Dear Board of Trustees Member,
I am writing to express my sincerest gratitude for a kindness bestowed upon me by the Casey Family Programs Board of Trustees almost ten years ago. It is amazing how something so special and so significant could go by without my acknowledgement for this long. I suppose this note is both an apology as well as a thank you. I had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Sheila Evans-Tranumn speak at an event recently and it was she who brought to my memory the events surrounding my trip to Seattle so long ago. At the time I was a young single mother, newly emancipated from foster care with little hope or direction of which to speak. I was an unemployed college drop-out and on the verge of being evicted from the studio apartment I shared with my infant son. I was still reeling from the eighteen years of trauma, grief and loss I endured during my time in foster care. I was struggling to understand my place in the world and my role as a parent. The latter was overwhelming and I lived in constant fear that my child would be ripped from my arms and sucked into the black hole that I knew foster care to be. I was acutely aware of the fact that if I became homeless, my son would be lost. I couldn’t understand how my life had become so desolate of hope when only two years before, I faced what I considered limitless opportunities.
I was supposed to be one of the youth who made it. I was supposed to be among that prestigious 2% of former foster youth that graduated from college. I was going to be an attorney and child advocate. I was going to protect children like myself and give them a voice. You see, I was special. Or at least that is what I had been told. I was lauded for being resilient, bright and articulate. I wanted so desperately to believe these things about myself and to make others proud. I had prided myself on being independent and resourceful and saw my greatest triumph as being accepted into college. College was a chance, the opportunity of a lifetime, and I was going. My special factor was considerably magnified and with the news of my college acceptance, came offers to speak and travel. I was for the first time in my life, happy. Looking back, I wonder if any of the people who showered me with attention and praise would have bothered doing so if they knew that my college career would last only two weeks. It took two weeks for my life’s dream to crumble before my eyes. Less than a month for me to go from college freshman to homeless former foster youth. My self-reliance, which had until this point kept me alive, proved to be my undoing in the end. I embarked upon my journey to college ill-prepared and ill-informed. If I had sought the advice and counsel of others along the way, I might have avoided catastrophe. If I had trusted enough to forge meaningful relationships with adults during my childhood, I might have avoided catastrophe. Instead, I made my decisions alone and was left to face the consequences of my decisions… alone.
In my defense, I had good reasons not to trust adults, especially those that were a part of the foster care system. I had suffered abuse and neglect not at the hands of my mother, but at the hands of people who were paid to ensure my care. My mother’s only crime was being a poor woman with mental health issues and a low IQ. She was not considered “fit” to raise a child given her level of functioning and I was swept from her arms before she ever had a chance to prove fit or unfit. In some ways, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I never knew the love and loss of a mother that haunts so many children in foster care. Instead, my grief was for the loss of what could have been that never would be. I didn’t have a face or memories to attach to this sense of loss, so my nightmares were more bearable. Over time, they faded altogether. Instead, my dreams were filled with the faces of the many strangers who came to lay hold of me over the course of my childhood. Foster parents, social workers, therapists, attorneys, group home staff, probation officers, judges, teachers and nurses. All of them pressing down on me from every side, examining, watching, prodding, questioning, demanding, accusing, promising, disappointing, lying, hurting, expecting and confusing. I never knew who or what to believe and I never allowed myself to depend on any of them. I learned that the world I lived in was not safe and that every possession and relationship I had was sure to be ripped from me in time. I no longer bothered making friends or trying to prove to foster parents that I was loveable. After thirty placements it seems futile. I decided that my best and only chance of survival was solitude. I built a cocoon around myself to keep out the evils of my world. At the time, I didn’t recognize that my barrier also kept kindness and compassion at bay.
