CHAPTER IV

CHILDREN’S AID SOCIETY

Summer would be over in another month, and it would be time for school to start. I was excited about starting school, but I heard that the elementary school I was going to attend was pretty rough. A few street gangs controlled my future school: The Blvd Boys, Helen Hoods, Cra-zy Eights (C8), and the most ruthless of them all, The Mack Hoods. I already knew some of these guys from the neighborhood. The Mack Hoods controlled Mack Avenue stroll from East Grand Blvd to Gratiot and Mack where the 7th Precinct police department was located. You didn’t want to go to the 7th Precinct. The word was that the emergency room was where most of the interviews took place for Black folks arrested by 7th Precinct police officers. Mr. Henry use to threaten to drop us off at the 7th Precinct when we acted out or got in trouble at school. I never believed him because he almost pissed on himself every time he saw a white police officer looking his way.

Starting school required a visit to the Children’s Aid Society. The Children’s Aid Society, or CAS, was located on Warren and Woodward. From the front of the building, it looked small, but it was a huge building that played an important role in the lives of many foster children in the Detroit area. The building was a one-stop shop for foster children. The CAS provided physician services, dental services, psychological services, eye exams, clothing allowances, and the most fun (sometimes) sibling visitation.

The way it usually worked was you were assigned a social worker, most likely a young white woman right out of college who wanted to save the world, especially the poor little black children, and her job was to pick you up from your foster parents’ house and take you into the CAS for your appointments. She would pull up in either a black, brown, or blue Chevrolet Nova, blow the horn three times, and you would run out to the car. Depending on what time you got picked up determined where you sat in the car. If you were first, you got to sit in the front seat; if you were second, you got the backseat, but that was all right; third was OK if there was no fourth foster child. If there was a fourth child, you had to sit in the backseat in the middle between two other people.

The foster parents usually made sure you were clean, bathed, teeth brushed, shoes shined, and no visible bruises. Mr. Henry use to say “He didn’t want the state fucking with his money, cause foster parents got paid to keep us foster children.” The amount wasn’t much, but any extra income was welcomed. If the good white folks at the CAS saw any fresh bruises on you, the police was supposed to be notified (keyword: supposed) and the foster child money stopped.

I was assigned to a young white social worker named Ms. James. She was a thin blond girl with perky breasts and a flat ass. That is the way Mr. Henry and the other Black men in the neighborhood described her. When she picked me up in the mornings, there usually wasn’t any-one sitting on their porch (except June Bug), but when she brought me back the whole neighbor-hood was awake and watching. I often ran from the car to the house not stopping to say anything to anyone, including Mrs. Henry. She understood and usually wouldn’t say anything to me about my visit to the Children Aid Society. On those days when I returned home, I didn’t go out to play instead I would go to my room, close the door, lie across the bed, and cry. Mr. Henry lived for the moments I cried.

“What the fuck are you cryin’ about boy? Shut the fuck up before I give you something to cry about!” That was his favorite response to the tears of a little boy who was hurting inside. Not only did I have to deal with Mr. Henry’s meanness, it always seemed like the neighborhood kids teased me harder and longer on my visitation days.

“Hey did they find yo mama and daddy?”

“What did the good white folks do for you today?”

“You little Uncle Tom nigga, riding in the car with a white woman!”

I use to hear Mr. Henry and numerous other Black folks talk about how bad white folks were and how they mistreated Black folks. This always confused me because Ms. James and the “good white folks” at the Children Aid Society always treated me better than Mr. Henry and some of the neighbors. They were Black just like me. Oh shit, I forgot, I wasn’t Black; I was high yellow!

When Ms. James first pulled up to the house, Mr. Henry pulled out a brush and began to brush my hair. As he leaned in toward me, I jerked violently expecting to get hit. I’ll be damned! I thought. This Black bastard is putting on a show for Ms. James pretending he’s the loving caring foster father! Ms. James rolled down the window and greeted the Henrys and myself.

“Good morning!” She said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied. As I ran to the car, I stopped and turned to Mr. and Mrs. Henry and yelled, “Daddy, can I have a dollar to buy something out of the candy machines?” Mrs. Henry smiled a proud smile. Mr. Henry looked at me with a startled no-this-slick-little-bastard-didn’t look. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change and gave a stiff fake smile, and handed me four quarters.

“Sure, son,” He said. “I don’t want you having to watch the other children eating candy in front of you.”

“Thanks!” I said. All the time thinking two can play this game.

I was the first one to be picked up, which meant I would get to sit up front (yes!), and Ms. James had on a dress, which meant that it would edge up when she drove and shifted gears if the car was a stick shift (yes!). The car was a stick; I had hustled me a dollar for candy, and I was the first in to get picked up, three for three! As we pulled away from the house, I looked back to see Mr. and Mrs. Henry standing on the porch waving bye.

I liked to sit up front in any car I was in so I could see and learn things. The streets, pretty houses, playgrounds, schools--I took it all in on the way to the Children’s Aid Society. Another important reason for being the first picked up was you got to see where all the other foster children lived. If they lived close to you, (boy or girl), was the neighborhood nice, was it the projects, the Black Bottom, and which gangs controlled their neighborhood. This information would come in handy later on when I would run away from future foster homes, start dating, hustling and running for my life.