam had moved away we went back and my parents dropped my older sister at the high school to visit her friends. They later said that it was like dropping their child off at a detention center. 

The kids in Madera=crazy. Evidence: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgnFal9oDi8 (WARNING: swearing (a lot), rap music in the background, and some very annoying wannabe gangster white girls)

Now, Madera is very ghetto--a lot of people representing their side of the street, colors, etc. Rivalries are present. Check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AwxVgzMB1sA&feature=related (WARNING: a lot of swearing and hate speech and threatening images put in the photos). Here's just an example of the Surenos/Norte stuff going on.

Here's a Surenos music video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKFPd0JZhjo&feature=related (WARNING: gang stuff but language is WAY cleaner than the other videos)

It's all so childish to me. I'll never understand. Especially with Madera--I mean, what there is there to represent, to have pride in? Perhaps it all never grew on me but that's just how I see things.

So I've decided that I am most likely not the only one with a problem with where I am from. Well, my pride comes from the fact that I can find positive wherever. There is no shame being where I'm from. Madera--that's the place where I grew up. My hometown! That's where I got baptized and learned the gospel.

Where are most kids in America (who are adopted from foreign countries) adopted from? The top ten are as follows: China, Ethiopia, Russia, South Korea, Guatemala, Ukraine, Vietnam, Haiti, India, Kazakhstan

What good is there about China? Except for the fact that I love the Chinese education system in comparison to the American old-fashion way there are tons of stuff to like about China. There is the Great Wall, gorgeous rice terraces, majestic mountains, inspiring architecture, awesome foodie discoveries, and the fact that just about everything you own and wear was made there.

What good is there to Ethiopia? Honestly, I had to google this. What I learned was that the culture there is distinct and so unlike what you would find in America. There are women who distort their bodies in quite bizarre ways--one woman had a huge plate attached to her lip like it was a gage. I think that is a tribal custom, though--perhaps the mersi tribe? It is a place of great cultural individuality that really doesn't compare to most other places that haven been more perceptible to being westernized. There are holy cities and ancient ruins to see. Have you ever heard the phrase "Who do you think you are? The Queen of Shiba?" Well, the Queen of Shiba's birthplace is in Axum, Ethiopia--and so is the Arc of the Covenant (the original 10 commandments). Fun things to do in Ethiopia: trek through the mountains, mountain bike, visit tribal villages, see the falls, etc.

What good is there to Russia? Let's get past the communist and anti-Soviet past. Russia is lovely! I am not Catholic, but I would love to go and see the great cathedrals that they have there. The architecture and exterior coloring is so lovely! There are even palaces of the ancient rulers and Kremlins (fortified central complexes in historical cities) to explore! If I were to ever go to Russia I would most certainly do the above but I would also make sure to pick up a few goodys--like traditional Russian toys and a Russian doll or two. There are tons of things to do in Russia too--like rafting, snowboarding, skiing, rock climbing, and, of course, trying out the local fresh street food. Also, you might want to get your picture with a statue of the hammer and sickle--the communist symbol, because, if you were adopted from there, then just know that the fall of the Soviet Union was great for the world and not so great for kids as it, statistically, increased the need for more orphanages.

What good is there to South Korea? As a foodie, my first stop would be, of course, the local street food for good and simple dishes that would cost an arm and a leg in America. However, South Korea is a place that has taken full advantage of the western world as it tries to distance itself culturally from its old communistic ways that were enforced by the magistrates of their Northern neighbors. It is a place that is an adrenaline rush as people are always constantly on the move. South Koreans are people who know how to work hard, be independent, and know how to have fun. Yeongwol County is a place where you can go when they have their hamburger festival. Maybe you can stop by a Buddhist temple for a visit--like the Haedong Yonggunsa Temple. Or, perhaps, go and visit an overly crowded beach and, maybe, go and see a soccer game--the international sport that most, except maybe me, understand and love. One thing that I would most certainly do, though, is to go and see their amusement parks--Everland (one of the best parks in Asia and an equivalent to Disney Land), Paramount, Seoul Land, Lotte World (world's largest indoor theme park), Dalki, and it's upcoming Robot Land (world's first robot theme park). No matter what, though, South Korea is a cool place!

