Last reply was in 2004, so it’s unlikely anyone would see this, but I thought I’d say something anyways.
I was the kid that got locked in the trunk. For context, we were living in a motorhome at the time, moving place to place in San Diego; the car was the “commuter” used to get to and from whatever odd jobs my parents were working.
My mom had me at 19, and met my (step)dad when I was maybe 3-4 years old. They both worked to make sure I had everything I needed, and all I could think to want. That said, they’d met in the bar scene and never really moved on from the party life, which our itinerant circumstances didn’t help. On top of that, neither of them were what you’d call normal or mentally stable. Mom was a hippie/raver type, dad was a stoner conspiracy nut. I loved the smell whenever they smoked weed, though they were careful not to expose me to any smoke. They dabbled with harder stuff too, but I never learned of that til much later.
I remember lots of loud and furious fights, never resulting in violence but scaring and distressing me all the same. My dad spanked me a few times when I was very young, but eventually he couldn’t bear to hurt me and never laid a hand on me again. Neither of them did. They weren’t always model parents, as you might assume, but they genuinely loved and cared for me despite all their flaws.
When I started sleeping in the trunk, it was because I wanted to. I liked small spaces- they felt safe, like I had my own little hideaway all to myself. I wanted to “camp out” in there, the way some kids want to camp out in the backyard (the car was the only constant space we had besides the motorhome). So my parents let me, while staying nearby in the RV. If I needed to get out and use the bathroom or anything, I could get into the car through the backseat, then unlock the door and let myself out. I enjoyed it enough that I asked them to do it several more times, so by the time I slept there while they went to the bar, merely sleeping in there wasn’t strange to us, least of all me.
Of course, I couldn’t understand how risky it was for them to leave me there unattended, or in turn how selfish it was of them to endanger me while they went out and partied, or how terrible of an idea it was in general. All I knew was that I got to stay in my special space again.
Then, the police showed up, eventually gaining access to the trunk and letting me out. They brought me to the station and a bunch of adults I didn’t know questioned me- cops and, I assume, a counselor or social worker or something. I don’t remember much, but I do remember answering one of their questions by telling them my dad had let me try beer. Which was true- I had asked him about it once, and he poured just enough to cover the bottom of a glass (maybe 0.5oz) and told me I could try it. I took a sip, and was instantly cured of my curiosity about drinking beer for at least the next decade. Of course, I didn’t think there was any reason to explain all that to them. I didn’t realize that I was incriminating my parents with everything I said. It took me a while to understand that I wasn’t going to see my parents again.
Being separated from my parents was probably the single most traumatic experience of my entire life. I started off in the Polinski Children’s Center, still reeling and confused. I couldn’t figure out how to socialize and fit in with the other kids, and I still blamed myself for my parents being arrested. Sure, it was my parents’ fault, but I didn’t, couldn’t, understand that. At the end of each day they tallied up our behavior, and if we’d acted out too much or gotten in trouble, we were “put on Basic.” I don’t remember what the name came from, but it basically meant we couldn’t watch TV or play video games or have other fun privileges. I remember being put on Basic a lot, despite my best efforts to avoid it. I was only there for a few months at most, but it felt like much longer.
Then I moved on to foster care. I don’t remember much of that either, besides my foster mom being a religious nut. At least I got to watch lots of Veggie Tales. I was much happier after being allowed to live with a family friend and his wife. They took good care of me, and I enjoyed my time there. Still, I missed my parents, and when I found out I got to live with them again, I was thrilled.
And so, I was reunited with my parents, around halfway through second grade. I had so many issues, so much trouble fitting in with other kids. Being teased, and being mean to others. Fights, anger issues. Again, I couldn’t seem to fit in. But my parents did everything they could to help me adjust. They both got sober. My dad found a good job and worked hard at it, always studying for more certifications so he could advance what eventually became a 15-year career. My mom worked and, in between shifts, got herself a degree. And they made sure I was always reading, always playing sports or doing any extracurricular activities I could, always providing whatever I needed and, when they could, what I wanted- instruments to learn, books to read, video games to play, etc. My dad helped me start a neighborhood business so I could save up enough for a Nintendo Wii. I still had issues for many years, and they did too; nothing was ever picture-perfect with us.
And yet, here I am. I’m 29, and I have a good job, a 401k, and strong FICO score. I sing and play guitar, I exercise, and I game a bit, plus I’m learning to play Magic the Gathering. I’ve seen Tool live in concert four different times- I even managed to get one of their concert posters. I’ve traveled by car through the Yukon to Alaska, driving through an endless verdant paradise under skies bigger than God could make, breathing in air so clean and clear it felt like it could wash my sins away. I’ve seen the Alaskan midnight sun, and the Northern Lights. I’ve seen Chichen Itza in Mexico, sipped an Aperol spritz along the shore of Lake Como in Italy, swam in the warm waters of Jamaica, shouted over the roar of Niagara Falls. I’ve explored London and Milan and Vienna and Berlin and Vancouver and Toronto. I have an amazing girlfriend (to whom I hope to propose at our earliest possible convenience), a best friend who’s like a brother to me, and a younger (half-)sister who embodies all the best in my parents and I.
And I have my parents. Sure, they didn’t stay sober forever, and they’d be better off drinking less alcohol and smoking more weed. But with all the problems they had, and still have, the biggest problem I have with them is that someday they won’t be around anymore.
So as much as I can understand others’ anger at reading the news stories about what my parents did, it’s a good thing that their ill wishes for my parents never came to pass. I love my parents, and I’m happy to have them still. I love being alive, I love the life I’ve had so far. So, if you’re reading this, take comfort in knowing I turned out (mostly) alright.
loser: ) use link listed below......
