Decisions are made in a blink of an eye. Just one look and someone can decide whether you're worth it or not. Whether they are going to spend their time and effort in helping you to become an upstanding citizen or destroy any chances you have at living a normal life. That's what it's like growing up in the system. First it's a shelter and from there they put you in homes that they feel best suits them, not you. That's something you learn mighty quick, you and your needs do not matter. It's like being a Sunflower. Sunflowers require full sun to grow strong and big; the system is nothing but shade. Sunflowers can survive in the shade, they sometimes even seek it, but they don't ever really reach their full potential that way. The system is full of Sunflowers not only suffering from the lack of sun but, in return, taking up space making it harder for any new seeds to root and grow. People may argue that there are success stories from those who have been raised by the system. A hopeful child finding the perfect family and growing up to become a doctor and spokesperson for the adoption agency. But those are just the lucky few. How much you were cared for or looked after in the system felt based on whether or not you had anyone advocating for you or a family member that was keeping tabs on you. On top of that being a criteria you also have to be strong, observant and smart, but how can you grow strong and be able to withstand the fierce winds when you're in the shade. In the beginning I had none of these advantages. I was scared. It took me a while to catch on to what was happening, but I never spoke up. I watched, I listened, and I grew stronger; but I never fought back. One of my foster homes decided that my nonchalant attitude, my instinct to survive and my refusal to respond to their abuse meant that I was weak and stupid. I was neither. They would make me fight my housemates. I never wanted to, but they found great pleasure in making me lose my composure. Verbal abuse rolled off my back like water. It didn’t readily affect me in the least and when it did affect me it was all internalized, but what I swallow was being physically attacked by kids in the same sucky situation as me; like my housemates. My foster family realized that when one of them hit me I transformed into someone new. I didn't like being hit by my housemates. I felt betrayed. We played together, we cried together, got beat together; so it really upset me when they had the nerve to fight me. When they were dumb enough to hit me I was quick to remind them that I was the Captain. I was the one who would sneak food into the room when they were hungry, I was the one who took the fall for almost anything that happened in the house. Granted I was usually the one behind the problems but I never worked alone. I looked after them, not because I had to but because it was my nature. I remember standing in front of my housemate and hearing my foster family in the background chanting fight. I would stand there, confident in my decision not to, but I would look into my housemates eyes and I could see the uncertainty. They always hesitated, even when their hand was in the air hovering near my face, they hesitated. They knew that if they hit me that I would lay them flat. I was not big, I was more on the scrawny side; skin and bones, but I had a ferocity in me that I could not explain. Maybe it's all the pent up hurt and frustration that I suppress. They would hold out as long as possible but in the end they always hit me. Those kids acted as though they suffered from AHS (Alien Hand Syndrome), as if they had to hit. Again I admit that I didn’t have to hit them back but I could only take so much. This went on for a while until I became fed up with it. I remember the last fight they ever forced upon me. I stood in front of my housemate in the usual position, hands to my side refusing to participate. My housemate did not hesitate much that night and came in ready to please our foster family. One hit, that was all it took. I was on them before I even realized it. I knocked them to the ground and kept hitting. I finally let up and stood over them. They got up and came at me again. At this point I was done, I was angry I wanted it all to end. I remember screaming and charging them, head low. I shoved them out of the house and down five cement steps. The fight was over. Everyone was screaming at me while running to her. I could hear them yelling "you could've killed her!". I was still in a daze but I felt my feet moving. I was running and screaming. It was dark, the middle of the night most likely; that's when the fight club usually took place. I turned up an alley still running and screaming. I wanted to get as far away from them as possible. I was cut off halfway down the alley. One of them must have run through a couple of backyards to cut me off while another came up behind me. The one coming up behind me grabbed me, turned me around and slapped me across the face telling me to stop screaming. I’m sure the neighbors heard me screaming but they weren’t going to do shit. That’s just how the cookie crumbles in the hood. They were probably all looking out from behind the safety of their curtains watching the show. My foster parents never made me fight my housemates again. My housemate was okay, but my relationship with them was strained. All of this happened and then some but each time my Social Worker visited I never said a thing. I would have bruises and I knew I looked like crap but as long as she saw a smile on my face then I was doing well. I didn't need to be at my full potential, the potential only full sunlight could provide, I just needed to be standing. My foster family threatened me before those visits, but it wasn't like they had to. This was the longest home I've ever been in and it was all I knew so the idea of being taken away and thrown into another unknown scared me enough to keep me quiet. Even when a couple decided to adopt me and my two little sisters my foster family fought it. They didn't mind the two little ones going, but the idea of the quiet girl who kept tabs on everything and everyone leaving their custody really had them worried. The adoption was successful and it wasn't until I was a little older that my parents told me about the struggle they had adopting me because of that foster home. I eventually told my parents a little about my experience with them. I didn't tell them everything, but just enough to explain my stunted growth and lack of petals. We found out a year or so after my adoption that my old foster home lost their license to foster. They had received a couple more kids after us, but apparently those kids weren't having any of it and reported them right away. I think back to that every once in a while and I wish that I was brave enough to have spoken up. There's nothing I can do about that now but be happy that one less child will have to suffer through the sandy soil of that hell hole.