So it was alone and armed with the hope for my future that I showed up on campus for freshman orientation. There was a buzz of frenetic energy surrounding me and I was teeming with anticipation. I told myself that today was the first day of “my” life. I could not control my childhood but I was determined to steer the course of my adulthood. I reassured myself that I was better equipped to manage my life than the hundreds of people who had been charged with the job in times past. It was this confidence and unbridled hope that made what was to come all the more devastating. You see, for the first time in my life I actually allowed myself to believe that things were going to be alright. I could not have been less prepared to hear that I was not on the rooming list. In all honesty, I had no idea what a rooming list was. I quickly figured it out when I was asked for my off-campus address and told that as a freshman, I would have to get special permission to live in an apartment. Not that it mattered because I didn’t have an apartment. No dorm, no apartment.
I couldn’t understand why my name was not on the list when I had obviously been accepted to the school. I had a class schedule and a financial aid award letter to prove it. Didn’t a dorm room come with college? That’s the way it always seemed on television and, to be honest, that was my only point of reference for higher education. When I asked this question out loud, the housing coordinator laughed in my face. She suggested that I have my parents book me a hotel room and add my name to the dorm waiting list. She said that freshman got first priority and usually after a week or two there was space available. I didn’t have any parents and I only had $300 to my name. I had no idea what to do or where to go. I could not think of one person that I could call for help. I dragged my bags to the parking lot and contemplated what my next move would be. A hotel shuttle arrived after about an hour to pick up several passengers and I decided to board as well. I spent almost all of my money between the hotel room, food and cab fare back to school the next day. I attended my classes and inquired about dorm space. Still full. I went to the financial aid office and picked up my first disbursement check. It was enough money to buy my books, provide cab fare, pay two week’s worth of hotel fees and buy food. After two pricey weeks of living in a hotel I was looking forward to moving into the dorms.
As the housing counselor predicted, there were slots available after two-weeks. Unfortunately, there were only three and my name was fifth on the waiting list. She suggested that I fill out a special circumstances appeal to live off-campus and talk to my parents about finding an apartment. Why was it that as an adult, I was still constantly reminded of my lack of parentage? I was running out of money and I had absolutely no idea how to find an apartment. I looked in the school bulletin but the school apartments all required you to be a junior and all the private landlords wanted a security deposit, co-signer, or good credit history. I had none of the above. I fought as long and hard as I could but eventually I became homeless and had to drop-out. I can’t articulate the sense of devastation I felt. There were not enough tears or screams or alcohol or drugs to in any way buffer the pain. It was like all the fear and anguish and loss and trauma that I never allowed myself to experience came crashing down on me all at once. As my defenses crumbled, the secret things of my childhood came seeping out. I was alone to wrestle my demons and for a time, my demons got the best of me.
This brings me back to you. I was in recovery from the aftermath of my failure when I first met you. I had slowly pulled myself out of depression and homelessness because I knew that I must. I became pregnant during the lowest point in my life and the knowledge that I harbored new life awakened in me a sense of purpose and responsibility I thought lost forever. Even with determination, the journey forward was not an easy one. I was young, single, homeless and pregnant with no education or job experience. I had no family and few friends. I was no one of importance anymore because my failure lumped me with the 98%, and there was nothing special about that. My resilience, intellect, articulation and promise were now looked upon with disdain, as though my inadequacy in fulfilling my potential had somehow tainted them. I came to realize that I was never special to, or truly appreciated by, the people who took an interest in me. After all, I was the exact same Brandy. I was no longer of any use to these people because I had failed to achieve the type of success for which they wished to derive credit. I began then to understand how pervasive child exploitation under the guise of child advocacy had become.
It was armed with this knowledge that I met someone who would become an integral part of my life. She too had grown up in the foster care system and endured hardship. Unlike me, she had welcomed and invited help along the way. She was successful in all the ways that mattered to me. Good natured, kind-spirited and open-hearted. I marveled at how she was able to forge and maintain relationships. She was also successful in the ways that mattered to the people who mattered. College degree, good job, no kids, found a forever home in foster care, the whole nine yards. She was not much older than me but I could not shake the sense of feeling somehow diminished in her presence. I thought I understood how Pinocchio must have felt when confronted by a real boy. She was what and who I had aspired to be. She and I met and became almost instant friends. She understood me in a way that no one else had or could. She could identify with my feelings of tokenism because she had endured the same. She was though, connected in ways that I was not and privy to opportunities reserved only for what I call the two-percenters. I was fortunate in that she was in such high demand that I was able to fill in for her from time to time doing speaking engagements. I was catching her overflow and grateful to her for the opportunity.
