immediate family
Blood makes you related, loyalty makes you family.
Life is Complicated
I’m not complaining. I know there are people out there who have it worse than I do. But, it doesn’t change the fact that life is complicated in different ways for different people. Today I am writing this because I wanted to vent more or less. So here is a look at my life over the past five months.
By Harley Bowers8 years ago in Families
Ellis Island and The Fuscos
January 8th, 1893 – My name is Patrizia Fusco and I am 10-years-old. My mother, Catarina and my sisters Silvia and Katia have been travelling in what they call the steerage room for over 2 weeks. Silvia is 17-years-old and Katia is 13-years-old. I am the youngest. The steamship is crowded down here-- and dirty. Mother tells me to stay away from the other children because they have head lice. She has been caring for Silvia, who has been limping for 2 days now, because this room is so crowded someone stepped on her ankle in the middle of the night. It is blue and greenish colored.
By Patti Cakes8 years ago in Families
Crying Over Spilled Milk (Poop)
I want you guys to think of me when you have a bad day, then your day will seem so much better. I wake up on a Friday, like any other 19-year old teenager. "Yay, it's Friday fun time!" HA! No. Wrong-o! I get up out of bed and use the restroom (the night before was taco night). I went to flush, and it wouldn't flush. It's okay, I'm calm. I ask my "wonderful" husband to fix it. "Yeah babe, when I get up."
By Jenonymous Pagonymous8 years ago in Families
My Name is Hope
I never really thought about how life could be so horrible…things were never so good for my family and I. We had to do bad things like sell drugs and rob stores just to obtain money. We stole from people who needed the money too, because where I come from the only rich folks that were around were white people. We stole from people just like us…who planned on saving that money for their kids to have a better life than their parents whom had no education. I never really knew what it felt like to be fortunate, never in my life. I’m 15-years-old and I don’t really have a name, because I don’t really know who I am or if what my poor parents named me fits who I am. They named me Hope, not because they liked how it sounded slipping off their tongues, but because they hoped that I was going to be their little hope, their sunshine in the darkness, but unfortunately, I’m not; and I’m so sorry to my mom and dad for that. Growing up, I was never happy, but my mom would always try her best to make sure I was. She tried and tried without success, so she eventually gave up, but that’s okay she gave up. Moms do get tired sometimes and it’s not her fault that her little hope is a train wreck of a human being. I’ve been in and out of court so many times and dropped back to my little tent of a house after getting arrested for stealing liquor to resell at a higher price, just so I can get some food on the table for my family, not that nasty kind of food either. The times they put me on probation the P.O. (Parole Officer) always insisted that I take a drug and alcohol test, which was completely useless because I’m not interested in doing drugs at all. I’ve never tried any kind. Growing up like me, it’s a gift not having the urge to do drugs and drink poison, but that doesn’t mean I won’t sell them to make that extra cash. I started selling dope when I was 14 and not the weed kind. The white, rocky, sometimes powdery substance — yes just a year ago, boohoo. I started selling coke for this really scary rich white man, only because he told me he’d get me deported along with my family, if I didn’t. This white man was very intimidating, but he was nice enough to give me 50% of the profit from the coke, because he knew I lived on the streets. I think the worst part about selling drugs and alcohol was being on a corner selling them. A corner across the street from my mom. I watched her get picked up by strange men at a certain time of the night, but these strange men would always bring her back to the same spot and sometimes she would be badly bruised and hurt. My mom…she’s tough. Despite being in so much pain, she’d laugh it off and wave her cash at me from across the street. While I was selling drugs and alcohol, she was selling something much more expensive, divine, real, and too precious…her body. I didn’t agree with it at all, but I couldn’t say anything or else my dad’s drunk self would get very mad at me and try to kill me like all the other times. My Pops loved me at one point, but right when things started getting harder, he faded away faster. Drowning himself in liquor and letting his lungs be invaded with methamphetamine a.k.a. crystal meth. Sometimes he wouldn’t sleep for days on and he would start talking to someone that wasn’t there; he called him death. Though it was scary to watch this, I got used to it and stopped caring. I’d even give him liquor. I stole to shut him up sometimes. The thing about me is…as I grew up I started feeling this numbness that eventually grew. I can’t feel pain, no regret, and no sadness or grief. I’d still tell my mom and dad I loved them every day, though only because I was hoping they’d say it back sometimes, just to see if it could make me feel anything at all, that maybe they could fix how broken I am with a simple ‘I love you too,’ but no. Not once did I ever hear it again, because I took their love for granted. How could a prostitute who probably has no idea who my real father is ever love me anyways? How can a junkie, who'd rather talk to his beloved death rather than his whatever the fuck I am to him, ever love me anyways? When I realized everything I’ve ever done for my parents was completely useless to me, I started not going home. I started completely hating myself for everything. I’m a genius, I know I am, but I messed up my future by trying too hard for my parents, trying too hard to get them out of their unsuccessfulness, that I became unsuccessful myself. Who I am is definitely not hope. Don’t do things for people who don’t care about you, it’s only going to get you nowhere.
By Raven Woods8 years ago in Families
People Pleaser
"What do you want to be when you grow up?" said my teacher. That was an easy question for me. I had known the answer since preschool, the early age when you first begin to understand that people have jobs. I may not have understood the complexities of a career, but I knew that people spent a lot of time there, so if I was going to pick something to do with the rest of my life it was going to be something that made me happy.
By Matthew Eyler8 years ago in Families
You Were Only a Little Abused. Top Story - October 2017.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," I cried. These words frequently echoed off my lips, resounding in a deafening silence from my mother. Most kids in my generation feared being grounded, losing privileges, or some form of physical beating, but I would have preferred those over what my mom typically had in store for me. I would have understood being sentenced to sit silently in my room. That was a punishment that most, if not all, kids went through. I would have understood not being allowed to watch TV or to use the computer, for those were good things that I, in my bad behavior, didn't deserve. And even a spanking with the wooden spoon...I'm not justifying physical violence or abuse, but at least these consequences would have been more typical of the average kid in the 90s.
By Matthew Eyler8 years ago in Families
I Have 13 Siblings
My name is Daniel. I have ten brothers and three sisters. I'll just answer the questions you would ask in person first. All from the same parents. No twins. Yes, they're done having kids. I'm the fifth oldest. There was always someone to spend time with. I'm currently the oldest at home. I've talked about my family a lot, so I know that's usually where the topic dies until I'm told about your mom's or dad's equally-abnormally-large family that's almost as large.
By Daniel Bowers8 years ago in Families
