Transition

By now, a year had passed, and we were settled into our new homes. I got a visit from my social worker at school. He pulled me out of class and met with me in an office space adjacent to my classroom. He told me that a few of my siblings had gone to visit my parents and that it was now my turn. In addition, my younger siblings had to go with me so that I could help out with them. Without much thought, I was agreeable. Although, I don’t believe I had a choice.

My parents had moved into a duplex that sat on 60th street and I believe 14th avenue, in the heart of Liberty City. That area was crime infested then, and not much has changed. No, let me take that back, it’s now a war zone. The duplex had two bedrooms. One meant for us and the other for our parents. In our room, there were 2 sets of bunk beds, meaning 2 children would be assigned to each bunk. The place was clean and my parents seemed to be on their best behavior.

After the weekend visit, I went home and was re-visited by my social worker. He asked how the visit went and I let him know that everything went well. He became more detailed with his questions, asking if we had eaten, was the place clean, were there sheets on the bed, etc… I left that visit without another thought about my parents, nor the time I had just spent with them. Before I knew it, I was in the back of another social worker’s car going back to my parents house. Do you guys remember the movie “Losing Isaiah”? Remember the scene where Isaiah was in the back of the social worker’s car crying hysterically because he was taken away from his foster mother, going back to his biological mother? Well that was me. I was beside myself in grief. All I could think was, “How could this be happening?”. I knew the implications of going back to my parents and unless my mother and father had undergone intense therapy, individually and together, nothing would change.

I was dropped off and given a card by my social worker. He instructed me to call the number on the card anytime I needed to. I was heartbroken. I knew that I would have to pick up where I left off, caring for my siblings. And to make matters worse, there were 8 of us now, with ages ranging 1-8.

Every chance I got, I used the card my social worker handed me before he left. I remember once, Ya-Yow gave me a fork to eat cereal with. I was appalled. Did she not know that my foster parents had an abundance of spoons? Eventually, the social workers stopped answering my phone calls.

I noticed something different about Ya-Yow. I noticed that she would talk to herself. She would have full blown, emotional conversations, pointing, screaming and sometimes crying. I did’t understand what was going on with her, and of course, I didn’t know anything about mental health outside of people just being “crazy”. This craziness got worse at which point she started to layer her clothes. At times, she would wear a pair of shorts outside of her pants and wear multiple shirts. She would also wear her clothes inside out. Ya-Yow would find little bracelets and bangles and wear them too. It didn’t matter where she found them. If it was on the ground, she would pick it up and put it on her wrist.

I don’t know what happened, but my mother was eventually deemed unfit and not allowed to live with us anymore. My fears were now before me.