Don, John and the Van.
All of those things were in play way before my husband and I became involved. In fact we didn’t even know anything about it. We had heard, from Mrs. Debra that Hopeless was in jail. The reason, she said, was because she and Fool, in all his splendid-ness, had gotten tickets while driving his wife’s (?) van and never paid them. After a while, they owed so much money, that they couldn’t have paid without taking out a small loan from the bank of Chesya and Jerome.
Side Note: Hopeless and Fool NEVER pay tickets. In fact it has been proven over and over again that neither of them even have licenses. Over the many, many years I have known them, they both have been in and out of jail for such offences. Jail, itself, seems not to be the issue. No, the issue, is The Man who is trying desperately to restrain them by forcing them (and them alone) to bear the responsibly of being licensed drivers. The government is just picking on them. Everyone should understand. They own a van and seem to be fighting over it, because well, it’s their right, damn-it. End Note.
So this is what happened (and remember, I can’t make this shit up):
Hopeless goes to jail. Just her luck she happened to do it during a time when her own brother, Idiot, is actually out. We will forever know this man as Idiot, on and off this blog—forever.
The first thing my husband and I hear about it is from a late night visit. It was Idiot. Now we don’t talk to Idiot. Ever. I first met him when my husband and I were in high school. Idiot has been in and out of jail ever since. Literally. He used to call and I’d accept the phone calls, but I soon stopped that. He’s always getting out and trying to do the right thing. Oh, and lest we forget, he found God about thirty times. And yet he keeps losing him again. The last time, before this, we had heard from him, his parole officer called and asked how long Idiot would be allowed to stay with us.
“What?” My husband asked the man.
“Idiot said he had permission to stay with you, right? Your address is…”
“No, no, no. He will not be staying with us. Ever.”
So, I guess sometime later Idiot heard what we’d said because he called, three-way, using somebody else’s phone (and don’t say, Chesya, he can’t do that, because if there’s a will, a Con will find a way). “Hey, I don’t really want to stay with you guys,” Idiot said, “I just want to TELL them I’m staying with you guys. You don’t even have to know where I’m staying.”
Yeah, right. So, that’s my good ‘ol brother in law.
So, Idiot, Don, John and the Van were at the door. What did they want? Money. Hopeless was in jail and they were trying to get her out. So if we had any money that we could put in the pot to help get her out, then that would be great. My husband told him no, we were broke. Well, as it turns out that was fine, because if we just had five bucks, so that he could get gas, and get over to another sister in law’s house, then that would be OK too. They are good sports, aren’t they? My husband said no.
Well, the next thing I hear about the van, is that it’s MIA, along with Don and John, and that they were supposed to be getting some food because they had their mother’s food stamp card. Oh, and that food stamp card? Well, turned out, it’s worth more than its weight in gold. There was a small fortune on it; somewhere around 1,000 dollars. And guess what.
Yep, you guess it. They have been going around and selling the food stamps for money. So when we finally get the card from Don and John, there’s (wait…wait for this) a whopping $10 left.
Also, it’s rumored that the three, Idiot, Don, and John, have been using the van to transfer drugs back and forth to North Carolina. They were also said to have gotten rid of the old plates (just in case someone reported it stolen) and put “new” plates on the car. OK, anyone want to guess where the new plate came from?
Did anyone guess, STOLEN? Bingo!
This van is now sitting patiently in my driveway waiting for Hopeless to get out and reclaim it. Also, with it, the food stamp card, with the whopping $10.
Idiot has successfully disappeared with whatever money he has gotten from his sister’s children’s backs, and has sneaked into the background yet again, to not be seen or heard from…until next time.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
Is There Another Way To Call From Jail?
Well, I left them there with their father and all the food that my other sister in law, Meg, brought over. She had come sometime after I showed up, and right before the police left. Officer Williams said to me that he didn’t know her from Adam (as if he knew me from Adam), but that he trusted me. Oh, thanks, I thought. Then the man hands me over the nine children as if they were my life’s inheritance.
So I call my husband. He’s not happy. Actually he’s never happy when dealing with his family. Ok, so he’s rarely ever happy. What can ya do? Move away, you scream? Well, so do I. Instead I went to my mother’s house. I had called her earlier that morning telling her to come over and get my girls. I have four daughters, no boys—I’m glad for that now.
