According to all the statistics, I shouldn’t be doing well. As a Latina in foster care who was abused as a child and came from a poor family, I should have been a drug addict, gotten pregnant, or dropped out of school. Even my own my family thought I would end up going down one of those paths, like my cousins did. All of them had kids when they were teenagers, and none of them went to college.

When we were little, my dad would hit me and my brother and sister on our bare butts with an electrical cord as a punishment. My dad hit my mom a lot, too. I wondered why she stayed with him. I think it was because she didn’t have an education that would let her get a job and support us on her own. My mom went to school only up to 6th grade, which was customary in the part of Mexico where she grew up.

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When I was 7, my dad was arrested because of his abuse. My sister went to live with my aunt and uncle. My mom didn’t have a job so we moved to Mexico to live with my grandparents.

School was an escape from everything. At school I felt like I had a regular family. I always helped my friends, and they helped me. My teachers would assist me with an assignment or teach me a better way to hit the ball—they were always there for me. When I got a good grade it would make me feel good about myself. I felt like my education was the one thing that was going well in my life. School made me happy.

When I was 12, my brother’s dad showed up and took my brother to live with him in Arizona. Once he left, my mom became a different person. She started hanging out with my 16-year-old cousin. She would go out to clubs and wear my cousin’s clothes. She was rarely home. I’d wonder, “It’s late, where is my mom at?”

I decided to make good decisions, unlike her. I was going to go to school and get good grades, because I was the one who had to live with the consequences.

Mom Didn’t Want Me Anymore

A few months later, my mom told me that I’d be moving back to California to live with family. She said my dad would be getting out of jail soon and she believed he would harm us. But I knew that was just an excuse; she wanted to enjoy her life without me.

Who would do that to their own child? I felt sad, but I began to think about it. I didn’t want to be there if she wasn’t going to take care of me and didn’t want me.

First, I lived with one of my cousins, who did not know how to take care of me. After a few months I moved to San Francisco with my aunt. My aunt tried to make me feel like a part of her family. I made friends and continued to get good grades. But after about two years I guess my aunt got tired of me. (I don’t blame her; I wasn’t her child anyway.)

Like everyone else, she also gave me away. This time I had nowhere to go. My mom’s side of the family was poor and could barely take care of themselves. And my dad’s side of the family didn’t want me.

A social worker came to pick me up on Sept. 7, 2007, a day I will never forget. I was about to turn 15 and the social worker told me that I would be returning to L.A. to live with a “new family.” The thought of living with complete strangers was horrible.

Out of Place

When I met my first foster family, my foster mom told me to tell people that she was my aunt, so that I would not have to explain my situation to anyone. I felt like being in foster care was something to be ashamed of. My foster mom made us clean before we went to school, after school, and before we went to sleep. I knew that it was not right to be treated that way. My second foster mom was just as bad.

I didn’t like living in a place where I knew I wasn’t wanted, but I didn’t want to go to another foster home because I didn’t know if it was going to be better or worse. I wanted to be on my own so I could make my own decisions. But I thought I had to wait until I was 18 when I was out of the system.

image by Jamel Blass

One day I told my social worker that I wanted to leave there so bad. She said she thought there was a way, but she didn’t know much more. I did research online and found out that once I turned 16 there was a possibility for me to live on my own in a housing program for foster youth. As soon as I turned 16, I applied to the program and was accepted. My dreams of living on my own were finally going to come true.

The program provides you with an apartment that you share with a roommate (but you have your own bedroom), all the bills are paid, you have furniture, and they give you money for food, laundry, and personal items. You must attend school, and they suggest you have a part-time job. They teach things like how to make a budget, clean, write a résumé and cover letter, and comparison shop to get the best deal and save money.

Independence, With a Price

The closest apartment in the program was very far from my high school, but I didn’t change schools because I loved my school and friends. The first time I got the bus, it took me almost two hours to get to school. I thought, “Wow, this is far. It’s really going to suck!” I was about an hour late.

I realized I had to leave my house by 5:30 a.m. to get there on time. I panicked a little. Those thoughts of whether I was going to be able to make it came back. To make it worse, I felt like even my social worker didn’t believe in me. But I told myself, “I have to do this.” I didn’t want to go back to a horrible foster home.

The bus came only once an hour. If I missed it by one minute, I would get to school an hour late, which happened to me every other day my junior year. My teachers were understanding because they knew it was difficult for me to get there.

With my crazy schedule, staying awake in class was a challenge, too. I would go to bed late after finishing my homework or doing chores and was always tired in class. But I knew that if I fell asleep, I would fall behind. There were times when I just had to take a small nap, but only when I knew I wasn’t going to miss anything important. I’d usually tell one of my friends to wake me up.

It was hard living on my own. I had to manage my time so I could cook, do my homework, clean, and do my laundry. But now I finally enjoyed coming home to my own place, where I only had to clean once a day and didn’t have a foster mom nagging me.

Against All Odds

My senior year was the most difficult because I had to write so many essays for class, college applications, and scholarships. I was taking honors classes, which meant additional hard work, but I was more determined than ever. I really wanted to get into a good college.

I still had to get up at 5 a.m. every day, but I was able to catch the bus on time. I learned to manage my time better. I tried getting as much done during class as I could so that all I had left to do at home were my college applications and essays. I couldn’t afford a computer, so almost every day I would go to my boyfriend’s house to use his laptop, then take the bus home at night.

During Senior Awards Night I got awards for most improved in English and attendance, and for being a college peer counselor. Then they announced the last award of the evening, Against All Odds. The announcer, our college counselor who knew me very well, said that he believed this was one of the most important ones. I then heard my name!

I smiled and went up to the stage. I tried not to make a big deal out of it because I didn’t want to embarrass myself or make others feel bad, but I felt honored. It’s nice that they acknowledged that I had to work extra hard.

Thanks to the support of my friends, teachers, boyfriend, counselors, and the staff in my housing program, I was able to accomplish what I wanted. I also had my grandmother, who had moved back to the United States.

My mom only had a basic education, but she knows that with a good education you can get a better job. She tells me that she hopes to see me graduate from a university. Of course I miss my parents, and I’m disappointed by their poor decisions, but I learned from their mistakes.

I worked really hard, but it paid off. I’m going to California State University, Dominguez Hills. I’m going to have a career and, when the time is right, I’ll be able to provide a safe home for my kids—all thanks to education.