Twelve, what a great age. It's the year before you officially become a teenager. Most kids this age are hanging out with friends, riding bikes, and just enjoying life. However, my sisters and I weren't most kids.
We got kicked out of our adoptive parent's house. One of my sisters and I were relocated to Hopkins Park. The others were relocated some place else. We were still in Illinois but it was definitely the country. There was lots of land as far as the eye could see—chickens, cows, horses and a population around 700. There weren't any stores. You had to go to the next town over to go shopping.
The first time I saw my new foster mother I knew something was off about her. When she smiled it still seemed like she was frowning. Her voice was so irritating, it was like razor blades piercing my ears. When she walked it was sort of a swaying motion that caused me to feel seasick. I didn't get how a person can have such a negative effect on me.
I ignored these signs. I didn't even beg my adoptive mother to stay with her. I figured any place would be better than living with her. I was happy to become free of the witch.
The property we moved to had a lot of land surrounding the house. Off to the side of the house were acres and acres of all kinds of vegetables. It was made clear to us that if we wanted to eat we would be working in order to do so. We never worked in the fields before. It wasn't that hard to catch on. Pick the weeds, plant the seeds and pick the vegetables. That order varied at times.
Although the task seemed simple the labor was a workout. We would get up at the crack of dawn and work the fields all day. We were so grateful when the season changed to winter. There was little work to be done outside in the winter, but plenty to do inside.
There were four other kids in the household other than my sister and I. Out of those four, one was mentally challenged. Everyone took turns looking after her. We bathed, clothed and fed her. She couldn't do anything on her own but walk. It was like having an over-grown baby. She was five years younger than me. Although she couldn't talk I felt we communicated well with one another.
After a week in that household I noticed my foster mother had a bad temper, especially toward my little sister. She would curse her out and scream at the top of her lungs. She did this when my sister wasn't moving fast enough for her and when she dropped things.
After a while the cursing and screaming turned to blows. It happened at least once a week, then three times a week, and eventually it happened every day. How much wrong could a nine-year-old do? This is the question I ask myself constantly. I would feel so guilty. At our adoptive mother's house we would all get punished. Here only my sister was the target. I will never understand that.
The abuse toward my sister went on for about a year. An incident of screaming and choking had me at my last straw of being a helpless witness. I told my sister we are going to tell someone at school what's going on in this house.
The next morning we did just that. There was a lot of questioning involved. The social worker at the school ended up calling our foster mother. We were told she had to come get us and that there would be an investigation. I was terrified. I didn't know what she would do to my sister and me for telling on her.
Once we got back to the house we were told to pack our bags. I think our foster mom was nervous about what the legal system would do to her. By the time we got done packing it was late and our foster mom didn't want to drive. She told my sister and me we could spend one more night in her house. She called us ungrateful and said we would be going back to our adoptive mother's house in the morning.
On the drive back to my mom's house everybody was silent. I didn't know what to feel. All I know is that I was truly happy that my sister got out of that house alive. I knew what going back to my mom's house meant, but I didn't care. At least there my sister wouldn't have to be tortured alone.
Breezi C. is a homeless youth activist who helped coordinate the recent Windy City Times' LGBTQ Homeless Youth Summit. This is the first of a series of columns Breezi will be be contributing to Windy City Times.