“You just left 9 children there with that man?” My mother asked; she is not known for her subtlety.
“What should I have done?” I’m mad now because I know she’s right.
“I don’t know, something.”
“Well, I did something. I went there and took care of them until their father got back.”
“OK, Chesya.” That’s what she says when she’s through discuss something. After that point you’re not allowed to talk about it any further. She is finished with the issue and you will be talking to a stone wall.
I didn’t care, “I did what I was supposed to do. Period.”
So, I get the girls and take them to breakfast, and then we head back home. I’m tired and I want to take a nap; I’d been up since five that morning. I lie down and try to get some sleep, and just as I doze off, the phone rings. I answer it.
“This you, Chesya?” People say my daughters and I all sound alike.
“Yeah.” It’s Hopeless; calling collect of course. Is there any other way to call from JAIL?
“Where you at?”
Where did you call me at? “Home.”
“Oh, OK. OK. Have you seen Don and John and the Van?” Now this is such a whole new story that I can’t even begin to tell you now—and is, in fact, something that I learned through phone calls from everyone under the sun while I was at the house with “the kids.” But don’t worry; I’ll get to it next time.
“Oh, no.”
“Well, they’re on the way to your house. Keep that van there for me, and don’t let ANYONE drive it. And get my food stamp card too.”
“Oh, OK. They’re coming here? Your what?”
“Food stamp card. Yeah.”
“OK. Guess you don't know your mother got sick, and the ambulance took her to the hospital, and the police called me to take care of the kids. They said they’d take them away if somebody didn’t take care of them.”
“My kids? Oh, lord they was gonna take my kids?”
“Yeah. Fool is there with them now.”
“Call him for me.”
I did.
He answered. I listened.
“Fool what the hell is going on?”
“What the hell you mean?”
“DFCS was gonna take the kids?”
“They wasn’t gonna take them kids.”
“Fool, they was gonna take the kids.”
“Where in the hell is Don and John with that damn van. They took that van and riding around in it and they ain’t got no business in that damn van. I done told you about giving them those keys. I told you didn’t I, didn’t I?
“Fool I don’t care about that van. My priority is my kids. Why in the hell wasn’t you there? You should have been there.”
“Your goddamn momma was here. That bitch is getting on my last nerves. Who does she think she is? I swear if I have to…”
By this time my husband had gotten off work, and walked into the house. He was not happy when I told him who I was talking to. Then I handed him the phone and told him this Fool had just threatened his momma. He snapped it up and listened. I grabbed the other one.
“Fool,” Hopeless yelled, “my momma shouldn’t even have been there. You should have been there. Hell you should be here.”
Then he starts screaming something and she told him she ain’t got time for this shit and hung up.
My husband and I stand there for a full minute and stare at each other. To be honest, our lives are blissfully drama-less. He works his butt off, and I stay at home and take care of the girls—working my butt off. We don’t really speak much (can you blame us?) with his family and are probably the better for it.
Finally we sit down and I told him about that morning and leaving the kids there. Before we could even get a breath the door bell rang.
Don and John, Hopeless’ two oldest sons. The two with the van and the food stamp card. The two, the children had old me the night before, that had left the grandmother the night she had gotten sick, along with an uncle, Hopeless’ brother, promising to bring food for their siblings, but never returned.
My husband threw opened the door, “Where in the hell have you been?” My husband is a quiet man, and he rarely even gets angry, but when he does, people listen.
“We’ve been trying to get money to get Hopeless out.” Yep, they call her by her first name. All of her children do. In fact, all of my mother in law’s children do too. I suppose many families do this—it’s just not what I’m used to.
“Give me the keys to the van. And get in here and sit down.”
Then Hopeless called again and the fateful words sprang from my dry lips. Hell, I didn’t even know I was going to say it until it was all over. I said: “I was thinking, maybe we could take the girls for a while, if someone else can take the boys.”
“Really? Just take the boys to Debra’s.” (her mother’s—the one in the hospital) My other brother in law, Richard, and his wife lives with Mrs. Debra (that’s what I call her).
Of the 9 kids, I would be taking only three. They were 13, 5 and 5 months old. Of course things never really work out the way you plan them.
