Red Ribbon Week

Every once in a while a moment comes along that takes you back in time. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's not. Sometimes it takes you back to an event that completely defined part of who you are. Recently, I had one of those moments. I've been meaning to write about it before now, but I haven't really had the chance.

A couple of weeks ago schools across the nation celebrated Red Ribbon Week. Not an overly significant week to most people. As I sat in the classroom with the students I work with, it caused an inward struggle of feelings from long ago to arise. Completely unexpected and caught totally off guard, I couldn't begin to grasp the effects this had on me. I sat in the back of the class almost numb.

I'm 25 years old. Drugs aren't a new concept to me. Nor is alcohol. And when offered, don't worry. I know to "Just say NO." That was drilled into my head in third grade when the D.A.R.E. program came to my school for Red Ribbon Week. That's what your supposed to walk away with after Red Ribbon Week, right? To just say NO.

I walked away with a lot more that week. I never talked about it, and it wasn't until this last Red Ribbon Week that I realized fully how much it effected me. At my school, they talked about how drugs and alcohol were bad. That wasn't new information to me. Even in third grade, I knew that. But I hadn't realized just what 'bad' meant. Nor did I have a clear definition of what drugs were. I just knew bad people used drugs. End of thought. On the first day of that ever so memorable week, I remember our teacher vaguely describing what drugs were so we could recognize them. Though I thought I was grown up and mature back then, I can't believe it was deemed appropriate to describe and show pictures of drugs to eight year olds. I guess that's just what our world had come to.. even back then. Slowly the pictures and words sank into the pit of my soul. It was all familiar. Too familiar. Every day when I went home from school I encountered the exact same substances that were being shown in the classroom. I suddenly understood what the little mirrors and razor blades were for. I remember feeling sick to my stomach because the white powder on the mirror was a drug. Worse than all of that- I knew my mom liked it. Before this day, I had never given those objects much thought. They were just there. I went home brokenhearted and somewhat in shock.

The following day- or perhaps the day after that, they talked more in depth about the people who would do such sad and horrible things like drugs. They told us those people were sick and needed help. They said they were bad and sometimes made very bad choices. They told us if they didn't get help, they would get more sick and hurt themselves. After that day, I was determined to help my mom. She needed it. Didn't she? I spent the entire day after school thinking about how I would help her and how I would tell somebody that she needed help. I looked at my my and I was genuinely sad for her. I wondered if she knew how bad her drugs were.

Those thoughts were abruptly broken to pieces the following day. The school had police officers come talk to us about D.A.R.E. I don't really remember what they said, but one of my first thoughts were about the black shirts they were giving away. Big red letters boldly proclaiming a stand against drugs. I liked the thought, but it terrified me to think about what would happen if I had shown up at home with one. What sort of conflict would that cause? Would it make my mom or her friends mad? Would their anger get mixed up with one of those 'bad decisions' that the drugs cause? I knew I couldn't have one of those shirts.

On the verge of tears I sat cross legged on the blacktop as we watched a police officer and his trained German shepherd demonstrate how they find drugs when the bad people hide them. At eight years old, I was forced to wrestle with the enormous weight of processing everything I was dealing with. Towards the end of the demonstration I was horrified when the police officer proudly showed us kids how the dog can attack a person by charging them, jumping up and biting their forearm, wrestling them to the ground. That was it. Decision made. I couldn't tell a soul that my mom was 'sick' or 'bad'.

In my little mind; Drugs were bad. People who did drugs were bad. It made them sick. They need help. Helping them means making them get attacked by a big dog.

Night after night, day after day, my head and heart were overwhelmed with all of this. It literally made me physically sick and depressed as I tried to figure it all out. I didn't understand how telling a teacher, who would tell the cops, who would bring their dogs to bite my mom- could possibly help her. It just didn't make sense. If I didn't tell anyone, she would get more sick. If I did tell them, hell would reign down. I loved my mom and I didn't know what to do. Either choice seemed horrible.

Just a few weeks after I became aware of all those things, police showed up and arrested my mom. Child Protective Services came and took me, my sister, and my brother away. I clearly recall standing in our front yard as neighbors and police and many other strangers swarmed my home. Across the street sat my mom in a police car. Handcuffed, and alone. I remember crying because I was scared. More than fear, I felt regret. I felt so sad for her that she was so sick. I wondered how my mom, who loved me, could be so bad. I wondered how people knew she was bad. I never told anyone. Standing there, looking her in the eyes from across the street, I still couldn't decide if I should have told someone sooner. Maybe she wouldn't be so sad if I said something when I found out. Maybe she would have. Maybe my teachers noticed me crying and knew. Maybe it was my fault she was locked in the car crying. That day I lost everything but my brother and sister. Although, a week after that we lost my sister when we got split up into different foster homes.

This year, Red Ribbon Week brought it all back and made me very aware of the scars I carry with me. It made me re-think all those same thoughts, irrational as they were. More than that; it gave me a new perspective on the fragile, sensitive little hearts children can't help but wear on their sleeve.