I Am An Only Child

I grew up in a small two bedroom house a mile west of the town Pine Ridge. I started my education out at Wolf Creek school where my mother was working as a school counselor. On November 2 2001 our house had started on fire in the middle of the night while my parents and I were asleep. My dad had just started working as a firefighter around that time, so we got in the car that night and took him to work so he could respond to his own home burning down. It took 6 months for our house to be rebuilt. During that time we lived with my maternal grandmother. In May the following year when we were able to move back into our home my sister decided that she was going to

I was born in Northern, New York, about forty miles from the Canadian border in a wasteland of a town called Carthage, sixty miles from the nearest walmart. My mother, now Louise Percy, is ex-navy and worked for the federal government on Fort Drum until she retired ever since I was born. My father, Donald Bishop, was a beauty. He was in and out of prison all his life, including juvenile. He was imprisoned much through my baby-toddler stage and when he wasn’t imprisoned he jumped from construction job to construction job, drinking and smoking marijuana heavily until the day he died, last May 28th. I was born into a household with my mother, father, brother and half-sister for the first few years in my life. My half-sister skipped town after developing a heroin addiction and my father drove my mother psychologically insane until she ended up in a psych ward and we spent a few weeks with my grandmother (father’s mom) until she was released. My mother and father split up and my father never fought for custody nor paid child support. My mother had been a single mom for ten years

Although I had an older brother and sister, I felt alone a great deal of the time I was growing up. I never "acted out" my need for attention. I did not get bad grades in school. On the contrary, I was a quiet child who made the honor roll. I was always given my sisters hand-me-downs which I resented. My grandmother was very strict and often cold. There were never hugs or kisses and not once do I remember an I love you. My father still came to visit, but remarried when I was eight. His new wife was like something out of a horror novel. The mental torture that I endured was a million times worse than what Cinderella went through. My grandmother along with my brother and sister came up with a nickname for me. They called me dog and taunted me every time we passed the pet supplies in the grocery store. At the age of ten my beloved paternal grandmother Memo, the only light in my otherwise dark world, died in her sleep while I was in the next room. I sat and watched as the paramedics tried to revive her with no success. On the car ride back home, my stepmother screamed at my father to "shut me up and stop my crying," as if what I had just been through should not have affected me at all. She left my father a few years later. At fifteen I ran away from my grandmothers house and went to live with my dad. I was receiving survivors support which I never saw once I moved in with my father. Although I did not know it

A year of having little contact with my grandparents, and only one visit that winter for Christmas. My grandpa David’s mother, Dorothy Grell, passes away March 18, 2014. I never knew Dorothy so I do not refer to her as my great grandmother. My mother has always explained that grandpa’s family doesn’t get along. My grandpa knew about the family’s arrangements, but did not contact my mother, but instead my mother’s second cousin reached out to her on facebook. My mother contacted my grandparents. The funeral was held in Holstein, and my mother was the only member of David’s family to be present. My grandparents did not make the effort to go to the funeral. However on March 23 my grandparents did visit Holstein without informing my mother.

I am Falisha May Graham, I was born April 28 1989 to Tammy Graham (Sims) and Roy Vernon Graham. I have an older sister Loretta Graham. Growing up was never easy for the two of us, you may be wondering why. Well it simply put as this my dad was mentally ill and had often left me and my older sister scared of him. We loved him but his mental illness brought out sides that drove my mind to block out leaving me with so few memories of my beloved dad. My mom would try to protect us by sending us to my grandmother’s house when he had his worst moments. So my grandmother helped raised us and became our shield whenever we needed it. Eventually the illness lead my mom to filling for two divorces, one they had gotten back together, but the other would

I was born in slavery in Diamond, Missouri, during the Civil War. People don’t exactly know the year and the date of birth of me. The people that raise me and my brother, James, were Moses and Susan Carver. Susan Carver taught me and my brother to read and write because the local school didn’t enappect me and my brother to school. I escaped my parents house to go to school that was 10 miles away. I attended a series of schools before receiving my diploma at Minneapolis High School in Minneapolis, Kansas. After finishing high school, I was accepted

Throughout my life I never really had parents; coming home to a drug abuser who was constantly zoned out was a normal day. I wasn't loved or even thought of as a child. My biological parents never once came to my awards or conferences. I used to lie to my childhood friends and say that my parents had to constantly work. In reality they didn't care at all.As a child I had both of my parents; when I grew up everything collapsed. I was in 7th grade when I realized that my life would change dramatically. My biological mother fell deeply into drugs, as for my biological father he left without saying anything. At the age of 12 , I was placed with a family friend, while my biological mother was in rehabilitation.

