God Must Have Forgotten About Me

by Jason Lee

  Total facepalm. “No, no. A makes the ‘aah’ sound. Try it again.”

  “Apple!”

  “That’s right!” I encouraged. “You’re so smart!”

  I could see her basking in all my affirmations.

  Tamica’s father wasn’t really in the picture, but when he would come around, he made disgusting comments about my relationship with Tamica. I heard him tell my mother that he suspected I was molesting her and that we were having a sexual relationship. We were kids! Who would think that? He had no idea that no one else was taking care of Tamica but me. Or maybe he did know; my mother’s drug use wasn’t exactly a secret. If he was so concerned about her well-being he could have acted like an actual father and taken care of her himself.

  ***

  My mother’s absentee parenting style turned me into a grown ass man. I had a key around my neck that I would use to get in and out of the apartment whenever I desired. I would wake up on my own, get ready for school, and walk to the bus stop by myself. No one at school suspected anything because I was there every day and on time. My mom was out running the streets, and I would get into trouble—normal shit kids would do. I would get my sister to throw mud on our building manager's windows and on the wall, or we’d knock on people’s doors and run.

  At seven years old, I was a latchkey kid, but because my mom was using all her money to buy drugs, there wasn’t enough money to pay for latchkey or any of our basic essentials. There was a kid who lived in my building who had a peculiar way of making money, and he told me to come with him to a funeral home that was nearby. That was the strangest request, but I was just like, “Fuck it, ok.” When we got there, there was a viewing going on, and we had sat among the grieving family members. I wondered if this was somebody he knew because he didn’t really say much while we were there. We waited for about an hour, and finally people were starting to leave and the room was emptying out. He looked around at first but then he walked up to the casket, unhooked the chain that was on the body, and then put it in his pocket. He motioned for me to follow him and then we left.

  “Oh my God! You stole the chain!” I was so confused and shocked at the same time. He laughed and told me to follow him to an area where a bunch of guys were hanging out on a stoop.

  “Whatchu got for us today, lil’ nigga?” one of the guys asked.

  The kid pulled the chain out his pocket and presented it to the group.

  “I think it’s 14 karat gold, and there aren’t any scratches or spots anywhere.” He was selling them all the features of the chain like he worked for the fucking Home Shopping Network.

  “Aight, cool. How much you want for it?” I guess his little sales pitch worked.

  “$50.”

  “Hell nah! I’ll give you $30.”

  They both agreed on the price, and when we walked back to the building, I had all the questions.

  “So, you just steal stuff from dead people and sell them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you never got caught?”

  “No. That’s stupid. If I got caught, I wouldn’t go back.”

  I smiled and the proverbial light bulb went off in my head. I had found a way to solve our money problem. The next time he went to the funeral home, I was right there with him. We had found all kinds of rings, chains, and watches and were making pretty good money. Sometimes I went by myself if he couldn’t go. I had earned enough money to pay for latchkey and to buy groceries. I bought all kinds of crazy shit that a seven-year-old would buy: pies, cookies, juice, cereal—nothing of nutritional value, but we didn’t starve. By this time, we were also on government assistance and were receiving paper food stamps and WIC. Government cheese was the shit. I would stay outside walking the neighborhood until at least 9 pm. Normal seven-year-olds would have been tucked into bed already, but I was just doing me. I would walk past the local drug dealers and gang-bangers on the regular, and even they thought it was peculiar for me to be out by myself and at that time of night.

  “What’s good, D-Rock?” I tried my hardest to put a little bass in my voice to turn down my naturally high-pitched squeal. Gotta be gangsta if you’re going to approach the ganstas, you know?

  “Haha! Wassup my lil’ nigga!” he slapped my hand like I was one of the guys. “Whatcho lil’ ass out here doing?”

  “Chillin.”

  The whole gang of Bloods burst out laughing. “I feel that shit,” D-Rock chuckled. “Where yo mama at?”

