Shout It From The Mountaintop

In December of last year, my friend wrote to different media outlets about my life.  At the time, I wanted to be happy and feel honored to have my life story in the newspaper, but you have no idea the amount of angst I was feeling.  I kept thinking – why me? What makes me so special, who would want to write about me, what have I done so special?  Really I wanted someone to tell me, why would someone want to write about little ol’ me, I hadn’t gone through anything different than many other former and present foster youth.  Of course, I’ve had my share of physical, emotional, sexual and psychological abuse, but in our foster youth cohort, who hasn’t.  Even if you haven’t experienced any type of physical abuse, the emotional toll of being in the child welfare system is sometimes the worst pain of all.  So again…why me?

Life For Me Ain't Been No Crystal Stair.

My best buddy reminded me of a video that I produced back in college. She, myself and two other close friends were all in a documentary-making course and our first assignment was to produce a short documentary about our life. I think I forgot about this video because I remember that point in my life being one of the first times that I truly felt sorry for myself. I remember sitting in one of our dorm rooms talking about our storyboards - the story we were going to portray on video - and of course my friends were talking about all the memories and mementoes and pictures that they were going to gather - you know all those things that helped to make them who they were (i.e., things from their childhood, about their families, about their heritage, their early life experiences, experiences in other countries, and so on and so forth). And here I was, quietly listening while trying - unsuccessfully - to conjure up something from my childhood that I could share, but unfortunately, there were no mementoes, no pictures, and definitely no memories worth sharing. Let's just say that anything I would have brought up would have been a complete downer to the, then, jovial mood. So I went back to my room and cried because it sucked to me that I didn’t have any happy childhood memories, that I didn’t know my mother or father, and that I didn’t even know how I looked as a baby because I had no picture to show me.