What good is there to Guatemala? Okay, every Hispanic has heard all of the jokes. Guatemala is bad/mala land, right? Nope! It is a place with great features and a lot of rich history and culture. There are Mayan ruins to see, celebrations to attend, and native culture to explore. Also, don't forget about the beautiful beaches, waterfalls, and scenery that there are to see.

That Really Weird Dream

(not all relevant to the topic of adoption--just a rather interesting dream that I had last night--some adoption insight, though)

*Dream*

This guy is sitting in an office room. He has a round face with short brown hair and a thin set of facial "chops". He pretty much looks like one of my old bosses or like that pedophile dude off of Prison Break. Anyways, the guy is a maniac--rapes people all the time, doesn't care about anyone or anything. A black female judge with short hair goes into the office as I walk past it. Moments later there is a thud behind me. The guy has rammed her into the hallway and has her in a headlock, even though he is shorter than her he is much much stronger. I turn away, knowing that he is going to rape her--like he rapes everyone. No one can help her--not me, and not the guards. I know that he won't kill her--that's not his style. He likes for people to deal with misery. I know this because somehow, in the dream, I really do know this guy--we're, um, friendly associates of sorts, but yet I fear him. Somehow he won't do anything to me, I know that.

*Reminder: this is still just a dream*

So I go into my room, which is one room down from the office, and unlatch the window as he is banging on my door--he is done with the judge. I crawl out the window and run to a flag pole in the parking lot and hide behind the cement cylinder it's attached to. I see the rapist guy walk out of the front door and to his car. I run back inside and the guy is back to my door in no time. He keeps knocking and finally I let him in. I feel uneasy. I mean, I know he won't do anything to me, but I still wasn't comfortable with having a maniac rapist in my room. For some reason, all he wants to do is brush his teeth--in my room. He orders me to get him some water. Tap won't do. I give him a water bottle and with his toothbrush, toothpaste, water bottle, and a trash can he brushes his teeth. The girl who lives in the room across from me, who in reality is one of my current roommates, comes to the door. She knows the rapist is in my room and she's trying to be tough. I know that if the rapist sees her that he will rape her on the spot. She knocks and I don't want to let her in. She keeps pestering for me to let her in. The rapist is laughing--knowing why I won't let her in. I yell at her to go back to her room over and over. Eventually she does and I text her, telling her that it's for her own safety and that I am okay--as long as she stays in her room she won't get hurt.

*Reminder #2: Still a dream*

A while later the guy and I go to the kitchen to eat. This guy that I call "Uncle" is there. He, more or less, looks like my biological father. Even in my dream I'm confused at why I said "Hey, Uncle" to him. He had this young woman  (about 19-years old) at his side and for some reason I was thinking that that was highly inappropriate even as I had a rapist at my side. This Uncle guy asked me who the guy I was with was. I just said "Oh, just a friend" and that was that.


Fast forward to the next day--In my dream, I remember the rapist even as I am walking in the mall with my mom. I am also remembering some other stuff--stuff I want to tell her but I can't. I can't because, well, I can't  and I'm not even sure what exactly I want to tell her--I just know that it's adoption related.


As we're walking she points to the crowd of people behind us, mentions a famous law professor who is there, and tells me to go and help him with his bags because he would probably like that. I look into the crowd and I can't see him--true to my oblivious nature. Then I see the professor as his bag  breaks and I rush to pick his stuff up for him. I remove his stuff book by book into a specially designed leather book bag that he has with him. In the crevice of the bag are a whole bunch of crumbs, wrappers, and odds and ends that accumulate at the bottoms of bags. As I help the professor he and I are talking. The only thing I remember him saying to me is "I have read your work and I, shocked, promptly ask him which work and from which class. He tells me "All of it--I ate it all up!" Astonished, I continued to help pick up the professors many things. I spot a small book protruding out of the junk in the bag's crevice and as I reach for it the professor grabs my hand and say "Stop digging" calmly. Confused, I grab at the book and pull it out of the junk. The title of the book reads "In Search For The Cure Of Adoption". I open my mouth--about to ask the professor why he had the book and to mention that I had been adopted, but I was kept from doing that as the professor again grabbed my hand firmly and more sharply said "Stop digging!"


