by Dave Pelzer
There are other dedicated foster parents, like Debbe Magnusen, who takes in babies, in the middle of the night, that were born addicted to crack cocaine. Like so many others, Debbe, too, has adopted her former foster children. Legends in the field of foster care include Nina Coake, Judy Fields and Lennie Hart, who have each been in service to children at risk for over 35 years, fighting for the care and rights of foster children. Another is Pamela Eby, who literally dedicated her life to saving children until losing her final battle to cancer.
I cannot begin to state how much I cringe when I hear the term “cop” or “pig.” Again, one can only imagine what type of world we would live in if it were not for our police officers, who rescue children from abusive situations and wear bulletproof vests for fear of being killed in a domestic dispute. When folks gripe about our educational system, they may fail to realize that the teachers and staff see victims of child abuse firsthand and are the ones who are overburdened. If this statement sounds doubtful, step into a classroom holding 75 students. I don’t call that teaching as much as I do crowd control. Besides parents and legal guardians, who has the most influence over our children’s lives but teachers? As for those who work in social services— from counselors at juvenile halls, Child Protective Service members, juvenile probation officers and Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA) volunteers to foster parents—I can never admire and respect their efforts enough.
There are organizations that play a priceless role for “youth at risk” in our communities, such as the members of the United States Junior Chamber of Commerce, better known as the Jaycees. The main purpose of the Jaycees, who are volunteers, is the service of humanity. For instance, every year the state of Nebraska raises several thousand dollars for its Aid to Foster Children program. During the Christmas season, Jaycee chapters from across the nation donate Christmas trees to children who have never seen, let alone smelled, a Douglas fir. Their dedication doesn’t stop there. Jaycees invade stores with hundreds of children in tow—children who have never shopped for toys for themselves. These children never crave such niceties as Game Boy or Nike Air Jordan shoes. Instead, these children wish for clothes that are a size too big—so as to get more wear out of them.
Another organization is The Arrow Project, a nonprofit organization that addresses the needs of children and families in several states by providing foster care, diagnostic and educational services and other interventions.
In March 1994 I was in Ohio presenting a keynote address to local law enforcement officers, teachers and social service workers. The lady who preceded me made a statement that made everything crystal clear: “It takes a community to save a child!”
All too often, as a result of dissolving families and values, a lack of concern for minors and a lack of proper guidance, children grow up to become “killing machines.” By investing in our “youth at risk” today, does society not stand a better chance of a “higher yield” tomorrow—an adult serving our community rather than rotting away in some jail?
While “The System” is not perfect, it does in fact work. In my estimation “The System” will never be perfected—the demands from society are just too much. Many of us look toward “The System” and demand that “they” solve our problems, to our satisfaction, right now.
Like the Jaycees and The Arrow Project, maybe society can ease some of the frustrations of those in their chosen field. Maybe we can mail a card to a teacher for no special reason and just say thanks, or give a small bunch of flowers to a social worker. Perhaps the next time we see a police officer, we can smile and wave hello; or present a foster family with a pizza. If we can treat those in entertainment and sports like gifts from the gods, why can’t we show a little bit of gratitude to those who play such a priceless role in our community?
As much as this book takes the reader behind the scenes, its main theme is always that of the child who seemingly comes from another planet. Some people may believe that once a child is removed from a threatening environment, the minor’s problems instantly disappear. The actuality is, that is when the troubles begin. Like so many other children who enter “The System,” I was brought up in a violent, controlled environment. My problem was twofold: first, the need to deprogram my hideous past; and second, the need to be guided into mainstream society.
In so many ways I was so lucky. I was able to use my dark past to propel me to a brighter future. But like so many other lost children, in the beginning I failed to realize that I could take the same techniques I had used to survive my abusive past and apply them to the real world. In general, foster children are far more mature, resilient and focused on their futures than mainstream children because foster children have had to adapt at an earlier age. (The key word is adapt, not give up!) Foster children, for the most part, do not sit around waiting for the silver spoon—they rely on themselves. I could have fallen through the cracks and then blamed my failed future on my past, had it not been for proper guidance and a little bit of love. However, the single biggest mistake I’ve ever made was dropping out of high school. But like most foster children, I simply had to adapt and overcome. After being exposed to a different world, in order to make it, I knew I had to want it more.
While at times foster care was frustrating, it did give me the chance to see how other families lived. Like a great deal of those in foster care, I didn’t know how good I had it until I moved out on my own. Foster children never forget their foster parents. I am the same. Like others, I have many regrets. One of them is that Harold Turnbough passed away before I had my son, Stephen. Another regret was not being able to present Harold with my first book, which was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. However, today Alice Turnbough lives hours from my home. The highest compliment I can pay to my foster mother is this: Alice is my son’s grandmother. That’s how much foster care means to me.
