Dennis Harris is a native Washingtonian in every sense of the word; he was not just born in DC, he was owned by DC. He became a ward of the city at a very early age and stayed in the custody of the city until he was a young adult. Foster Child shares the story of his life as he navigates through his youth, beginning in DC;s city-operated orphanage and then ending up in foster care. Dennis shares some of his most intimate thoughts and emotions about his journey through foster care. Growing up in a challenging environment, he appeared to be a normal child to his peers while inwardly he struggled with the many issues surrounding his feelings of rejection and abandonment. His story will encourage and inspire anyone who is in the foster care system, who is dealing with low self-esteem and parental abandonment, or who may just need to find the courage to succeed despite challenging circumstances.

Foster Child

Finding the Courage to SucceedBy Dennis Harris

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Dennis Harris
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7570-5

Contents

Chapter 1 From Scott to Harris......................................1Chapter 2 The Orphanage.............................................6Chapter 3 A Foster Home.............................................10Chapter 4 Summer Times..............................................15Chapter 5 Middle School - Leading a Double Life.....................21Chapter 6 Life Lessons..............................................26Chapter 7 "High" School Days........................................30Chapter 8 A Fresh Beginning and a Sour Ending.......................36Chapter 9 The Summer of `76.........................................40Chapter 10 In the Army...............................................44Chapter 11 Tying the Knot............................................50Chapter 12 Unexpected Inspiration....................................52Chapter 13 A New Beginning...........................................54Chapter 14 Spiritual Awakening.......................................58Chapter 15 Striking Out On My Own....................................64Chapter 16 Disillusionment and Depression............................67Chapter 17 The Search Is Over........................................71Chapter 18 More Than I Bargained For.................................77Chapter 19 Risky Business............................................80Chapter 20 Starting Over.............................................86Chapter 21 Finding My Father.........................................90Chapter 22 More Siblings.............................................95Chapter 23 Accepting My Parents......................................97Chapter 24 Finding My Place..........................................100Chapter 25 Raising My Family.........................................107Chapter 26 A Foster Family Again.....................................115

Chapter One

From Scott to Harris

My daily journey to work takes me down a road that conjures up both physical reminders and emotional memories of my life. Every day, while I sit in traffic on 295, I have plenty of time to dwell on those memories, seeing to my right the former site of D.C. Junior Village, where my mother gave me away, and to my left, the Naval Research Lab, where the father that I never really knew worked for 35 years. Whichever direction I turn, I'm reminded every single day — of my father, of my early childhood years, of my ongoing longing and search for a home, an identity, a family.

The memories and the emotions surface so vividly — while I sit in traffic on 295 or in the middle of the night while I try to sleep — that they catch me off guard sometimes. I remember the physical obstacles and struggles of being born a minority, raised in meager, if not totally inadequate living conditions, and have to remind myself that my present reality is about as far from that as you can get. I reflect back, not only on those tangible hardships, but on the less visible, far more devastating suffering of some of the deepest pain, loneliness and sadness that a person can experience. And I remind myself again that I've not only persevered and survived through it all, I've come out on the other side, risen above it and have something to offer — in spite of or, perhaps because of, the life I was born into.

My story began in 1957 in D.C. General Hospital, the city's only public hospital, which has since closed after serving the area for almost 200 years. In that location now is D.C. General Health Campus, which is made up of several clinics, including Women's Services, Detoxification Center, and Southeast Sexually Transmitted Diseases Clinic.

My grandmother's house in Northwest D.C. is where I lived — 1444 Ogden Street NW.

One of my earliest, most significant childhood memories is reciting my name and that address, over and over again. I guess my mother must have taught me that, like any parent would in case their child should get lost or need help. I chanted "Dennis Alton Scott, 1444 Ogden St., NW," over and over and over again. That was my name, that was where I lived — or so I thought.

My grandmother's house was a boarding house — and not in the greatest of areas at the time. My mother, brothers and sisters, other relatives, and even some people I didn't know occupied rooms there. It's difficult now to imagine living in the same house with people you don't really know, but at such a young age, it didn't really have an impact on me one way or the other.

Since I was younger than five years old, my memories about those days are very vague. I don't recall spending a lot of time with my mother, partly because she worked a lot or perhaps I was just too young to have had much of a relationship with her yet. I do remember feeling so proud of her back then, though. She would get dressed for work every day in a crisp, white uniform. I just naturally thought she was a nurse. In actuality, my mother worked for a service cleaning other people's houses.

When she would get dressed up, and change from her "nurse's" uniform into stockings and high heels, she was an attractive woman. She enjoyed music and dance, and my siblings and I enjoyed listening to the soulful sounds of Sam Cooke and Jerry Butler with her, learning the lyrics and making up dance routines.

My mother was a bit of a partier in her day. We kids looked forward to company visits, because she'd let us dance and perform. We would get so excited when she let us do this; we loved to show what we could do, and craved attention, from anyone who was willing to give it.

Some of those company visits were intended to be more private in nature, I suppose. My mother was a single woman and would, from time to time, enjoy the company of men in the living room, behind closed doors. The door had one of those skeleton lock keyholes, which gave the peeping eyes of my brother and me plenty to view. I was very curious about the things I saw take place through that keyhole. Those visual images impacted me profoundly at a very early age, and I probably had more desire than the average young boy growing up.

Most of the other memories of living at my grandmother's house are dim — except for the time that I almost burned the house down. My older brother and I were home alone, not an unusual occurrence. I generally remember seeing my mother only at night before bedtime. We were striking matches and poking them through the sheer curtains hanging in the dining room, which eventually went up in flames. We were lucky not to have been hurt and fortunately, the house wasn't destroyed.

Leaving young children unattended like that today could land you in jail, or at least, in very big trouble. Thankfully, the mistake my brother and I made was one that we only had to pay for with a spanking. The situation could have been so much worse, though of course we thought it was the end of the world at the time.

That's the only memory I have of my father ever spanking me, not that it wasn't well-deserved.

I saw my father once a week or so for the first five years of my life. He didn't live with us at the boarding house, and wasn't married to my mother. But he did come by every Saturday — or just about. He'd give us a quarter and send the older kids to the store to buy a pack of boloney and a loaf of bread. Believe it or not, that was something special for me and my...