thefoundlingsblog

[thefoundlingsblog]

           I was born in a sleepy little mining town called Price, located in the southern side of Utah. It is the kind of town that hangs heavy with dust and smells like cow manure. The empty storefronts that looked out onto Main Street were a constant rotation of small boutiques, dingy restaurants, and coffee shops that were started by some small-town soul with big dreams, only to shutter their windows a year later when they realized there was not enough revenue to keep that dream afloat. It is always windy in Utah, so the desert sand that lays all around is kicked up and coats everything within a few miles’ radius in a sheen of grime. Life is simple and slow, and one lazy day rolls into the next with very little excitement to change up the monotony.

           A constant that you could always count on in Price, Utah, was the opiate problem. Our small town was littered with homeless/low-income people who had fallen to that most vicious addiction cycle. Many of them even had their own names. There was “The Music Man” and “The Running Man”, both aptly named for the things they were always seen doing, running and listening to music. The Running Man would run all over town, one hour you would see him at the one store in town (Walmart) and the next you would see him five miles away at the KFC. The Music Man lived in the same low income building that my best friend and I lived in when we were in college together and we saw him often. He was, of course, always listening to music on his Walkman. I often wondered what it was he was listening to, and sometimes I wish I would have asked him instead of shying away or ducking around a corner.

photos included of price main street, and a overlook of the whole town from the nearby mountain

[thefoundlingsblog]

      The opiate problem worked its way into my life via my mother and, in due time, it would take my younger brother. My mother, a large woman with long brown hair and a slurred speech pattern, would take pills and sleep her life away, her 6’1'' frame filling up the couch. She was completely unaware, or just not caring, about what was going on with her children. We fended for ourselves mostly. “Cup O’ Noodles” and SpaghettiOs were a childhood staple in our house. A favorite of my brother, Cameron, was a creation of his own, something his 3-year-old self proudly called “A Tetchup Sannich”. It consisted of white bread, and ketchup. He showed me this creation one day when I came home from school, I knew this meant he had been hungry all day. If he was resorting to Ketchup sandwiches, that meant that Baby Caleb had not been fed all day either. This would send seven-year-old me bustling around to try and repair the damage my incompetent mother had caused while I was gone at school. Often, I would find Baby Caleb with a diaper so full it was busting at the seams, the inner absorbent parts of the diaper falling out into his pack n play. He only seemed to know to ask for food when he saw me, those sad blue eyes looking to me to take the weight of the world off his teeny tiny one year old shoulders. Oh, sweet boy, how I wish I could have done that for you.

      Rarely, and usually to impress a new interim miscreant she felt the need to bring around her young children, my mother would cook us dinner. Usually her apathetic labors would amount to a frozen Festive turkey loaf and potatoes, with a side of green beans, eaten on paper plates in front of the television while Cops or Dateline played. You would think I would look forward to these nights, a seemingly coherent mother bustling around her kitchen painted deceivingly sunshine yellow, with large sunflower decor grinning down on the unhappy home from all four walls. A mother cooking dinner for her children. A regular occurrence in any normal house, but in my house that meant there was a man coming over, and the men that came over were not always just satisfied with my mother. There were many of these lovers, a pattern she has kept up consistently throughout her life- all her children have different fathers. At least our fathers are good men, but the men in between were far from it.

Photos included of a very young me, and my little brother sitting on santas lap

[thefoundlingsblog]

        We were raised in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it farm town called Ferron, located an hour’s drive south of Price. “Town” consisted of a gas station/car wash/motel combo, a gas station/grocery store/video rental shop combo and a tiny restaurant called The Grub Box, home to the most delicious Oreo milkshakes in the world. Many locals make the one-hour drive to Price every single day for work, others make the drive once a week to go grocery shopping at the Walmart, and others still will often bite the bullet and make the three-hour drive to Salt Lake to hit the big box stores like Costco and go to the mall. When you entered town driving from Price, you crest over a giant hill with an old church standing tall and proud, the grass always perfectly manicured. The church is a staple piece in our little town, dubbed “The Church on The Hill”. Many town events and memorial services, such as sledding, and a Memorial Day flag ceremony, are held here.

pictures included are gillys, the hotel/gas/convenience store combo, and grub box.

