Memories from Jenny's childhood

After foster care I struggled to engage with my biological mother and I didn’t feel connected to her.  The truth is that I felt responsible for her.  It seemed to me that it was my job to fix her life, solve her problems and make her happy. For whatever reason, I became somewhat of the parent and she naturally filled the role of the child.  I watched her move from one bad relationship to another, and her children became collateral damage.   She used pity like a  weapon of manipulation to get her way.  It never seemed to occur to her that life was about more than her, she lacked the ability to see outside of herself, was very self absorbed and her children paid the price for that selfishness.

I’m not really sure when I gained intimate knowledge of  the feelings and words;  “pity” and “victim.”   It was almost like an instinct within me that I didn’t want to be a victim or grow up and have “a victim mentality.”   I may not have known much at age 12 but I was already familiar with what it felt like to be pitied and I linked it to be a feeling of shame.   Some people thrive on this type of attention, or any attention for that matter and  my mother is one of those people. Positive or negative didn’t matter, just the attention.  As a child,  I felt a deep sense of dread over this and knew that I never wanted to have people pity me or feel a sense of sorrow for me.

This early childhood revelation lead me to a very intensive and intimidating training program called est.  It was around 1979 or 1980 and I was about 12 years old when I heard about what I thought sounded like a direct message from heaven.   Someone told me of a program that would teach me to overcome adversity, how to be able to get past my fears and demons, and to let the past be something that moved me forward, instead of holding me back!

It was a program called EST.  If you look it up in the the wikipedia dictionary, this is what you will find:  “Erhard Seminars Training, an organization founded by Werner H. Erhard, offered a two-weekend (60-hour) course known officially as ‘The est Standard Training.’ The purpose of est was to allow participants to achieve, in a very brief time, a sense of personal transformation and enhanced power. The est course was offered from late 1971 to late 1984.”

The est training presented several concepts, but the most memorable one for me was that of taking responsibility for yourself and your actions, that integrity had value and you and you alone are responsible for that integrity…YOU!  It’s hard to blame your disappointments in life on anyone or anything else but yourself when you are faced with this concept!

There is a tribute website for graduates of this training if you are interested in learning more.  Check it out at http://www.erhardseminarstraining.com. Another website rich with information about est and it’s creator is http://www.wernererhard.com

For two consecutive weekends I was confined  for 12 to 16 hour days in a Center City Philadelphia hotel ballroom.  Each weekend, I rode the train into the city with nothing but a change of clothes and my impeding fear!  I remember that first trip into the city, I was petrified.  I had no idea which stop to get off the train, where I would sleep that night or if I would be able to do this.

Let me take you back with me…….

The first night of the seminar, the instructors ask for a show of hands for those who did not have a place to stay.  I am looking around the room, I am frightened to let people know that I have no place to stay, that I am here by myself and no one is looking out for me, I am alone.  These thoughts echo in my head, I’m not sure what to do.   As I study the crowd, I realize I am the only child in this room, and wonder what is wrong with me that I wanted to do this.  Suddenly I am overwhelmed by the realization of how different I am.  The voice inside my head is yelling, “what is wrong with you, why are you the only child?”  I hesitantly raise my hand.  I am trembling, I cannot get a grip on my fear, my jaw is chattering and my eyes are focussed on the floor, legs are shaking nervously.  I start questioning myself as to why I wanted to do this, what was I thinking, I fight back the tears and panic as my eyes well up.  I am thinking that I should run and then the voice from deep inside, the inner voice yells to calm down, yells at me not to run.  Tells me that I need to do this if I’m to have any hope of having a future that doesn’t include a stamp of “victim” on my forehead.  There is a woman sitting next to me.  She places her hand around my shoulder and lets her arm rest there.  The announcers then ask for a show of hands from those who could offer a place to stay.  This kind woman raises her hand and tells me that I can stay with her.  She had a glowing heart and I instantly felt she was trustworthy and protective like a mother.

