The Foundling

CHAPTER I:

"ME AGAINST THE WORLD"

As I pulled my new shinny red fire truck by its string behind me on that bright and brisk February day over the paths  and through the grassy knolls of Central Park North in 1955, the heads of the two White firemen seated in its cab bobbed furiously up and down. I was  waiting patiently for my escort to collect me. Unbeknownst to me, the Catholic Charities' Social Worker had brought me here as a transfer to a new foster home placement. After she finally called me over to where she'd been talking for what seemed to me like a long time with some woman and man since our arrival, I walked towards them slowly. I stopped before reaching the threesome. Standing there, I saw them looking at me strangely. She called out  to me again: "Serolf come over here."

Instead of waiting for me to make a move, she immediately came to me and took my hand to lead me even closer to where the couple was standing and staring at me. After introducing them to me as my new foster parents and ordering me to now go with them, she coldly snatched her hand from mine and departed rather abruptly.

For the next few seconds, I don't believe it could have been any longer than that, no one said a word. Although the distance separating this strange couple from me was not more than five to ten feet to a lost three year old it seemed like a vast abyss. Little did I know at the time, this short walk would prove to be the longest and most important journey I'd ever make in life. It took all the courage I could muster up to not start crying on the spot and run away. The fear and trepidation I felt inside overwhelmed me, made my legs wobble, and threw my stomach into a wrenching gut lock. Then, as if the sky had fallen and landed on my head, out of nowhere I felt a bit of  hope enter me, and for a fleeting instant, I had faithI'd be okay:

"I could do thisand come out the other side safely," I now told myself. Still scared though, I thought about how I really was not alone in this mess. After all, "I am armed with my red hook and  ladder fire engine. I know I can rely on it to get me through this." I had to convince every bit of myself that I'd be okay.

 While fighting the urge to take off, I braced myself once again for the unknown. As I toddled toward them, all heads bobbing up and down now, with every step along the way, I can remember asking myself:

"What is happening to me here, and who are these people; where am I?"

Middle-aged Mattie and Ernest Roland lived at 141 West 111th Street, Apt 1RE, New York, New York. They were foster parents who took in children deemed by the State to be incorrigible; often abandoned, abused and neglected individuals, as a last resort, were sent here before being shipped off to other foster homes, State mental hospitals or reformatories. In some cases these wards of the State ended up hooked on drugs or alcohol, going insane or as homeless runaways living on the streets of Harlem. These kids often became patients in mental hospitals, junkies or sooner or later convicts. At any given time the Roland’s three-bedroom apartment housed no less than four to six kids, some waiting for transfer to other homes or State mental institutions like Wassaic or Creedmoor. The apartment appeared cramped and cluttered with old furnishings and clothing. It was usually dimly lit and in need of a fresh coat of paint. For the most part though, it served as a way station for the foster children living there.

As Afroamericans having migrated from the south to