Did I ever tell you how expensive it is to care for three extra children, let alone a 5 month old infant? Remind me to tell you soon—if I survive.
So I call my husband. He’s not happy. Actually he’s never happy when dealing with his family. Ok, so he’s rarely ever happy. What can ya do? Move away, you scream? Well, so do I. Instead I went to my mother’s house. I had called her earlier that morning telling her to come over and get my girls. I have four daughters, no boys—I’m glad for that now.
“You just left 9 children there with that man?” My mother asked; she is not known for her subtlety.
“What should I have done?” I’m mad now because I know she’s right.
“I don’t know, something.”
“Well, I did something. I went there and took care of them until their father got back.”
“OK, Chesya.” That’s what she says when she’s through discuss something. After that point you’re not allowed to talk about it any further. She is finished with the issue and you will be talking to a stone wall.
I didn’t care, “I did what I was supposed to do. Period.”
So, I get the girls and take them to breakfast, and then we head back home. I’m tired and I want to take a nap; I’d been up since five that morning. I lie down and try to get some sleep, and just as I doze off, the phone rings. I answer it.
“This you, Chesya?” People say my daughters and I all sound alike.
“Yeah.” It’s Hopeless; calling collect of course. Is there any other way to call from JAIL?
“Where you at?”
Where did you call me at? “Home.”
“Oh, OK. OK. Have you seen Don and John and the Van?” Now this is such a whole new story that I can’t even begin to tell you now—and is, in fact, something that I learned through phone calls from everyone under the sun while I was at the house with “the kids.” But don’t worry; I’ll get to it next time.
“Oh, no.”
“Well, they’re on the way to your house. Keep that van there for me, and don’t let ANYONE drive it. And get my food stamp card too.”
“Oh, OK. They’re coming here? Your what?”
“Food stamp card. Yeah.”
“OK. Guess you don't know your mother got sick, and the ambulance took her to the hospital, and the police called me to take care of the kids. They said they’d take them away if somebody didn’t take care of them.”
“My kids? Oh, lord they was gonna take my kids?”
“Yeah. Fool is there with them now.”
“Call him for me.”
I did.
He answered. I listened.
“Fool what the hell is going on?”
“What the hell you mean?”
“DFCS was gonna take the kids?”
“They wasn’t gonna take them kids.”
“Fool, they was gonna take the kids.”
“Where in the hell is Don and John with that damn van. They took that van and riding around in it and they ain’t got no business in that damn van. I done told you about giving them those keys. I told you didn’t I, didn’t I?
“Fool I don’t care about that van. My priority is my kids. Why in the hell wasn’t you there? You should have been there.”
“Your goddamn momma was here. That bitch is getting on my last nerves. Who does she think she is? I swear if I have to…”
By this time my husband had gotten off work, and walked into the house. He was not happy when I told him who I was talking to. Then I handed him the phone and told him this Fool had just threatened his momma. He snapped it up and listened. I grabbed the other one.
“Fool,” Hopeless yelled, “my momma shouldn’t even have been there. You should have been there. Hell you should be here.”
Then he starts screaming something and she told him she ain’t got time for this shit and hung up.
My husband and I stand there for a full minute and stare at each other. To be honest, our lives are blissfully drama-less. He works his butt off, and I stay at home and take care of the girls—working my butt off. We don’t really speak much (can you blame us?) with his family and are probably the better for it.
Finally we sit down and I told him about that morning and leaving the kids there. Before we could even get a breath the door bell rang.
Don and John, Hopeless’ two oldest sons. The two with the van and the food stamp card. The two, the children had old me the night before, that had left the grandmother the night she had gotten sick, along with an uncle, Hopeless’ brother, promising to bring food for their siblings, but never returned.
My husband threw opened the door, “Where in the hell have you been?” My husband is a quiet man, and he rarely even gets angry, but when he does, people listen.
“We’ve been trying to get money to get Hopeless out.” Yep, they call her by her first name. All of her children do. In fact, all of my mother in law’s children do too. I suppose many families do this—it’s just not what I’m used to.
“Give me the keys to the van. And get in here and sit down.”
Then Hopeless called again and the fateful words sprang from my dry lips. Hell, I didn’t even know I was going to say it until it was all over. I said: “I was thinking, maybe we could take the girls for a while, if someone else can take the boys.”
