When the police got to our house, they came in and looked around. They saw that we had no food, nowhere to sleep, no clothes and a mother who couldn’t take care of us. They told our mother that they would have to take us each to a different agency and put us up for adoption. So the next morning, that’s what they did. I felt so confused; I didn’t know what was going on.
I lived in an orphanage for about six months after that. That’s another rule—you have to be in an orphanage for six months before you get adopted.
The orphanage was just like a school. We had a teacher, a daycare person and a principal. We worked at our desks everyday with teachers and had lockers that we decorated. That was a lot of fun. After school, we went to the daycare center, where we played for a couple of hours. All of the children were friendly at the orphanage. We had a lot of toys to play with, like Russian dolls and pretend telephones. There was even a piano that the teacher played everyday. I also remember that the grown-ups were very nice.
All the children slept in a big room that had lots of beds and a blue ceiling with stars hanging from it. It felt warm and cozy. But there were still times when I felt lonely. I remember having lots of questions in my head. I wondered why I was there. I really missed my big sister. I wondered if I would see my family again.
One day, a woman named Grace came in, holding a little boy in her arms. She had just adopted this little boy and also wanted to adopt a little girl, so they introduced her to me. Grace didn’t speak Russian, so she had an interpreter who helped us communicate. Grace came right up to me and began hugging me. She had brought a bag of gifts, and she gave me coloring books and a bow for my hair. My new mom put the bow in my hair, and I loved it.
Before we left the orphanage, we took a picture right in front of the orphanage with all of my teachers and my new family. I remember that my teachers were crying. As we left the orphanage, all of the children were waving from the windows and yelling good-bye. I felt so happy to have a mom again, but sad to be leaving the friends I had made at the orphanage.
We left the orphanage, stayed one night at the interpreter’s house and then got on the plane the next day. It took more than twenty-four hours to get to my new home, where I was shown the room that I would share with my baby brother, Andrew. There was a dresser, a crib for my brother, a bed for me and a closet with some clothes in it. Then, my new mom’s friend brought over a big box filled with shoes. My mouth was open, and my eyes were huge! I’d never seen so many shoes in my life. And they were all for me!
I had no idea what would happen next in my life. I just took it day by day. Every night I practiced my English, my ABCs and my numbers with my new mom. It took me about two months to learn to speak English. Sometimes people made fun of the way I talked, but when they found out I was just learning, they stopped making fun of me.
I felt comfortable in my new home in America. I loved my new family. I didn’t think about my old family in Russia during the day, but I still dreamed about them sometimes at night. One night at my new house, just a few days after arriving, I had a nightmare. In my dream, a witch was chasing my sister and me through my old house in Russia. Anna and I hid behind a large chest. I woke up frightened and ran to my new mom’s bedroom. I jumped in her bed and slept the rest of the night. I felt comfortable with her, even after only a few days.
As Andrew and I grew up, we became as close as any biological siblings. I remember times when I felt jealous of the attention he got as a baby, just like any older sibling would. There were lots of times when we would fight and argue, but now we are close. We share secrets, play together and get along really well.
I have been in the United States for almost eight years. I am eleven years old and in the sixth grade. My mom works a lot, but she makes sure to spend quality and fun times with Andrew and me. Sometimes on the weekends we go on bike rides, go to movies or play board games. I love my family. My mom is always trying to help Andrew and me as we go through rough situations. She is forgiving, loving and helpful. I can always trust my mom.
I have never heard from my biological mom or siblings. I hope someday I can know more about them or maybe even get to see them again. Sometimes I dream that my sister comes to find me and that we become close again. I would love to have a big sister to teach me things about growing up, to go shopping with and to be close friends with.
When I grow up, I want to be a cancer surgeon and a teacher. I am a good athlete, and I hope to be a college athlete and maybe a professional athlete, too. I also want to have a family someday. And if I can, I want to adopt two children—maybe even children from Russia.
Sarah Crunican, 11
Home
Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one.
Jane Howard
Has it really been fourteen years since I was placed into the invisible hands of the government? Fourteen years since Social Services first gained control of my life?
After all this time, I remember it so clearly, as if it were only yesterday. I was eight years old and sitting in a group home waiting patiently for Mom. Unfortunately, she did not return. Three months later, I found myself in a foster home. From that day on, my life became a case file; just a large manila folder held snugly under the arm of a complete stranger.
I learned to accept the foster home as I saw it; a place that I stayed. It was not a home to me but merely a house with four walls and a roof, just a building that Social Services deemed fit for my living requirements. It was a place that I slept and ate in, but it held nothing for me; no love, no family and no values.