In January 1994 I had the privilege of presenting a training program in Ottumwa, Iowa, for a group of foster parents who had travelled from throughout the region during the middle of a snowstorm that closed down that part of the state. I presented a program on working with children who come from abusive backgrounds and how to better deal with them. During the course, I gave an illustration of how I used to escape my pain by dreaming of a hero. On the outside my hero did not fit into mainstream society, yet on the inside my hero knew who he was and wanted to do good for others in need. In my dreams I saw myself as my hero. I flew through the air, I wore a cape of red and I had an “S” on my chest. I was Superman. When I stated this, the foster parents erupted with applause. As tears rolled down some of their faces, they held up a bumper sticker that read, SUPERMAN HAD FOSTER PARENTS.
To all of you who work with The Lost Boys and Girls, God bless YOU!
Alice Turnbough
Foster Mother
Dave came to us when he was 13 years old. I guess I’m still his foster mom. At first I think he was a combination of scared and defensive. He was a little wild and extremely frustrated, but for the most part did what he was told.
At the time Dave came to us we had all teenage girls. He drove them a little crazy, following them and tattling on them all the time. Plus, Dave was a neat freak, and the girls weren’t. He didn’t have much, but what he did have he treated like gold. And everything needed to be in the right place. A lot of foster children are like that.
Dave never acted his age, period. He always tried to act older, staying busy and finding work. He was 13 going on 20 and was always thinking ahead.
I have been a foster parent for 30 years, fostering approximately 75 children. It all started when a gentleman introduced me to two children who needed help.
We never got into morals. These children were just like other children—except for the treatment they received from others. For the most part, foster children need someone to talk to. As a foster parent, I would like to see improved screening processes in order to better place children in the right homes, rather than dropping them off and hoping for the best.
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p; One of the rewards of being a foster parent is seeing the kids turn out the way you had always hoped they would.
I always knew that David would make it. One of the most memorable moments was when David joined the Air Force. He had a devil of a time enlisting. I had to get used to him always flying away. Harold and I were very surprised and proud that he took it upon himself to carve out his future. Many foster children don’t have the motivation.
Although I always knew that Dave would do all right, I never thought he’d go as far as he has. The day I found out that he had received the Ten Outstanding Young Americans (TOYA) award was one of my proudest days as a foster parent. Foster children hardly ever achieve that kind of status because they allow the prejudices of our society to hold them back.
Dave was the last foster child to leave my home. I’m proud to be Dave’s mother.
Dennis Tapley
Teacher
I have been teaching for more than 20 years. When I was a freshman teacher in San Bruno, “special education,” as we now know it, had just received major support from the federal government. The special education program recognized that some children with minor learning disabilities had not been receiving an appropriate education. Children who had difficulty in learning basic skills were to be given special instruction to remedy those weak or unlearned skills.
There was talk about teachers being aware of some negative emotional concerns among these students. Some families produced schoolchildren who brought their family confusion with them to school. The confusion was evidenced in schoolyard social difficulties or classroom learning problems.
Teachers were as aware as we could be in working with the parents of these children. But this was two decades before Dave Pelzer published his book, A Child Called “It” (and Jane Smiley her 1000 Acres, and Susan Griffin her Chorus of Stones). We did not know—and were cautioned not to know—too much, for fear of being accused of interference.
From the 1970s point of view, foster care was not accepted. For a child to go to foster care meant there was something wrong—a complete failure in parenting. This was a failure that society did not want to face, even when given details of some drastic home situations. Because of this, foster care was twisted into something very negative. Individuals involved in foster care—both parents and children—were seen as second-class. The viewpoint even went so far as to believe that foster children had done something bad—unlike an orphan who was an innocent victim, for example. It has taken, and still takes, a long time to come to grips with what foster care, and the parents involved, can accomplish.
Today, child-rearing dynamics, awareness of the dysfunctional family, and direct evidence of the product of loveless or abusive parenting are matters of public record and psychological and educational research. Teachers and counselors are being trained to manage, test, evaluate and intervene.
I have been teaching special education now for 12 years. I have seen learning disabilities and delays in learning in specific areas. But family dysfunction and abuse cause emotional disturbances and learning delays that can be horrendous. I have seen students steal to gain attention, or carve the life out of shop and cooking equipment for the complex pleasure of artistic revenge. Such students are incapable of social self-restraint, and press their peers and teachers to react.
The disability of poor parenting is more likely to cause disruption in a child’s intellectual and social growth than a physical disability. A child who has supportive parents and a reading disability may be delayed in reading, but in my mind has a better chance of general life success than an abused child without a disability.
David Pelzer is an exception. Although all I knew about him was that his home life had been incredibly bad, I was very aware that he was an extreme individual. In class he wasn’t as “shifty” as the others, but very restricted in movement. I knew him because he was a demanding student who pressed his questions and pressed for answers. No other high school kid would stay after class, actually sitting on my desk to gain attention. He made sure he was noticed. Students would often visit their teachers with the simple intent of being friendly, but David was more purposeful and demanded consideration through his attitude and posture.
