I nodded my head. I understood. I always had. In the past I had imagined Father dressed in his crisp, dark blue fireman’s uniform, as he strolled to a podium to receive his badge of honor in front of a frenzied crowd shouting his name, with his beautiful wife and family standing by his side. As a child, I had dreamed of Father’s big day.
I now looked into his eyes as I gave him his lifetime achievement. “I’m really proud of you, Dad,” I said, gazing down at the badge. “I truly am.” For a split second Father’s eyes gleamed. And for a moment in time his pain disappeared.
A few minutes later Father stopped me on the steps of the bus. He hesitated. His eyes looked down. “Get out of here,” he mumbled. “David, get as far away from here as you can. Your brother Ronald joined the service, and you’re almost at that age. Get out,” Father said as he patted my shoulder. As he turned away, his final words were, “Do what you have to. Don’t end up like me.”
I pressed my face to the window of the bus and strained my eyes as I watched Father disappear into the crowd. I wanted to jump off and hug him, to hold his hand or sit by his side the way I did as a child whenever he read his evening paper— like the dad I knew so many years ago. I wanted him to be a part of my life. I wanted a dad. As the bus lumbered out of San Francisco, I lost control of my emotions and cried inside. I clenched my fist, as the tremendous pressure I had stored for years burst inside my soul. I realized the horribly lonely life that Father lived. I prayed with all my heart that God would watch over him and keep him warm at night and free from any harm. A mountain of guilt weighed on my shoulders. I felt so bad for everything in my father’s life.
After visiting Uncle Lee, I had fantasized that maybe I could buy a home in Guerneville and have Father move in. Only then could I help ease his pain or could we spend some time together as father and son. But I knew, as always, that fantasies were dreams and reality was life. I cried throughout the bus ride to Alice’s home. I knew that Father was dying, and I became terrified that I would never see him again.
Months afterward, during the summer of 1978, after dozens of interviews, I landed a job selling cars. Selling cars was mentally exhausting. The upper managers would threaten the sales staff one day, then bait us with money incentives the next. The competition was fierce, but I somehow managed to keep my head above water. If I had a weekend off, I’d race off to Duinsmoore and forget about having to be an adult, as Paul, Dave and I searched for new adventure on four wheels— loaned to me by the car dealer. Once, after seeing a movie on Hollywood stuntmen, the three of us sat facing forward as I drove backward in a perfectly straight line, without looking behind my back. Our stunt caused a few wrecks with confused drivers, and the three of us had a few minor scrapes with the law. But I knew my adventurous times would be coming to an end when Paul and Dave matured and began to look for jobs, too.
More than ever, I sought guidance from Duinsmoore Drive. One time Dan drove to Alice’s home so he could talk me out of my pipe dream of becoming a Hollywood stuntman. With his son Paul by his side, Mr. Brazell spent hours of his time telling me how foolish I was. I had always been fond of Dan, and as I walked him and Paul outside after abandoning my lame idea, I realized that I was closer to Dan than to my own father.
The Marshes were just as caring. Many times I’d help Sandra with her housework, as I learned other ways to become self-sufficient. Mr. Marsh recommended that I join the service. Immediately I’d think of the Air Force, but as a freshman in high school I had taken the aptitude test and failed miserably. I had convinced myself that I could make it in the outside world without any schooling.
Summer passed, and I decided—because I was almost 18 and had to make money in order to survive— to drop out of high school. Alice was livid, but my career as a salesman was on the rise. Out of a sales staff of over 40, I was consistently one of the top five salesmen. But months after my 18th birthday, the recession hit, gas prices shot up, my savings withered and the reality of going nowhere fast hit me in the face.