“Really? Just take the boys to Debra’s.” (her mother’s—the one in the hospital) My other brother in law, Richard, and his wife lives with Mrs. Debra (that’s what I call her).
Of the 9 kids, I would be taking only three. They were 13, 5 and 5 months old. Of course things never really work out the way you plan them.
Did I ever tell you how expensive it is to care for three extra children, let alone a 5 month old infant? Remind me to tell you soon—if I survive.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Writing Friends
When I was a child I’d sometimes have a tiff with a schoolmate and run home to tell my mother that so and so was “picking on me” or “talking about me” It never failed that my mother would say, “If he’s talking about you, then he really likes you.”
Well, Maurice Broaddus must love me. He’s been talking about me.
I can’t really get angry about the things he said, because, well, they’re mostly true. We do hate each other’s writing styles. We also bounce ideas off each other. Like his failed attempt to run for HWA president. He only decided against it when I reminded him he wasn’t actually an Active member.
For those who don’t know, Maurice and I have been friends for quite a while. Maurice is a really smart guy. I know because he keeps telling me. He’s a scientist and writes about things like “Ontological Blackness” and “The Philosophy of his Underpants”. Maurice is also a minister—ordained by God. Which means he doesn’t need to be ordained by man or the church—who needs that pesky, piece of paper.
We go back and forth with each other this way all the time. This is good I think because it keeps us both on our toes and makes for a great friendly rival. I don’t think he was joking when he said he measures his success by “top Chesya moments.” He has a lot of catching up to do.
Need I even say who coined the term “Literary Diva” first? Oh, and did I tell you that he said I better not make this blog pink…so naturally I had no choice.
And, for the record, I haven’t completely gotten over the being only “Chesya” thing. I could be like the supernatural Zane. Chesya—there can be only one.
But check him out—you’re bound to learn something—I always do.
Well, Maurice Broaddus must love me. He’s been talking about me.
I can’t really get angry about the things he said, because, well, they’re mostly true. We do hate each other’s writing styles. We also bounce ideas off each other. Like his failed attempt to run for HWA president. He only decided against it when I reminded him he wasn’t actually an Active member.
For those who don’t know, Maurice and I have been friends for quite a while. Maurice is a really smart guy. I know because he keeps telling me. He’s a scientist and writes about things like “Ontological Blackness” and “The Philosophy of his Underpants”. Maurice is also a minister—ordained by God. Which means he doesn’t need to be ordained by man or the church—who needs that pesky, piece of paper.
We go back and forth with each other this way all the time. This is good I think because it keeps us both on our toes and makes for a great friendly rival. I don’t think he was joking when he said he measures his success by “top Chesya moments.” He has a lot of catching up to do.
Need I even say who coined the term “Literary Diva” first? Oh, and did I tell you that he said I better not make this blog pink…so naturally I had no choice.
And, for the record, I haven’t completely gotten over the being only “Chesya” thing. I could be like the supernatural Zane. Chesya—there can be only one.
But check him out—you’re bound to learn something—I always do.
Monday, January 16, 2006
All In The Family
Let me tell you what I have learned so far about my extended family. My brother in law (and you have no idea how much it takes for me to call him that) doesn’t live with his wife or his children. He lives with his mother (who he is said to also beat, but I don’t know) more than twenty miles away. When the police called him, the morning they rushed my mother in law to the hospital, he said he had to walk to the bank to get money to take the bus, so it would be a while before he could get there. Guess that’s why they called me.
He said he lives with his mother because it’s closer to (1) his job. He said he has to go to work to (2) take care of his family. He said he had to be the one to (3) support them and (4)no one else is gonna do it. He said he (5) pays the bills in that house and no one is gonna (6) take his kids no matter what they think, those are HIS kids—all nine of them.
Let’s look at this, shall we?
But first, I guess we should give this guy a name. I’m tired of calling him my brother in law for more reasons than one, and so we shall call him Fool. Yep, that’s right, Fool. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that movie “People Under the Stairs.” Though that Fool has discernable differences than our Fool (about fifty years), the term still applies.
