Life is not Fair

Life is not fair. That is something that everyone, everywhere, is told. It is something that is repeated over, and over. What's never said, is that sometimes, and for some people, life is much more than unfair. Sometimes it's just cruel.

I was born in September 1989 into an Alaskan Native family that by all accounts should have been able to provide a good life. And in the beginning it was. What started out as a family of six, turned into a large family of ten, and then life reminded us that it is not fair.

I do not know when my parents started using drugs, though according to my medical records, a part of it started while my mother was pregnant with me, and continued after my birth. After me came three more girls and three more boys, so technically my parents had ten children, though one sister and brother were adopted out. I don't remember too much from those early days, though what I do remember involves a lot of moving between trailers and loud fights at night. And it only escalated as I got older. Muffled fighting turned into physical fights. Small gatherings turned into parties, where all of us kids were corralled into one room for the evening. At maybe four years old, I was shown a world I did not understand, nor like. I was also taught that life is not fair. That is the year that I can remember being taken by the state of Alaska, though I do know that wasn't the first time. That is the year I learned not to trust police. It is also the year I became a 'bad' kid.

I know that we had been in state custody before then, however I don't remember too much of it. I remember bits and pieces of different people who I would stay with. I can remember sneaking candy from the top of a closet with my older sister, in a home I know did not belong to anyone in our family. I can remember living with a pair of vegetarians with my oldest sister, and learning that some kids were just plain crazy when a foster sister attempted to strangle me with my mitten string. Though, mostly I remember just wanting to go home. That although these people who I stayed with were (mostly) nice, they weren't home. All these different emotions were swirling in my tiny body and I did not know how to cope with them. I took comfort in being mean to those I saw as wronging me. I got very good at finding that one small thing that you did not like about yourself. It did not matter to me what it was, it could have been your hair, or maybe your clothes, but I would jump on that small thing and make it seem exponentially worse. I was good at making people angry, and sad. And at 5 I loved it. And when I was told I wasn't being fair to these other kids, I would point out that life wasn't fair. And I was right.

At six, my parents got divorced. I remember being at the court house and then going home with my mom but not my dad. I do not remember how it was told to us that he would no longer live with us, but I remember being devastated. My mother spiraled down her chosen destructive path and brought all of her children for the ride. Life was proving to be less than unfair.

In kindergarten (I believe, though it could have been first grade), my oldest sister M.J. and I were living with an old couple. At least they seemed old to me. And at that age it seemed an odd pairing. The wife was an old white woman who, I believe, worked at Providence Hospital. Her husband was an old black man, who fascinated me. His cane was the first I ever saw with tennis balls at the bottom, and they had the only rotary phone I'd ever seen. I loved that phone, and they would let me play with it. The husband would sit in the arctic room/entry way and play tea set with me. I don't remember what their names were, or how old they were, but I remember they were patient. When I got lice from school, the woman spent what felt like weeks treating my long dark brown hair with vinegar and mayo and lice shampoo, with a steadfast refusal to cut it, which, as a native child, seemed very important to keep long. When I threw fits I remember quiet speaking, an attempt to calm me down, and not so much yelling. Even when my sister ran away, and the police had to be called, there was only calmly asked questions of me. And when I kicked a cop for calling me a liar, instead of sending me away, I received a much deserved time out. At the end I was sent back to my mother.

I do not know how many foster homes I was in and out of by the time I was eight. I do know it was a lot and that a lot of them did not like my brothers and sisters and I. We were demon children, wild, without manners or grace. We would scream and throw fits. We would start fights with our foster family's children, and once or twice refused to eat. We would destroy property and toys. We were almost always given back to the state for new placement. We were unwanted and life was not fair.

The winter after I turned eight was memorable, to say the least. I remember waking up on a school day with my younger sister Bessie. All of our siblings were sleeping and I remember vaguely knowing my mom was not home and we were supposed to be in school. I also remember someone knocking on the door. We answered it and then slammed to door shut. On the other side of the door were police and a social worker with the Division of Family and Youth Services. What preceded that was an hour of the most intense session of Hide and Seek ever. It ended with my older sister Richelle running bare footed down the snow covered road in an attempt to not be taken away again.

