E18. The Foster Family

Safety can be a roof, a routine, and a full refrigerator, and yet feel like you are still holding your breath. One can learn that being “easy” is the price of peace. The story turns toward personal ways that trauma can show up: hiding food, staying invisible, expecting blame, and chasing acceptance outside the home through risk, rebellion, and whatever makes you feel less alone.

Then comes a raw look at boundaries, control disguised as care, and why privacy can be survival for an abuse survivor. 

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Special Thanks to our supporters, who have made this podcast possible.

• Lucy Mathews Heegaard: Audio Engineer 
  • with music via Epidemic Sound
• Terry Gydesen: Photographer

• Polly Kellogg
• Kate Tillotson
• Dawn Charbonneau
• Jacob Wyatt
• Molly Tillotson
• Julian Bowers
• Wendy Horowitz
• Maggie Kazel
• Pat Farrell
• Lynette Tabert
• Laura Jensen
• People's Farm Collective
• Deborah Copperud of "Spock Talk" podcast

Transcript

Setting The Story And Stakes

SPEAKER_00 0:08

Welcome to the Sadie Green story about an older adult looking back on her abusive childhood. It's a conversation between Sadie and myself, Pam Colby, her longtime friend. We are exploring how early trauma can affect a lifetime.

SPEAKER_01 0:27

Hello, Pam. Thanks for joining us. We are with episode 18. Episode 18, the Foster Family.

SPEAKER_00 0:33

Ah, you leaving leaving the hospital and going to a Foster family. Wow.

SPEAKER_01 0:38

Yes, and they a fairly stoic, well-organized, middle-class family harbored me for a year and a half. That world was very different from the world I had at home.

SPEAKER_00 0:53

A game changer.

SPEAKER_01 0:54

A game changer.

SPEAKER_00 0:55

Alright, I'm listening.

SPEAKER_01 0:57

Here we go.

First Weekend At The Cabin

SPEAKER_01 1:02

The Byer family lived in a stylish stucco house on a curvy street in Prospect Park. Mr. B worked as a corporate engineer, and Mrs. B taught kindergarten. I was the fifth foster child in a row, each trying temporarily to fit in with this nice nuclear family. Just days after my move into their elegantly narrow three-story home, we were on our way up north to spend a weekend at the family cabin. I rode in the back seat, on the passenger side, hugged up tight to the window, unsure of how I was expected to behave. At the halfway point, their new yellow Toyota wagon pulled into a dairy queen. Mrs. B turned around to face us, while Mr. B watched through the rearview mirror. Get what you want now, children. Susan, what will you have? I listened in disbelief, when John proudly informed me, Gee Wiz Sue, we stop here every time. Every time? He must be fooling. I asked for a plain ice cream cone. I knew the fancy stuff got real expensive with this many people. I didn't want to be a burden on these folks already. An hour later, as dust from a dirt road billowed behind the yellow car, I stared out the window at small but charming cabins that nestled haphazardly amongst trees, overlooking the shoreline of Reedy Lake. The buyer cabin was one of half a dozen that hugged a hillside, sloping down to beach and private docks below. After emerging from the car on this beautiful fall evening, each of us carrying a grocery bag of food or luggage, we followed single file around the cabin to the front. I felt ugly and clumsy in their midst. Before his folks unlocked the cabin door, John sat down his grocery bag and ran toward the water, calling back over his shoulder, Come on, Sue, come see our lake. I wish that I could disappear, or maybe stand together briefly without speaking. But I had no confidence to say that. So instead I pictured myself lifting off away from them to hover unattached above the water. There in limbo, between smooth lake and sky, only the loon's low, haunting call would reach me. Except for bodies sharing space, we were separate anyway, in different worlds. But I knew their world was the one that mattered. And what did I know anyway? Nothing now, except to hold the bag of food tightly to my chest and follow through the doorway to the kitchen. When the food was stacked on shelves or stored in the refrigerator, I stood empty-handed in a big room full of perfect strangers. Where could I hide? Panic hammered in my chest. What should I do? Go follow John or wait? The feeling in my chest shrunk inward, crushing out my breath until I was afraid I might fall over. To ground myself, I placed my hand flat on the counter. Julie was speaking to me. She wanted to show me the wrought iron stairway that spiraled up to bedrooms on the second floor. The indoor-outdoor carpet was bright orange. I wanted to evaporate. Maybe if I crouched inside the lower cupboard or ran screaming from the big, bright lighted room. It all seemed hugely sad and desperate. What did they want with me? I tried to calm the panic by stretching out my breath. I'd read about that in a magazine, and by concentrating on what Julie said as she walked me through the rooms upstairs. I returned the smile Mrs. B gave both of us as Julie and I walked by like pretend friends, as if we might have much in common after all, once we got through the introduction part.

