Finding My Place

When I was 14, last year, I moved to New York City with my mom, who had just re-entered my life. A week later, she got arrested. The police took me to the Children’s Center in Manhattan, where new foster children of all ages go while the system finds homes for them. My first night there, I felt sad and lonely. 

My experience there was humbling. Some of the girls were loud and mean. The kids  would steal from each other, and there were lots of fights. Others were quiet with very few friends. They rarely ate lunch because the food was not good, they also rarely ever went outside. They stayed indoors and watched TV or slept a lot. 

I saw myself in those quiet kids. We had the same habits, qualities, personalities, but we never came close to being friends. Nobody wanted to be friends, nobody cared to be friends. 

My life changed so fast that I didn’t have time to process it. I wondered, “When will all of this be over?” and “Will I be able to live in a stable home?” 

My mom was sentenced to 5-7 years in prison. After a month in the Children’s Center, I was moved to my first foster home.

I had my own room for the first time, in a two-story home in Brooklyn. My foster parents were a Haitian couple in their 60s, who’d been married for 49 years. I was the only child in the house, and they were very strict. I couldn’t leave the house after 6 pm except to go across the street to the basketball court, where they could see me from the house.

Growing up with my dad and six siblings in North Carolina, I had always craved my own room and space. But when I finally got to experience it, I felt lonely. I missed living in a home full of chaos, with my family.  

I felt miserable and trapped in the foster home. My foster mom told me to call her “Grandma” and her husband “Grandpa.” “Grandma and Grandpa” wouldn’t let me lock my door, and they would bust in on me. They had money and bought stuff for their grandkids, but wouldn’t buy me what I needed. They criticized the food I ate and the clothes I wore. 

One Sunday morning soon after I moved in, I slept till 11, then went downstairs. Grandma walked up to me and said “Good morning, Ariyana,” seeming annoyed that I slept so late. I replied, “Good morning.” (She told me repeatedly that not saying good morning was disrespectful towards her.)  She looked me up and down, scanning my plain hoodie and sweatpants. She and her family only wore dresses, suits, or skirts.

“Why are you wearing those clothes?” she said coldly. 

“I feel comfortable in them.” 

She rolled her eyes and turned to her husband and they started speaking Creole. They often talked about me like this in front of me. They never tried to teach me Creole.

I told “Grandma” I wanted more freedom, that I wanted to go places I could enjoy myself, like a park or pool. She laughed at me and said “No.” “Grandpa” just  agreed with what his wife said.

My foster parents made me feel like I had to change myself just to satisfy them. I started asking my caseworker to be moved.

I spent some time with my foster parents’ granddaughters. They were two tall Haitian girls, one 16, the other 12. The 12-year-old was sassy, the older sister more calm and respectful, like her sibling’s second mother. One day in July we dressed up to go to the park across the street just to get out of the hot house. We played basketball and made TikToks. I did their hair. That was fun, but otherwise my summer was lonely and boring.

I miss my siblings in North Carolina. Since I came to New York, I still speak to them on the phone almost every day, for hours at a time. 

Into High School

When I started my first year of high school, things got better. I became a point guard on the basketball team. When that season ended, I tried something completely new, flag football. I became a running back. I also learned how to do my own hair and lashes.

At the beginning of freshman year, I made friends with four other girls in the same grade as me. I loved hanging out with my friend group. We would do everything together. After school, we would go to Wendy’s or to the park near my house and chill together. None of them knew I was in foster care. 

After a few months, though, we started to distance ourselves more and more from each other. There was no altercation; we just stopped talking. I felt heartbroken but not angry. I loved the girls in my friend group, but it wasn’t my first friend fallout. 

Growing up, I got included in a friend group every school year, yet we never made it to the next year. The friend groups that invited me in always ended up in drama, and I got shut out. 

I think it works better for me to just make friends with one person. In the second half of freshman year, I met a Latina girl who transferred to my school in the middle of the year. She looked lonely in global studies class, so I approached her even though I was nervous to talk to her.

I pulled a chair near her desk and said, “ Hey, what’s your name?” 

“Rosa, what’s yours?” I could tell by her Spanish accent that she couldn’t speak English very well.

We became friends and talked to each other every day in school and over the phone. We are still friends, and I’m glad we’ll both be at the same school again this fall. 

Self-Advocacy

I never got comfortable in my home, though. My foster parents made me feel like I had to change myself just to satisfy them. I started asking my caseworker to be moved. I told the caseworker how strict they were and how I had to come straight home after school and stay there. 

After eight months, in the winter of freshman year, I finally got moved to a different home. I was relieved and happy to leave. 

I moved to a private house in the suburbs. I’m the only child there. This foster mom is more understanding about my being a quiet person. She’s a calm middle-aged lady but she seems younger; she sounds like a 30-year-old. She asked me to call her Grandma, too, but I don’t mind doing that with her.

One day, a few weeks after I had moved in, I was eating pizza in the kitchen. My foster mom was sitting in the living room. Her biological son and daughter were there. 

My foster mom said, “Come here Ariyana” and handed me a brand new phone. I smiled but not too much: I didn’t want to show how excited I was. Since we were in front of her family I was nervous. 

I said “thank you” and went back downstairs and texted her, “I didn’t want to cause a scene but I am very thankful.” 

She texted me back, “It’s OK to express yourself.”

Since I moved there, I’ve been feeling more at peace. It’s only me and her living there, but she helps me feel like family even when her biological family comes around. She includes me in things they do together, like going to church. 

My first foster parents forced me to go to church with them every Sunday morning. It made me not want to go with them. I can choose if I want to go to church with this foster mom or not. It feels like a relief.  

Being treated better in this home helps me be more independent and confident and to try new things. I passed all my classes freshman year despite all the emotional upheaval. I signed up for internships and I got accepted for one doing what I love the most, writing (for this magazine).  

I also stay connected to my blood family. Besides talking to my siblings every day, I also talk to my mom on the phone every two weeks. She tells me how her life’s going in prison and repeatedly tells me she loves me.

I started to learn more about foster care as well. My caseworker told me that I don’t have to visit or talk to anyone if I’m uncomfortable. I’ve also learned that education is very important when you’re in foster care, even though it’s harder to focus on school because of all the distractions. Foster care helps pay for college. And you have a caseworker and a coach by your side, so even if you feel alone, you aren’t.

Recently, I asked my caseworker about what to do after I turned 18. She responded, “We can make your care goal independent. That means once you turn 18, the system will help you get into college or get an apartment.” My foster family has said that they ask their foster children to move out when they turn 18, so I will look for a college where I can dorm or I will take the system’s help in getting my own apartment. I’m only 15, so I have time to prepare. 

I want to go to college and study to be a dentist, partly because as a kid, I would get really bad toothaches. I want to help other people feel better and make them happy by fixing their smiles.