MY younger brother James and I were only in our first foster home three weeks. It didn’t last long. I tried running away early in. Even with the Nintendo 64, I didn’t feel I belonged. I didn’t feel wanted.
I can’t even remember the room I slept in.
This is going to sound racist. But I won’t shy from the feelings or this blog is useless.
I felt James and I were treated worse because of reverse racism. We were white. The foster family were black. Their children were black. Their children’s friends were black. And hey, actually, the friends were welcoming, mostly because my foster brother Ryan was cool. His friend lent me a Morris Gleitzman book.
But I hated it so much I ran away. About a kilometre down the road Ryan chased me. “You gotta come back,” he pleaded. “Come on man,” and he persuaded me. That was the moment I truly felt like Ryan’s brother.
They were worse to my little bro James, The kids ganged up on him. They stole his prized Action Men. They threw them on the two story roof. While I frequented the roof it was on a section I couldn’t even get to.