[thefoundlingsblog]

        We lived in the drafty old homestead down the road from “town”; The “white trash” house as it was known to the mean kids who lived in the big, nice houses in the cul de sac. It was a one-hundred-year-old, three story, white, creaky abode with chipping paint built from the ground up by the hands of my great grandfather. The green roof had large bare spots where it was missing patches of shingles, especially the area near my brother’s bedroom window, where we would climb out onto the roof at night to look at the stars. Instead of a lawn, we had a large patch of weeds that crept up to the gate that had long since been twisted closed by the old grapevine that grew around it. In order to get into our home, you had to enter through the no trespassing gate, follow the long dirt drive past the horses to the back door and enter through the washroom. Despite the exterior looking worn and scary, the inside was always warm. We did not have much, but the things we did have we loved. I had my favorite spot to sit and read books all day. It was tucked away in the closet in my room upstairs, wrapped up in one of my great grandmas’ handmade afghans with bits of drywall falling from the large, cracked ceiling down onto the worn pages of my treasured collection, my brothers snuggled up with me as I read aloud to them. Pages to books such as Angels in the Outfield, Goosebumps, The Babysitters Club, Magic Tree House, The Boxcar Children, Nancy Drew, and The Hardy Boys. Books enthralled me, they made me feel like my life was not mine. Instead of living this lonely life of neglect and abuse I was trapped in, I was solving mysteries with Nancy Drew or exploring the Amazon with Jack and Annie. I was free to do whatever I wanted to when I was reading. I would read my books until the spines were cracked and the pages would slip loosely from their bindings, I always had a book in my hands.

Photos included are the homestead, the dirt drive, and one of my grandma’s homemade afghans.

[thefoundlingsblog]

        My grandparents lived right next door to our homestead, and my sweet grandma was a God-send to me in my younger years. My grandpa is big, loud, and chauvinistic with a foul mouth and a temper problem. He is known around the community for his iconic radio host voice and his many accomplishments, such as his prominent position as the county commissioner, and being the local high schools’ English teacher. He also runs the farm that our homestead is situated on, and he expects hard work and respect. My grandma is tall, dark haired, and has a smile that could light up a room with a cackle to match. She has nicknames for all her grandkids, and a special spot in her heart for my siblings and me. My nickname was Wart, it rhymed with Kourt, and I am sure suited my annoying tendency to know things I should not. My grandma and I are very similar in our love of a clean house, a good true crime documentary, and curling up in a bed with clean sheets and a good book.  We also share a similarity in our severe anxiety disorder and OCD. The older I got, the more I saw how these things affected her. I watched her cry sometimes when she thought I could not see, over my mom, my brother, wondering why her family was the one who had to deal with drug addiction and the pain that comes with it. No matter what kind of day I was having, or if I were running away from home because I could not take it anymore, my grandma was there waiting for me. Her comforting techniques changed with me as I got older. When I was small it was always hot chocolate, warmed in my favorite mugs with six marshmallows inside. In my teenage years it would be my favorite meal, grandma’s spaghetti and homemade bread. She also always had a book for me to read. From soft play books about rabbits getting ready for bed as a child, to murder mystery and cheesy romance novels as a teen. So many hard nights made so much better by my wonderful, patient, and ever-built-to-serve grandmother. The best part about my grandparents’ house was their coal burning stove. Nothing was better than sitting in front of that stove on a cold winter afternoon, after you had just hauled a bucket of coal and wood in for grandma to get a good fire going. There was something so comforting about the faint crackle from the stove, with the twinkle of the Christmas tree in the background.

included photos of my grandparents and their beautiful coal burning stove

[thefoundlingsblog]