That night, I was shown into her daughters room, the one I would end up sleeping in.  I still vividly recall laying there, in bed and staring at all the pictures and posters on the wall.  The bed was pushed up against one of the covered walls so it was like getting a close up of her daughter’s life.  Ever look at photo’s of happy smiling faces and wished you were as happy as the people you saw in those photos?

Soon, I am startled out of my deep thoughts as (let’s call her) phyllis passes by the doorway to check on me before turning in for the night.  She asks if I need anything before bed.  I was starring at her, thinking about how wonderful and loving she was.  I had only known her for a day at this point but I loved her immediately.   My heart sank for her as she told me the story of how her 13 year old daughter had run away and she did not have any way of finding her.  As I watched her eyes in the night light hue tear up, they seemed hollow.  My lovely Phyllis was distraught over this loss and empty because everything that mattered to her was gone.  I felt a deep sense of anger for her, I felt an anger towards her daughter who had not seen and appreciated this amazing gift of a parent who loved her!  I was resentful that an ungrateful child would be given this gift of unconditional love and throw it away.  Maybe, had I had this luxury, I would not have felt so angry.

Later, during the next day of the seminar we held hands, shared our pain and cried together.  This portion of the seminar was very scary to me.  The large group of participants was split up and instructed to form group circles with our chairs.  We were told to hold hands, keep our eyes closed and face our fears.  The instructors said that anything, and whoever or whatever we blamed for our pain should be confronted, acknowledged and sent to some other place.   The instructors gave us permission to yell, cry, scream and jump up and down, whatever it took to let go of all the emotions that held us back from living the life we wanted.  Grown men and women screamed, yelled, and cried, visualizing and attacking their demons and confessing their deepest sins.   I was watching and listening, cleverly masking my defiant behavior of “watching” when we had been instructed to keep our eyes closed.   The instructors circled the room like guards, searching for violators and I was scared yet I kept peeking, starring around in awe as all this pain was unleashed and expressed around me.  The trainers had a saying; “ I got It” and they repeated this through out the seminar.  Time after time they would confront a participant; ”you got it?”…….Someone in the audience would recount.  ”I got it!”

Another group session that sticks out vividly to me is what I call, “the stare down!”  The instructors announced that each row of seats would be called to come up onto the stage at the front of the ballroom.  One by one, as each of us attendees stood there on stage an instructor would stand in front of us and stare us down!  Each row at a time, participants would fall into format, forging a line to the stage.  It was kind of like a break you down to build you back up type practice.  They told us how they could see us when they looked at us.  It was intimidating to say the least.  In your face, one by one each teacher would stand in front of you, in your space and stare you deep in the eyes telling you that they SEE you.  Most would break down into tears, a result of hidden fears and shames of past issues.  I did no cry, had experience with the stare down process as a foster child.  One instructor stared deep into my eyes, nose almost touching mine and yelled like a sergeant in the military that she could see me, knew who I was.  I was thinking, “HAH, who are you kidding, you can’t see me, I have learned to cover myself up, you are out of your league!”  I never cried!  The foster child in me came out and that hard shell of protection and distance surrounded me and I said; “I don’t think so lady, move on, there will be no tears here!”  I was one of only a few who did not break down on stage.

As I think back on that experience, I am still amazed that I did such a brave and unconventional thing during my preteen years.  I have read several press articles since that time that heavily criticized this training for being to tough and confrontational.

Looking back at the child I was then, it is nothing short of a miracle.  I was a child afraid of my own shadow and I did not speak much.  I was so shy that a smile would make me turn beat red and run for cover.  I avoided eye contact at all costs and did not express any kind of emotion.  No tears, no laughter….blankness.  I guess in the end the fear of becoming a person who lived life as a victim was far less scary to me than the fear of facing this intimidating training seminar.

I learned a valuable and life long lesson from this experience.  Not all fear is bad, sometimes if you push yourself to go outside of your comfort zone you can change your life, build your confidence and be on your way towards achieving bigger and better things.