  I dropped my gaze. I didn’t know where she was, but I knew what she was probably doing. What was most embarrassing is that I knew they knew, too. They were probably the ones who sold her the drugs in the first place.

  “I’ll holler at cha’ll later. I’m bouta check on my sister.” I raised my hand for some more “dap.”

  “Aight,” one of the other guys responded. “Aye, lil’ nigga, get you some chips, or some juice, or some shit.” He had reached in his pocket and gave me five dollars. It was funny because I already had about $100 in my pocket from selling jewelry, but I took the money anyway.

  “Thanks,” I nodded up.

  ***

  The whole neighborhood knew who I was because I was always walking around unattended. I was comfortable; in my eyes, it wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be—but it was. One day, I went to a little pop-up carnival beside a gas station not too far from our house—maybe six or seven blocks. I walked to the carnival and some guy asked me to go into the bathroom with him. I didn’t think much of it so I went. Once I got inside, a sinister grin spread across his face and he whipped his dick out. He started rubbing and stroking it—first gently until he was fully erect. Then he masturbated in front of me. He didn't touch me or anything like that, but it was still molestation.

  I ran home to tell my mother, but it was hard for her to believe me. I was pissed because she acted like I was making it all up. That was crazy to me because she was molested by her own father and her mother didn’t believe her. She knew exactly what it felt like to be called a liar in the face of such a confession. Finally, I convinced her to do something about it, and she took me to the police station. We filed a report and the police said that they’d be on the lookout for the guy. That’s it? Police officers were supposed to be heroes and protect everyone from bad guys. I mean, that’s why I wanted to be one. They’d done nothing and I found myself contemplating at seven years old if law enforcement was for me.

  But that wasn’t the last time a man would violate me.

  My mother started the search again for another babysitter. This time, she decided on a family friend, a girl who was probably in her mid-twenties. She would drop Tamica and me off at Jeanette’s house, and every time we were there, her boyfriend was, too. I don’t remember his name; I just know that he was Latino and that he had a son who was a little younger than me. Jeanette and Tamica must have been preoccupied or gone because he called me into the room one morning and told me to close the door.

  “Come here, Jason,” he called to me. He was fully naked, and he had an erect penis. I don’t know why I came over to him, but I did reluctantly. He told me to take my clothes off and to get on top of him. I did. He started grinding on me while we were under the blanket. This happened a few times when I would go over Jeanette’s house. Sometimes he asked me to touch his penis, but he never penetrated me or asked for oral sex. Of course, I didn't tell anybody because I didn't even know who to tell or how to tell. The first time I told my mom about the guy in the bathroom at the carnival, she didn’t believe me.

  Though what he did to me was deplorable, it started a journey of discovery about my sexuality. There are people who believe that people are born gay or that being gay is a choice; I can say that I don't ever remember having gay feelings before the molestation. It was a weird rush of feelings because, on one end, I didn’t enjoy what he was doing to me, but on the other end, I was aroused. I was in a weird space. This wasn’t the same flutters I felt when I held hands with Strawberry Shortcake Tamara, this was somethi
ng different—and confusing. I didn't know gay or straight. My mom even had a friend who was transsexual, and I didn't even know what that was. I eventually became numb to the experiences with Jeanette’s boyfriend, but I was curious about myself as a sexual being.

  ***

  By the second grade, I had turned into a completely different kid in school. I was rebellious and uncooperative. I was constantly sent to the principal’s office, and when he would ask me what was wrong, I’d just say, “Nothing.” We were taught not to tell our business. It was an exact demonstration of the old Black adage, “What goes on in this house stays in this house.” I couldn’t tell him that I was having sexual experiences with my babysitter’s boyfriend or that my mom was on crack. In so many ways, I was screaming for help, but it felt like nobody could hear me.