           Another thing you will find consistently in Utah is the Mormons, or the “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints” as they prefer to be called. I was raised in this religion, but I was not born into it. As a kid, we often would attend “The Church on The Hill” with my grandparents. I still remember the smell of that church vividly. You could breathe in memories standing in the foyer. It smelled of old books, dust, and sunshine. The old warm sound of the organ welcomes you into the building and it is truly a beautiful and comforting place. I got caught kissing a boy in the sacrament room while practicing the piano one time- my grandma was so mortified.

photo included of church on the hill

[thefoundlingsblog]

        My mother continued to spiral until she almost ran over a kid while she was trying to bring me a lunch, one that she had forgotten to pack me for a field trip that day. I remember sitting at lunch with all the other kids and being so embarrassed and ashamed I did not have a lunch, when my grandma’s sister came around the corner with a Lunchable. I did not see her often, so I was confused why she was bringing me a lunch, but I was young and just accepted it. That day, I got home to the typical empty house, and no sooner then I walked in the door, police officers were there asking me questions, things like “are you home alone?” and “do you know where your mom is?” Being young and naïve even to my own situation, I answered their questions happily and went to go about my daily routine of SpongeBob and a bowl of cereal. The next day, my mom kept me home from school. She asked me how I would feel if I went to stay with my aunt and uncle for a while, a fun extended trip for a little while. We had done these fun trips before, to the family drug rehabilitation center in Salt Lake City and the halfway house in Price. I had learned these trips were not always fun and a lot of times involved being around my mother’s fellow burnouts. My mother never was able to quit drugs after that and lost her children to the foster care system, and would eventually succumb to drug induced schizophrenia, dying in 2018 at 43 years of age after spending years running from the spies inside her head.

Photo included of my mother, taken about a year before we were all taken away, She is holding a very young Cameron. Also included her headstone

[thefoundlingsblog]

        My aunt and uncle adopted me and my two younger brothers when I was eight years old. They lived in the “big city” area of Utah, where all the rich people lived. They lived in a big house, with no chipping paint, and every shingle lined perfectly on their roof. They had enormous luscious green lawns, with sidewalks, a driveway, and even a garage. This was a huge difference to what I had grown up in. The schools were enormous, the houses were huge, and biggest of all everyone belonged to the same extremist church. I was baptized into this church, but I never felt like it was right for me. I never fit in with these kids in their big houses. I never was able to abide by the church's rigorous rules, and so, I found myself in trouble often. I was bullied by the other kids for being weird. They did not know what I had been through, and so I never held a grudge. I never even reciprocated their mean behavior, and sometimes I regret that. As I aged into my teen years, I began to realize that I was bisexual, and in the Mormon church that is completely taboo. According to them, marriage is between a man and a woman. Things steadily hit a downhill from there between my adopted family and me. I ended up having to move away from that place, it never felt like my home. But there was my wonderful grandmother waiting for me with open arms, even though she was also a member of the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

           Now, it may have sounded like I was complaining about our old homestead. But when I returned home after living in my adopted family's big, nice house, with all their bedrooms and their beautiful lawns, I greeted my old hometown with warmth and open arms. No, I did not go back to my mom’s. I lived with my grandma, in that little house with the coal burning stove I loved so much. For once, I had stability. I was home.

photos included are my adopted familys home and the girl who helped me realize I was bisexual at 14 years old and us when we were first adopted, with our adopted siblings

[thefoundlingsblog]

           Then Zachary Jacobson came stumbling into my life as quickly as I had settled into that long-awaited routine.  He was from out of state and all the girls would whisper about him. He even had a nickname. “Big Tex”. Because he was a big guy, from Texas. We are not very creative in Utah. Tall, blue eyes, and on the football team, he was the talk of our tiny school. We rode the bus together and we would sit next to each other every day. I would blush when I looked into his eyes, and before long we were your typical sappy teenage couple. He was my first boyfriend, and I was absolutely smitten with him. We would sneak out to see each other, taking the four wheelers out to the desert to stargaze and make out. I lost my virginity to him, something that is held extremely sacred to my old religion, a religion I was already repenting to because of my sexuality. I was willing to give him something so special to me because I was in love with him. He swept me off my feet and convinced me to move back home with him.