I was standing on the other side of a foster care home’s front door, waiting for it to open (but not wanting it too)…..I was feeling like a wounded animal and thinking that this must be what the animal feels when they get caught up in one of those trap devices.  Every hair on my body is standing straight up and my impulse is to start running.  Then the door opens and standing in front of me are two complete strangers who are looking at me with smiling faces and generous eyes.  The social worker begins introductions.  Here is what this well intentioned and unsuspecting couple saw looking back at them:

Memories from Jenny's childhood

Yes that’s me and look at that innocent and gentle looking little girl face of mine.   The social worker introduces me using my birth name, “this is Jenny.”  To be honest, as I think back on that moment, it really was not a proper introduction.  The correct and honest introduction would sound more like something along the lines of; “hello, my name is RAGE!”  The lovely little girl staring back at you represents the little ray of sunshine I was before being subjected to all the turmoil irresponsible adults put me through.

In most cases, a child is placed in the system due to some form of neglect or abuse and sometimes both.  From the point of view of the child, the foster care experience can feel like the straw that broke the camels back.

In order to understand what these children are feeling, try and put yourself into our shoes.  Imagine for a second that you  have experienced everything I mention below.

By the time I ended up at my first Foster Care home, so much had been taken from me.  I no longer had a sense of self, family, belonging, comfort, familiarity, unconditional love, trust, confidence (let’s face it, this comes from stability), and hope!

If I use my adult voice I can explain that I was angry, hurt, devastated, abandoned, emotionally disconnected, physically beaten, verbally abused, ridiculed by society and my peers, and completely petrified!  I am almost 4 years old.

As a child I vividly remember having episodes of strong and uncontrollable rage. I was not able to understand or articulate the tornado like emotions whirling around inside me like a 65 mph wind storm.  These episodes came without warning, calm one minute, and then the rage would surface. I was like a walking volcano, disguised as a cute package with pretty wrapping, ready to erupt without warning.
Once at school during recess, an older girl came up to me and grabbed my lunch money from my back pocket.  She started dancing about as her friends joined in, forming a circle around me.   I was focused on watching my lunch money which was clutched in her hands (now waving high in the air for all to see).  A crowd of boys gathered around to egg her on, chanting “fight…fight…..fight.”  This was not the first time this had happened at recess, it was a common occurrence.  The children that I went to school with had an uncanny knack of picking out the foster care kids.  Once identified as a foster care kid, the teasing and bullying was relentless, my lunch money and or lunch was taken from me on a regular basis.  I was pretty used to skipping lunch and pretending like I didn’t care, but not on this day.  The volcano of pent up and misunderstood emotions over flowed in the school yard that day and I unleashed  my rage on this lunch money thief!  I not only gave her something to remember me by (a punch, a kick, a hair pull…repeat), I made sure to go after her friends too! I got up off the ground and focused my attention on her friends, eyes looking through them like a thunder bolt!  Her friends quickly scattered like a group of insects when the light turns on.  The boys took off as soon as I looked in their direction!

As adults, if someone or some event makes us angry, we can easily pick up the phone and vent about it to anyone who will listen.  We have a network of people to talk to, allowng us to get it off our chest.  As a child, we simply do not have this ability to articulate verbally what is upsetting us or what we are feeling.  I think this may well be the reason for temper tantrums.   We can certainly identify what we don’t like at any age, however having the ability to translate exactly what the feeling is and what bothers us about it….well, this all belongs to the “big” you not the “little” you.

I am not a fan of  the Voltswagon Beetle cars, (stems from foster care) the social workers all seemed to drive this model type car.  I feel like it should be referred to as the foster care transport vehicle.  Even now as an adult, one sighting can send my thoughts wondering back to memories of my time in foster care.  As a child, seeing one at the circus with 10 clowns climbing out of it caused distress and panic.

I think I was 5 years old when I came to understand a very important clue regarding this car showing up at my foster home.  It always represented a visit from the social worker.  Mine was nice enough, he was a professor looking type man with balding hair, graying mustache and beard and he wore glasses.  His visit meant that a sit down with the foster family, me and my little brother would be taking place.  I always dreaded these living room sessions.  What would follow would be a lot of really silly and unanswerable questions.  I call them stupid questions.  Below I listed some examples of  the  type of questions I remember being asked.

