take me before he ever saw me, and I think there were
two reasons. One was that I looked half Latino, and the other was that I was
the boy at the center of the scandal in which the boys home director was
arrested. My name was kept out of the news, but all Paulson's people had to do
was leak word to the Latino community that he was fostering the half Latino kid,
who was abused at the boys home.
Besides the
political advantage, I think Senator and Mrs. Paulson were pleased to choose me
because I was white enough to be more suitable to their tastes. They spoke to
me for less than five minutes before they took a break to allow their aids to set
up a scene of them choosing me to be their foster son. The last scene the
cameraman shot was of me standing between the smiling Paulsons. They had to
shoot it over again because they forgot to tell me that I should look happy.
The Paulsons'
enthusiasm for me cooled after the election, but they still did nothing to
mistreat me. Overall, they were decent foster parents. I didn't see Senator Paulson
very much but neither did his own sons. Mrs. Paulson was also very busy with
her volunteer charity work. They had a live-in housekeeper that provided most
of the care for Michael, Trevor, and me.
Michael was eleven
years old, and Trevor was only five. Trevor would often bug me to play with him
when his big brother ignored him, and I did because Trevor was a good kid. Michael
had his good days and bad days, and I could never guess how he would act. When
he was in one of his nasty moods, he often picked on Trevor, but he had the
good sense not to start a fight with me. Overall, I would say that Michael and
I got along most of the time.
I was satisfied to
live with the Paulsons, and I had no reason to want to leave. With a stable
home life, in which no one abused me or antagonized me, I was doing better with
my studies, and I didn't cause any trouble at home or at school during the time
that I lived with them. I knew the reason that they took me into their home, but
it didn't change the fact that they were nice enough and fulfilled most of my
needs. In that environment, I began to heal and gradually experience less and
less of the anger that had been driving my aggressive behavior.
I decided that I
didn't want to move again, and I began to try harder not to give them any
reason to send me away. I even did extra chores in hopes that I would solidify
my chances of remaining there until I was out of foster care. After six months,
I was confident that the Paulsons would be my last foster family.
In a sense, I
was right. The Paulsons were my last traditional foster family.
CHAPTER
FOUR
April
1998
The first time I
ever rode in a police car with the blue bubbles on top, I was eleven years old.
It was a warm and humid Saturday morning in April, the kind of day in the South
that could feel like the middle of summer to visitors from a cooler, dryer
region of the country. My tee shirt and shorts were still damp and dirty from
playing football with Michael before we climbed up to the Paulsons' tree house.
The officer, who
shoved me into the backseat of the cruiser, frowned as he wiped his hand on the
leg of his trousers. I noticed a wedding band on that hand when he sat on the
back seat, as far away from me as he could, and again brushed his hand across
his thigh. There was another officer in the front behind the wheel, and both of
them looked fat in their dark blue uniforms with shiny badges and black leather
belts with holsters holding real guns. The officers said very little, and they
didn't smile.
After we backed
out of the driveway, we rode slowly by the Paulsons' neighbors who had come running
out of their homes when they heard the ambulance's siren. The grownups, all
snobbish people with expensive houses, stood on the sidewalks among the
blooming dogwoods and protectively held their kids against them. They stared at
us from both sides of the street as if the police car were part of a
two reasons. One was that I looked half Latino, and the other was that I was
the boy at the center of the scandal in which the boys home director was
arrested. My name was kept out of the news, but all Paulson's people had to do
was leak word to the Latino community that he was fostering the half Latino kid,
who was abused at the boys home.
Besides the
political advantage, I think Senator and Mrs. Paulson were pleased to choose me
because I was white enough to be more suitable to their tastes. They spoke to
me for less than five minutes before they took a break to allow their aids to set
up a scene of them choosing me to be their foster son. The last scene the
cameraman shot was of me standing between the smiling Paulsons. They had to
shoot it over again because they forgot to tell me that I should look happy.
The Paulsons'
enthusiasm for me cooled after the election, but they still did nothing to
mistreat me. Overall, they were decent foster parents. I didn't see Senator Paulson
very much but neither did his own sons. Mrs. Paulson was also very busy with
her volunteer charity work. They had a live-in housekeeper that provided most
of the care for Michael, Trevor, and me.
Michael was eleven
years old, and Trevor was only five. Trevor would often bug me to play with him
when his big brother ignored him, and I did because Trevor was a good kid. Michael
had his good days and bad days, and I could never guess how he would act. When
he was in one of his nasty moods, he often picked on Trevor, but he had the
good sense not to start a fight with me. Overall, I would say that Michael and
I got along most of the time.
I was satisfied to
live with the Paulsons, and I had no reason to want to leave. With a stable
home life, in which no one abused me or antagonized me, I was doing better with
my studies, and I didn't cause any trouble at home or at school during the time
that I lived with them. I knew the reason that they took me into their home, but
it didn't change the fact that they were nice enough and fulfilled most of my
needs. In that environment, I began to heal and gradually experience less and
less of the anger that had been driving my aggressive behavior.
I decided that I
didn't want to move again, and I began to try harder not to give them any
reason to send me away. I even did extra chores in hopes that I would solidify
my chances of remaining there until I was out of foster care. After six months,
I was confident that the Paulsons would be my last foster family.
In a sense, I
was right. The Paulsons were my last traditional foster family.
CHAPTER
FOUR
April
1998
The first time I
ever rode in a police car with the blue bubbles on top, I was eleven years old.
It was a warm and humid Saturday morning in April, the kind of day in the South
that could feel like the middle of summer to visitors from a cooler, dryer
region of the country. My tee shirt and shorts were still damp and dirty from
playing football with Michael before we climbed up to the Paulsons' tree house.
The officer, who
shoved me into the backseat of the cruiser, frowned as he wiped his hand on the
leg of his trousers. I noticed a wedding band on that hand when he sat on the
back seat, as far away from me as he could, and again brushed his hand across
his thigh. There was another officer in the front behind the wheel, and both of
them looked fat in their dark blue uniforms with shiny badges and black leather
belts with holsters holding real guns. The officers said very little, and they
didn't smile.
After we backed
out of the driveway, we rode slowly by the Paulsons' neighbors who had come running
out of their homes when they heard the ambulance's siren. The grownups, all
snobbish people with expensive houses, stood on the sidewalks among the
blooming dogwoods and protectively held their kids against them. They stared at
us from both sides of the street as if the police car were part of a
Similar Books
