By Kaitlin Chamberlain
I was born in Oakland in 1986. My first memory isn’t the most beautiful one, but I think a lot of people can relate. My mom and I were sitting in a waiting room on yellow plastic chairs. She was really anxious and impatient as I proceeded to dump out the entire contents of her purse. Frustration was all over her face; she shoved me aside, crying and scrambling to pick everything up. The lady at the front desk called her name, and we went into a room with thick glass and rows of desks. There were telephones, and on the other side of the glass, I saw my dad. My mom picked up the phone, and I could tell how much they missed each other, but I didn’t know why or where we were or what it all meant because I was only two years old.
My parents were both drug addicts. My dad tried to buy drugs from an undercover police officer, just like dumb criminals do in the movies, and was sent to prison. Not too long after, my mom was found unfit to take care of my brother and me.
Initially, my grandparents took us in, but they just weren’t in a position to take care of two babies. It was a tough decision, but they released us to social services, and we were put into the foster system.
When it happened, my brother and I were sitting together in the kitchen. I was holding him, and we were both wearing week-old diapers. We were just babies—I was two, and he was one. As depressing as it is that this happened to me, it’s crazier to think that this happens to kids all the time. According to Children Uniting Nations’ foster-care statistics, there are more than 463,000 children in foster care in the US, with California having the largest foster-care population. Kidsdata breaks these figures down by county.
I was lucky. I was placed with a really loving family. Linda and Mike were
older and had grown children, along with another foster daughter named
Jewel. The entire family really loved me, and I was happy.
My brother wasn’t so lucky. He was placed with a family who had many other foster children. They fed him nothing but butter and dog food. I don’t know why we were placed in different homes, but even to this day, I am grateful we were so young when we were separated because I don’t think I could’ve dealt with the heartbreak of being without him, had I been older.
One day, two years later, Linda sat me down and told me she had some great news: I had a younger brother, and he was going to live with us. To this day, that is still the best news I have ever received.
I clearly remember the day we went to pick him up. Linda and Mike let me ring the doorbell, and a girl about my age answered the door. When I looked past her, I saw 10 kids sitting on the living room floor, their eyes glued on the television. They never turned around to see who was at the door, and I remember how eerie that felt. When Jais came to the door, we hugged each other so tightly. I knew he was my family.
Life was good for a while, and our dad—our real dad—would come visit us sometimes and would take us to museums or for long drives with the windows rolled down. He always wanted to be with us, but we were constantly competing with his addiction. Our mom, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found.
When Jais came to the door, we hugged each other so tightly. I knew he was my family.
After about a year, Linda and Mike had to decide whether or not to adopt us. They loved us very much but decided that permanently raising two children with our kinds of emotional needs was something they just weren’t able to do. I still think about Linda and the song she would sing to me before bed, but I guess staying in contact with us was just too hard for her because we never heard from her again.
Our aunt Mattie in Florida took over from there. She was single, 25, working for an ad agency, and our dad’s younger sister. The foster-care system ultimately wants to place children with relatives, and since our aunt was now older and in a better position to take care of us, that’s what happened. We were happy again. Jais and I practically lived in our swimsuits and would spend our summers in the Florida Keys fishing and collecting hermit crabs. But once again, things didn’t last.
Mattie wasn’t married, and because of this, we couldn’t permanently stay in her care. They don’t tell you those things when you’re little, though. We just crossed our fingers, hoping we were where we belonged. But we weren’t. Fortunately, good news was right around the corner.
On July 4, 1993, my brother and I were six and seven, and we received news that there were two people who wanted to adopt us. Permanently. It was my Aunt Marybeth and her husband, Jim. My brother and I didn’t remember who they were, and we weren’t excited about leaving Mattie. Later, we found out that Aunt Marybeth had always wanted to adopt us, but at the time she had been married to a different man, and they had kids of their own. Adopting us just wasn’t something her then-husband felt comfortable with. Fortunately, Jim didn’t feel this way.
My brother and I packed up our things and were on a flight to Las Vegas to meet our new family. I remember how mad I was at Mattie for giving us up, but how excited I was to meet my new brother and sisters, and my new mom and dad.
My sister Lauren was the first to greet me, and even just thinking of that moment brings a smile to my face. We were immediately best friends, and we still are to this day. When Marybeth hugged me for the first time, and when I saw the tears well up in Jim’s eyes, I just knew Jais and I were where we belonged. This was our family.
I became the oldest of five kids, which essentially meant I had someone to play with all the time, and it was awesome. I was lucky to have been adopted by such wonderful people—those who are actual family members. That doesn’t happen to a lot of children in foster care.
My family and I have spent most of our years in Reno, Nevada. Reno will always remain close to my heart, but when I turned 25, I knew I wanted something more, so I packed up my things and moved to San Francisco to start my own life. Something about being here has made me want to know more about where I came from.
About two years ago, I decided to do something about that curiosity. I typed my biological mom’s name into the Facebook search engine. I didn’t find her page, but I found a 19-year-old boy who had the last name I grew up with and who had listed a woman with my biological mother’s name as his mom. I wrote him a message with a few questions I was sure would creep him out, but he responded immediately.
After a few conversations, we realized that we were brother and sister. He also told me that I had other siblings. My mother had two children before she had me and Jais, whom she put up for adoption, and two children after us, who were partially raised by her but also later adopted by other families. Talk about a mindfuck.
I was still curious to know more about my mom. I wrote her a Facebook message, explaining who I was. She wrote back that it was nice to hear from me and asked about my dad, but didn’t seem interested in knowing me at all. I was annoyed that the experience was so lackluster, but at the same time, I realized that all I really needed was confirmation that she was a real person. I don’t think we will ever meet, and that is OK.
My mother had two children before she had me and Jais, whom she put up for adoption, and two children after us, who were partially raised by her but also later adopted by other families. Talk about a mindfuck.
I have thought about meeting all my newfound brothers and sisters, but we all seem very different (weirdly, all my brothers have served in the Army). My adoptive dad and my biological dad have both since passed away. My life has been full of changes, challenges and losses. Some days I feel bad for myself, but most days I just feel thankful to be alive and to have learned the lessons I have so early on. My family and my life may have been unconventional, but I’m the woman I am now — with the drive to follow my dreams and keep my heart open — because of it.
Design by Amanda Verwey