I spent the first five years of foster care secretly envying my friends . . . secretly wishing for everything that they had. I wanted to know what it felt like to be so loved. I yearned to have a “real” home as they all had. I wanted so much to belong, to know what it was like to not feel like an intruder in somebody else’s home. I ached deeply to not spend each day believing that I owed these people something for accepting me into their house.
At thirteen, right after I had just spent three months in the hospital for anorexia nervosa, I learned that I would be leaving the foster home that I had been in for the past five years, and I was going to be placed into a new foster home. I really didn’t believe things could get much worse. It felt as though my world was crashing down upon me once more. I cried at the cold realization that my first foster family was not going to show me the meaning of “home.”
The tears fell for days as my heart slowly began to understand. A home in my world was like a fairytale, a far-off place of magical beings and magical events where everything was fit perfectly to end in love and happiness. A world that would make me feel wonder and fascination, but deep in my heart, I felt like such a place could not truly exist. I never had known “home,” and I suspected that this would always remain the same for me.
I was sent to what they call a relief home after I got out of the hospital. It felt comfortable, and the family was very loving. I felt at ease the first time I had stepped within the warm, cozy walls. But I knew I could not get too comfortable, because shortly, I would have to surrender to being sent to the second foster home. Then, when my two weeks in the relief home were nearly up and my anticipation and terror of being sent to a new home was in full force, the world I had come to know changed.
My “relief” family sat me down at the kitchen table one evening just before bed, and as they all glanced in my direction, the mom spoke in gentle, soothing words.
“We know that you have gone through a lot after finding out that you were not returning to your first foster home.” She went on with a quiet breath, “And we don’t want to scare you off, or force you into any decision that you don’t want to make—but we really want you to stay here with us and be a part of our family.”
I stared at her in shock. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The others smiled as I glanced their way.
“We want you to think about it. Ta
ke as much time as you need.” I nodded and quietly rose from the table and went to the room where I had been staying while I was living there. I put my pajamas on, and I lay down in bed and silently cried many tears. They weren’t just tears of sadness, but also tears of happiness and tears of relief. A part of my life was ending and now a greater part of my life was about to begin. If I would let it.
Later that night, as my tears finally began to dry, the youngest daughter popped her head into my room.
“Are you asleep?” she asked. I shook my head in reply. “Have you made a decision yet?”
This time I nodded, and she waited for my an swer. Without thinking anymore about it, I replied with a quiet “yes.”
“She’s going to stay!” she yelled as she ran out of the room.
I slowly got out of bed and prepared to be welcomed by my new family. I smiled as I walked out the door. For the first time in my life, I felt I belonged. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable and cared for. For the first time in my life, I was a daughter and a sister. I was finally a normal girl.
For the first time in my life, I truly knew home.
Cynthia Charlton
5
SISTER SISTER
When you’re all alone
And feeling down
You need someone
To change your frown.
She’ll make you laugh
When you want to cry
You have to tell her the truth
Because she’ll know if you lie.
You can count on her
And she can count on you
When she says, “I promise . . .”
You know that it’s true.
She is there by your side
No matter what you do
Your sister’s more than just family
She’s a friend through and through.
Samantha Ott, 12
Preteena. ©2005. Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
Ready or Not
One is not born a woman, one becomes one.
Simone de Beauvoir
I was wiped out. After two hours of grueling swim practice, the zipper on my bag felt like it had been cemented shut. I couldn’t even lift the towel. I was starving, but how was I going to pick up a fork? I flopped down on the bench in the locker room, barely able to hold up my head. Breathing in and out took what little energy I had left. Maybe my skanky, bleach-smelling hair didn’t need to be washed tonight? Couldn’t I just dry off and shuffle home to dinner? I hauled my weary body to the mirror and tried to get away with “styling” my mop with the towel.
Oh, no! What is that under my arm? I wondered, quickly yanking my elbow down to my side before anyone else could see. Cautiously, with every attempt to appear calm, I slowly lifted my arm just high enough to peek underneath. Yep! It was there! A hair! A black, plain-as-day-so-everybody-could-see hair! I quickly scanned the locker room to figure out if any of the girls had noticed that my body had completely changed. Whew. No one seemed to have noticed.
Suddenly, I had energy. I couldn’t wait to run home, so I threw on only the most necessary clothes, which wasn’t easy, since I wasn’t willing to separate my elbow from my hip. Taking no time to chat, or even complain about the workout, I whisked out of the locker room and sprinted home.
“Mom! I’m home! I’ll eat later!” I shouted as I flew up to my room. I almost ripped my shirt off and stood about a millimeter away from the mirror, carefully examining this newfound evidence that I was becoming a woman. I was thrilled that I was actually, finally, growing up, but I was terrified that I was actually, finally growing up. The thoughts starting streaming through my brain. . . .
