This was my article that was published recently, I hope y’all can take something from it! Much love.

When I was 10 years old, my mom put us in the car late at night. We didn’t know where we were going. It was dark outside. My brothers and sisters fidgeted the entire ride, not wanting to sit next to each other. I don’t remember my mom driving there, but I do remember getting to a little room full of toys and a television. We waited for my mom to come back into the room. For some reason though, it was getting later and there was still no sign of my mom. Finally, after 1 a.m., my mom rushed into the little room, hugged me, and told me to be strong and to take care of my brothers and sisters. I didn’t understand what was happening, and even now the whole thing seems blurry. I do remember my younger sister crying, kicking, and shouting while I held her back so the social worker could escort my mom outside through the door in front of us.

I love my mom.

As soon as my mom left they placed us into temporary homes.At 2 a.m. we were split up into different foster homes. I remember the pressure I felt as the older brother. The social worker asked if I wanted to accompany them to drop off my siblings in their new homes so I could get a feel of what their new family would be like. I said yes. So I went to each new home and dropped off my brothers and sisters. They separated us by clustering the three oldest together, then the next three girls together, leaving the twins to be left with a family for their own.

I love my siblings.

Arriving at my “new home” felt strange, like I didn’t belong, but I knew I had to do as I was told along with my younger two brothers. The social worker talked to me like I was an adult, a 10–year–old who was trying to process everything that had happened within the past three hours, and try to understand— what she was telling me? I don’t remember much about the home, simply that we were the only boys in the house, making the total household for foster children three girls and three boys. I remember the words “foster home,” and the social worker using them to explain to me where we were going to live temporarily until everything was fixed. During my time at the foster home, my brothers had to attend school, while I was given a little more lenience because I was still in shock about what had happened. A couple weeks later another social worker came to the foster home to tell me a simplified version of our situation, explaining that my dad’s parents werefighting to gain custody of all of us. From there the social worker went on to tell me that our five younger siblings were already under the custody of our grandparents, and we would be too, after everything was properly arranged. In the meantime, my two younger brothers and I were being moved to an aunt’s house, where we then stayed for a few more weeks before we were finally all together under the same roof.

I love my grandparents.

I am the oldest of eight children. We are half Mexican, half White–European. My mom was born in Arizona but was quick to become a Californian. My dad was born in Michoacán, Mexico, but immigrated to California with his family when he was a child. My mom and dad met at a party in Arizona, not expecting to meet the person they would spend the next 12 years with. At the time, my dad was 19 and my mom was 14. My mom, already at that age, was casually using meth to have a good time at parties. My dad would casually smoke a few joints to enjoy the party. That’s where their love began. My dad brought my mom to California so she could get away from the drugs. My grandparents let my mom stay with them in their house. It wasn’t long before my mom got pregnant with me, and ended up having me at age 14. Two years after that she had Josue, followed by Chris, Christina, Gabriella, Esperanza, and finally the twins, Mariah and Marcus.

I love my family.

I never understood the relationship between my parents. They fought with each other. They loved and showed affection for one another. They made time to play with us. They pushed us out and told us we could never go into their room when they were there. When there was no gas for the car, they’d make a competition for us. My mom would explain that whoever begged for the most money would get any treat that could be bought with food stamps. My siblings and I would set out to compete with one another to make the most money. We would go into the fields late at night, and pick as many watermelons as our little hands could carry, so we could sell them the next day near the trucking station for more gas. It was difficult seeing the abuse from both parents to each other and not being able to do anything about it. We often saw the pipes that my parents smoked meth from, but didn’t know what they were for. My parents never meant any harm to us, but their toxic love for each other impacted their ability to be successful parents. It was a cycle that went on for too long, and it essentially dismantled my parents’ relationship with one another, which led our entire family to fall apart.

I love my parents.

Both of my parents were drug users with the addictive drugmethamphetamine. Growing up, something in our household didn’t always add up, whether we went to school, out to eat, or even to visit our family. The marks on her body, the smell from one of the kids, our clothes being worn and dirty, all of this added up to something I could not see as a child. An abusive, drug–addicted, unhappy married couple was what my parents came to be. Unfortunately, we were the outcome. This was why the social worker would come once a week and my mom would make us clean, shower, and behave well on the days she visited. Growing up I was always left in charge to care for my siblings. My parents would tell me to babysit and for doing so I would get a box of brownies, a bag of Hot Cheetos, and a large sweet tea to compensate. I believe that is why I am very close to my family— because of the special care I gave my siblings while my parents weren’t there. The love for my siblings was what kept me going all through the long hours my parents would be gone “visiting a friend.” Everything happens for a reason though, and because we were able to go into the foster care system, fortunately within the custody of my grandparents, everything turned out for the best.

I love my past.

I am currently a full–time student attending the University of California, Berkeley, with the help of the Gates Millennium Scholarship, my family, and my supportive and loving partner. Two of my brothers graduated high school and attend community college. My oldest sister currently has a 4.1 GPA in her high school as a sophomore. My other siblings are in various levels of school. I used to ask myself why things happened the way they did, and if I could have made a difference back then, I would have done it. Now I know that because of everything that happened, I am appreciative of my experience and the journey it has brought me on. This is important to recognize because if I had ended up with my parents, I would have been another statistic. However, as a third generation, biracial foster child, oldest of eight siblings, I know that no number can define me. Living the experience of being a foster child has allowed me to grow in many ways as a person through all of the constant struggles we face on a day-to-day basis.

I love where I am at.

I have come to understand that love is appreciation and compassion toward something, somewhere, someone. Love can be there even when it is not. Love is appreciating everyone and everything in our life, and understanding that with love, life becomes a little more clear.

I love my life.

Fausto Figueroa

Wednesday, 9:27PM