I wake up every morning with the feeling that things will get better. No matter what my day is like, things can’t get any worse. I’ve always had the same outlook on life, optimistic and cheerful, even though my situation is quite unfortunate. Does that stop me? No. Not at all. I’ve never been one to dwell on uncontrollable destinies. I believe things happen for a reason and…..maybe this is happening to me now to make way for the greatness that has yet to come. What that greatness is?
Who knows.
Ooh! What if it’s a white horse with a long, beautiful mane of snow white? No? How about a queen from some unknown Polynesian island who wants to summon me as a rightful heir to her island’s throne? Hey, it could happen. Regardless, something exciting is going to happen for me. I can feel it. There’s hope for me yet. Hope for the girl without a home.
I’m homeless.
It’s only been, uhhhh, two years, probably. I don’t really keep track since it all feels like twenty years, anyway. How did I, a now newly twenty-one year old young woman, become homeless? It’s not as unbelievable as many think, but here goes.
From ages fifteen to eighteen, I was in foster care. My mother had passed away, car accident, and my dad was overseas on active duty so he wasn’t able to take care of me. At this time, the military’s grip on my dad tightened, he was stuck at a crossroad. But, my dad did his best to place me with a good family while he was gone, and for the most part, he succeeded. Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez were amongst the very few people that took in children because they genuinely loved and wanted to help them. They had three children of their own, Marvin 21, Mariana 20, and Milagros 18, who had just left for college at the time of my arrival. I loved them all and I can honestly say they treated me like their baby sister.
I lived two good years in that house, well, two and half. Tio and Tia Sanchez, good people….great people. But in the progress of completing my third year, things changed. Angelo Trujillo. He was Puerto Rican kid from Jersey who got shipped to the Sanchez home. Angelo was on the verge of 17, hell of a juvenile rap sheet, and a death stare that terrified our younger foster brother and sister. I personally never had time for death stares. Angelo was no strapping gentleman, but he had the face of a pretty boy. Needless to say, the kid was hot. Besides living together and going to school, Angelo and I were never together. We rarely spoke to each other, but it was obvious that he took a…..liking to me.
One night, the Sanchez’s and our siblings Jayden and Zena went out. Angelo and I didn’t choose to go, his reason I didn’t know, but mine was simple, I wanted to be alone. For hours, he was in his room, I was in mine. Since nature called, I got up and went out into the hallway, where the bathroom we had to share was. As I was about to step back into the hallway, Angelo was standing there, towering above me.
“Move,” I said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Angelo, if this is flirting……”
“I don’t need to flirt.”
He took his index finger and began a trail from my chin, down my neck, and to my shoulder, moving my bra strap. At first, I was calm….uncertain, really. He leaned down to kiss me and grabbed my breast. I smacked his hand away, moving backward. He charged me. Little did Angelo know, my dad taught me self defense and my mom matured it with classes. I protected my safety and ran to my room, barricading myself in. I cried as I wrote a letter to my foster parents and my dad. I left it at:
I can’t be here longer. Don’t come looking for me, I’ll be in touch. I love you all.
I packed all that I could and fled, never looking back. I didn’t report Angelo because I don’t think he meant harm, he just came on too strong. I guess in the environment he grew up in, women liked the aggressiveness. I, on the other hand, couldn’t take any chances because I didn’t know what he was going to do. It only took ONE time. I know everyone’s been worried and I’m sure they all think I’m dead, but I can’t go back to what could still be waiting for me. My looks changed over two years, so I know that possibility is what they’ve settled for. I know it seems that it would be easy just to go back, but it’s not. I’d have to explain why I left, and it would turn into this HUGE thing, that I just didn’t want to be apart of. I’ll make it out of the streets on my own, and when I have my own place secured, I’ll go back. I’ve done well to survive for two years. I’ve kept clean and found ways to keep food. I’ve snuck into new, unoccupied homes and took showers and kept shelter. It’s wrong, but I did what I had to.
