“Everybody get on the floor!”, that’s what the officer yelled as the police raided the place I called home. My brother and I were somewhere between 3 and 5 years of age when Bridgeport police kicked in the door of the crack house we lived in with our mother and grandmother. I remember sitting there, aware. Not scared, not sad, just aware. Aware of what had become normal for me. This wasn’t the first time the crack house had been raided and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this time it was different. I was aware.
As they dragged several people away in handcuffs, I realized my mother was one of them. She was high and seemingly clueless as to what was going on. As my grandmother held us, high herself, the last officer looked at her and said “next time we’ll be taking them with us” as he pointed to my brother and I and then they were gone. Just as fast as they invaded our “home”, they were gone.
Not too long thereafter, maybe a few days or so, we received yet another surprise visit. Late in the night. I heard a knock on the door and when my grandmother opened it, in they came like soldiers. One grabbed me and the other scooped up my brother. Just like that we were now in the custody of the Department of Children and Families and life as we knew it would never be the same.
This blog is simply a place for me to share my story. To tell my truth. Come along with me as I take you on a journey called life. Some said it was impossible, but God made an impossible life, Possible.