Part I.

 How I'd like to begin this work of nonfiction, is give you an insight to my life.

I was born and raised in Eureka, California. A smaller city in NoCal, pretty high drug-use, including illegal marijuana growth, as well as high crime-rates. My whole life there, I couldn't really be a kid. My childhood was filled with the idea that I had to take care of myself, and become an adult as quickly as possible. My mother and father were never in a relationship, to put it simply, and since he did not want to pay child-support after he left, he ended up filing for custody. He succeeded, but only by partial. How it went then, was my mother would get me for a week, and my father the next.

 I can't remember much from that far back, obviously, but a majority of my second-year I do remember. He was eventually arrested, along with his wife, for drug manufacturing, and distribution, and for illegal-firearms possession.. I suppose given his background, and where he grew up, the idea was that if you're a young Black guy you have three paths you can go down: Deal, do, or die. Most people wouldn't want to die, and neither did my father. 

I guess he thought it would be a decent form of income, with no downsides. Or perhaps he did know that he would eventually get shot, and then later arrested. I was far too young to remember when he was shot, and whenever I inquired about it later in life, he told me the same thing: "I was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time." This was true in some aspects: he shouldn't have been there, stealing marijuana from someone, and he shouldn't have stolen it from the people he was stealing it with at that time. 

This ultimately resulted in him being shot with a .22 caliber pistol through his right hand, and into his mid-abdominal section. Given the fact that it was only a small-caliber gun, and that he is a giant of a man, he was fine. He now has a zipper-tattoo where the incision scar is located. I do partially-remember, however, when he was arrested. To shorten it, and make it as simple as possible, the police raided his house while he had custody, arrested him and his wife, and eventually I was released to the care of my paternal-grandmother, and then to my mother.

That is about all I can recall, in all honesty, but I do remember how I felt a while later. Wondering if that was how I'd end up. I can remember more that occurred afterwards, including asking him why he was in jail. He'd always respond with his same vague white-lie: "wrong place, wrong time." I asked him if he threw baby-powder in a T-Rex's eyes. I was around three years old. He responded with, "No, buddy. I wish it was that funny, but it's not." 

I didn't really understand what he meant until now. People think that all of these illegal activities, all of this “gang-affiliation,” drug-use, and all of the rest of the stupid pastimes that our generation seems to enjoy partaking in are “funny.” That they won't have a long-lasting effect on their lives. That there are absolutely no consequences to their actions.

Obviously, they are wrong. For example, my uncle Isaac used to rob banks, to pay for my auntie's education, and to support his kids. He got away with it for quite a while. He had been arrested before for things similar to what my father was arrested for, including things he did with my father. He didn't think he'd be caught; it was all just fun and games. In 2020, his last job wasn't so successful. The police had been in pursuit for a while, a typical high-speed chase that most of us see in the movies. 

What people don't see in the movies is when the scared-out-of-his-damn-mind young Black guy with three kids decides that he either gets arrested, probably for life, and is unable to support his family, or he goes out with a bang. He was shot and killed by the police. Just another statistic. What the people also don't see in the movies, is when the woman with his children is alone, and unable to take care of herself, let alone her three kids. That is the not-so-funny reality of life: actions have consequences. Some are just more serious than others.

 To sum up the next few years, my father, after being released from prison, ended up getting weekends and Monday-mornings. My mother would get the other four-and-a-half days of the week. He was later arrested and found guilty for what I'll call the sexual-exploitation of a minor. It allegedly was his wife's daughter. What no one really cared about, was the fact that that same daughter had been doing the same things he had to myself, and my half-brother. He had been given a plea-deal of eighteen years.   I don't know the rest of the circumstances around the deal, but he chose not to take it. He was then sentenced to one-hundred-eighty-eight years in a sex-offender's prison in San Diego, California. 

The last thing I heard from him was, "I'm going back home." I know exactly where he is, Richard J. Donovan Correctional Facility. I had to do extensive google-searches to find him, and decided not to contact him. I haven't spoken to my father in around six years, or so.

After my mother and I had moved to Portland, Oregon, and stayed there for a few years, we decided to move up to Vancouver, Washington. I lived with her there for about two years, and unfortunately due to some conflicts between her and myself, and each other's mental health, I was removed from her custody and placed into the foster-system. I have been in the state's care since June 19th, 2021. 