One such opportunity brought me to Seattle to speak with you. The Board wished to speak with foster care alumni regarding their educational experience and my friend was selected to attend. At the last minute she could not keep the engagement and referred me as a substitute. I was somewhat uneasy about the trip because I knew that all the other youth selected would be successful college graduates. What could I offer of importance when my failure was so spectacular and complete? But, she said there would be a $200 honorarium and I was desperate for money. I was willing to humiliate myself in a room full of strangers if it meant being able to feed my baby. To be honest, I had contemplated doing much worse. Neither theft nor prostitution seemed morally repugnant when faced with the prospect of losing a child. So I went to Seattle and I shared my experience with you. I told my story and never really expected it to make a difference. I had no idea if you were really listening or not. I remember looking at your faces after I was finished and wondering what you thought of me. That evening, I saw William Bell and he asked if he could speak with me. I had no idea who he was but I could tell he was important from the way that others responded to him. He told me that what happened to me was unfortunate but that I needed to go back to school. I explained that I had defaulted on my financial aid by dropping out and that until I paid the money back I could not return to school. Dr. Bell seemed nonplussed by my rationale and told me that if I wanted to finish badly enough, there was always a way. He said that he was the former Commissioner for ACF in New York and that if I had my degree he would have hired me in a heartbeat. He explained that without it, my options would always be limited. He took the time to talk to me about what I wanted to do professionally, and what it would take to get there. He said it didn’t matter how long it took, as long as I was constantly making progress. That conversation was significant to me because it was the first time in years that an adult took interest in my future.
I decided then that if I could figure out a way to get my family stable, I would turn my full attention to the future. I received my $200 stipend and went home to face my situation with renewed energy and vigor. I faced the immediate crisis of my impending eviction and tried to fight the increasing sense of dread. I had gotten in the habit of checking my mail at night so as to miss the glare of my landlord and the shame that accompanied it. When I saw the envelope from Casey Family Programs I expected it to be a thank-you note for speaking to the Board. I opened it and almost dropped my son when I saw what it contained. There was a sizeable check enclosed and I immediately thought it must be a mistake. The reference said that it was for speaking to the Board so I knew it was not sent in error. I was overwhelmed and my mind was racing. All of a sudden the world opened up before me and was again filled with limitless opportunities. Hope was seeping into my pores and I could see that I had not wasted my potential, I simply prolonged it. I could pay my rent and utilities and pay back my school. A couple thousand dollars provided me the chance of a lifetime. A second chance. I did not become homeless or lose my son.
I seized the opportunity I was given all those years ago and my family is now still reaping the reward. You all provided me with more than money. You gave me the opportunity to share my story, the encouragement I needed to move past it and the tangible support to make a difference in my time of need. You were in the business of foster care prevention long before your 2020 initiative. I can never thank you enough for what you have done, what you are doing and what you have yet to do for vulnerable children like me and families like mine. As Dr. Evans-Tranumn spoke yesterday I recognized that my story was among those that she shared. The experience of hearing an elder bear witness to my story was one of the many things I thought I forfeited as a child of foster care. I knew then that someone had actually been listening all those years ago and my experience had been understood and valued. I stopped telling my story long ago. I have been consumed with the self- imposed task of changing other children’s stories for the better. It is strange yet comforting to know that mine is still being shared. As I write these words I feel their healing power and am reminded of how great an impact one small kindness can have. I feel renewed in my own purpose and hope that you can feel a renewed sense of urgency for the work that you do. The children are waiting.
Respectfully,
Brandy Hudson
Owner/Editor - Chris Chmielewski