I had never heard anyone say, “I love you,” until I was 17 years old.
My life was taken from me before I even knew what “life” was. I was abandoned at birth and suffered abuse within the foster care system. Later, I was adopted into an abusive home, where I endured mistreatment until I managed to disarm my abuser. After that, I faced constant verbal abuse until I sought refuge.
I grew up on the “mean streets” of the predominantly white west side of San Jose, surrounded by five green parks. A local library was just two blocks away, and creeks and foothills were my playgrounds. The Santa Cruz Mountains easily beckoned me.
By all accounts, I should have thrived as a child and grown into a successful adult, just like my peers who went on to college and became productive citizens. But there was one thing that set me apart: I was being abused and starved at home. My parents stopped providing for me when I was in the sixth grade, leaving me to fend for myself. I had never heard anyone say, “I love you,” until I was 17 years old.
However, my refuge became incarceration. The violence inflicted upon me during my time in the California Youth Authority and the California Department of Corrections made surviving seem easier by comparison. I am now 56 years old and have been free for only two years and eight months since I was 15. Despite my long imprisonment, I have never committed rape, murder, or robbery. There are two thick files documenting my life in incarceration, but none that reflect the abuse I endured at the hands of the state that has governed me all my life. The state punishes the abused child I once was, and now, as a man, I survive and have never cowered.
I had to learn what compassion was inside gray walls, under barbed wire, and beneath the watchful eyes of armed guards. I had to teach myself that I was worthy of life and love. I may sound bitter, but I am not. I am a realist, aware of my plight, which is etched in stone and cast into despair.