My time in the system has not been all-so pleasant. I've been to a few group-homes, and am currently residing in one. Thankfully, this current placement is pleasant enough. The rest were not. The other few that I had been to were filled with children with behavioral-issues, and faculty who really could just care less. I've been sent all across the state of Washington. From Vancouver, to Spokane. Olympia, Tumwater, Lacey, Elma, Burlington, Kelso and Centralia. I have lived in hotels provided by the state for over a year in total-time. The lack of stability, and congruence in my life has always been something I have been accustomed to. It was not benefited by how the state decided to plan my care.

I will admit I have had some issues, but who wouldn't, constantly being passed between people like an ugly family-heirloom nobody wants to keep? Always someone else's problem. While I was in Spokane, I had been trying to do my best to remain cool. The placement was a mess, the staff were dishonest, and sleazy. The school I went to was hick. People liked to get into fights for no reason. Drugs, weapons, "gangs," the whole shebang. For whatever reason, I still do not know, people had a vendetta against myself towards the end of my enrollment there. 

Allegedly, it was because of a girl I didn't even know. A group of guys would follow me around pretty much everywhere, the halls, the library in which I ate lunch and studied with my friends, and even the bathroom. They'd threaten me, and I'd try to de-escalate. I obviously did something right, since I never actually got into a fight.

Eventually, I got tired of everything, and ended up bringing a folding-blade for protection to school. Some students knew about it, but I never talked about it, or brought it out. On February 15th, 2023, I got into a stupid, meaningless quarrel with some students. They had been threatening me, bullying me, making racist comments, even though I'm pretty light-skinned, and just pressing, pressing, pressing my buttons. 

Eventually, after they said they were going to "kick my a**," I had told them prosaically that if they hurt me, I'd have no choice but to stab them. I had been threatened all year, and honestly I just couldn't take that many people. I had no other option of self-defense. The school was doing nothing. I told them about everything that was happening, of course, but I was the one who took the fall.

February 16th, 2023. I woke up, and found out that I had been expelled. I knew that they had said something, and it really hurt my soul. They had been my friends, at one point. An hour later, the police were at my door. None of my experiences with the police have been necessarily pleasant. My whole life I had been given conflicting views on what to do in the event that you have to interact one-on-one with the cops: answer their questions, and be respectful. Or shoot. 

I chose the first. They arrested me for the following crimes: Threats to bomb, or injure property. Felony harassment, two counts. Malicious mischief III, and dangerous weapons violation, two counts. Ironically, the only charges I was actually guilty of were the charges for the knives I had, and the malicious mischief for punching my wall. There was very little evidence either way that I had been guilty of the felonies.

I had a past history of some not-so-funny jokes about some of the unfortunate school-shootings, which did not necessarily help my case. What they said had occurred, is that I was bullying them, threatening to kill them, and to "shoot up the school." I didn't have a gun, the last thing I want to do is hurt someone. And as for the "bullying," I was just retaliating for what they were saying about me. Unfortunately, the court-system doesn't care much about what the defendant has to say. 

It went from two people saying I threatened them, to four. Four testimonies. Ironically, the only count I was actually convicted for was for the only one I didn't say I'd stab. She hadn't threatened me. The prosecutor's excuse was, "she looked scared in the interviews." I had taken a plea deal, after being in detention for forty-six days. Plead guilty to the threats to bomb or injure property felony, and one of the harassment felony charges would be dropped completely, and the other reduced to a misdemeanor. I'd also have to plead to the weapons violations. 

I had no problem with the last two. My personal set of morals includes not admitting to things I didn't do, and admitting to things I actually did. Pleading to the charges I didn't do broke a piece off of my soul, but I wanted to move on with life. If I had went to trial, I would've had a decent chance of winning, given the lack of evidence. But I didn't want to risk the four testimonies, and possibly having to remain in detention longer during trial.

That month-and-a-half wasn't all too bad. I did well, and was on the "Honor Level" for almost the entire time I was inside. It was slightly spirit-breaking, not being able to talk to, or see anyone I loved, and cared about. I could've called my mother, but I didn't want her to have to pay a collect call. Not like my father. In fact, I didn't make a single phone-call my entire time there. 

