crazy child molester. What do you think, Doris? Should I send the letter anyway? One of my chores is to take the mail out of the box when I come home from school. I'll be working at a summer day camp starting next Monday, and so I'll still get the mail. Mrs. Smith has her own home cake-baking business. Usually she's so busy when the mailman comes, she never goes to the box. Anyway, the letters will be addressed to me, and the Smiths don't do things like open my mail They would never know. Yet I feel guilty about sending it, because they trust me.
I've never lived with a foster family like them before, and sometimes I wonder when they'll change They still treat me like I was their son. Mr. Smith tells
me to call him Pops, but I can't say it. I never called any of the people I lived with anything except Mr. & Mrs. whatever their names were. Most times I just called them sir or ma'am. "Yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" pleased themâespecially the ones who were foster parents just for the money.
It's different for my brother Ronald. He calls the Smiths Mama and Papa, because he's lived with them since he was two. He's seven years old now, and they are adopting him, so he will be their son for real. He doesn't remember anything except living with the Smiths. If I was like him, then I wouldn't be so confused.
Mr. & Mrs. Smith always tell me that this is my home, too, but I still feel like a visitor. I hate it when Mr. Smith calls me "son." Then I get angry with myself for getting angry with him, because he is only being kind. I know that deep down he is a nice person. He calls all of Ronald's friends "son." I try to change my attitude, but my own father lives inside my head.
Lately Mr. Smith has started what he calls family devotions. He reads a passage from the Bible, and we talk about things that bother us and things that we are thankful for. It's a special family time, but it's hard for me to say anything except "Nothing's bothering me. I just want to find my brothers and sisters." The Smiths already know this. And then for the thankful part I say, "I thank God for the gift of life." My father always used
to say that. I think Mr. Smith started this family devotions stuff as a way to force us to feel like a real family. I can't forget my mother and father just because I found a new family. When I stayed with people who didn't treat me like anything much, it was easier to pretend that my parents were still with me and that I was just visiting.
I'd make believe that my father was rolling up in his raggedy station wagon with my mother and the rest of the children, and we'd ride out to Coney Island. My mom would have sandwiches and potato salad, and if my father had extra money, we'd buy sodas and corn on the cob and my parents would eat raw clams on the half shellâugh.
We'd stay on the beach all day; then in the evening we'd go on the rides. 1 know kids go to DisneyWorld nowadays, but Coney Island was our DisneyWorld. Thoughts about my mother and father make me feel happy and sad at the same time. I feel happy when I remember my father's rhymes and jokes, and then sad because I'll never hear his voice againâexcept in my imagination.
Still, Mr. & Mrs. Smith are the kindest foster parents I've ever had, and Syracuse, New York, is one of the nicest places I've ever lived in, but I still miss the Bronx even though I only lived there for five months. You and the rest of the 163rd Street crew are like my sisters and brothers. I don't think I ever told you this before, but
even Mickey and Dotty remind me of my own twin brother and sister.
I didn't mean to write such a long letter. Just wanted to say hello.
Please write me back soon and give me all of the 163rd Street newsâeven the smallest event.
Love,
Amir
12 noon
Tuesday
June 23rd
My Dear Amir,
I was so happy to get your letter. Seems like we haven't "talked" for a long time. I've been saving up many things to tell you. My head is about to bust wide open,
I've never lived with a foster family like them before, and sometimes I wonder when they'll change They still treat me like I was their son. Mr. Smith tells
me to call him Pops, but I can't say it. I never called any of the people I lived with anything except Mr. & Mrs. whatever their names were. Most times I just called them sir or ma'am. "Yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am" pleased themâespecially the ones who were foster parents just for the money.
It's different for my brother Ronald. He calls the Smiths Mama and Papa, because he's lived with them since he was two. He's seven years old now, and they are adopting him, so he will be their son for real. He doesn't remember anything except living with the Smiths. If I was like him, then I wouldn't be so confused.
Mr. & Mrs. Smith always tell me that this is my home, too, but I still feel like a visitor. I hate it when Mr. Smith calls me "son." Then I get angry with myself for getting angry with him, because he is only being kind. I know that deep down he is a nice person. He calls all of Ronald's friends "son." I try to change my attitude, but my own father lives inside my head.
Lately Mr. Smith has started what he calls family devotions. He reads a passage from the Bible, and we talk about things that bother us and things that we are thankful for. It's a special family time, but it's hard for me to say anything except "Nothing's bothering me. I just want to find my brothers and sisters." The Smiths already know this. And then for the thankful part I say, "I thank God for the gift of life." My father always used
to say that. I think Mr. Smith started this family devotions stuff as a way to force us to feel like a real family. I can't forget my mother and father just because I found a new family. When I stayed with people who didn't treat me like anything much, it was easier to pretend that my parents were still with me and that I was just visiting.
I'd make believe that my father was rolling up in his raggedy station wagon with my mother and the rest of the children, and we'd ride out to Coney Island. My mom would have sandwiches and potato salad, and if my father had extra money, we'd buy sodas and corn on the cob and my parents would eat raw clams on the half shellâugh.
We'd stay on the beach all day; then in the evening we'd go on the rides. 1 know kids go to DisneyWorld nowadays, but Coney Island was our DisneyWorld. Thoughts about my mother and father make me feel happy and sad at the same time. I feel happy when I remember my father's rhymes and jokes, and then sad because I'll never hear his voice againâexcept in my imagination.
Still, Mr. & Mrs. Smith are the kindest foster parents I've ever had, and Syracuse, New York, is one of the nicest places I've ever lived in, but I still miss the Bronx even though I only lived there for five months. You and the rest of the 163rd Street crew are like my sisters and brothers. I don't think I ever told you this before, but
even Mickey and Dotty remind me of my own twin brother and sister.
I didn't mean to write such a long letter. Just wanted to say hello.
Please write me back soon and give me all of the 163rd Street newsâeven the smallest event.
Love,
Amir
12 noon
Tuesday
June 23rd
My Dear Amir,
I was so happy to get your letter. Seems like we haven't "talked" for a long time. I've been saving up many things to tell you. My head is about to bust wide open,
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