Stories from the Hood

By Valentina Joseph

I am a 16-year-old Black (African American) and Jamaican female who has lived in many homes after being taken away from my mother by the Department of Children and Families (DCF), in the State of Connecticut. I am living a double life and the life my friends think I am living is not my reality. At this young age I appear to have it all together, but the reality is I have a hard life that I have protected all of these years by silence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781698707044

Valentina Joseph

The authors: A high school student whose bullying experiences in her last year of elementary school so significantly tested her self-esteem that she chose to write about them so other children can realize, nothing is forever and there are better days ahead. A poet whose life’s experiences has taught him that nothing is promised but all things are possible through him who diligently seek the presence of the Lord in their lives. An author, motivational speaker and entrepreneur who believes that nothing in life is important unless it strengthens our sisters and brothers, teaches our children that love is colorblind, and that success is having the power to positively influence the lives of others.

Book preview

A Safe Place

Not Yet Grown

T oday is the first day of our Stories from the Hood project. Only three other girls and I showed up. I started introducing myself by using flash cards so I would have an actual plan to what I was going to share and later write about.

First of all, I am a 16-year-old Black (African American) and Jamaican female who has lived in many homes after being taken away from my mother by the Department of Children and Families (DCF), in the State of Connecticut and the life my friends thought I was living was not my reality and I cannot share all of it. I look like I am enjoying myself and at this young age I appear to have it all together, but the reality is I have a hard life that I must protect by silence.

I am my father’s first child, he named me and gave me his last name: Harris. My family and close friends call me Nell, Nelly, Nelly Pooh or sometimes Elmo. My mother and sisters loved to call me Elmo because I actually love my Elmo. I watched him every day on Sesame Street. It probably was the first word I said as a baby. As a matter of fact, til this day I love red because Elmo is red.

Being in DCF I grew up in home, after home, after home and then another home. This led me to attend school, after school, after school and then another school. Every time I moved, I lost myself, my friends and my familiar surroundings. This was because DCF took me and my three sisters away from my mom. Being without her was not easy. They put us through a lot. As of the date of these stories, I have been in DCF care for 12 years going on 13. I have been through things no little girl should ever have to go through.

I remember vividly the day my sisters and I were taken from my mother. Every day with DCF, it seems just like it was yesterday. I did not know what was going on at that time. I did not see my mom as a bad mother. I did not know what she had done to us that made them come and take us from her. I remember my mother and oldest sister crying and my mother saying, Please don’t take my children, they are all that I have.

No one was listening to her. But her words are imbedded in my mind and I hear her over and over almost daily. I had no idea where we were going but the worker told us we were going to be in what they called child services. Which meant we were going to basically be owned by DCF and they were going to take good care of us because they felt my mother was not a good parent.

There is five of us, and my two older sisters were allowed to stay with my mom and the other three of us had to leave and be cared for by some other adults who we came to know as Foster Parents. My youngest sister and I were kept together and placed with one of my mother’s sisters, basically my Aunt. She had two daughters of her own, which were my blood cousins. We thought life would be great living with family but, over time I grew to hate them.

My cousins were not very nice to us when my aunt was not around. When we reported this to DCF we were moved. One of my sisters lucked up because she went to stay with my other aunt. She was allowed to have friends and they treated her like one of the immediate family members while me and my youngest sister were off to home number two.

It seemed like every month it was time to make new friends and learn new rules in a new home with new Foster Parents. The families we lived with had so many different customs it was hard to get it right. Some were Black, Jamaican, Hispanic, White or whatever. It was hard to know right from wrong and we continued to get into trouble without even trying.

My sister and I grew very close because we were really all the family either of us had. Although she was only a few years younger than me, I treated her like she was my daughter. She became my voice when I could not speak. She became my reason for being. She was my life. I never closed my eyes to sleep until she fell asleep. I was up many nights waiting for her to fall asleep.

Almost every morning I found myself so exhausted that I would fall asleep in class, but I could not tell anyone what was going on or I would get in more trouble or have to move again. After living in house number four, I figured I could not tell every time something happened because I felt I might get in trouble or we would be moved again or separated. I could not let that happen.

So, when asked the question about why I was sleeping in class, I would not reply. As a result of that they labeled me stubborn or not cooperative. I was misunderstood but I could not speak. I wanted to explain but the words would not come out of my mouth. Instead water would build up in my eyes and I would let it run down my face without saying a word.

When we lived in the Hispanic Foster Parent house, I must have been around 5 years old. I remember clear as day when the night got late, and I was waiting for my sister to fall asleep. Our so-called Foster Father peeked in to check on us and saw that I was awake. At first, I thought that was nice of him, but then he came into the room and seen that I was still up. He came over to my bed and started touching me in places that made me feel funny. I knew this had to be wrong but, I was so traumatized and in a state of shock that I could not move. I felt paralyzed and also could not speak.

After the first night when I did not say anything about it; he had gotten away with that so night after night he would come in the room every night once my sister was asleep and touch me. I wanted him to stop but I did not know how to say it without getting in trouble or having the fear of being moved again so I just let it happen.

One night he tried to rape me, and I made so much noise my sister woke up and he stopped. She asked if I was okay and of course I replied I was. She did not see him when he slipped out of the room.

From that night on I never slept. I learned how to stay awake for days. Although my sister and I had our own twin beds, I would share the bed with her for my own protection and hers. I could deal with him touching me, but if he ever touched my baby, I didn’t know what I would have done.

Every time something bad happened in our foster home it would make me angry, but I could not speak. My eyes would do the talking because nothing parted my lips. I wanted us to be like my other sister and leave this home and live with a family member. But after what had happened in the last Aunt’s house there were no more family members who would take us. That was because they told a lot of lies about us, so others were not willing to take a chance on us or get in trouble with DCF because of us. When I tell you, I grew to hate my cousins, I did because they are nothing like they were before we came to live with them. I guess visiting every now and then is a lot different than being there every day. This was a lesson we learned the hard way.

Let me tell you a little something about cousins Chrissy and Racina. Now that I am a little older and we are no longer there, it tickles me just thinking about them. Chrissy was like a year older than Racina. They were both quite older than us, by about 6 or 7 years. I guess when they heard we were coming, it was not what they wanted to hear. As a matter of fact, they were not ready for our arrival. When we got to their home we had to sleep in a twin bed. Not twin beds. No, one single twin bed for the two of us. This was not a problem for me because little did they know, since the incident with my Hispanic Foster Father, we already slept together in a single twin bed. They did not like having us around because now they had to walk us to school every morning and pick us up afterwards. We all attended Mark Twain Elementary School in the City of Hartford and I must admit we were bad as