Wednesday's Children: Homeless On Campus

‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe....’

When people discover that I am a former foster child, and that I graduated college in spite of it, at the time I did, they tend to form a lot of conclusions. They assume my choices were driven by deep academic aspirations, clear career goals, or an unquenchable thirst to experience the world outside of my West Philadelphia neighborhood. Nothing could be further from the truth. My reasons were never as noble as that. 

 If asked, I always respond with the pure, unfiltered truth, i.e., I didn’t attend college for any of the above reasons, or because I was smarter than anyone else. Nope, absolutely not. I took myself off to college because I keenly understood that as long as I remained enrolled, I would be guaranteed three meals a day, a roof over my head, and a bed to sleep in. It was as simple as that; and since I was on the verge of aging out of the foster care system without (as one of my foster mothers would’ve said), ‘a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of,’ the prospect of residential security was like manna from heaven. In January, 1971, I was 17 years old and in my senior year of high school. I was on track to graduate in June, and I would turn 18 in July; eighteen being considered the age of 'adulthood' in those days. Then I received a letter from the Department of Human Services, and I realized time was of the essence.

In retrospect, my mind processed that deadline in strange ways: there are certain things regarding my life I have a skewed, or no recollection of at all; and there are other events I remember as if they occurred yesterday. For example, I clearly remember sitting in my college guidance counselor’s office at West Philadelphia High School, and telling him I wanted to go to college. He looked at me quizzically and said: ‘I think it would be better if you considered secretary school.’ I took immediate offense. How dare he tell me what my career should be? I wondered how many other students he'd steered away from their goals.

However, I sat in the chair and took a second to think things through: ‘In terms of steady housing, how is training to become a secretary going to help me now? To get to the school, would be a daily commute from the local park bench - which is where I’ll be in a few weeks.’   Now here’s the thing with teenage foster children who’ve been misused and abused by the very people who are supposed to care for them; they are on the edge, and have minimal respect for most adults. Looking back at that point in my life, I’d have to include myself in that assessment; sad, but true. I remained calm, although I did look at him like he was crazy.  “I told you I wanted to go to college, not get a certificate to be someone’s secretary,” I said dryly.

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