David is—even now, after 20 years—a rare student in his forcefulness and his directness. He is to be congratulated for his success.
Carl Miguel
Chief Probation Officer
Dave Pelzer, a seriously abused child, was booked into the San Mateo County Juvenile Hall in 1974. As a result of Dave’s background, his case was immediately reviewed by a team of juvenile hall staff that included a doctor, psychologist and detention supervisor. It was decided to house Dave on C-Wing—a living unit for children that were suffering from physical, psychological or sexual abuse. This was a special unit with an excellent staff-to-child ratio and a program designed to have a high degree of one-to-one, staff-to-child counseling.
Dave’s case was reviewed by C-Wing staff, and he was assigned to me during his stay at juvenile hall. Dave thrived on the individual attention and the behavior modification program. He established a bond with all the staff and demonstrated phenomenal growth both socially and emotionally. Dave entered the juvenile justice system at a time when resources were available to focus on the individual.
Dave left San Mateo Juvenile Hall in a much healthier state than when he arrived. In 1989, 15 years later, Dave and I met again in the most unusual manner. I was the superintendent of the Yuba/Sutter Juvenile Hall, and Dave was stationed at Beale Air Force Base in Yuba County. Dave came to the juvenile hall to volunteer his services to the youths detained there. Dave worked as a very effective volunteer and was eventually hired as a part-time staff person until being transferred by the Air Force.
It is with great pleasure and deep personal and emotional satisfaction that I have had the opportunity to see Dave rise above his excruciating childhood. He is a living example and a model to others who have suffered under similar circumstances. As Dave walked out of juvenile hall in 1974, as a child, I bade him good luck. And as he walked back into juvenile hall in 1989, as a counselor, I felt a tear in my eye and simply said, “Bravo.”
Michael Marsh
Mentor
One day in 1976, in the quiet, blue-collar California neighborhood of Menlo Park, I walked out of my garage and was disheartened to view the driveway scene next door. For almost a year now, houses in the neighborhood that came on the market were being snapped up by opportunistic Realtors and turned into rental properties. The house next door was such a house, and its tenants were scruffy-looking people who derived a significant amount of their income from the state of California by being foster parents.
What I was viewing on this day was their latest “acquisition”—a tall string bean of a kid in a filthy, sleeveless, ribbed T-shirt. He was working on a miniscooter engine, had a sort of leering grin—as a natural part of his facial features—and had intense eyes that darted about from behind a thick pair of glasses.
Initially I resented him, feeling that my hard work and that of my wife toward purchasing our first home in a decent neighborhood was being defeated by real estate speculators who were making a buck off importing families into my neighborhood. But David Pelzer wasn’t shy—in fact, he was persistent in his friendliness. As I got to know David a little, I began to see he was bright and had a keen sense of humor, in spite of the fact that he had been kicked around in a dismal childhood and what was looking to be an even drearier adolescence.
At first it was somewhat like housebreaking a pet. As we got more familiar, he was at our house more and more, asking about my Vietnam experiences, pursuing my aviation library and wanting to talk about almost anything. My wife and I began to require things from him—small, essential things like courtesy and consideration. He was to knock before entering the house. Some of his conversational manners were horrid, and his telephone and table manners were nonexistent.
The day came when David left the neighborhood. His “foster
parents” simply weren’t acceptable to him, and I still don’t blame him one iota for having the courage to pull up stakes and seek something better. But he stayed in touch and started showing up on weekends, wanting to be with friends he had made in the neighborhood and wanting to stay at our house. We finally told him that he would be welcome under most circumstances on most weekends but that he must call in advance, ask and make “reservations.” This he began to do, and some time passed before there was trouble. Trouble in a nearby park. Trouble with a pellet pistol. Trouble with neighbors who felt David was a bad influence on their children. These things were discussed, and I made it very clear to David that any more trouble, and it was bye-bye to the neighborhood that he loved to come and visit.
When pressed about his past or his school, he was always purposefully vague, so we never really knew what was going on in his life. A couple of years went by with intermittent trouble and calls from the Menlo Park police. David was never an angry, rebellious individual—he was just thickheaded and had a penchant for finding trouble or letting it find him. Maybe it was from some sort of misguided sense of adventure; I don’t know. But there came the day when I asked him how his school was doing, and he said, “Oh, I quit.” I hit the ceiling and chewed his butt out for an hour. When I asked him what he was going to do, he mentioned he was going to sell cars. I went ballistic again. A skinny, wimpy, pimply-faced kid was selling cars in the Bay Area? Get real, kid. A week or so later he called to say he had the job and was looking forward to being the “Salesman of the Month,” which bore the distinctive honor of driving a Corvette for a 30-day period. Right, Dave . . . something to shoot for, all right.