To escape my troubles, one Sunday I rode off in my beat-up, orange ’65 Mustang and headed north to find the Russian River. I didn’t know exactly how to get there, but I drove by instinct, relying on my memories as a child. When I sensed the correct exit, I turned off. I knew I was close when the towering redwood trees filled my windshield. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I parked my car at the old Safeway supermarket. My eyes gaped at the same aisles I had strolled through as a child. At the checkout counter, I dug through my pant pockets and spent the last of my splurge money on a stick of salami and a loaf of French bread. I sat on a deserted sandbar of Johnson’s Beach and slowly gnawed on my lunch, listening to the rippling sounds of the Russian River and the scraping metal of an oversized motor home that rumbled its way across the narrow evergreen bridge. I found myself at peace.
In order to fulfill my vow of living at the Russian River, I knew I had to first find myself. I couldn’t do it living so close to my past. I had to break away. As I collected my trash and walked away from the beach, the sun shone on my shoulders. I felt warm inside. I had made my decision. Turning to face the river one last time, I felt like crying. If I wanted to, I could move to the river, but I knew it wouldn’t be right. I took in a deep breath and spoke in a slow voice, renewing my lifelong promise. I will be back.
Months later, after obtaining my high school G.E.D. and completing a series of tests and background checks, I proudly enlisted into the United States Air Force. Somehow word got to Mother, and she called me a day before I reported for basic training. Her voice wasn’t that of the evil mother, but my mommy from years ago. I could almost see Mommy’s face on the other end of the phone as she cried. She claimed that she thought of me all the time and that she had always wanted nothing but the best for me. We talked for over an hour, and I strained my ear in hopes of hearing the three most important words I had wanted Mom to say all my life.
Alice stood beside me as I cried into the telephone. I wanted to be with my mom. I wanted to see her face in hopes of hearing those three words. I realized that I was being foolish, but I felt I should at least try. It took all of Alice’s persuasive powers to keep me from visiting Mom. But in my heart I knew that Mother was just toying with my emotions. For over 18 years, I wanted something I knew I would never receive—Mom’s love. Without a word, Alice opened her arms. And as she held me, I suddenly realized that my lifelong search for love and acceptance had finally ended in the arms of a foster parent.
The next day I stood tall as I looked into Harold’s blue eyes. “Be good now, son,” he said.
“I will, sir. You watch. I’ll make you proud.”
Alice stood beside her husband. “You know who you are. You’ve always known,” she said, as she held out her hand and gave me a shiny yellow key. “This is your home. It always has been and always will be your home.”
I pocketed the key to my home. After kissing Alice, my mother, and shaking Harold’s, my father’s, hand, I opened my mouth to say something appropriate. But this moment in time needed no words, for we knew what we all felt—the love of a family.
Hours later, as the Boeing 727 banked its way from California, I closed my eyes for a final time as a lost boy. I pictured “The Sarge,” Michael Marsh, in all his glory, with his eyes pierced toward the sky when he had said, “Well, Airman Pelzer, any thoughts?”
“Well,” I had replied, “I’m a little scared, but I could use that to my advantage. I have a master plan. I’m focused, and I know I’m going to make it.”
Then my mentor had glanced down on me and smiled. “Good on you, Pelz-man. Get some.”
Aboard my first plane ride, I opened my eyes for the first time as a man named Dave. I chuckled to myself. “Now the adventure begins!”
Epilogue
December 1993, Sonoma County, California—I’m alone. On the outside I’m so cold that my entire body shivers. The tips of my fingers have been numb for some time. As I exhale, a frosty mist escapes through my nose. In the di
stance I can hear the rumbling sounds of dark gray clouds colliding against each other. A few seconds later, thunder echoes from the nearby hills. I can see a cloudburst approaching.
I don’t mind. I’m sitting on top of an old rotted log in front of a long stretch of empty beach. I love gazing at the splendor of the powerful dark green waves that form into a curl before pounding the beach. A coat of salty spray covers my glasses.
On the inside I’m warm. I’m no longer afraid of being alone. I love spending time by myself.