Oh, I can’t wait to swagger into the locker room and show the other girls the real bra I am surely going to need soon, now that I have armpit hair. It will be so wonderful to be allowed to shave my legs, which my mom will just have to permit, now that I have armpit hair. But how long will it be before I absolutely have to wear deodorant so I won’t gag the kids next to me in class? Armpit hair is kind of cool, but the thought of hair . . . um . . . down there, still freaks me out. Will that show through my swimsuit? And then there is the whole period thing, which is particularly a pain for swimmers. What if I get my period when I have a swim meet? What if it’s the state championships? What if my first period comes and I don’t know it until I get up on the starting blocks in front of the whole team, all their parents, all the other teams, and people start pointing and whispering? As all these thoughts whizzed through my head, I slumped down on my bed. Why couldn’t I get all the cool stuff that comes with growing up and just say, “No thanks,” to all the stuff I wasn’t ready for?
“Hey, Snotwad,” my older sister, Elizabeth, said cheerily, as she walked into my room.
“Don’t you ever knock?” I rolled over on my side to face the wall.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, I believe that,” she laughed. “Seriously, what’s up? You look stressed.”
I turned toward her and whispered into the pillow, “I have hair.”
“Yeah, and your point is?”
“No,” I rolled my eyes, “not the hair on my head!”
“Oh, you got a pube? Congratulations!”
I groaned. “No, not a pubic hair, thank goodness—an armpit hair.”
“Just one? That’s no big deal.”
I jerked up to a sitting position and glared at her. “Yes, it’s just one, but it wasn’t there one day and suddenly today it is, and it’s long and black, and I’ve never had one before, and I don’t want hair anywhere else, and what if I get my period, and. . . .”
“Hey, hey, slow down!”
My sister gently sat down on the bed next me and put her hand on mine. “It’ll be okay. You got one hair under your arm, but it’s not that big a deal. One hair doesn’t mean you’re suddenly going to have a triple-D chest and get all hairy everywhere. It all takes a whole lot more time than that.”
“Yeah?” I looked at her.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It takes years for all that stuff to take place. Didn’t you listen in health class?”
“Sort of. Mostly I was embarrassed, listening to Mr. Williams talk about breasts and stuff.”
“Gross. At least I had a woman teacher, Mrs. Kilgore.”
“Elizabeth, what was it like for you . . . you know, changing?”
“Don’t you remember how I washed my face like ten times a day? My face was always a big grease bomb. At least no one can see your pit hair.”
“That’s true,” I said. “When did you get hairs?”
She looked at the ceiling, trying to recall. “I don’t really remember. I got sort of wigged out when it happened, like you are now, but I got over it.”
“Do you think Mom will let me buy a real bra?”
“For what? You don’t have anything to put in one!”
My face turned scarlet, and my eyes started stinging. Elizabeth leaned over. “Hey, I’m sorry. Don’t worry—you’ll get breasts. I didn’t really need a bra for a long time, but it might be different for you. Just don’t go crying to Mom about ‘When am I ever going to get breasts?’ When I did that, she made up this totally lame little poem, ‘Hush little pancake, don’t you cry; you’ll have cupcakes by and by.’”
We both fell back on the bed from laughing so hard. When we caught our breath and sat up, I looked at her in a new way.
“Wow, am I ever glad you’re the oldest!”
Elizabeth tried looking serious. “Are you done freaking out now?”
“Yeah, I guess. It’s just that I don’t know what to do!”
“Don’t worry, I’m here for you, and I’ll bet your friends will be, too,” she reassured me. Then she suggested, “If you start going nutty about something, go online and find the info you need.”
“Going online would be good. And I suppose I could ask Mom about some of it, too. I can’t stop al
l this body stuff from happening anyway, huh?”
“Nope, but then, you don’t want to be a little kid forever, do you?”
“No, I guess not.”
Of course I didn’t. I was just freaking out about it all being out of my control. My body was going to do things, and I didn’t get to say a thing about it! Growing up would be a whole lot easier if you could order the changes you were ready for, when you were ready for them.
I did change over time, and I was okay. My big sister and I are closer than ever before, and I think it all started with that conversation. She really helped me by being kind and understanding when I was panicking. I only wish that I had a little sister. I’d like to help her know that the first armpit hair is no big deal.
Morri Spang
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For more information about body changes, log on to www.girlpower.gov/girlarea/bodywise/yourbody/body/index.htm.]
Jackie’s Little Sister
The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched—they must be felt with the heart.
Helen Keller
It was hard being the youngest of two sisters—I got all the hand-me-downs, I never got to do anything first and my teachers always said, “Oh, you’re Jackie’s little sister.” It was so hard not to be like, “No, I am LAUREN!” I never liked being the youngest.
Chicken Soup for the Girl's Soul Page 11
