Only By Grace: The Story of a Foster Child

By Earl E. Smith II II

On any given day, there are over 500,000 children in the United States' foster care system. This story is written by one of those former foster children. It is not an autobiography, but the details are based on true events. It is truly "Only by Grace" these children survive an underfunded, overworked foster care system designed to help, but most often fails.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Earl E. Smith II II
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311009883

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Only by Grace

The Story of a Foster Child

Published by Earl E. Smith II at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Earl E. Smith II

Edited by Edwina Mosby

Book Design: Kevin Holmes

Smashwords License Agreement

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter One Survival

Chapter Two The Early Years

Chapter Three Detroit

Chapter Four Children Aid Society

Chapter Five School Days

Chapter Six Retribution

Chapter Seven Only By Grace

Chapter Eight Learning the Stroll (Mack Avenue)

Chapter Nine Ding

Chapter Ten Peaches

Chapter Eleven Church

Chapter Twelve Barber Shop Philosophy (Bull-Shit)

Chapter Thirteen The Corner Pocket

Chapter Fourteen Visitation

Chapter Fifteen Lessons from Vietnam

Chapter Sixteen Know Thy Enemy

Chapter Seventeen Fate

Chapter Eighteen Only God Knows

About the Author

About the Editor

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my foster mother, Mrs. Katie Mae Ware.

Who knows where I would be had it not been for you?

It was Only by Grace I ended up in your loving home.

There’s no way I can pay you back, but my plan is to show you that I understand..

Dear Mama

Tupac Shakur

SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

God Almighty!

Mrs. Peggy Tidmore-White (Gods’ Ears)

Mental Health Therapist

VA Mental Health Hospital

North Little Rock, AR

There were a many of mornings that I thought about eating a bullet for breakfast, but your compassionate words, deep wisdom, and gentle kicks always took my finger off the trigger. This allowed me to make it through another day. Thank you for all the sessions. You are truly appreciated!

Tyler Perry - Thank you for letting me know that I was not alone under the porch!

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My Foster father, Mr. Cooper- I’ve never hated a person as much as I hated you, but as I got older I began to understand. It’s hard to love another person, when you don’t love yourself. I Forgive You!

My foster mother Mrs. Cooper - You were the only light in all the darkness. Thank you for being a God fearing woman.

My foster father, Mr. John Collier Ware, a real man and father, my foster mother, Mrs. Katie Mae Ware, thank you for loving me like I was your own. My foster sister, Debra Ann Ware-Akbar. Thank you for wanting a little brother. I’ll always treasure our childhood. Fifty years later, I’m still your little brother, and you’re my big sister.

To my foster parents Mr. and Mrs. Thornell Foutner, thank you for opening your home when I had nowhere else to go.

To my teachers, childhood friends, and their families, thank you for sheltering, feeding, clothing, protecting, loving and most of all praying for me.

To my biological brothers and sisters: Velma, Theo, Tom, Kathryn and to my little brother Byron Vernon Smith (1962-2012) may you (R.I.P). Our lives may have been shattered but not broken.

I love you.

To all my foster brothers and sisters still in the storm, may God bless and keep you. Always keep the faith—It’s Only by Grace that you’re going to make it through.

Finally, to my first and BEST childhood friend, Vearle Smith. Not a week goes by I don’t think about you. I often wonder if you would still be alive today if I had only come home a week earlier. You were the only one who truly knew what I was going through. From shooting marbles to pretty girls, we shared our hearts. Man, I miss you. From the Ghetto to Congress, Brother’s Love, Black Bottom Til My Casket Drop. You taught me all I ever needed was a nickel and a nail, and I could build a playhouse and make a million dollars. You were always, always, Too Strong to be Wrong! I love and miss you! Bullet Love!"

Your Brother in the Struggle —

INTRODUCTION

On any given day, there are over 500,000 children in the United States’ foster care system. This story is written by one of those former foster children. It is not an autobiography but the details are based on true events. When most people hear the term foster child, they think of damaged goods: a child from a bad background, poor parents, or a product of drug addiction, alcoholism, and physical or sexual abuse. They think of children whose parents are incarcerated, murdered, or even children who have committed violent acts themselves. There is nothing farthest from the truth.

Most foster children are only placed in foster care on a temporary basis awaiting reunification with their parent(s). Then, there are those unfortunate children who go from foster home to foster home until they age out of the foster care system. The lucky ones are adopted, usually at a young age, while the unlucky ones bounce from one hellhole to another. Research indicates foster children experience higher rates of pregnancy, drug and alcohol abuse, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, divorce in adulthood, and many other negative social issues.

The odds are really against them if they are a female, minority, or mixed race. Despite all the odds, there are those who survive the foster care system to become positive productive citizens. Some foster children would lead you to believe they made it through the system on their own. But, I know it was Only by Grace that they survived an underfunded, overworked foster care system designed to help, but most often fails.