From above, a flock of seagulls squawks at each other as the birds comb the beach in search of any morsel of food. Moments later a single gull struggles to maintain flight. As much as the bird pounds its wings, it cannot keep up with the flock, let alone maintain altitude. Without warning, the gull crashes beak first into the sand. The bird flops up and hobbles on a single, webbed orange leg. After a short search, the seagull finds a fragment of food. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the flock of sea -gulls returns, hovers above the beach, then dives to pick on the weaker gull for its meal. The gull seems to know it cannot flee, so it stands its ground and pecks at the other birds with furious intensity. Within a blink of an eye the struggle is over, and the flock of birds flies off in search of an easier victim.
The seagull screeches at the flock as if telling them that it was victorious, then turns toward me and squawks a warning. As I study the gull’s movements, I recall how its battle mirrored my own challenges while in foster care. Back then nothing was more important than wanting to be accepted and finding the answers to my past. But the more I matured on the inside, the more I realized I had to carve my own path. I also learned to be content in not finding all the answers of my quest. But like most things in my life, my answers seemed to come without effort after I joined the United States Air Force, where I achieved my lifelong dream of flying. As an adult I came full circle. One of the things I accomplished was visiting my mother and asking her the most important question of my life: Why?
Mother’s own secret made me cherish the life that I lead even more.
The screeching sound of the seagull breaks my trance. In front of me my hands quiver, but it’s not from the cold. I wipe a stream of tears from my cheeks. I don’t cry for myself as much as I do for my mother. I begin to cry so hard that my body shakes. I can’t stop. I cry for the mother and father I never had and the shame of the family secret. I become unglued because at times I have doubts about making a difference in the lives of others, and I feel unworthy for the recognition I’ve received.
I cry to let everything out.
I close my eyes and say a quick prayer. I pray for the wisdom to become a better, stronger person. As I stand up, facing the dark green ocean, I feel cleansed inside. It’s time to move on.
After a relaxing drive with the windows rolled down and listening to Pat Metheny’s Secret Story, I park my 4-Runner in front of my second home— the Rio Villa in Monte Rio. The owners, Ric and Don, wave as they scurry about to prepare for incoming guests. The serene beauty of the Rio Villa still takes my breath away. For years now Ric and Don have gone out of their way to make my son, Stephen, and me feel a part of their family. To be welcome means so much to me.
After I wrestle him to the floor, Stephen wraps his arms around my neck. “You okay?” he asks. Even though he is only a child, in so many ways Stephen’s sensitivity is beyond his years. I’m amazed that at times he can feel my innermost feelings. As much as he is my son, Stephen is also one of my closest friends.
The two of us spend the remainder of the day designing multicolored Creepy Crawlers plastic toys, and playing Sorry and Monopoly over and over and over again. I quickly discover that my years of training in military strategy are no match for the mind of a ruthless seven-year-old, who acquires both Park Place and Boardwalk, with hotels. (I still owe Stephen back rent.)
After several annihilating lessons of Sorry, Stephen and I make our way down to the deck by the Russian River. A thick odor of burning wood mixes in with the sweet aroma of redwood trees. The shallow green river becomes transparent, with only a soft trickling sound that makes the water real. As the sun disappears behind a hill, the reflection of a Christmas tree shimmers from across the river. A blanket of fog seeps down from the hills. Without a word, Stephen and I join hands. I can feel a lump creep up my throat as we tighten our grip.
Stephen clamps onto my leg. “Love you, Dad. Happy birthday.”
Years ago, I truly doubted whether I’d make it out alive. In my former life I had very little. Today, as I stand in my utopia, I have what any person could wish for—a life and the love of my son. Stephen and I are a family.
Perspectives on Foster Care
David Pelzer
Foster Child
There is not a doubt in my mind that had I stayed with my biological mother much longer, I would have definitely been killed. Foster care was not only an escape, but literally a whole new world. At times it was extremely difficult to adjust, for I never quite knew what to expect.
As an adult survivor, I am forever grateful to “The System” that so many in society ridicule without mercy. It would have been easy for me to exploit the weakness of social services and foster care and all that they entail. That was never the premise of the story, but rather to take the reader into a world rarely seen by the general public— through the eyes of a tortured, programmed-to-fail child who is “placed” into the care of others.