           “Back home” for Zach was College Station, Texas. This city made the “big city” part of Utah look miniscule. I was overwhelmed. It was too much for me. And then, Zach was messing around with other people behind my back after he had pulled me away from everyone I ever knew and loved. Instead of dancing on air, I was free falling into a black hole below me. The man who I thought was the best thing I could ever get, was gone in an instant because, I thought. I was not good enough. I was devastated. Suddenly, I was lost in a sea of people. Drifting along as just a number in this crowd of unfamiliarity and loneliness. It was one of my loneliest points.

Photo of Zach and I at 17 years old, the year 2013

[thefoundlingsblog]

           Something else that was different for me coming from Utah to Texas was the various ethnicities. There were so many types of people in this new world of mine, people with accents I had a hard time understanding. So many beautiful variations in skin tones, types of people I had never met before in my sea of whiteness where I was from. I felt uncultured, and I had a hard time making friends. I could not connect with these new kinds of people because I was holding onto the subtle internalized racism that came from growing up among all white people in a small town. Not realizing that looking at these people and seeing their skin tone, and not the fact that they were simply people, was what was holding me back so much from connecting with them. Trying too hard to look past this, I made a mistake one night and ignored my gut and I trusted the wrong man. Something bad happened to me that night by someone not of my own race, but I did not allow that man to define that entire race for me and I am so glad I did not. There are wonderful people who come in all skin tones, and that is something our world is still learning today. Good and bad people come in every color.

photo of my first apartment in Texas, Potomac Place.

[thefoundlingsblog]

           Following this came The Day- A day that is so branded in my brain, the brand is still hot and stinging tears fill my eyes even gently prodding at the mark on my brain now nearly three and a half years later. October 3, 2017 my sister called me with the news of my brother’s overdose. To attempt to describe the pain I felt at this news would be an injustice, because I simply cannot put the words onto a page. When someone you love dies, someone who has already led a tragic and unfair life, someone who is only 19 years old, a piece of you dies with them. Planning your brother’s funeral, holding his cold hand and just wishing that cheeky grin would flash across his face, wishing I could see his deep cheek dimple just one more time, seeing your sweet grandma cry as she slips his favorite beef jerky into the casket with him, and then burying him and leaving him alone there, forever 19, all of it is an unbearable knife wound in my heart.

Photos included are Cameron’s headstone, Caleb saying goodbye to Cameron, and a picture of the program from his funeral

[thefoundlingsblog]

           And then, there I was. Sad, broken, trying to find myself. Working overnights in this college town at this grimy breakfast spot, where oil field and construction workers hit on you and offer to take you away from it all while flashing wads of cash. I had started drinking a lot, despite being underage. The police officers I served daily did not just know me as their favorite waitress at The Kettle, to say the least. But despite it all, I have always been a fighter, and I was not going to let this be what broke me after everything I had been through. Slowly, I stopped drinking. I started building my life back up, and I met a man. A real man who pieced me back together and his love creeped through the cracks and became the sticky glue that holds me together. He gave me a beautiful daughter; she is my reason to live and my redemption chance for my own childhood. I love seeing her experience the things I never did and watching her thrive under the love I was never given. Seeing her little face, so like mine, right down to her sweet round nose and big green eyes, light up with excitement at her favorite song, or when she sees her mommy, is the best part of my entire life. The best part of all is her deep cheek dimple, just like her Uncle Cameron’s, the only two in our family to have such a significant dimple. It is like I get to have a little piece of him again. I often find myself kissing that little dimple over and over and over, hoping that wherever Cameron is, he knows I love him until the worlds end.

Photos included are of the restaurant I worked in, and a photoshopped photo of my brother and my daughter holding hands.