This is Kayla (infancy)

When Kristen asked me if I was willing to write a guest post for her blog, I was thrilled. I too am working on getting my own blog up and running, but to be able to have a new audience to reach, is amazing!

My name is Kayla and these next few articles that I am going to share are pieces of my story. I’m not going to go too in-depth, I want to keep these rather short, so they are manageable to digest. It is hard to hear, but it is what makes me who I am.

I also want you to know that I have changed almost everyone’s name. There are a few that I have left but for the most part, since I don’t have permission to speak about these people in this context, I have changed the names. All the events are true, they happened, and I am retelling them to you based on what I was told at the time and based on what I remember. I hope that when you read this you will gain a better understanding of the foster care system.

That every child has a different story and that they all need to be told their story.

Be someone’s advocate.

The beginning is the natural place to start something like this, but it also makes things even more complicated. I was born in Texas in 1989. My parents were “Lisa” and “David”.

They were a young couple; my mother was about 23 when I was born which would have made my father about 29. I was the youngest child and the only girl. My oldest brother Joshua was 2 ½ at the time and my other brother Tony was 13 months old.

We lived in a small one-bedroom apartment at the time. “Lisa” stayed home with the three of us while “David” went to work. “David” was an abusive alcoholic who would often take his anger out on my mother. I remember hearing stories about how he would get drunk and beat her, or take her to the city dump, make her stand out in the open, and fire gunshots over the top of her head. I’m not sure I was even around at the time this supposedly happened so I can’t confirm or deny any part of that. I do know that he wasn’t the best father to us or partner to our mom that he could have been.

I’m sure he had his reasons, but we will never really know.

Imagine, if you will, this family. Mother, who is Caucasian; father, who is black, and 3 beautiful children who all fall into different categories on the melanin scale. We should have been able to have our entire lives to persevere, to be able to make our mark on this world. Yet here I am today the last one standing.

I could technically sit here and tell you how “Lisa” is still alive too, but I’m not going to waste my time on someone who doesn’t deserve that kind of acknowledgment. When you get through this with me you will understand why.

And please, spare me the whole “forgive and forget” speech because first, I am human. I feel things deeply and though I have let go of some of these things forgiving and forgetting are two things I shouldn’t have to do. And second, I carry the pain and the reality of what happened with me every single day. It is and always will be what makes the fire in my soul burn so bright.

It was the middle of December 1989. I was just about 2 weeks old. Like normal our mother was at home taking care of the 3 of us while our dad was at work. She had 3 children under the age of 3 and if you’ve spent more than 5 minutes with a tiny human you know what little hellions they can be.

This day though, this was the day she couldn’t take it anymore. She had Tony with her and after a few short moments, Tony wasn’t with us anymore.

In a matter of seconds, my big brother was suffocated at the hands of my mother. He had just celebrated his 1st birthday in October.

He wouldn’t get to enjoy another Christmas or birthday ever again.

https://impressingminds.com/?p=200 Find out the rest of her story....