As you read the questions, consider the mind of a 4 or 5 year old child.  Can you remember being 5 and having the ability to articulate your true feelings?  If so, yea for you, as for me, from my 5 year old point of view, I heard; “blah….blah….blah, blah…..blah”.

how do you feel?

“huh? how do I know…what is feel?”

How are things?

“What things? huh, what?”

Are you happy here in this home   

“um gulp, eyes darting back and forth, sweating because the parents are staring at me?”

Do you feel that the (let’s call the parents “the Foster’s)” care about you?

“blank stare?”

Do you feel you can come to the Fosters and tell them how you are feeling?

“Again…parents glaring at me”

Would you be happy staying here with the Fosters?”

“I never get to stay, why are you asking stupid question?”

Memories from Jenny's childhood

Back to the Clue

When the social worker would pull up in front of the house with another social worker with him in the car, I knew this meant a home change was taking place.  Any other time, during normal visits, he would come alone.  Two visitors getting out of that car…this meant that  I had about 15 minutes to prepare myself to move to another home.  Looking out the window, after seeing the two social workers exit the Beetle, I would immediately pack up my stuff, putting my few belongings in the same bag I had arrived with,  and sit with it on the bed and wait.  The foster parents seemed to take as long as possible with the social workers in order to avoid the goodbye scene which was usually a dramatic emotional display filled with lots of tears.  I would patiently wait in silence for them to make it to my room.  I always knew when they were close because I would hear my little brother start to cry, which meant I was next to hear the news.   Next my door opens and I see the faces of the foster parents are sad, eyes filled up with tears.   I do not shed tears, I feel an odd sense of power, having figured out this clue.  It is the only sort of control I can recall having in my life then.  The chance to pack by myself and decide how and where I would wait for what was to come was a small but appreciated little moment for me.  Quickly, the look on the adult faces changes to one of confusion or shock.  I look at them, careful to avoid eye contact, clutch my bag under my arm and rise off the bed.  I stand very tall and I keep my eyes focused on the door, I am all about the exit now. I am into the hallway, down the stairs, out the front door and into the Beetle, all while silently reviewing my next move in my head.

The parents are now outside the house and it seems the social workers are trying to console them.  I continue to avoid eye contact, I know they are upset and I feel it is my fault so I stare at my feet and fidget in the front seat.  The social workers get in the car, the woman social worker puts me on her lap, my brother is crying in the back seat.  Now comes the part I dreaded the most.  This is the part when the second social worker (the one I didn’t really know ) tries to console me by asking some more stupid questions.  She is trying to get me to make eye contact with her, I am not having it!  She is saying; “do you feel like it is wrong to cry? You know it is healthy to let it out and cry don’t you?  I cross my arms and legs while I continue to look at her with the death stare!

Memories from Jenny's childhood

It was Halloween time and I was in another new foster home. Since it was Trick or Treat time, thoughts of collecting an enormous amount of  candy and dressing up put me in a state of excited anticipation, like a type of euphoria.  At the time, that was like icing on a cake for me as I had a good gut reaction about this family. My new foster mom had told me all about a group I now belonged to called; “Brownies”. I did not know what this was and had never heard of it.  She told such wonderful stories of a sisterhood that I was captivated.  This was my first experience with anything resembling tradition.  Her stories made me feel like I was finally special, a part of a  group that I would belong to just as she had when she was a child. I thought that this was the best thing ever and relished in my first experience of having someone pass something down to me.  I can still hear her voice in my head, as she told those wonderful stories about how she  (and her mother and grandmother) had formed life long bonds of sisterhood.  I felt like I had hit the jack pot with this home!  I would actually have a family and this family would include me in a sisterhood?  WOW.