1) So Fool says he lives with his mother because it’s closer to his job and that he can take the bus from there. But we find out, through his older step sons (yep my sister in law—from hence forth known as Hopeless—has 2 older children, so that makes 11 kids in that house,) who he really doesn’t get along with, and that he hasn’t worked in over a month—the exact time, in fact, that his wife has been in jail. Let him tell it, he has been working tirelessly trying to get Hopeless out. Hopeless still sits in jail, though other efforts have been tried, with really bad outcomes. But not only is Fool not working, but he doesn’t seem to have a Marta card. For those who don’t know, Marta is Atlanta’s transit system. It’s easy and simple and fairly cheap—if you use it regularly AND have a card you can save a bundle. But our Fool was headed to the bank so that he could get money ($1.75) for bus fair. Poor Fool.
2) Fool said that he takes care of his family. Well his family is receiving government assistance and housing (which he says they most definitely are NOT). It takes a lot to feed 11 children and most people couldn’t do it alone, but not only does he manage this, but he manages it WITHOUT a job.
3-4) We know Fool doesn’t support them, but he said no one else will. Well, right now, my husband, and my mother and brother in law are all doing just that. Not to mention that government whom he is quite certain is not helping him.
5) The bills—the water was just shut off. The lights are next.
6) Now this one is funny and really needs no comment from me, so I’ll just say one thing. How in the hell does Fool think he can keep the government out of his house when there is no adult or food, and now no water in that house? Poor Fool.
Recently my brother-in-law called my home and told me he was on his way to bring food and milk for his children. Of course he was a no show. Just didn’t bother coming.
I hate that. More to the point, I hate people who do that. What kind of person lies and says they’re on the way and have no plans of showing up? Do they think you won’t notice? They know they’re not coming, they just don’t bother telling you. Not only are they lying about what they will do, but they’re lying about what they are actively (on the way) doing that moment. “I’m on the way.” Mean while, you go to the front door thinking they should pull up any minuet. And you get a call:
“I’m in my car now. Yes. Yes, I’m passing the Citco on the right, and the Blockbuster’s on the left. I could stop, do you want movies. Oh, yeah, I see Kroger, I could pick up a pizza. Did you want me to stop? No probably not a good idea since—well, I’m NOT ACTUALLY ON THE WAY.
Yep and he takes care of his kids, right?
I say “poor fool.” I should have said, poor children.
He said he lives with his mother because it’s closer to (1) his job. He said he has to go to work to (2) take care of his family. He said he had to be the one to (3) support them and (4)no one else is gonna do it. He said he (5) pays the bills in that house and no one is gonna (6) take his kids no matter what they think, those are HIS kids—all nine of them.
Let’s look at this, shall we?
But first, I guess we should give this guy a name. I’m tired of calling him my brother in law for more reasons than one, and so we shall call him Fool. Yep, that’s right, Fool. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that movie “People Under the Stairs.” Though that Fool has discernable differences than our Fool (about fifty years), the term still applies.
1) So Fool says he lives with his mother because it’s closer to his job and that he can take the bus from there. But we find out, through his older step sons (yep my sister in law—from hence forth known as Hopeless—has 2 older children, so that makes 11 kids in that house,) who he really doesn’t get along with, and that he hasn’t worked in over a month—the exact time, in fact, that his wife has been in jail. Let him tell it, he has been working tirelessly trying to get Hopeless out. Hopeless still sits in jail, though other efforts have been tried, with really bad outcomes. But not only is Fool not working, but he doesn’t seem to have a Marta card. For those who don’t know, Marta is Atlanta’s transit system. It’s easy and simple and fairly cheap—if you use it regularly AND have a card you can save a bundle. But our Fool was headed to the bank so that he could get money ($1.75) for bus fair. Poor Fool.
2) Fool said that he takes care of his family. Well his family is receiving government assistance and housing (which he says they most definitely are NOT). It takes a lot to feed 11 children and most people couldn’t do it alone, but not only does he manage this, but he manages it WITHOUT a job.
3-4) We know Fool doesn’t support them, but he said no one else will. Well, right now, my husband, and my mother and brother in law are all doing just that. Not to mention that government whom he is quite certain is not helping him.
5) The bills—the water was just shut off. The lights are next.
6) Now this one is funny and really needs no comment from me, so I’ll just say one thing. How in the hell does Fool think he can keep the government out of his house when there is no adult or food, and now no water in that house? Poor Fool.