I was raised mostly by mom after my father wasn’t in place once I was 10. I learned, both my paternal great-grandparents are deceased bon in the years 1909 and 1911. I do however remember a slight glimpse my father’s mother (my grandmother). She would always have homemade chocolate chip cookies for me every time I come visit. She passed away when I was 12. My father dad (my grandfather), I don’t remember much about him. I only remember that he enjoyed fishing, but never would invite me on his trips because he would say “It’s too dangerous out on the water kiddo”. Unfortunately, he too was diagnosed with cancer and passed when I was

Many children were told that their parents had died or abandoned them, and many never knew where they had been taken from or who their biological families were

In 1992, a woman gave birth to my sister and I. Due to unknown reasons, at some point during the first year, she left her twins at the doorsteps of a local police station. My sister and I were eventually placed in an orphanage in Addis Ababa, where we would then go on to be adopted and brought to the US. We grew up in a loving home with loving parents, and all of our needs met. Our childhood was ideal in many ways and I grew feeling up very blessed. Our adopted mother loved us so deeply, and our father was always a provider, stable, loving father.

My mom was adopted as a baby and has always been curious about who her biological parents were and if she had any siblings. Upon receiving her permission, I began some light detective work using the two pieces of information I had: her biological mother’s name, Laverne Heikkila, and that she was from Newberry, Michigan. I took to the internet and was surprised to find that the surname Heikkila was more popular than one would think, but I did find a Laverne Heikkila from Newberry, Michigan on a thread on Ancestery.com. Not expecting much, I posted a message on the thread stating that I was looking for Laverne or any information about her as I believed I could be related to her. I didn’t hear anything back right away and eventually had forgotten

My mother is Carolina Aguilar de Reyna, she was born in June 8th 1973 in the city of Mexicali, Baja California. She was the last daughter of her biological father. They four kids two girls and two boys. Then my grand married another man and had another girl and another boy making them six in total. When my mother was born, her biological father started to get sick. Shortly after my mother became two years old, her father died with a disease that was never determined. My mother to this day does not have great feel because she never got to know him. My mother told me that when she was little she liked hearing about her father and she said she would have liked to know him. When I was

After four years living with my father, my mother decided to move her and me to America. This was due to the conflict present within the family, which details are unknown to me because of my age, as well as to ensure a beneficial education, leading to vast opportunities for her children and allow my mother to return to college to receive her bachelor’s and master’s degree. During the months after our departure, my father stayed in contact through weekly phone calls. After my sister’s birth, we returned to Jamaica. Again, after a shorter time period, we returned to America as the problems had risen again. Succeeding the time of our final departure from Jamaica, contact from my father has dwindled to an occasional text message on mine, or my sister’s birthday each year. In July of 2009, after months of preparation, my father came to stay with us for one week and then returned to Jamaica. Since July of 2009, I have had no physical/facial interaction with my noncustodial parent and the contact that I do receive is through passed along messages from my Aunts who travel from America to Jamaica. My mother has raised three kids: my sister, myself, and my brother; without paternal nor federal aid.

At the age of six I was officially adopted by the Henry family. My name was changed, my history was left behind. Not only was my history left behind, however, so where my siblings. My parents were not able to adopt us all, causing all of to have to split up. This is one of the most traumatic moments in my life. I still remember being pried from my little brother’s arms, one of the most traumatic events in my life. I would have to say I was going through Identity versus role confusion at this time. Being adopted, for a long time, meant to me that I did not belong. I did not know who my brothers and sisters were. I also didn’t know my mother and father, which caused an emotional hit on me. This caused me to feel like I didn’t have an identity. I was confused and was unsure of how to deal with the stress that was being thrown at me.

My father was raised by his oldest brother. When my father was young his mother was sick and his father ran off. My fathers mother actually died in his