15

She grew up in house on 15th street and there was irony in that. Her parents were married, and got along pretty well when they weren’t belligerently drunk or intolerably high. They tried to be good parents during those times. So it was only natural that she and her older sister did as they pleased. They were never really good at confrontation, so they would often erupt in rage, as they saw their parents often do.
It just so happened to be a cool October evening when the social worker appeared at the door to take the girls away. She cried the first time, but never again. The foster homes were never cozy. The other children often teased her for her curly hair and dark skin. But mostly, she missed her sister. She missed the protection offered by her sister. So it only made sense that she ran away from foster care 15 times before they finally stopped looking for her. She was older now, her body just beginning to develop. Her best friend’s family allowed her to stay with them, but after having to wrestle Mr. Dad of Best Friend off of her almost every night, she left there too.
She looked for someone, anyone to love her- just a little bit. That’s how she met him when she was 15. He was good to her, as long as she was good to him. He gave her an STD, but more importantly, he gave her a baby. She was determined to love that baby. But as she held her in her arms for the very first time, she realized that she had no idea of how to love, or even what it meant. She became afraid, so she returned to the first place she knew as home, to the only mother she ever really had, seeking some type of advice on how to be a good mother. Her mother greeted her with a poilte smack upside the head for bringing another mouth to feed there. She didn’t cry, she only stood there, expressionless, feeling absolutely numb. And it was there that she discovered that her sister was in college- away, making a better life for herself and not ruining her life by having a baby so young. That was the first time she hated her sister. She hated her for leaving her all alone with them, she hated her for getting the chance to escape, and she hated her for not even bothering to tell her goodbye.
Some years later, she walked into the grocery store with her 3 children, all of whom were fussy and hungry. The other shoppers looked at her with disgust, looked at her children with dismay, and never even offered to help her pick up the cans of beans she accidently knocked over while trying to comfort one of the children. She heard one woman say, “Look at that girl with all of those babies. I bet she doesn’t even know who their fathers are.” The other woman shook her head as to be ashamed. She wanted to say to them, ” I do know who their fathers are, but most importantly, I know who my Father is.” But she kept quiet. She was accustomed to people judging her, like a worn book with a dirty cover. She was used to people believing that she chose her own life and had ruined it. But somewhere, between her last baby and her new job, she made a friend. Not just a friend, but a real friend. One who didn’t look at her like she was a mistake, one who never judged her for her shortcomings. Someone she could talk to about anything. And that friend taught her how to pray. She taught her what love felt like, so in turn, she was able to teach her own children how to love and be loved. It was a feeling she had never felt before.
Today, she’s somewhere around. You can find her in a grocery store, with her children in tow, at church on a Sunday morning, praising God for keeping her, at the park on a warm afternoon playing with her children, or even at 15th street, visiting her aging, but still too much the same, parents.
I see her everywhere. I became her friend a long time ago. But I too used to be like those women in the grocery store, looking with my eyes and not seeing with my heart. For to look is to gaze, but to see is to understand.