Being a writer was something I added to my bucket list half a lifetime ago. Gradually, as time permitted, I began chronicling stories in writing that figuratively fell into my lap. I'd meet someone on an airplane, engage in conversation for a couple of hours or more, and come away with the belief that something shared with me was worthy of saving. I'd write it down.
For example, I sat next to a young man on a plane from Chicago to Austin once and he shared some of his life's story with me. He had grown up in Chapel Hill, NC and was a recent college graduate from Appalachian State University in Boone, NC. Interestingly, I had been on that campus about a year earlier for a meeting. It never occurred that I'd one day meet an alumnus from that setting.
The most interesting thing he shared with me was that he knew the kind of father he wanted to be when he had children. He said: "I will be an incredible dad to my children." He went on to share that he mostly knew nothing about his dad. His parents divorced when he was young, and out-of-sight/out-of-mind was the modus operandi associated with his dad's connection with his children.
The man's father was an airline pilot, and he flew cargo planes from the U.S. to South America and back. As a little kid, he remembered sitting in the cockpit with his dad on one of those flights. The young man's mother was from South America. That pretty much summed up his memories in a nutshell apart from the chronic memories of his dad's absence from his life. Every Christmas, every birthday, every special when his dad was a "No-Show," strengthened his resolve to be a different kind of dad when he had children.
This week I wrote down the story of a friend that I've known for several years. In recent conversation, I asked if he had siblings. He responded that he had a sister. When I asked if they were close as a family, he modified his answer.
He went on to explain that his sister was not biologically related but was another child in his last foster home. Both wanted so desperately to have family, that they referred to each other as being brother and sister. He last saw her when he was twelve years old.
I was both shocked and saddened when he shared with me that he spent most of his childhood in foster care. He never met either of his birth parents and knows nothing of their backgrounds. He was placed in foster care immediately following his birth, and for the next twelve years was shuffled from one home to another. By the time he was twelve years' old, he had been in a least a dozen different homes.
Obviously, the happiest day of his life was associated to the question a Judge asked him in chambers, "Did he want the identified adoptive family to adopt him?" He said, "I was overwhelmed because I couldn't believe the day had come."
My friend is one of the most positive, upbeat and joyful people that I've ever known. We've got to do better by children. The foster home shuffle serves no one's best interest.
All My Best!
Don
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