© My Plight

The plane ride back to the place that would be my new home was one of confusion, I watched as my sister’s body racked with nausea, convulsed and rejected the lunch that she had previously eaten.
It was evident that the plane ride was not agreeing with her.

I watched as my “New Mother” cared for Rhonda escorting her from the bathroom, and back to her seat on the plane.

My new home was one of rules and structure, and needless to say I didn’t like it one bit.

I had been left to myself for the first six years of my life, and the new structure was not seating well with me at all.

Mom as I called my new Mother, had corrected me about something, and I ran down to the basement which housed a coal bin.

I took my beloved teddy bear Tom Tom, the only security blanket that I had ever known, and tore him apart, watching as the stuffing within him floated into a pile at my feet.

I knew I would be sorry but that was the day that I learned how to say “I don’t care!”

It would become a phrase that I used to deal with the many losses that I would suffer in life.

I would continually say it over and over, until I believed it.

I stood looking at the pile of rubbish that just moments before had been my beloved Tom, Tom, and thought, “I wish I hadn’t done that.”

I followed it up with, “I don’t care!”

Already at the tender age of six I was angry, very, very, angry!

The next seven years were spent in a tirade of counseling sessions, and alternative schools.

There were fights between Rhonda and Thelma over my Mother, and her place in our lives, even after all that Kay my birth Mother had done, Rhonda vehemently stuck up for her.

The clearest memory that I have of her coming to visit, was one of which she had to be taken away in a police car, due to a violent drunken rage.

She had barged into Thelma’s home and ripped open drawers, pulling them out into the floor, and scattering the contents within.

Things had gotten so out of hand, that Thelma had no choice but to call the police, I watched in embarrassment, as my Mother screamed, and cussed, while she violently attempted the kick the window out of the police car after being subdued.

The neighbors in the upper crest suburban neighborhood would be discussing this for weeks to come.

Once again as usual, my Mother had left chaos and dysfunction in her wake, leaving us to pick up the pieces.

I slouched in the seat and eyed the counselor, just another in a long line over the years.

Had anybody taken any time, or insight, they would have noted, that it was just a pure case of being angry, and not knowing how to deal with it.

“Is our hour up,” I sarcastically asked the woman that was seated before me.

I hated these people, why couldn’t they just leave me alone?

Schools were never the way that they were for other kids, when it came to me.

I grew up during the bussing era, which meant that I lived in the suburbs, and went to school in the ghetto.

I sat in class and listened to the girl inform the “Bussed kids” that the last day of school would be a blood bath.

There was not a whole lot that I was scared of, and I sure was not scared of a fight.

I had grown up being the only white kid, so I learned how to defend myself at a very early age.

Memories of high school were not proms and dances.

They were memories of stepping over fights, and running to get to the bus, because in this neighborhood, you sure did not want to miss it.

Two bus rides and an hour and a half later every day brought me home, but this day was different.

I knew before I ever opened the door, that my beloved hero and sister, was not there.

The adults in my life had decided that a group home would be better for Rhonda.

The drugs, boys, and running away, had become too much for them to handle.

For the first time in my life, I did not have the beloved hero that I treasured, to lean on.

For some reason it never failed, anything that I loved was always mercilessly ripped from heart, and hands.

Where many people would crawl into a fetal position and die, I learned to survive.

I learned insight, survival, and how to function in any situation or environment.

Life had turned me into a chameleon, and I could function in any culture, language, or group.

From the prim, and proper, to the down, and out, whatever situation I was thrown in, I could adapt…

© 2013 Amber Hawkins

Available on Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Amber-Hawkins/e/B00C6PQ89O