*then I woke up*


Okay, I am unsure how to read the first part of the dream with the rapist. I think, somehow, it represents a vulnerability that I have that harms everyone else but could harm me eventually because I live with this vulnerability. The question is, though, what is this vulnerability? 


The second part of the dream, I think, is quite remarkable. Adoption has always been the disease of my life--my past has often crippled my progress. I have always dug for answers or for ways to escape it all. "Stop digging" hit me hard--I think  it means that I need to stop digging for answers or for an escape. I just need to let it be and to live with it. It is me and I can't escape from who I am and the questions that I have probably can't be answered or they probably shouldn't be answered.

The Good Times

Have I given an impression that I don't like my past? That nothing good ever came from it? If so, then I am most definitely sorry about that.

My past is my life. I know that they say that the past is in the past and that we should focus on the now. Sure, but, for me, it's kind of hard to do that. I mean, the past made me who I am today, didn't it?

I have often thought about where I would be today if it wasn't for me ending up in foster care or if I hadn't been adopted. Would I have gained the moral basis that I have in my life today? Would I have gotten as far as I have come? Honestly, I highly doubt it.

On foster care. I was probably one of the most sheltered foster kids in the system. I had foster parents who fought the system and who fought my biological parents. I had social workers, attorneys, case workers, and judges who fought on my behalf and for my best interest too. Honestly, if I had been any one of them I would have been like "What are we fighting for? For this little girl with so much anger and hate? This demon-child? It's useless!" Well, I am very glad that these people looked past my monstrous personality in order to give me the second chance that I am not too sure that I deserved.

On being sheltered--I wasn't the most informed about my case, I guess you can say. I was sort of raised to think that it was all normal--the supervised visits with my biological family, an occasional trip to the therapist's office, and home visits with social workers prying into my life. I guess I started to realize that I was different from my school peers when I was about six. Everyone else seemed to live with their parents and no one knew what the heck a "visit" was. Also, kids will be kids and being a kid often means that you are innocently ignorant enough that cruelty is the norm. Well, I guess that when my classmate told me "Your parents don't love you and so that's why you can't live with them" I really started to realize it. Once, I even heard some adults--they were either yard aides or teachers--say "bastard child" and "practically an orphan" when referring to me as I was overhearing their conversation. I wasn't the type to prove them all wrong by being the "angel child". No, I was going to show them that they had better leave me alone and not mess with me.

I just went into a rant, sorry about that.

Foster Care gave me things that, as a kid I thought was cool, that other kids didn't have. I had an excuse to be bad. Teachers went easy on me, knowing that I came from a different place than the typical child, but my foster parents were a bit harsher--expecting nothing less than greatness from the 27 pound four year-old that they shipped off to Kindergarten every day in a bus where climbing the stairs, for me, was like climbing a giant hill.

I thought it was pretty cool every time I got a new sibling that I could say "Hey, I got a new sister (or brother)" and see my friends confusion because I had not said something more like "My mom gave birth to my baby sister" (or whatever kids say in that situation). I guess they were more confused by how often I would say stuff like that. Those who didn't know my situation probably thought that my mom was the most pregnant person on the earth.

