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Most recently published stories in Families.
My Name is Hope
I never really thought about how life could be so horrible…things were never so good for my family and I. We had to do bad things like sell drugs and rob stores just to obtain money. We stole from people who needed the money too, because where I come from the only rich folks that were around were white people. We stole from people just like us…who planned on saving that money for their kids to have a better life than their parents whom had no education. I never really knew what it felt like to be fortunate, never in my life. I’m 15-years-old and I don’t really have a name, because I don’t really know who I am or if what my poor parents named me fits who I am. They named me Hope, not because they liked how it sounded slipping off their tongues, but because they hoped that I was going to be their little hope, their sunshine in the darkness, but unfortunately, I’m not; and I’m so sorry to my mom and dad for that. Growing up, I was never happy, but my mom would always try her best to make sure I was. She tried and tried without success, so she eventually gave up, but that’s okay she gave up. Moms do get tired sometimes and it’s not her fault that her little hope is a train wreck of a human being. I’ve been in and out of court so many times and dropped back to my little tent of a house after getting arrested for stealing liquor to resell at a higher price, just so I can get some food on the table for my family, not that nasty kind of food either. The times they put me on probation the P.O. (Parole Officer) always insisted that I take a drug and alcohol test, which was completely useless because I’m not interested in doing drugs at all. I’ve never tried any kind. Growing up like me, it’s a gift not having the urge to do drugs and drink poison, but that doesn’t mean I won’t sell them to make that extra cash. I started selling dope when I was 14 and not the weed kind. The white, rocky, sometimes powdery substance — yes just a year ago, boohoo. I started selling coke for this really scary rich white man, only because he told me he’d get me deported along with my family, if I didn’t. This white man was very intimidating, but he was nice enough to give me 50% of the profit from the coke, because he knew I lived on the streets. I think the worst part about selling drugs and alcohol was being on a corner selling them. A corner across the street from my mom. I watched her get picked up by strange men at a certain time of the night, but these strange men would always bring her back to the same spot and sometimes she would be badly bruised and hurt. My mom…she’s tough. Despite being in so much pain, she’d laugh it off and wave her cash at me from across the street. While I was selling drugs and alcohol, she was selling something much more expensive, divine, real, and too precious…her body. I didn’t agree with it at all, but I couldn’t say anything or else my dad’s drunk self would get very mad at me and try to kill me like all the other times. My Pops loved me at one point, but right when things started getting harder, he faded away faster. Drowning himself in liquor and letting his lungs be invaded with methamphetamine a.k.a. crystal meth. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep for days on and he would start talking to someone that wasn’t there; he called him death. Though it was scary to watch this, I got used to it and stopped caring. I’d even give him liquor. I stole to shut him up sometimes. The thing about me is…as I grew up I started feeling this numbness that eventually grew. I can’t feel pain, no regret, and no sadness or grief. I’d still tell my mom and dad I loved them every day, though only because I was hoping they’d say it back sometimes, just to see if it could make me feel anything at all, that maybe they could fix how broken I am with a simple ‘I love you too,’ but no. Not once did I ever hear it again, because I took their love for granted. How could a prostitute who probably has no idea who my real father is ever love me anyways? How can a junkie, who'd rather talk to his beloved death rather than his whatever the fuck I am to him, ever love me anyways? When I realized everything I’ve ever done for my parents was completely useless to me, I started not going home. I started completely hating myself for everything. I’m a genius, I know I am, but I messed up my future by trying too hard for my parents, trying too hard to get them out of their unsuccessfulness, that I became unsuccessful myself. Who I am is definitely not hope. Don’t do things for people who don’t care about you, it’s only going to get you nowhere.
By Raven Woods7 years ago in Families
30 Things I Know Right Now
That title is a little deceiving, because if I'm going to be honest with myself (and all of you), I know little to nothing about raising children. I've been doing it for only 2+ years. They're eight and three and I'm their guardian. While sometimes I blame this lack of "perfection" on not having a natural motherly instinct from being prego, and getting swollen feet, irrational cravings and feeling kicks and tumbles from that alien inside me... after being around the sun twice with these little gremlins (I mean angels), there are a few things I feel as though I have come to perfect.
By Lindsie Polhemus7 years ago in Families
Supermom
Since having my fourth child, I have had some very interesting reactions. In the honeymoon stage of friendship with a fellow mom, you start to exchange information about your kids. Sometimes it's an outright "how many children do you have?" and other times you can literally watch them try and calculate in their heads as you give little tidbits of info. I have boys and girls–well, my older two are girls and then there are the boys, etc. So far, I have met a fellow mom of four only once. She was pleasantly surprised to have found a fellow "unicorn" mom. But I have to say that, overwhelmingly, the response is "WOW", "You have your hands FULL", "You must be SUPERMOM!".
By Kristy Cuevas7 years ago in Families
Top 5 Ways to Raise Thinkers
One of the most important things to me as a parent is raising critical thinkers. I want them to say the layers beneath and the reasons why things are the way they are. It isn't just a rainbow to us, it is sunlight refracting from the moisture in the air.
By Amy Jourdan7 years ago in Families
Lincoln, I Love You
My life has always been a mess. At age five I almost drowned, at age six I was raped for a year, age eleven I was attacked by a grown man, and age seventeen I was robbed at gunpoint. Basically my entire life had been a constant barrage of shit thrown onto my plate, which made me hate myself. The only thing that ever made me feel like I wasn’t worthless, the only thing that made me proud, was my family. I had found the most amazing wife and we had the most beautiful and intelligent children; I was ecstatic. Until I got that phone call, which changed my entire life.
By Garrett Lukenbill7 years ago in Families
Co-Parenting
As a child I always dreamed of meeting prince charming! Whether he rode in on a white horse wearing a suit of armor, or sailed up to the beach in a beautiful ship, or if one day he came to my rescue in a swift and courageous manner! Let’s be realistic ladies (and gentleman) who doesn't want a fairy tale ending! Most kids hear the same basic order in which people believe life should go after you graduate high school, you go to college, get a degree, get a job, meet "prince charming," get married, then last but not least, you have kids. Now I don't speak for all women, but as for me, my life didn't go that way! I'm not here to talk about school or weddings or dream relationships, we’re going to touch on a much heavier topic for about 70% of mothers, children, & fathers in America today. That's right folks, co-parenting.
By Krysten Michele7 years ago in Families