The Lost Boy: A Foster Child's Search for the Love of a Family
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Imagine a young boy who has never had a loving home. His only possesions are the old, torn clothes he carries in a paper bag. The only world he knows is one of isolation and fear. Although others had rescued this boy from his abusive alcoholic mother, his real hurt is just begining -- he has no place to call home.
This is Dave Pelzer's long-awaited sequel to A Child Called "It". In The Lost Boy, he answers questions and reveals new adventures through the compelling story of his life as an adolescent. Now considered an F-Child (Foster Child), Dave is moved in and out of five different homes. He suffers shame and experiences resentment from those who feel that all foster kids are trouble and unworthy of being loved just because they are not part of a "real" family.
Tears, laughter, devastation and hope create the journey of this little lost boy who searches desperately for just one thing -- the love of a family.
count the seconds before the subject turns to me—it always does. The sound of Mother’s voice makes my insides turn. “What do you mean?” she shrieks at my father, Stephen. “You think I treat ‘The Boy’ bad? Do you?” Her voice then turns ice cold. I can imagine her pointing a finger at my father’s face. “You . . . listen . . . to . . . me. You . . . have no idea what ‘It’s’ like. If you think I treat ‘It’ that bad . . . then . . . ‘It’ can live somewhere else.” I can picture my father—who, after
kept him going. He lived for the station. But his drinking . . . it’s all that he knows.” “Thanks, Uncle Lee,” I said, as I shook his hand. “Thanks for not putting me off. At least now I know.” Uncle Lee walked me down to my motorcycle. “I should see your dad in a few days. Hell, maybe you can help him out of this mess.” “Yeah,” I replied, “maybe.” Two weekends later, I rode on a Greyhound bus to the Mission district of San Francisco. At the bus station I waited for Father for over an hour.
again. Months afterward, during the summer of 1978, after dozens of interviews, I landed a job selling cars. Selling cars was mentally exhausting. The upper managers would threaten the sales staff one day, then bait us with money incentives the next. The competition was fierce, but I somehow managed to keep my head above water. If I had a weekend off, I’d race off to Duinsmoore and forget about having to be an adult, as Paul, Dave and I searched for new adventure on four wheels— loaned to me by
include Nina Coake, Judy Fields and Lennie Hart, who have each been in service to children at risk for over 35 years, fighting for the care and rights of foster children. Another is Pamela Eby, who literally dedicated her life to saving children until losing her final battle to cancer. I cannot begin to state how much I cringe when I hear the term “cop” or “pig.” Again, one can only imagine what type of world we would live in if it were not for our police officers, who rescue children from
introduced me to the seven other children who, like myself, for one reason or another no longer lived with their parents. I stared into every one of their faces. Some eyes were hollow, some full of worry, others full of confusion. I had no idea there were other unwanted children, too; for years I had felt I was all alone. At first I acted shy, but after a few questions from the other children, I opened up. “What are you in for?” they asked. “What happened to you?” I bent my head down before