Every year, Foster Care gave me something to look forward to: bowling at Christmas time with a whole bunch of other kids who were just like me. The event was probably something they concocted to unite us all. Well, I could have honestly cared less about any one of those other kids and I am pretty sure that they felt the same way about me. We were in it for Santa--and the presents he brought. This Santa wasn't like the mall Santa who gave out simple candy canes. No, this Santa was the real deal. He actually gave real presents--one year he gave me the most gigantic present ever. I had just had eye surgery and hadn't been allowed to open it past the wrapping because it was a box with a rake advertised on it--not a kids' rake either. I was so excited, but was pretty disappointed that I hadn't been allowed to open it. I guess they thought I would poke my eye out. Actually, I do remember my dad making joking references to that one Christmas story movie where Ralphy has his gun and everyone's like "You'll poke your eye out!" Well, my parents had left for an errand or something and I had somehow convinced my foster sister April to open it for me on the promise that I wouldn't even touch the rake until my eye had healed. She opened it and I was both annoyed and delighted. I was annoyed that the present hadn't been a rake after all which I thought would have been pretty cool. I was also annoyed because of what I thought was false advertisement that had kept me from opening my present longer. However, I was delighted at what was actually inside the box: an assortment of random art supplies.

Also, Foster Care also meant that every summer we all got to go to Blackbeards which was the big thing back then in Fresno (I'm unsure of whether or not it still is since I have been relocated). All of the foster families from the foster agency went. I normally stuck to my foster sisters. I don't remember much about our times at Blackbeards other than watching a karate demonstration, watching the people in the batting cages, riding on the Pirate Ship ride over and over and over, and getting soaked on the bumper cars until the park would close.

I know that presents from Santa and trips to Blackbeards don't compensate for my foster care experiences. I guess what I can say is that foster care wasn't all that bad. It sure wasn't heaven, but it did have its good times, I think. 

Why I Write

"The only thing that matters is what you choose to be now"--Kung Fu Panda

No matter what happens in life, we can choose who we become. By choosing to become anything other than great you choose to succumb to victimization; therefore, giving power to whatever force made you the victim.

I would like to make something clear, I do not write anything on this blog for pity. In fact, I write it because my past serves as the basis of my testimony. A testimony of family. A testimony that Jesus Christ is my brother. A testimony in my faith--The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Also, I write my story because I believe that I am ready to tell it to the world.

Daddy's Girl

As I search through countless pictures of my past I find the one picture that I love the most. The orange printed date in the lower right corner reads July 16, 1997 (I would have been 6)). My adoptive dad and I are in the center of the picture. A creek is at our feet as we sit on a rock. A red mountain slope is behind us and just behind that are the hillish mountains and their many trees. The sky above us is a glorious cloudy blue one.

I always thought that my dad was the coolest dad ever and he is. In the picture, his brown skin shines from the sunlight and his short wavy black hair, black sunglasses, and black facial "chops" made him look cool. His white t-shirt had the logo of our foster agency printed on it and with it he wore blue jeans--nice ones with hardly any wear or tear to them. He wore a watch on his left wrist, completing his look. When I picture my dad   I always think jeans, t-shirt, and a watch for the weekdays and a nice white shirt, slacks, and a charismatic tie for Sundays. He is a very clean-cut guy.

In the picture, my straggly long blond hair is a slight mess and I am wearing a white shirt with ruffled short sleeves under bright pink overalls with the leggings only reaching my knees. My facial expression--it is laughing as I am being tickled by my dad who is holding me close to him. I am content as I am in the arms of a man who would do anything to protect me--and he has.  

The other "dad"--my biological father

I have found pictures of me on my fourth birthday. My hair was way too short--barely reaching my ears and going around my head like a misguided bowl-cut and the bangs being way above the eyebrows. My hair had been curled in to give my bad hair cut a better look. My skin was a pale white--even paler than my current color. I wore a long sleeve white shirt with a small bow at the neck along with stretchy-waist pants that looked very patchwork-like what with the many squares featuring tulips, hearts, poca dots, and checker board designs--all in purple, pink, blue, and white. I am also wearing a blue and yellow beaded necklace that someone had made for me.

In the three pictures that I have of this day I am seen with my biological father as I open every present--a glass mouse piggy bank, a 26-piece plastic tea set (very much like http://www.oocities.org/eureka/company/6745/l080lg.jpg but just made by a different company), and a "Baby So Beautiful" doll (http://thumbs2.ebaystatic.com/m/mf_NjkrojLdZ40X7-oZAuAA/140.jpg this type but with blonde hair and pink overalls).