We were all placed in what are known as emergency homes. They did not last long. By this time my siblings and I had gathered a reputation of being children you did not want. In the end we were placed in a play room with a two way mirror (that we weren't supposed to know was there, but did). My sisters Richelle, Bessie, and I were eventually placed together in a home. We didn't know it at the time, but for once life was being kind. The woman, who would bring us home with her, would also be the one who tamed us. Her name is Delores, but at the time I called her Miss Dee. And she was a god send. In the year or so that she had custody of us; she showed us a kindness most never did. She was patient and stern when it was needed. She was able to get us to open up and feel safe. We started to wear shoes, and use manners. We learned that some adults can be trusted. It was a year of pure happiness for three little girls who had known so little of it. But, all good things eventually come to an end.

Before I could turn nine, we were sent to live with relatives in the village our mother grew up in. Richelle, Bessie and I once again, lived together. This is when life went from unfair, to cruel. This would be the start of hell for me and my siblings. The first thing that happened was our clothes that Delores sent us with, were given away to my aunts other nieces. Our toys were divvied up between them as well. All of our long hair would be cut to just below our ear lobes, because our aunt's nieces were jealous. These were girls who always got what they wanted; even when what they wanted, belonged to someone else. My sister Richelle, who had become a protector to me and my younger sister, would be sent away within the first year. That is when the hits became harder. Food was withheld as punishment. And by the second year, I too, would be sent away.

At almost 11 I was sent to live with an uncle's ex-wife in Dillingham. It was there that I learned to hate myself. I was made to believe that there was something wrong about me. I was enrolled into a private Christian school, and made to attend all church functions, for all the churches in town. I went to Saturday and Sunday school, as well as attending the Russian Orthodox Church. I was beaten, starved, sleep deprived, and made a servant in this house that was supposed to be home. I lived for just over a year in Dillingham, and at just eleven years old, was suicidal. My life was unfair, cruel and not worth it anymore. I contemplated many times killing myself but didn't know how. And then, life became a little less cruel. My sister Richelle wanted her little sister to come for a visit in Anchorage.

I remember when I was getting packed for this month long visit being told that my sister and her family didn't really want me there. And that if anyone saw my bruises I was to lie. And I was good at coming up with lies by then. I was very much afraid of this woman, and honestly believed that she could kill me and get away with it. So I came to Anchorage with a list of lies for my bruises.

I remember crying as the plane landed in Anchorage, because in my mind I had finally come home. My sister, unknown to me, had been given back to Delores. When Delores came to pick me up at the airport, I remember she was smiling, but she also had a small frown, which most wouldn't have noticed, but I did. We spent that first few days getting to know each other, and my sister and I got caught up. We even went camping. It was fun, and for the first time is a long time, I was happy. And then came laundry day.

We ended up piling the clothes into Miss Dee's oldest daughter's truck and going to the laundromat. And fear started growing in my stomach. When we got there, a clean pair of my sister's shorts and a tank top was tossed at me and I was told to change. It was too hot to wear jeans and a long sleeved shirt. I went into the bathroom and changed, and didn't go back out. I did not anticipate Richelle coming in. Nor did I remember the bathroom mirror, which showed the bruising that extended from my arms and back down to almost my calves. Nor was I prepared for my sister to know when I was lying.

When we got back home, the first thing I remember happening was Delores being on the phone with the state, with the Anchorage Police, with my social worker. All of them refused to do anything. Then multiple phone calls in a language I would eventually learn was Kickapoo Indian. Pictures were taken and just before I was scheduled to return to Dillingham, I was told that I was going to stay with Delores. I can't remember if I cried or not, though I was in shock. This woman, who went from Delores, to Miss Dee, to Gram Dee, and finally Gram had saved me.

Life was still at times unfair, but it was no longer cruel.