Recently my brother-in-law called my home and told me he was on his way to bring food and milk for his children. Of course he was a no show. Just didn’t bother coming.
I hate that. More to the point, I hate people who do that. What kind of person lies and says they’re on the way and have no plans of showing up? Do they think you won’t notice? They know they’re not coming, they just don’t bother telling you. Not only are they lying about what they will do, but they’re lying about what they are actively (on the way) doing that moment. “I’m on the way.” Mean while, you go to the front door thinking they should pull up any minuet. And you get a call:
“I’m in my car now. Yes. Yes, I’m passing the Citco on the right, and the Blockbuster’s on the left. I could stop, do you want movies. Oh, yeah, I see Kroger, I could pick up a pizza. Did you want me to stop? No probably not a good idea since—well, I’m NOT ACTUALLY ON THE WAY.
Yep and he takes care of his kids, right?
I say “poor fool.” I should have said, poor children.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
The Beginning of a Nightmare
My husband and I have inherited three more daughters. It wasn’t anything that we did special, and don’t even bother congratulating us, because, trust me we didn’t earn it. Let me explain:
At 5am one morning, my phone rings. I don’t answer, because well, anyone who calls my house that early in the morning is just asking for it. Then when it rings again and again, I think this may be something important. I answered. “Hello.”
“Is Jerome (my husband) there.”
“No.”
“This is officer (lets call him…) Williams.” My husband does security and they just love calling themselves officer this and that. My husband gets a kick out of hearing them do it. And then I think, OK, so why in the hell are you calling my house. Officer Williams goes on, “I’m an officer for the Clayton county police department.”
“OK.” It’s 5 in the morning; I’m not at my best.
“Your mother in law has just gone to the hospital and I’m here with these kids (that’s what he said, these kids) and I need someone to come and get them, or I’ll call DFCS.”
The long and short of it is my sister in law, has gotten herself into trouble, and has been in jail for several weeks, my mother in law (god bless her soul—which is a good thing, because at times it’s like the devil controls her, and those are not times that you want to know the woman.) has gotten sick and gone to the hospital by ambulance.
Their father, the wonderful waste of space that he turns out to be, is no where to be found. And trust me, I don’t use that term lightly. This man has been known to beat my sister in law to a bloody pulp, no doubt in front of his children (9—yep, that’s right 9 of them), hit my mother in law and push her down the stairs while she’s trying to stop him from hitting her daughter, and lastly but not even close to lease, getting stopped by the police and giving them my husband’s name (it wasn’t until my husband got a summons in the mail that we even knew what was going on and then he had to take a day off work and go to court and take a letter from his job saying he was working at the time of the ticket (thank GOD) all the way across town).
My sister in law is no better as she used her own sisters name when she was arrested, and she conspires with her husband (my husband and I can’t figure out if they’re married) to defraud the government for all the money and food and housing that they can, and they have been having children since I was a child—literally.
When I get there, the police are waiting. As soon as I step into the house, my heart sinks. There’s no furniture, and there are bags and bags of wet clothes everywhere. I mean there had to be fifty of them laying all over the house. Children are running and screaming around and one of the officer’s head looks like its gonna explode from the noise.
They take me to the side and asked me what the hell is going on in this house. I tell him, truthfully, that I didn’t know and that my husband and I didn’t come over there. He says, “I don’t blame you.” He goes on to say that he didn’t want to have to call DFCS (Department of Family and Children Services), because they could screw up the kids more and that there is NO food in the house except one carton of eggs with 2 eggs inside and that he would have to file a complaint. That people would be coming. He got on his shoulder mike and then told someone I was a “very good citizen” and that I agreed to look after the kids. Then he left me there with them.
So eventually my brother in law (I guess) does show up, and oh my God. He comes in complaining that he can’t be taking time out to come there for HIS OWN CHILDREN. And that they get on his nerves. He’s screaming at them, right up in their faces—like a military man, which I know for a fact he is NOT. And he’s talking about my mother in law, you know the one in the hospital, you know, the one that just went to the hospital due to trying to take care of HIS 9 children. He’s saying that she has some nerve coming into his house trying to run things, and moving things, and that, oh, if he ever gets his hands on her…
OK, right now, it’s time for me to go. Go, you say? But really, what choice did I have. I mean, I thought about calling the police back and telling them to take the kids from him, but the officer had already told me he didn’t think that would be a good idea. He said that most of the foster parents were just after the $200 a month pay check and it would screw the kids up even more.