In one picture, my biological father is behind me, holding me up so that I can take a picture with the doll still in its box which was half my size. In another picture he is smiling to the right of my face as he is helping me hold the tea set box above my head for the picture. In another picture he is steadying me on a chair so that I can hold up my new piggy bank.

To me, he was my world then and I was his. This event had taken place a few months after we had all been taken away and about a month after I had arrived at my future adoptive family's home. I was more happy about being able to see him than about the presents. The birthday party didn't take place in a home or a normal birthday place--it was in an office area (at the headquarters of the foster agency and it was complete with authorized supervision).

This man, my biological father, looked somewhat like the bad guy off of Kindergarten Cop--just make the hair messier, add some facial hair, and turn the black stylish clothes into a grimy black leather overcoat that wreaked of cigarettes and that's pretty much him.

Due to the fact that I was young and naive, I was unaware of who my biological father really was and what he had done. All I knew was that I couldn't live with him or my biological mother anymore because the state said so. When I was six he was put in prison for a very long time. I didn't know what for and I became an angry child because the system had taken my world away from me. I remember the therapist who had made a home-visit to explain it all to me. I threw a fit and sent her running from my room. I only wanted the love of a father and to help quench my curiosity about my father's prison sentence I fantasized that he had been something "cool"--like a drug lord--to get such a long sentence. Little did I know...

That pain settled down and I learned to not be so angry about that. Soon, it seemed as if I had forgotten my biological father and with every passing day I lost the image of his face and the sound of his voice in my memory. And, in his place, then came my complete and full love for another father--my dad who would do anything for me.

From this experience, I am glad that I walked away from that time in my childhood only remembering the love I felt from everyone involved, unaware of all the painful happenings that occurred during these times. However, I am even more grateful to God for Him having given me a second chance at everything in life--even a second father figure, my very awesome dad who would do anything for me and whose love for his kids radiates from his being every time he talks about and looks at his kids.

I don't believe in coincidence. I believe that everything happens according to God's plan and that families are predestined in heaven even if they are made up in complex ways on earth. The biological father I came into this world with is not my real father because of what he did--my real father is my dad who lives every moment for his kids. 

"Where did you come from?!"

The question was innocent. The man before me, my then foster dad and my now very awesome adoptive dad, gave me a smile as he popped his head at me like he had just realized I existed, acted shocked, and jokingly said "Where did you come from?!" I gave him my sly smile and said "Kerman!" because, to me, it was the obvious answer. Any other "normal" child would have laughed and been like "Oh, Dad!" However, I was not just any child. Around this time, I had to have been four years-old and been in the foster system for about a year. I knew things--things that normal children should not have experienced.

I knew Kerman--one of the last places that my biological family and I had resided. I knew that I did not understand the concept of home what from having always moved around in an unstable nightmare. Sometimes we had a place but that never lasted long. Sometimes we were pretty much homeless. There is a story that I have heard from my older siblings about us having lived in the back of a restaurant for a little while. I remember very little of that experience--all I remember is red seats. Also, to add to the unstable nightmare some mistakes had been made and those mistakes resulted into a life-changer.

That life-changer was this: Goodbye, Innocence! The state had to do what it had to do. Let's just say it was not pretty--at all. Us siblings, we got split up into three separate homes. The eldest of the siblings and I, the second youngest, got sent one way and I am unsure of the exact journey of everyone else. The eldest and I, we went to a group home called Craycroft (spelling?) to wait everything out until we could get into a home. We were there for about a month. My two other older siblings were there with us also but only for the first two weeks.

Our first home was nothing less than difficult. The woman was an elderly black lady named Leola who wasn't exactly the nicest lady the county could have given to us as a caretaker. It was obvious that she was in it for the money--some people actually do that.

The place--an apartment--was small. The front door opened up into a living room that had a three-seat couch and an old box television. The place had an open format design and the kitchen was attached to the living room. The actual kitchen parts--counters, stove, sink, fridge--were squashed up against the wall in an L-shape design. A sliding-glass door was at one end of the kitchen but it was hardly accessible due to the table that stood in the kitchen for eating space. It wasn't a large table but it could comfortably fit five or six small kids.