Orderly Routines And Quiet Favoritism

SPEAKER_01 5:29

At the end of the weekend, we returned to the city house in Prospect Park, where mornings began at 7.23 each weekday. At that time, Mr. B, wearing a white shirt and tie with pressed trousers, walked down the hall and pushed open our bedroom doors on either side of him. Calmly but firm, he said, Boys, girls, time to get up now. Then Mr. B headed back down the hallway to the kitchen to prepare hot cereal, while Mrs. B continued dressing in their bedroom. There was hot cereal every morning, but the kind of cereal varied. On Mondays, it was oatmeal, on Tuesdays, cream of wheat, Wednesdays, malto meal, and so on. While the cereal cooked, he arranged small blue juice cups beside each cereal bowl, then poured the juice. Again, this varied. With oatmeal, he poured orange juice, with cream of wheat, tomato, and beside each light blue juice cup, he set three vitamins: the gel-like E, the Chalky C, and a round B complex. I quickly learned the order of importance in the Byer family. Mr. and Mrs. B were the managers, of course. From all appearances, these two were a team with common vision. Next in line of family order were their own two kids, John and Julie. This was not impressed on me by any one of them. There were no obvious signs of favoritism. In fact, at social scenes, in front of other people, Mrs. B. pulled me beside her, draped one arm across my shoulders, and said, Have you met our brand new daughter? Now I knew what brand new daughter meant, and so did everybody else. But how could I fight this powerful politeness? How could I be ungrateful? I was intrigued by the evenness of everything, but I waited for the bomb to fall. I waited for the time when they would tell me they didn't want me anymore. The lowest person on the family ladder was the other foster kid, Danny. Poor Danny couldn't do anything just right. And this is where the subtleties came in. When John told jokes, they seemed always funny to the family, but if Danny tried, it always came out wrong. I cringed watching how hard Danny tried. His flaws were not belligerence or disrespect. In fact, his own self-loathing seemed to exaggerate the mockeries around him. One night at the cabin, we were ice skating, John, Julie, and I, that is. It was beautiful outside, a crisp and dark starlit night without wind. My scarf floated behind me as I flew across the glass-like ice, then skated up beside Julie to ask the nagging question, why can't Danny come outside with us? Because mother says he lied. Julie circled around on skates to face me. Then seeing no reaction, said, You're not like Danny, you know. You're fun to be with. You don't wet your bed at night like he does. You're not a crybaby. You're different than he is. I dropped my eyes down toward the ice. I didn't know what to say. Should I feel proud about her comments? Did she want me on her side? Awkwardly I pushed off to skate away as far as possible. I knew something was wrong. It wasn't fun to be there anymore. I imagined walking into the house to demand that Danny come outside with me. I wanted to shout out our connection, to show him we were in this deal together, and I would not betray him for a little flattery. Of course, in real life, I wasn't that courageous. How dare I be ungrateful to such a nice, well-meaning family. They did their best by me in their own way. They never swapped me or overtly put me down. They fed me well, treated me fairly, and included me in every family gathering. Then why the loyalty to Danny? Because in subtle ways I knew I too was suspect. This was charity, not liberation. Their need to be good people was the reason I was there. Not because they cared about my life. Because Danny required more attention than I did. He was first boarded out when the rest of us went on vacation, then was sent back to the agency altogether. Because the buyer world was vastly different than the one I came from, there was much we did not understand about each