So, I leave. I left them there with a man that I know beats his wife and his sick mother in law. But he’s their father, right?
What else should I have done?
But this is just the beginning. And, oh, do I have stories to tell you.
At 5am one morning, my phone rings. I don’t answer, because well, anyone who calls my house that early in the morning is just asking for it. Then when it rings again and again, I think this may be something important. I answered. “Hello.”
“Is Jerome (my husband) there.”
“No.”
“This is officer (lets call him…) Williams.” My husband does security and they just love calling themselves officer this and that. My husband gets a kick out of hearing them do it. And then I think, OK, so why in the hell are you calling my house. Officer Williams goes on, “I’m an officer for the Clayton county police department.”
“OK.” It’s 5 in the morning; I’m not at my best.
“Your mother in law has just gone to the hospital and I’m here with these kids (that’s what he said, these kids) and I need someone to come and get them, or I’ll call DFCS.”
The long and short of it is my sister in law, has gotten herself into trouble, and has been in jail for several weeks, my mother in law (god bless her soul—which is a good thing, because at times it’s like the devil controls her, and those are not times that you want to know the woman.) has gotten sick and gone to the hospital by ambulance.
Their father, the wonderful waste of space that he turns out to be, is no where to be found. And trust me, I don’t use that term lightly. This man has been known to beat my sister in law to a bloody pulp, no doubt in front of his children (9—yep, that’s right 9 of them), hit my mother in law and push her down the stairs while she’s trying to stop him from hitting her daughter, and lastly but not even close to lease, getting stopped by the police and giving them my husband’s name (it wasn’t until my husband got a summons in the mail that we even knew what was going on and then he had to take a day off work and go to court and take a letter from his job saying he was working at the time of the ticket (thank GOD) all the way across town).
My sister in law is no better as she used her own sisters name when she was arrested, and she conspires with her husband (my husband and I can’t figure out if they’re married) to defraud the government for all the money and food and housing that they can, and they have been having children since I was a child—literally.
When I get there, the police are waiting. As soon as I step into the house, my heart sinks. There’s no furniture, and there are bags and bags of wet clothes everywhere. I mean there had to be fifty of them laying all over the house. Children are running and screaming around and one of the officer’s head looks like its gonna explode from the noise.
They take me to the side and asked me what the hell is going on in this house. I tell him, truthfully, that I didn’t know and that my husband and I didn’t come over there. He says, “I don’t blame you.” He goes on to say that he didn’t want to have to call DFCS (Department of Family and Children Services), because they could screw up the kids more and that there is NO food in the house except one carton of eggs with 2 eggs inside and that he would have to file a complaint. That people would be coming. He got on his shoulder mike and then told someone I was a “very good citizen” and that I agreed to look after the kids. Then he left me there with them.
So eventually my brother in law (I guess) does show up, and oh my God. He comes in complaining that he can’t be taking time out to come there for HIS OWN CHILDREN. And that they get on his nerves. He’s screaming at them, right up in their faces—like a military man, which I know for a fact he is NOT. And he’s talking about my mother in law, you know the one in the hospital, you know, the one that just went to the hospital due to trying to take care of HIS 9 children. He’s saying that she has some nerve coming into his house trying to run things, and moving things, and that, oh, if he ever gets his hands on her…
OK, right now, it’s time for me to go. Go, you say? But really, what choice did I have. I mean, I thought about calling the police back and telling them to take the kids from him, but the officer had already told me he didn’t think that would be a good idea. He said that most of the foster parents were just after the $200 a month pay check and it would screw the kids up even more.
So, I leave. I left them there with a man that I know beats his wife and his sick mother in law. But he’s their father, right?
What else should I have done?
But this is just the beginning. And, oh, do I have stories to tell you.
Hello
Decided to start this blog not because I really have anything important to say, but more because I need to vent. Things have really been crazy around these parts, and the only way I think I can deal with them is to write them down. The stories may sound crazy and unbelievable, but they are true.
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