My first meeting with this new wonderful group would  be a Halloween party and I would meet my new sisters!  I was so excited, anticipation was in over drive. My foster mom said I had to have a costume because this was a costume party! She said that we didn’t have time to go and get an “official costume” so she looked around the house for items to use for an outfit. Wellah! I was a bum! She dressed me up in dirty clothes, added some rips in the material here and there for drama, and then took a charcoal like substance and rubbed it all over my hands and face, creating dirt smudge marks. I had never really had someone take the time to make me a costume so this was amazing to me, a mom who took the time to make me  a costume…heaven! I was feeling pretty good:)

THE PARTY-I rush in anxious to meet my new sisters.  The girls are sitting on the floor in a circle and the leader invites me to sit down and join the circle.  I sit down, I am getting the head to toe stare down, it doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy at all and I feel that hot sensation of anxiety creeping in and taking over.  The troop leader tells everyone to join hands and I sense I am in trouble, I feel scared and I feel shunned, this is not a welcoming group at all (the voice in my head is shouting at me to run screaming).  One by one hands join and embrace around the circle, the embrace makes it’s way to me and I put my hands out and the girls on my right and my left stand up, move closer into the circle and join hands with each other.  I was left sitting outside the circle, the focus of judgment stares of disgust.  The Troop leader yelled at the girls for excluding me and reminded them of the Brownie motto.  I’m sure it was some really compelling Mission Statement type saying but all I heard was “blah….blah….blah” so I can’t share it with you.

Next thing I remember, my foster mom was there to pick me up and I was outside at the curb waiting.  My internal voice had taken over and I had listened when it told me to run screaming.  This was my first and last “Brownie” meeting, I never went back and I was traumatized.  Sisterhood, I didn’t feel it!  My foster mom was very upset to find me outside on the side of the road.  I was scared to tell her what happened fearing she would be dissapponted in me for ruining the tradition of sisterhood.  At first she questioned and I said nothing, thinking silence was safer (this had been my personal experience so far).  Then she grabbed my hand, yanking me towards the Brownie entrance and I started screaming, arms and legs kicking every which way.  Oh god, we are back in that room, those mean girls, those so called sisters are there and they are staring at me.  I am petrified, shaking like some joy ride at the amusement park.  Then it happened….the surprise of all time for me.  My foster mom starts yelling at the group leader and the girls, she demanded to know why; “her little girl was outside in the dark by herself and on the side of the road!”  I watched her closely, monitoring her every move and breathing pattern.  I’m not sure what transpired after this initial confrontation but I can tell you that I never went back to that so called sisterhood and next Halloween, well I was Miss America.

Some individuals over the years have mentioned to me that maybe it was not a good idea to dress a foster child up as a bum for Halloween and that this was the cause for the sisterhood smack down.  I will tell you that I look at it very differently.  This was the first time in my life that someone had ever stuck up for me, said that I deserved to be treated better and demonstrated anger towards those who had shunned me.  Add in that after I told her i didn’t feel pretty as a bum, she dressed me as Miss America for the next costume party!  Ever heard of “a do over!”

Within the hour of meeting this new family, my brother and I are separated into two rooms (our new bedrooms as it turns out).  We are interrogated and beat with a belt over some missing change and a toy being flushed into the bathroom toilet that caused a back-up.  This act was not our doing and I had watched two bratty boys (special because they had real parents) flush that toy and pocket that money but my honest account resulted in a harder whipping.  My word did not mean anything and we spent that night being punished for a crime we did not commit.  I can still see the laughing faces of those two bratty kids peering around the corner as I was beat with the belt.

I think that this home was the 2nd to last home I was in.  The truth is that if you asked me how many foster homes I was in I cannot give you an answer because I only remember the homes that I stayed in for a period of a year or more and there are 4 of those that I can recall.

I don’t harbor any grudges or ill feelings with regard to remembering those homes (even though they didn’t exactly measure up to “quality parenting” standards).

Memories from Jenny's childhood

I have always choose to take the best of a situation that exists.  If there is a glimmer of positive, I assure you I will find it.  I would never want others to feel sorry for me because the way I see it, I had a family (when my own deserted me).  I had people take me in (when they had no biological obligation to do so).  These families may have made mistakes but at least they participated with me…front and center, they tried!

