I was five years old when I went
into my first foster home. I was scared and alone. It took thirty days before
anyone, including the fucking school district, noticed that I was home alone;
cold, dirty, and hungry. The woman who gave birth to me, she who shall remain nameless, took off. The
state came in and took me to the CPS office, cleaned me up, fed me, and tried
to find a relative to take me in. There was no one. My birth certificate had no
father’s name, and when they ran she who
shall remain nameless it said she had no living relatives. So, I ended up
going to a foster home; the Jones’s house. I hated the place from the moment I
walked in. There were a lot of kids of all colors, ages and sizes.
I was shown my room that had three
sets of bunk beds and little room to move. There were eight boys and four girls
that created a lot of noise and mess. But at the time, I was considered an
emergency placement so that’s where I was placed. I sat in the corner of the
room away from the other kids. Hell, they didn’t even notice me when I came in.
Then SHE walked up to me, this little golden-haired
girl with the two different colored eyes; one green and one grey. She asked me
if I wanted one of her cookies. I just stared at her. She asked me my name, I
told her Nathan, Nathan Bates.
She said her name was Jolie and she
was five, too. She sat next to me. Every day, for every meal. And we played
together, just the two of us. We vowed to be friends forever. For six months we
were inseparable, we were even in the same kindergarten class. Jolie was my
Once a month, people who couldn’t
have their own kids would come in, and we were paraded around like show dogs.
One couple took an interest in Jolie. She told Ms. Jones, our foster mother, if
they didn’t want me too, she wouldn’t go with them. She promised me we would be
Then, one day, she was gone.
We all left for school that day that
they said Jolie had a doctor’s appointment, and would be late to school. Well,
she never showed up. When I got home she was gone; her bunk was stripped and
her favorite doll, Annie, was gone, too. From that point on, I became mad at
the world. From then until I aged out of the system, I jumped from foster home
to foster home, twenty to be exact. Hence, the nickname Jumper. My case worker gave it to me and it
stuck. Only now I jump from bed to bed.
Each foster home was different. I was in one,
and the foster “dad” believed in corporal punishment. He was a military man. I
don’t remember his name because I wasn’t there long, and we were informed to
call him “Sir”. Then there was the religious family. They spent seven days a
week in the church, and homeschooled all their foster kids. I think I lasted
two weeks there, when I was 16. They literally caught me with my pants down,
with the preacher’s daughter on her knees in the vestibule. The Smith’s house,
that was where I went after the preacher’s daughter incident; I stayed there
until I was almost eighteen. They were good people. They died in a car accident
coming back from a funeral in Georgia. I really liked them. Mr. Smith taught me
to channel all my anger into boxing. He ran and owned a gym, and worked with me
every day. His son owns the gym now, and I work and train there. I’m fast on my
feet and even faster with my hands. I am training to get into the MMA.