There was a bathroom--just the one in a hallway that led away from the living room and kitchen area. At the end of the hallway was a rather empty room with two beds. That was mine and my eldest sibling's room. I remember it being the brightest part of the place. Back in the hallway and right outside our room was another room--the foster mom's room. It had a bed and a mattress on the floor. The mattress had a couple sheets on it and that's where the woman's grandkids slept that she would watch during the day--there were three of them and all of them were boys.

The woman was strict and to this day I cannot understand the rules that she imposed on me, my sister, and her grandkids.

1) We could not drink during meals--only when we had finished every single bite could we then drink

• note: I have always had an eating disorder--even here when I was three years old. I had no problem      with eating. Binge eating--that was my specialty. I had a problem with the drink issue because I felt like something was being kept from me and, that, I was not cool with. Things like that are what created my eating disorder in the first place.

2) I, personally (this rule did not seem to be applied to anyone else), could not use the bathroom without permission--even if I had asked for permission, been denied permission, and really needed to go. Several times, this would result into me having accidents and being in trouble for soiling my state-issued garments which I did not have too much of. This rule also often resulted into me being secretly taken to the bathroom by my oldest sibling and she would be in trouble for that. 

• note: for the next few years of my life this experience resulted in my neat-freak personality. I hated being dirty and I could not stand it if anything I wore was not clean or perfect.
• note: this persona has been gotten over

3) I was not allowed to sit on my oldest sister's lap or even allowed to hold her hand. 

• note: I was three years old at the time and had no one. My oldest sis and I only had each other.

4) Our bedroom door was not allowed to be closed--even when changing

• note: My oldest sibling would have been fourteen. I don't know about you, but any other fourteen year old would not be taking to that too kindly. 

I remember that all of our belongings could fit in one small cardboard box. It had a few clothes in it and a yellow Barbie jeep with some red on it. One day, out of no where, our things were put in the back of the the foster mom's grey car. I guess my older sibling was already in the car but I was grabbed by the foster mom and was carried practically upside down outside and to the car, as she banged me around and I am pretty sure my head hit the car door frame. As she pretty much dragged me out of the room I cried for my toy which I had been playing with on the bed. It had fallen onto the ground and she would not let me retrieve it. It was a kids-meal toy--a white horse with a cowgirl on it. It was a cheap toy, but it was my toy--something that I did not have much of. The foster mom seemed pretty mad about something and I had no idea why; however, later I found out that she had lost her fostering license after the way she had cared for us. Thus, we went on to another home--another pit stop on the road of a foster kid's life.

Why was it time to leave? That is the norm of a foster child's life. However, my oldest sister had told a social worker how it was living there. She even threatened that if we didn't get moved to a different home then she would take me and run away. 

Pit Stop: Fresno

My older sibling and I were ushered into a room to meet our new foster parents. They seemed nice enough, but we were shy. They were all smiles as they signed the paperwork that other people would sign as if they were just handed a package from the UPS. We were quite the package with a lot of extra baggage attached. These people, they signed the forms with conviction--they weren't just signing to take care of us, but they were promising to be our parents too--a promise they never backed out on. Later, we were all then ushered into a very crowded and small meeting room where I propped myself next to my box, pulled out my car, and played with it. And that was the first miracle. 

The horse was sort of like the one featured on this ebay link, except it was white http://tinyurl.com/7s8pno3 

Anyways, isn't it just wonderful that the first memories someone has are:

• red seats from being homeless and living in a restaurant
• A pretty bad foster mom and her neglectful antics which, fortunately, allowed me to be moved on to a better home and when God started to allow miracles into my life. 

They say that the first few years are the most pivotal of a child's life. I guess you can say that I missed out on the positive first few years that were supposed to strengthen me academically. Despite this, though, I would never give it up for the world. It has taught me so much and has made me realize the miracles and opportunities that God has invested in me (more on this in a future blog)