  My mom’s drug addiction started to get worse, and she started to get heavy into cocaine and heroin. Once she became a heroin addict, she became a prostitute. Because she was no longer paying any bills, we ended up getting evicted and moving into a motel. One time, I was coming back to the room with one of my friends, and I saw my mom in bed with one of her clients. We disrupted her time with him, so she leaped up, grabbed a belt and smacked me on the back.

  “Ow!” I squealed. “Why are you hitting me?” She grabbed me and took me in the bathroom and let me have it some more. I was screaming, snotting, and crying, but she was unmoved.

  “You’re causing too many fucking problems, you know that?” she slapped me with the belt a few more times.

  I didn't understand how coming home was a problem. We lived in a motel in one wide-open space. There was no privacy for her to be bringing clients there.

  She yelled at me, and once she calmed down, she said, “That’s it. You have to go.” I think things became too much for her to deal with. I told her about Jeanette’s boyfriend a few weeks before, and she blamed me for getting molested. At the same time, I think she was feeling guilty for not watching me. On top of that, she still wanted to be a prostitute to survive, and she was still addicted to heroin. She called Child Protective Services, and they were knocking on our door within the hour. A frail white woman came inside and spoke to my mother. She was using a lot of jargon like “custody,” and “parental rights”; I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt uneasy about the conversation. The woman then directed her attention toward me.

  “Is this Jason?” she asked my mother.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. She didn’t even look at me when she said it. She maintained an aloof disposition and I wondered why I’d felt so eerie.

  “Hi, Jason, I’m Mrs. Brogue,” she began. “How are you?”

  “Good,” I replied, skeptical. I was still broken from my mother’s ass-whooping, but I wasn’t going to tell that lady about it. I looked back at my mother and she completely withdrew from the conversation.

  “I’m a social worker; do you know what that is?”

  “No,” I answered. Mrs. Brogue was stalling, and I could tell. I didn’t know why she was here, but I knew it wasn’t good.

  “A social worker is a person who helps make sure that all children live in a safe home and that they have what they need. Sometimes that’s not easy for every parent to do, so we work to get you into a home that’s better equipped to help with that.”

  “But I already have a home,” I challenged her.

  “Yes, you do!” she smiled. “However, your mom told us that she might need a little time to make sure that you have an even better home and that she can work on being a better mom to you, too.”

  I was confused. I didn’t know what she was trying to tell me, but by then, my mom had gone to the bathroom and didn’t come back out again.

  “You’re going to come with me, and I’m going to take you to a home where—"

  “But I don’t want to go to another home,” I trembled. “I have a home!”

  “I understand that, but we want to make sure that you—”

  “Mom!” I yelled at the bathroom door. “She wants to take me!” My mother stayed inside and didn’t respond. “Mom!”

  “I’m sorry, Jason, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Mrs. Brogue attempted to calm the situation, “but I promise that we won’t hurt you and that you will be ok.”

  “MOM!” I screamed again. Her silence made me burst out into tears and I just collapsed onto the floor. “Mom, I’m sorry!” I pleaded at the door. “I don’t want to go!”

  By this time, a man had come in and stood beside Mrs. Brogue. I saw him, and I knew that he was going to help her take me. I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to get away from him. I wailed all the way to the small van, and I constantly looked back at the raggedy hotel hoping that my mother would emerge and change her mind.

  My mother sent me with the social worker and sent Tamica to live with her father; that began my animosity toward her. They took me away, and shortly after, I was immersed in the foster care system. I didn’t understand how she was able to let them take me. I no longer recognized who my mother was. Drugs had completely taken over her life, and from that moment on, our relationship was never the same.

  2 Foster Care

  My first night in foster care was at a place called Mary Graham Children's Shelter. I came from a house that felt like a home, with a mother and a sister, to a building with 50-100 kids. I can't remember how many kids were there, but there were plenty of staff coming into our rooms to check on us all the time. I was there with a roommate that I didn’t know, and the whole experience was lonely and confusing. I didn’t understand why I was there or when I was going to be able to leave. I didn't know anybody, and I was being taken care of by a bunch of strangers. It was very weird.