CHAPTER I

SURVIVAL

Come back here, you little high yellow bastard! I could hear the angry voice and smell the liquor on Mr. Henry’s breath. He was my second foster father. I dared not look back to the hands that would backhand me nor the face that, for me, represented evil. He was a short, stocky, hairy, and very burly black man who reminded me on a daily basis I wasn’t shit, and he would beat my little high yellow ass! Throughout the week, his insults were only idol threats, but I can’t say the same for Friday nights, especially payday Fridays. Paydays were bitter sweet for me and my other foster brothers and sisters.

In the city of Detroit, foster children got their asses beat, raped, ran for their lives, or stole money out of the pockets of their drunken foster parents. Not all foster parents in the system were fucked up from the first floor up. Foster mothers were usually pretty good. Most foster parents actually wanted children unless you crapped out and got two sick perverted drunkards! If you did, God had to work overtime to protect your ass! I never understood why people would bring a child into their home just to fuck them up physically and mentally.

As my foster father chased us (my brother and I), my little mind asked the same question I’ve asked over and over again. How long am I going to have to put up with this shit? One of the problems with running for your life and thinking about shit that isn’t pertinent to your immediate survival is you lose focus on the present danger at hand. Before I could process the rest of my thoughts, the big-black hand attached to the big black motherfucker I learned to hate, smacked my little high yellow ass across the kitchen floor. I often took the brunt of his anger. Unlike my brother, I often talked back, had the nerve to ask questions, and mumbled under my breath. At the age of six, I was on my second set of foster parents and was tough enough to take a backhand that would probably have made most kids pass out. The weekly ass-kickings definitely came in handy later in life.

My foster father, Mr. Henry, Big Henry, Black Henry, Crazy Henry, Pistol Toting Henry, had acquired numerous other names over the years. I just called him Big Sloppy. He was the poster man for sloppiness and kept this title for years to come! To show he had achieved his goal, (knock the shit out of my brother and/or me) he smiled at me. His preference was most often me. My brother managed to always run by Mr. Henry and could probably get half way to China before he caught him. Boy, that little fucker could run! He certainly catered to the theory that a good run was better than a bad stand. I learned this concept the hard way.

Henry! Henry! What is wrong with you? Mrs. Henry screamed, Why did you bust that child’s face? He ain’t done nothing’ for you to treat him that way. He’s just a child! Mr. Henry howled at her, Well, he’s a child that’s gone learn to stay in his fucking’ place! I got the biggest dick in this house! The smart ass in me started to respond to his comment. I’ve seen your dick so just give me another month or two and mine will be bigger or just as big as yours! (Now, remember, I’m only five).

Henry! Hush your talking like that in front of that child! Thank goodness Mrs. Henry still cared for my innocent ears as I lay on the kitchen floor bleeding from my nose and mouth. Luckily, Mr. Henry was too damn fat to bend down and hit me. There was always the chance that he would kick or stomp me, but history was on my side. He would cuss, smack, cuss, cuss some more, and try to have sex with Mrs. Henry. Then, cuss some more before falling asleep. This was his usual routine. I couldn’t wait until he fell asleep. He was going to pay for my busted lip and bleeding nose.

The older children from the Children’s Aid Society taught the younger children what to do to abusive foster parents. I looked forward to our monthly meetings to learn new tricks and also boast on the revenge I exacted on Mr. Henry. You see, Mr. Henry had a tendency to snore with his mouth open. You can pretty much guess the rest. I pissed in his mouth on more than one occasion. It’s not uncommon for drunks to piss on themselves, or even sometimes shit on themselves. I use to piss all over him: his bed, in his shoes, and even on his Sunday go-to-church suits (he only had two)! I didn’t care that the end result may have been him beating my ass be-cause I had pissed my way to satisfaction!

The interesting thing about Mr. Henry is he was a weekend drunk. Throughout the week, he was decent. He worked, came home, ate, watched the news, and went to sleep. Occasionally, he would attempt to play daddy and try to explain things to us from the news, but it never made a lick of sense. He usually ended up mad because we asked questions. It always ended with Either shut the fuck up you little bastards or go outside! We quickly learned if you wanted to go outside just start asking Mr. Henry a bunch of questions when he was watching the news. Over time, I learned while Mr. Henry may have had the biggest dick in the house, he for damn sure wasn’t the smartest person in the house, not by a long shot!

We all knew the reason he watched the news. He couldn’t read. Mrs. Henry always read his mail to him. He sure had me fooled in the beginning. I use to see him opening the mail and saying Another damn bill! Niggers and bills two things you can’t get rid of! Then, he would throw them to the side. I now understand why he never tried to help me with my homework. His big sloppy ass couldn’t read the directions!

