Unbreakable Ground

Anonymous, 2nd Place Winner (high school), Beyond the System Writing Contest

I was twelve years old when they came for me.

It was a cold night in March, around 7:30 at night. My mom had just come home from jail only god knows why she was in there. For the first time in forever, she brought food. She stayed two whole days. We felt like a family again, until that knock.

Two cops. A woman I had never seen. She looked at me and said, “Start packing.”

No warning. No kindness. Just that.

I saw my mom’s face fall like her heart hit the floor. She didn’t argue. She just stood there, defeated. She always knew this day would come but did not know when. That was the moment I learned what it meant to be powerless.

I had already learned how to survive.

By twelve, I was raising my mother and an 8-year-old sister. My sister was mine in every way that mattered. I fed her and shielded her. I swallowed every bit of darkness so she could keep some light. She never knew what it was like to go hungry, not because there was food, because I made sure she ate first. Always.

When my mom was gone, which was often, it was just us. When she came home, she smelt of weed and slept the sins from the night away. I’d help her to bed like I was the parent. I hated the weight of it. I hated missing out on my childhood, I didn’t get to play with other kids, my childhood was taking care of my sister. I hated the thought of my sister becoming me, and didn't want her to carry darkness like I did. I was afraid for her, I did not want her to grow up sooner than she needed to.

Then came foster care. They said I would be “safe” now. That was the first lie. My first foster mom smiled sweetly at first. For three months, I thought maybe I’d landed somewhere okay. But then her mask slipped. The yelling first started for something really small as in not wanting to hang out with her family. What “safe” adult would do that? Unfortunately, over time, it just kept getting worse. The names “hoe,” “slut,” “whore.” She kicked me out of the house for hours at a time. Told her newborn baby, “You’ll never be like them.”

She looked me in the eyes and said, “You’ll be pregnant before sixteen just like your mother.”

I cried until my tears dried up.

But I never broke.

I changed schools three times in one year and I still managed to maintain a 3.4 GPA. Every time I wanted to give up, I thought of where I came from. That was enough to keep moving forward. They tried to bury me in silence, shame, and thought I would be yet another statistics; but I grew despite the negative future they had for me. I’m not just a survivor of the system. I’m proof that no label, no insult, no past can hold down someone who refuses to stay broken. They took me. They tried to break me. But I was never theirs to keep. I am unbreakable ground and no one can stand on me unless I let them.