  On one side of the building were all guys; the girls were on the other side. There was a desk in the middle where the staff sat and monitored everyone who was in the building. We would have TV time and then recreational time; afterward, we would eat meals together. The staff would even take us to school, which was weird to me because I had always been responsible for taking myself.

  I started rebelling quickly. One night, I just felt like I didn't want to be there so I thought, Maybe if I just act out, these people will kick me out. I didn't know they had rooms where they would restrain kids who thought just like I did. The room reminded me of all the movies I watched when a person was in a room in a mental hospital—you know, white padded walls and a straitjacket. They didn’t have straitjackets at Mary Graham’s, but they had methods to prevent a kid from going in there and hurting himself. Some kids would act a fool in there, so everyone was always monitored closely.

  In my rebellion, I did mischievous things—luckily, I never ended up in that goddamn room. One of my roommates had a big jar of marbles, and one particular night, I waited until midnight, and I got out of bed. I crept over to the area where my roommate kept the marbles, and I threw the whole bucket of marbles down the hallway. Mind you, it was really quiet. Everybody was in bed sleeping except my little ass, and then all of a sudden, here came all these marbles crashing down the hallway. I acted like I was asleep, and everybody thought my roommate had thrown the bucket of marbles because they were his. He got in trouble for it, but I kept doing shit like that.

  I started getting into fights early on. I don't remember ever being violent or wanting to fight before, but I quickly realized that I would have to learn how to survive in that place. I always stayed ready to throw some hands—that came out of my decision to stand my ground with people and not let them think that they could take advantage of me. I was afraid, but I could never let that fear show.

  Not long after I entered Mary Graham’s, I was being prepped for my first foster home. Steven, one of the social workers, sat with me and told me about the Chapman family and how the process worked. I was so afraid. I was going to be living in a house with strangers; how was this going to be better for me than living with my own mother? Steven also told me that my stay with the Chapmans would be temporary—although he had no idea how long my stay w
ould be. I prepared myself for another major transition and remained hopeful that this nightmare would end and that my mother would come and rescue me.

  The Chapmans were a seemingly religious Black family. I think my foster dad was a firefighter—I wasn’t 100% sure. What I am sure about is the fact that he was abusive to the foster kids. He would whoop everybody. Our social worker would always tell us that our foster parents weren’t allowed to hit us because we were wards of the state, but Mr. Chapman didn’t give a fuck. We used to be bad, but he whooped us like he wanted the state to know about it.

  Eventually, I didn't last long with the Chapmans, and I ended up back at Mary Graham's Children's Shelter. I befriended a lot of the staff there: Ms. Tisdale, Ms.Hodge, and Ms. Thomlinson to name a few. They really liked me because I was always dancing, and I was this little cute kid who was full of personality. I was only like eight or nine, but I had a big mouth, and I would always talk shit. Entertaining the staff helped me cope with being away from my mom, and it helped me stuff down the feelings I had after being molested.

  Even though I would laugh and joke while at Mary Graham’s, my mission was clear: get back home. I managed to slip away one day while we were at an outing with some staff members. I tried to make it back to the hotel where my mother was, but someone found me before I was even a few blocks away. Damn. I was reprimanded for trying to leave, but I didn’t care. The loss of a few privileges meant nothing to me. I knew that I didn’t belong there and I was going to fight like hell to get out.

  ***

  I left Mary Graham’s again and went to another foster home. I became closer to the Easters more so than any other family during my entire time in the system. Mr. Easter was a pastor, and his wife was the first lady of the church. They had four sons and three daughters—I was really close to two of their daughters and three of their sons. They also had grandkids who were like my siblings and cousins because they were closer to my age. I went to school with them and we did all kinds of activities together, too. This was the first time I'd actually felt like I had a family—more so than my own.