Once I told the other kids at the Children Aid Society my suspicions of Mr. Henry’s not being able to read, they told me exactly what to do. One of the older kids wrote down a bunch of big words and told me to ask Mr. Henry every day after school to help me with my homework. Ask him in the most sugary, sincere little sad poor boy voice, Mr. Henry, what does this word mean? Watch him squirm! I think he coined the phrase Ask your mama. In Mr. Henry’s defense, I do remember one time he helped me with my math homework, and I got all the answers wrong. The reason I can remember that experience so clearly is that the dumb fucker wrote his name on my paper instead of my name, and the white kindergarten teacher laughed her ass off. She even called the other teachers in for a good laugh! That day, Mr. Henry earned another nickname: big Black dumb-ass Mr. Henry! After that, he never set foot in my school again.

Mrs. Henry, on the other hand, was God sent. She was an angel on earth: soft spoken, caring, loving, and most important, a woman who could sing like an angel. She used to get up every Saturday and put on either Billie Holiday or Mahalia Jackson. She would commence to cooking, cleaning, and singing. I always made sure I got up early on Saturdays to experience the most positive and talented performance of any foster parent I would ever live with.

Come here Shugga, Mrs. Henry would purr to me. I see you peeping around that corner, what you giggling about... She always pulled me close. I could hear her heartbeat: beating strong in rhythm with the smooth music of Billie Holiday.

Mama may have and papa may have but God bless the child that got his own, got his own. As she sang, I held her tighter. You always remember those words, baby…And make sure you get your own. You hear me? Yes ma’am. I continued to hold her tight wishing with all my might I could stay there forever. I never felt safer then at that moment.

Regardless of what was going on in my twisted little view of the world, for those few moments I felt safe, loved, and important in the eyes of someone who cared for me. I often wanted to cry at those moments because I wondered if I would feel the same way if my real mother hugged me like that. Most times, I had mixed feelings about my pure love for Mrs. Henry. Should I love her so strong? Would my real mother be jealous or would she be thankful for Mrs. Henry’s love and affection toward me? The sound of Mr. Henry yelling for Mrs. Henry jolted me out of my dream. I looked up at her with tears in my eyes as she continued to hold me tight. My heart pounded and within my mind I screamed please don’t let me go, don’t go, ignore him. Mrs. Henry continued to hold me tighter, as if she heard my every thought. She whispered in my ear, Don’t worry, baby, I got enough love for you and Mr. Henry.

CHAPTER II

THE EARLY YEARS

The early years of being a foster child wasn’t so bad. Most people show you love, hold, and cuddle you as a baby not even remembering you are a foster child. Neighbors adore you, babysit you, and even buy you clothes and toys. The people at church admire you and pray for you, like you are their own child. It’s not until you get old enough to start fucking’ things up that their attitudes change. I soon reached that age. It was the age where a good ass beating became the therapy of choice for most foster parents. When you live with abusive people, whether they are foster parents, real parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles or grandparents, you prefer to be anywhere they aren’t. I loved being around Mrs. Henry, but couldn’t stand being around her husband, Mr. Henry.

The alternatives for me were school, playing outside, or being at a neighbor’s house. They all had their pros and cons. My father died in October of 1963, and my mother died four months later in January of 1964. I was five years old when they both died. I was born August 6, 1958. I was now six years old, which meant I had been in foster care a little over a year; however, it seemed like it had been a lifetime! I was scheduled to start first grade in September of 1964. I turned six years old about a month before school started. I was very excited about starting school. I use to hear the older kids at the Children's Aid Society talk about going to school. I was excited but first things first. I had to make it through the summer of 1964.

I knew I wasn’t going to be bored; the East Side of Detroit in 1964 was full of music, cars, dances, night clubs, pimps, hustlers, prostitutes, drug pushers, drug addicts, gangsters, gangs, number runners, fish and chip joints, BBQ joints, barbershops, hair salons, car factories, playgrounds and unfortunately, the notorious, Detroit Police Department (DPD). If I remember anything about my childhood, it’s the Detroit nightlife. The music and the unique noise of the nightlife were often overshadowed by the violence which eventually reared its ugly head every Friday night. The car factories paid their workers on Fridays, along with the city and many other folks—Friday was naturally the day debts were due from the loan sharks and dope dealers. If someone in my neighborhood wasn’t shot, stabbed, or beat up on a Friday night then it must have been Monday. I can go on and on about the Detroit nightlife—the point is it would eventually play a pivotal role in my maturation as a young man. Interestingly, the foundation was laid at six years old!

I learned very quickly on the streets of Detroit adults can be mean and abusive, but children are just outright vicious and cruel. Children often repeat what they hear their parents say, only without tact. So, you can imagine what the neighbor kids said about me to my face. Usually, they only said it once. I busted a whole lot of noses back in those days. It wasn’t until they ran and got their big brothers or sisters that I had to take an ass-whipping. I was a pro at fighting Mr. Henry.