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Emancipation
In eighth grade, after Mrs. Leonard suggested I get a part-time job, I began bagging groceries at a supermarket. By tenth grade, I'd joined the swim team and the debate team. Savings from my job and a stipend from a sponsoring organization allowed me to attend a four-week academic program at University of California, Davis, during the summer between sophomore and junior years. The next summer, I attended Boys State in Sacramento, which the American Legion sponsored for free.In English class during my senior year of high school, Mrs. Karen Ross taught poems like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot. The poem warned about a man who had wasted his life in silence, too timid to demand his place in the world. Mrs. Ross's class had an enormous effect on this shy student attending it.
In early March, a new social worker called to wish me goodbye. She was the last in a line of dozens of caseworkers, male and female, whom the county had assigned to me over the years. She said in a formal voice, "In six months, Los Angeles County will emancipate you. Emancipation is the judicial act releasing a child from the custody of the county." Her voice warmed. "It really means that you've grown up and that it's time for you to leave the Leonards'."
"Okay," I answered.
"You'll need to pack your clothes."
She began discussing college, recommending that since I was interested enough to have already applied to several schools, I should seriously consider state schools. If I attended one, she said, "the county would pay for your tuition and help with almost everything else too. I don't know if the Leonards mentioned that to you."
No, the Leonards hadn't mentioned it. I thought of the humiliation I'd felt over the years about everything from the "foster kid" school lunch passes to the summer jobs the county had given me, including one cleaning up dog excrement in a public park. About to graduate from high school, I wanted nothing paid for or helped with again.
Soon several admissions letters began arriving, and among them was a letter from Wesleyan University in Connecticut. Though I had applied there, I hadn't interviewed with its admissions office or seen the campus (I didn't have money to travel). However, when its acceptance was followed with the offer of a generous scholarship, I felt relief and joy.
I accepted and told the Leonards. They had never heard of Wesleyan. Four months later, in July, Mr. Leonard finally asked me where it was.
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