Staying Invisible And Acting Normal

SPEAKER_01 10:28

other. But since I lived in their world, it was I, of course, who needed to adjust. My past was not a subject that we spoke of. I offered nothing in the way of information, and they appeared to have no interest in it. Slowly, like a blanket of soft snow, a silencing began to cover up the 15 years behind me. The old name-calling, the numbing winter nights and cars, the stealthy voyages up basement stairs after the family was asleep, all disappeared. Still, with all their efforts, I did not seem to touch their souls in any way. It felt like I was acting someone else's life. Comparing my old life in the woods and outbuildings where I looked over my shoulder and stole everything I could to this tidy urban house where food and clothing were laid out for me, was like comparing rough and smooth or a yelling match versus politeness. However, while there was no need here to watch my back or scrounge for table scraps, the old hiding habits didn't die easy. Here also, I kept a low profile. This was comfortable for all of us. The less obvious I was, the better. If I got home from school before the others, I felt like I was trespassing in someone else's house. With one eye on the window, I'd sneak inside the blue-tile kitchen to steal handfuls of crackers, careful to place the box back on the shelf exactly as I'd found it. I'd tiptoe down the hall to the room I shared with Julie, alert for footsteps or turning doorknobs, I'd lay on my bunk ready to pretend that I was studying. When Lynn Anderson sang on the transistor radio, I never promised you a rose garden, I cried into my pillow. I tried to take naps, thinking no activity was safest. If too restless for that, I went outside to play handball against the wall of the garage. Outdoor activity lowered the stress because then there was less chance they could suspect me of rifling through dresser drawers or taking food from their refrigerator. But invisibility had drawbacks too. I could be accused of anything if they didn't know what it was I actually did or thought. My silence kept them more suspicious. When all of us were in the car one night, en route to supper, now called dinner, at a fast food restaurant, the favorite of the family, John, told a dirty joke.

Risky Friends And Secret Hustles

SPEAKER_01 13:24

I felt my shoulder muscles tighten as I waited to be charged for being a bad influence. Was I just paranoid? For indeed I was no angel. While quiet and skittish within the foster family, once outside their range, I'd do most anything to be accepted by my peers. I rolled over the waistbands on my skirts to make them shorter. I hoarded ragged cutoffs in my locker to change into before the homeroom bell, stashing the disdainful pastel dresses and loose slacks into shoeboxes until I had to swap back into them before making it back home. I signed up for after-school activities twice a week, but went downtown by bus instead to steal earrings from department stores. I lined up the stolen goods on a tight string stretched below the top shelf of my locker and sold earrings for half price, specializing in the long and dangly kind. Ruthlessly, businesslike, but fair, I quickly acquired a steady clientele. With money from the earring business, I bought skeins of various colored yarns. Then, in my room after school or after dinner, I compulsively crocheted those loud vests of multicolored squares that were the rage in 1970. I sold those from my locker also, which made all my extra money look legitimate. Every morning before school, Mr. or Mrs. B handed me six dimes for daily bus fare. Gratefully accepting them, I dropped the dimes inside my pocket. Once out of sight, however, I often walked or hitchhiked to school, spending the dimes on candy bars instead, or donuts, or the occasional pack of cigarettes I shared with my odd friends. Odd friends, because I stuck like a lost dog to the first kids who accepted me, kids who lived on the periphery themselves, the popular kids in inner circle clubs who stayed after school for sports, debates, or cheerleading, appeared to have their places and their friends carved out for them already. It took time and much embarrassment to get up close to those kids. I didn't have that kind of time. So my friends were the lonely ones, the nerds, the misfits, the adolescent girl children who sat by themselves at lunchtime. Often like me, they propelled themselves toward risk that others would not dream of to gain respect. A central figure in my social malloo was Big Randy, a round, white girl with a big heart, who was virtually ignored at home. She plastered her four tiny bedroom walls with life-sized posters of family bands like Jackson Five and the Osman Brothers. Even with only two people and one saggy single bed in her room after school, you couldn't help but feel you were at a crowded party. Ellen, Randy's smaller sidekick, walked with a limp, took medicine for seizures, and couldn't stop her head from shaking when she spoke. Ellen's mother, an introverted single parent, sat at the table sorting through official-looking papers, but generously doled out vanilla wafers or saltines to the girls her daughter brought home after school. Andrea befriended me while hitchhiking. More than once we got out on the main avenue near school at the same time, and rather than compete against each other for rides, she suggested we double up for safety. We took turns sitting beside the driver or the cavetted seat next to the window, which seemed more than fair, considering she was twice my size and more experienced. Andrea was black and also street savvy, but we parted ways just past the crowded projects where she lived and just before the bordering, park-like neighborhood where my foster family lived. Although much about living with the buyers appeared ordered and unemotional, there was the occasional day, even here, when it felt the sky was about to fall and crumble. On the windowsill next to my bed sat a small black safe made out of tin.