Memories from Jenny's childhood

The Story…..

The heart and mind of a child is an amazing and wonderful , miraculous thing.  At an early age we are capable of great love, we see the best in everyone, we believe in miracles.  The unbelievable is foreseeable in our loving childish eyes.  We believe every word spoken when it comes from someone we love, a parent, a sibling, someone we trust.  We don’t understand what a lie is, the eyes of innocence do not recognize this.

Looking back on my early days, both in foster care and after foster care I learned so much about humanity.  Truth is an elusive creature, subjective in the eyes of the story teller.  Perception is an individuals perspective, each person has their own and we choose that which makes sense to us.

Some children hold love in their hearts regardless of the abuse they endured, choosing to devote themselves to helping and giving to others while others become bitter and turn their backs on the world.

“To see the best in humanity when childhood showed me it’s worst, this is my greatest gift”

In my last post; “Random Thoughts From Childhood Series-The Day I Came Home” I spoke about the day I learned  my older brothers would not be coming home and was told they went to live with my father.  Imagine all the questions that a child would think of at this point.  A mom and dad and four children, two go with the mom and two go with the dad, what does each parent say to the two children that they have about the other two children going with the other parent?  The two older boys are now in the state of California with their father and the two youngest children are in Pennsylvania with their mother.

What did my parent choose to say?

Your father is a bad man, sneaky and a liar.  (I’m leaving out the curse words).  He tricked me and stole my boys.  The bastard said he wanted to help me out and would take the boys until I got back on my feet.  He said that I would be able to call and speak to them anytime I wanted and that he would send them back to me when I got back on my feet. Next thing I know, he moved and changed his phone number to unlisted.  Then he  filed for custody with the California courts.    I lost because I didn’t show up for court.  I couldn’t pay for a plane ticket, where would I get the money? Your father is sneaky, he knew I didn’t have any money and that I wouldn’t be able to afford to show up in court for the hearing.    Your father stole your brothers from us I don’t even know where they are, can you believe he did that to me?    We don’t need them, he is lucky that he only wanted the two of them and not you and your brother,  (lot’s more curse words)!

As a child I never heard my mother say anything good about my father.  I grew up hearing constant reminders from her about how he didn’t want anything to do with us.   Luckily for me as I got older,  this very thing made me suspicious!

Until next time, keep the faith and remember that there are two sides to every story, see them both and you choose your side!

Childhood Memories From Jenny

I was in the third grade and fresh out of foster care. Riding in the front seat of Datsun 2-10 with my mom and little brother. This was the day I had anxiously awaited, going home and being back with my older brothers! My mom had always promised us that she would get the 4 of us back together, she swore on it every time she visited so I just knew that when she picked me and my little brother up that she had also picked up my two older brothers.

Lesson Learned: Assumptions are Dangerous!

We arrived at our new apartment and I tore up the steps, through the front door and ran from room to room calling out. Silence yelled back at me, no sounds of children or laughter, empty. I became consumed with a feeling of dread as the fear of them not coming home hit me. My mother told me that the boys went to live with our dad. I gave her the “death stare”. (all parents know that one) as my mind started racing, and a sense of sorrow was setting in. Thoughts and emotions began to overwhelm me. I was screaming inside at her and then I was yelling out loud; “mom go and get them, take me to his house, I can live with him too”!

As an adult, I think that this must have been just as awful for her as it was for me but speaking as that child….she did not keep her promise, I saw her as a liar and I was filled with rage!

Coming up Next Week………….Stay tuned as I share the story I was told about why they got to live with my father!

The last home does make me smile, a little bit of humor really as I recall the first introductions. Back then the social worker would bring you to the home of the perspective family and you would have some bonding time. You know how children can be so honest? There I was, me and my little brother, the social worker, two dogs and the potential new parents when I blurt out; “you are having a baby, I will have a sister or brother?” I’m surprised that this couple still took me in since she wasn’t pregnant, she told me she was just fat! Can you imagine!