My social worker, Ms. Gold, stays etched in my mind simply because of her genuine concern for my safety and security. Though I thought retracting my statements within days of my disposition was unique to my case, this is an everyday occurrence for most of those who work in her field. Very few people truly know what Child Protective Service workers go through.
There are many who believe that social workers are nothing more than homewreckers who barge into a private residence and pluck a child from the arms of a loving parent. Or that they never respond to a real case involving child abuse. The reality of the situation is far more horrifying. In 1973, in California, I was among several thousand cases reported. Twenty years later the same state reported more than 616,000 cases.
There are too few social workers available to respond to the never-ending siege of “youth at risk.” For them, it is a matter of triage—a minor who is in harm’s way the most receives immediate attention first. Then, once a report is under investigation, no information can be given to the general public on the status of the case, which causes stress to those who dared to file the report in the first place and who in turn may surmise that social services never follows through. Again, the operating principle of social services is to preserve the privacy, safety and security of the minor. Needless to say, burnout plays a major role for these angels—whose sole purpose is that of saving the life of a child.
As for my foster parents, they made me the person I am today. They took in a heap of hideous mass and transformed a terrified child into a functional, responsible human being. I owe each of them so much. Unfortunately for them, I put my foster parents through absolute hell—especially the Catanzes, during my critical “adjustment phase.” They saved me from almost certain doom. The Turnboughs were a godsend, with something so simple as teaching me how to walk, talk and act like a normal child, while assuring me that I was worthy and could overcome any challenge that life had to offer.
This is the work that foster parents do!
As an adult I will never understand why these people put up with so much. One can barely fathom what it is like to deal with a child who came from a past like mine, let alone the half a dozen other foster children residing in the average foster home.
And yet the general public rarely, if ever, hears of the love and compassion for what some folks dub F-parents—as if the words foster parent belonged to a deadly epidemic. These same individuals may assume that foster parents “are only doing it for the money,” that foster parents are nothing more than parental mercenaries, making a profit off of society’s ills. If
this is true, then why is it that over 65 percent of the foster parents in Iowa end up adopting their foster children, thus making the foster parents ineligible for financial assistance? Like most foster parents, they fall victim to the emotion of love. To be adopted is the highest honor bestowed on a child who longs to become a member of a family.
But society is never made aware of those stories. It appears that foster parents only receive attention when a child is hurt while under the guardianship of foster care. The press clamors to “inform” the public of a child victim becoming victimized again. Investigations are made, and it is most likely that the foster parents in question may not have been suited as foster parents. An obvious answer! Because of such publicity, the question brought up by many is, has “The System” failed the child again? Hardly!
Don’t get me wrong; harming a child is absolutely wrong and should never be tolerated! However, those cases are rare, and they undermine the incredible work that foster care performs. The real question is, how did those adults receive a license as foster parents in the first place? The answer may be for the simple reason that so many children need to be placed into homes—yesterday. Again, society’s ills tax “The System” to overwhelming proportions. There are literally millions of children in need and only several thousand homes available. Alleviating the situation may lie with a thorough screening process for those who apply for foster licenses, including background checks—much like those used for any county or government job. Perhaps training programs on how to deal with the endless and various needs of the foster children could help as well.
On the other hand, the press was kind enough to pay homage to Charlotte Lopez, a foster child for 15 of her 17 years, who won the title of Miss Teen USA in 1993. I was extremely intrigued by Charlotte’s confidence and inner beauty. I wonder where Miss Lopez received her esteem and poise from? Could it have been from her foster parent, Janet Henry? One can only imagine the endless hours that Janet and Charlotte spent together. I can only assume that Charlotte’s main concern was not so much for her smile or her technique for strolling down the runway, as it was for her inner fear, which most foster children possess—seeking answers to their condition, while struggling to fit into an ordinary world.