The Locked Safe And Torn Letters

SPEAKER_01 18:17

On some earlier day, I'd picked it up at a garage sale for a quarter. On the front of the safe was a tiny combination lock that really worked, and no one knew the magic numbers except me. Locked inside the safe were those same two letters Ma sent me back when I lived on the psychoard. For more than a year I hoarded those letters. No one in the world had seen them except me. But now Julie wanted to. We were lying at our beds one winter afternoon when I mentioned them to her. Oh, let me see them, please, she asked. No, they're mine. Oh come on, I won't say anything. No, I don't want anyone to see them. Just forget it. Now I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. I tried to change the subject. She persisted until finally she left the room. A moment later she returned, and right behind her was her mother. Julie flopped out on the bed again while Mrs. B stood in the doorway. Susan, may I see the letters, please? Mrs. Byers began, smiling pleasantly. No, no, the safe is locked, I answered, grabbing the black box off the windowsill. I'll pretend I forgot the combination. Until she said, Then I'll keep the safe for you. We don't want secrets in this house. We don't keep things locked up here. I clutched the box closer and wrapped my arms around it, as if to make it disappear. Sue, please give me the safe, Mrs. Byer repeated, more firmly this time. Okay, I thought, and quickly spun the combination, pulled out the folded envelopes and handed her the empty safe. No, Sue. I want the letters too, she continued. Of course that's what she really wanted. I want to keep the letters to myself, I pleaded, bowing my head. I cannot let her see these letters. A line inside was definitely drawn. We are your family now, she began. It's only fair that I know what your mother tells you. I care for you. Secrets are not good. Just let me see the letters. She held out her hand. Oh my god, my god. No secrets here. Desperate, I grabbed the envelopes between my fingers and tore them down the middle, tore them again, and then again until the letters fell in little pieces on the carpet. I sat frozen staring at the floor. Mrs. Byer turned on her heel and left the room. I won. But as I picked the pieces off the carpet, on my knees, tears ran down the side of my nose and dripped onto the floor. No one will ever see the letters now, I knew, but I wished that I had read them one more time, so I'd remember.

Social Worker Visit And Meeting Stevie

SPEAKER_01 21:32

When my social worker met with me alone to ask how things were going, I told her how I snuck those cutoffs to my locker. How I didn't fit in exactly with the family, and that what I really wanted was to keep on working. She scribbled notes inside her flip up notebook and must have listened to me, because I was in a third floor class at school one day when a call came from the office. Susan has a visitor. Send her downstairs, please. I tiptoed down the wide worn granite stairs. Who was so important that the principal would call me out of class? It was my social worker. With school nearly over for the year, I had resigned myself to a second summer with the bees and all those boats they had to play with. The speedboat, the paddle boat, the rowboat, the pontoon boat, and the canoe, besides the rubber rafts. But here, at the final hour, was my social worker, ready to introduce me right this minute to a woman waiting at the Burger King across the street. This woman, with a curious boyish name, was interested in taking in a teenage girl. Stevie waited in a booth in the back corner by herself. I followed the social worker down the aisle between booths, feeling like a girl in a blind date. Then sliding in next to the window, I faced a slender woman with long brown hair and freckles. She wore a yellow stripe and t-shirt, simple silver earrings, no makeup, and was smiling like she meant it. I liked her instantly. While the smoke from her parliament cigarettes curled up between us, she told me she was 26 years old, single, and that another teenage girl named Lou lived with her. She invited me to join them for a weekend at a rented North Shore cabin where we could spend some time together and see how we might get along. I said yes, I'd like that very much. And and after I said goodbye and got back in the school building, I ran full speed up all those stairs. And that is the first day I met Stevie, which became a real turning point in my life.

Turning Point And Closing

SPEAKER_00 24:10

Well, next episode we're gonna hear more about Stevie, but for now we're gonna have to call it a day. Call it, yeah.

SPEAKER_01 24:18

Yeah, thanks for being here. Thanks for listening.

SPEAKER_00 24:20

Thank you. I'm looking forward to hearing more. Yay!

SPEAKER_01 24:24

Okay, bye-bye.

SPEAKER_00 24:25

Bye bye.