A Child of Rape’s Letter to Society

To who it may concern,

On May 27th, 1989, I was born in Tennessee to my 15-year-old mom who was raped by a guy twice her age. I was placed in the system for adoption, because my mom's parents refused to let their daughter keep me. My mom's name is Sara, and she died in 2005 in a car wreck on the way to a friend's house. That's all I know about her. Her parents pretended that they didn't know who I was when I went to see them back in 2015. I'm pretty sure I have siblings, but i don't know who or where they are.

I spent my childhood hopping from one foster home to another across the tri-state area and spending a year in an orphanage so I could finish my High School diploma when my foster parents moved. Plenty of people cared for me, teaching me how to behave, how to count, how to read, how to tie my shoes, and everything they could so I would have a relatively normal life. When I was 5, a family came to visit me several times and got my hopes up that I would be adopted. They ended up adopting a girl who was a few years younger than me. It hurt, but everybody would rather adopt a baby. Less baggage, I suppose. I broke a mirror that night. My foster parents sent me back to the social worker.

School was okay, but I hated to participate in sports and clubs. Everyone was always having their moms and dads picking them up while I had to wait for the city bus. Parents day was the worst. I did participate in the Christmas play in middle school, and my foster parents told me how proud they were of my performance, but a part of me was still angry at the other kids who had their real families there. I don't think I participated in anything else after that.

In high school, I was an asshole, just like every other teenager. I disobeyed my fosters, went out with random people every night, and I'd usually come home smelling like cigarettes and still buzzed. Foster homes traded me like a baseball card , no one wanting to take on the responsibility of a "troubled" teenager. Ha! I could care less about smoking, drinking, or the people I hung out with doing God knows what, I just wanted to show everyone how little I cared and that no one had control of me anymore. I was free. I was just another stupid teenager who thought he had the world figured out.

I landed in a foster home with a single mom. I didn't care. I knew she would be calling the social worker in a week. I actually made it a game to see how quickly I would be transferred. I came home late, I yelled at her, I skipped class constantly, I smoked, I drank, I broke stuff, and I even set a fire in the backyard, and she never called the social worker. I started to get mad at her, because I knew she was playing at something. She had to be one of those freaks who enjoys punishment, and I knew I had to get away from her. I ran away and stayed at a friends house. Well, someone she knew must have seen me, because she showed up at the doorstep a few days later.

I remember the car ride home specifically, because not a single word was said. I yelled and cussed at her, trying to get some kind of reaction out of her, but she just sat there and took it. When we got back to the house, she told me to go up to my room, but I was headed that way anyway. I slammed the door behind me hard enough to crack it and locked it, turning my music up as high as it would go.

She gave me a couple hours to cool off, because she came and knocked on my door. I ignored and she went away eventually. She came back again, and knocked, saying she had food for me. I yelled at her to go away, but she stayed at the door. Giving up, I threw open the door, grabbed the food, and laid back down on my bed, ignoring her with all my might.

She came in and moved a pile of laundry on a chair and asked me, "Do you want to stay here?" I told her through a mouth of food, "No, but it doesn't matter. You call the social worker, yet." She shook her head no. That jarred me pretty hard, but I didn't let it show, "How come? You a sick freak who collects kids." She actually laughed a little, "No. I just really want you to stay. But if you want to leave, I'll respect your decision." I glowered at her. I knew it was a trick, so I didn't respond. Then she told me something I would always remember, "You're a person, Darren. I'm not going to give up just because you're angry at me. I was really worried when you left, and I missed a few days of work to find you." I scoffed, "So?" "So," she said firmly, "I'm not going to call the social worker. We're going to work this out together if you would like to stay. I'm not giving up on you." "Everyone else does," I was angry when my voice cracked.

She stood up and walked out the door, "Let's wait until the morning, and tell me then what you'd like to do." I stayed up all night that night. I didn't really think about anything in particular, but I was just trying to figure out if she was serious or not. The next morning, I walked downstairs to see her drinking coffee at the table. I walked up to her and could hardly talk above a whisper as she looked up at me, "I'd like to stay." She smiled big and patted the seat next to her as she poured me a mug of coffee, "I'm glad, Darren." And we sat like that for a long time, just two people sipping coffee.

I got busted for running away, losing all my game consoles, had to be home by 5 o'clock every day, and she personally checked every bit of homework I had. I fought with her and tried to shake her resolve, even trying to sneak out again, but she caught me, earning me an hour long lecture about personal responsibility. I tried to be angry like I used to be, but I actually kind of enjoyed being in trouble. Since I was stuggling so much in English, she helped me find a tutor. I hated this until I found out the tutor turned out to be this super cute girl from the year before me. I slowly stopped spending time with the people I used to run around with, except for a few who I still talk to ocassionally. I spent more time at home with my foster mom, and I found out eventually that she was single because her ex-husband used to beat her. This made me way angrier than it was supposed to for some reason.

My tutor, Lilly, and I started dating in the summer, and I met her family. It was kind of awkward at first, but I found out later that Lilly had been nice enough to tell them I was a foster, so the topic of family never came up. It was actually kind of nice to have dinner with them.

Like I said, I spent a year in an orphanage to finish up High School. My foster mom hated this so much, but the state board said that unless she had a permanent residence in the state, she wasn't able to have me live with her. The year went by very fast, though. Through the week, I would hang out with Lily and study for graduation. Then on the weekends, my foster mom would rent a hotel near the orphanage and spend the entire weekend with me. Every Friday after school, she was there in her ugly white SUV to pick me up. I graduated in 2008, and as I walked across the stage for my diploma, I heard Lilly's parents and my foster mom screaming for me like lunatics. It was humiliating and the best thing in the entire world to have them cheering for me.

Lilly went to school to become an English teacher for high schoolers, and I still haven't figured out what I want to do with my life, yet. I really like math and computers, but I don't really want to work in an office for the rest of my life. I might try to start my own business, but I'm not quite there, yet. A year ago, Lilly and I had our first baby, a little girl we named after my foster mom, Kaitlyn. My foster mom has fought relentlessly to adopt me to be her legal son, but it's a bit harder for adults for some reason. It's in the process, though!

So, that's my story. My biological mother was raped, I spent the majority of my life hopping from one house to another, cycled through eight different schools, and never felt like I had any purpose or place in the world until I was a full grown adult. I have a family, though, and even though I didn't grow up in a "normal" family, born of two people who loved each other, were married, or even consesually had sex, I'm still a person! I'm a human being just like all of you, and it's a beautiful thing that an individual can walk through the firey pits of hell in a shit hole life, but come out stronger and capable of living a whole and happy life.

People will always judge you for being different to them, but that doesn't devalue you as a person or make you somehow "less" than someone else. So, the next time you come across someone who says they are a child of rape, you'll know better than to cringe, bak away, or treat them any different than any other human being. We're people, damnit! And I love my life, warts and all.

Sincerely,

Darren White "Soon to be Arlen"