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You have to understand that this story begins before I was 5, so naturally there are some blank spots... maybe some of it I blocked out, I'm not sure but I'll tell what I remember. I've tried all of my life to fill in the blanks, but to no avail... some of what happened I can surmise given what I know now. For example, there was no CPS before 1974, but there must have been some state agency to step in when something happens to children. I'm writing this to help people understand why I'm so dedicated in fight for families... this fight started over 20 years ago.
I don't remember my father, he wasn't around very much. I think he may have been in the beginning, but his visits became shorter and less frequent as time went on. All I remember of him was a set of Compton's Encyclopedia he gave me when I was around 3... that's how I learned to read. My mother I barely remember either. I remember her record player that we listened to records on, but the most prominent image I have is her in her chair by the window crying and watching for my father to come back. Her mother stayed with us for a while- I don't know how long, maybe a year. Here's where things begin to get fuzzy.
When my mother died it was just the two of us living in the apartment, so I must have found her- I don't remember. I had to have told someone and the state must have become involved. I do remember a large group of people in the apartment and one of them saying: "that boy isn't right, he doesn't even cry." I couldn't- I felt numb... I still feel numb. I never got to go to her funeral and I have no idea where she's buried- I don't even know her name.
The next thing I remember was being with "Aunt Pearl and Uncle Eddie." I have no idea who these people are, I had never seen them before. They lived in Boston, so if they were relatives I would surely have met them before. I have to assume they were foster parents. I wasn't there long- I don't really even remember spending the night, but I must have. "Uncle Eddie" had a big stack of girlie magazines behind his chair- I remember liking them. I also remember listening to my mom's record player and reading my encyclopedia. Then I was with Willie.
I was still 5 when Willie got me. In retrospect I figure that Aunt Pearl and Uncle Eddie gave or sold me to Willie. He was cruel- a sadist. I don't know if you can imagine- I really hope you can't- of being 5 years old and just losing your mother... the absolute terror and incredible physical pain of being sodomized by a 200 lb. man- over and over. He constantly threatened to kill me if I didn't do what he wanted. He said that the police were his friends and if I contacted them he would kill me. He reminded me over and over that I was alone and if he killed me nobody would ever know. He had parties for his queer friends... I hoped that one of them would help me, but they laughed at me and passed me around like a party favor. That's the problem with people that are only able to see the world in terms of their own self-gratification.
I guess Willie would lend me or rent me out. Men would take me to their house and do the same things as Willie. Most weren't as cruel- none ever threatened to kill me... but none ever helped me either. I figure they were probably afraid of Willie, he was violent. But sooner or later I always ended up back with Willie and his constant threats to kill me. This went on for 5 years until I was 10. My only solace... my only escape was my encyclopedia. This probably sounds silly, but when I read I could escape. I could go other places- far away and beautiful- far away from my misery and the brutality. Then one night my life changed.
I was in an apartment in Brighton that belonged to one of Willie's friends. There was a loud crashing sound as the front door was kicked off its hinges. I looked out of the room where I was reading and there was a man so big he almost blocked out the light in the hall behind him. I had never seen anybody that big in my short life. He walked over to the man that had me and picked him up and threw him off of a doorway. The guy landed like a sack of flour and didn't move. Then he came toward me... I was terrified. Then he asked: "Do you know who I am?"
I shook my head no and he said: "I'm your Uncle Arthur, your mother's brother and I've been looking for you for a long time. I can't begin to explain the relief I felt at that moment. We gathered up my stuff and he took me to his place in New Hampshire- a cottage on the outskirts of a farm I lived with him for almost 3 years until he died. He had a picture of my mother- she was pretty, dark hair and eyes with pale skin. Her name was Ruthie. I never thought to ask her last name... it didn't really matter at the time. The only thing that mattered to me was that the brutality had ended... I had a family. All I've ever wanted in my life was to be a part of a family. I spent the better part of my life on the streets. I never married until I was 43... I thought I had found Paradise.
I've written a lot about our battles with CPS over homeschooling and adopting the boys. My children, my family was my treasure- my dream come true. I was a part of something bigger than myself. But like everything else in my life, it didn't last either. But at least now you know why I fight so hard on behalf of families. Without strong intact families our culture is doomed and when the government itself is behind the destruction the fight becomes more important than life itself. My story in itself is insignificant... what is significant is that what happened to me is happening too frequently to other children because of CPS. If the government agency entrusted to insure the safety of children participates in the abuse- the fight becomes more critical than ever.
Children have no voice... except for us. God has seen fit to give me a voice and as long as I'm drawing breath, I intend to use it. Please support 