Thankfully, however, my mother was able to call through their personal line in the library, which was toll-free, once. Each time they'd intercom my cell, and ask, or whenever they asked when I was on rec, I'd have to fight the urge to swallow my pride, and answer, "I'm fine, no thank you." I guess I'm too conceited to have my own mama pay a couple bucks, or whatever it was, for a phone-call. When I was released, I was sent to another group-home. They weren't so bad, but I was only there for about two days.

After coming back from exercising at the YMCA, I made it about ten paces from the door when the police showed up. It was two of the officers who had arrested me. 

My heart leapt into my chest, and I could feel the nauseous feeling of impending-danger in my stomach. The director, James, asked me to go inside. I knew the rules, had known them since I was a kid. 

You run from the cops, they either shoot, or assume you're guilty. I decided to decline, and talk to them. They explained to me that I was not under arrest, nor was I in trouble. They had allegedly "forgotten" to do some paperwork, and an evaluation, and I'd have to go to the hospital. "It would only take a day, or two," one said. I'd had this happen before in Vancouver. 

I had punched holes in the walls, due to anger stemming from an extremely unhealthy romantic-relationship. They had sent me to the hospital, where I had been medically and psychologically cleared within the first twenty-four-hours. I was there for twenty-eight days. My social-worker “did not want to pick me up,” was the excuse. Twenty-eight days in the E.R. is not pleasant. A little hospital-gurney in a large room sectioned off by curtains, "for patient privacy." The smells, and sounds were awful. I did not want to do this again. But I agreed, since I had no other choice. The fallacy of freedom, I suppose.

It went the same as last time, except I had more support. I was cleared medically and psychologically within a day or so of being there, and the entire time of my stay, I had the option to leave. In fact, they were asking me to. "We have connections with a homeless shelter for youth, and we could get you a bed," one of the psych professionals had asked. 

I had declined, given my probation stipulations, and the fact that I wanted people to know that it is not just to do these things to a child. I waited patiently for twenty-seven days, a day shorter than my last stay, to be picked up. My social-worker utilized the same excuse: "We can't pick him up, there's nowhere for him to go here in Vancouver."

 The judge, for the dependency-courts, had the same opinions as last time. An emergency-room is not a place for a child to live. Pretty obvious, one would think, but you'd be surprised. I was picked up on day twenty-seven, and had found out that the placement I was at when I was arrested had "lost" many of my valuable, and important possessions. Expensive shoes, cologne, jewelry, clothes, and even my mother's keyboard. I had played that piano for my entire life. It was literally my most coveted belonging. 

She gave it back to me when I was in my first group-home, and I had made sure it went everywhere I did. Her mother, with whom she was not particularly close as a young-woman, had given it to her when she was about twelve. The amount of sentimental-connections the whole family had to that keyboard were insurmountable.

My mother pressed, and pressed the manager of the house, asking where the keyboard was. She wasn't going to let some group-home take something that important. They used the same excuse. "We can't find it." I know it is virtually impossible to lose a four-foot-wide, approximately 35-45-pound keyboard, and also know that they kept it. There was another youth there, who had liked to mess around with the "house's" keyboard, which had actually been a past youth's from years before. 

When I asked them why they didn't return it, they said, "Oh, we're trying to contact his social-worker about it." He always asked to play mine, and given the fact that it is priceless to me, I declined. He also wanted my shoes, which were the pair that were lost, complaining that I had enough shoes, and why couldn't he have a pair? I don't know for sure, but I assume he took my belongings. I don't know why the staff let it slide, but it still hurts my heart to this day. 

The judge for the dependency-courts ended up ordering DCYF (Department of Children, Youth, and Family Services) to replace the shoes, and the keyboard. I searched online, trying to find the same one, and luckily found it. It feels, sounds, and looks the same, but I know it's not mine. I try to forget about it, and have since moved on.

After that, I was bounced around from hotels, an emergency-placement, DCYF offices, and finally sent to the placement in which I currently reside. So far, it has been mostly-pleasant. I am hoping to obtain a part-time job soon. I've already filled out applications to a couple of places. 

I know I won't forget the things that have happened during the past fifteen years of my life, at least the thirteen that I can remember. But I do know that they made me who I am today, and for that I am grateful. As they say, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Well, unless it kills you, I suppose.