Blau Jessica Anya - Girl unbroken: a sisters harrowing story of survival from the streets of Long Island to the farms of Idaho

To Rosie:

Mia bambina, je taime.

Gi

To Daniel, Alexis, and Brody:

I am reminded daily that you are the reasons why I persevered.

You have blessed me with boundless happiness and Iam honored that I get to be the one that you call Mom.

withunconditional love, Mom (Rosie)

You have to walk that lonesome Road

You have to walk it by

Yourself

And theres nobody whose going to

Walk it for

You.

R. Calcaterra (age 9)

When I wrote Etched in Sand, I revisited the harrowing details of my own journey while deliberately remaining conservative with how much I shared of my siblings own stories. In fact, it was Rosie, my youngest sister, who I was the most protective of, a heightened instinct that to this day I have yet to shed. Although I was steadfast about not disclosing her experiences, I also knew that her story would inspire those caped in darkness to push through toward the light.

At the urging of Etched in Sands readers, who for the past three years kept inquiring about Rosies welfare, Rosie was inspired to tell her story. Rosie and I embarked on the journey of writing Girl Unbroken together. For her it was tremendously empowering; for me it was a heartfelt labor of lovean everlasting gift that will constantly remind her how resilient she truly is. In order to tell it well, we felt it necessary to write it in Rosies voice, in the first person narrative, so readers can share her journey alongside her just as they did alongside me in Etched in Sand.

Girl Unbroken is the true story of Rosies experiences shortly before she was removed from the care of her older sisters and the atrocities she endured after our mother dragged Norman and her across the country and far away from those who loved them the most. All of our siblings consented to the publication of Girl Unbroken and the use of our actual names in the following pages. However, some peoples names have been changed in order to protect their anonymity, including but not limited to Rosies and Normans foster parents, relatives both living and deceased, and those our mother associated with. Specifically worth noting is Rosies stepfather, whom we refer to with the pseudonym of Clyde Hapner. Also referred to with pseudonyms are some of the towns where Rosie and Norman predominantly resided when in Idaho, along with their landmarks and occupants. For ease of description, Rosies high school boyfriends were consolidated into one character as were her caseworkers and they each are represented by pseudonyms.

In the acknowledgments of Etched in Sand, I thanked Rosie: Boundless love and adoration to Rosie, who has her own story to tell, which Ill encourage her to do... only when she is ready. And now she is ready...

Regina Calcaterra

We were five kids with five different fathersone jailed and then dead, two missing, and two unknown. Our mother, Cookie, was more gone than there, more drunk than sober, more mentally ill than mentally well. Cookie blew in and out of our lives like a hurricane, blind and uncaring to everything in her path. Once she arrived, she dispensed beatings, or tied my sister Gi naked to the radiator, or called all my sisters sluts and whores simply because in spite of the fact that they were starving, exhausted, and without heat in many New York winters, they remained beautiful, strong-willed, self-reliant, and loving. Cookie just couldnt rip all that good out of them, but they hid it from her the best they could, storing all their sweetness and good will in me and our brother, Norm. Norm and I were the babies, the little ones, the ones they wanted to save.

My sister Gi looked at me as her do-over. Everything that had been missing from her childhood, she brought to mine. Gi read to me, she piled clothes on top of me to keep me warm. She bathed me, brushed my light brown hair, and taught me how to count to ten in English, Spanish, and French.

During the storms of my mother being home and in the calm of her absence, the only thing I knew for sure was that Gi would make everything okay. In this way, I was always safe, loved, and cared for. I was her Rosie, her sweetie, her bambina.

When she was nine years old, Gi wrote a poem that her teacher saved and gave back to her years later.

We didnt know it then, but that poem and those words were words I would have to live by before I turned nine. Gi walked with me as far as she could. But in the end, there was nothing she could do to hang on to me when our mother and the county social workers decided Id be better off without my siblings.

This story is about the missing years when my sisters werent there to save me. These were the years I had to walk the lonesome road. And you can bet that as soon as I was upright and strong enough, I walked that road straight back to the people who loved me.

Gi told me we were moving again. If you count foster homes and living in cars, where I, as the youngest, slept in the footwell, wed moved at least fifteen times already. And I was only eight years old. This move was worse, though. In this move, I was losing my sisters.

The oldest of us, Cherie, had already left to live with her husband and new baby. The rest of us had found ourselves, once again, to be wards of the state: Camille at seventeen, Gi, almost fourteen, Norm, twelve, and me.

We were in an upstairs bedroom of a house we called the Toad House, because it was drab gray with big front windows that looked like hooded eyes. My clothes were in this room but Id never slept here. Gi, Norm, and I were like a litter of pups, curling up every night in the living room together where we felt safe.

Months ago, our mother, Cookie, had abandoned the four of us in the Toad House. Later that same day, Camille moved into her best friends house. She didnt want to leave us behind, but she thought maybe if she had a real home and didnt have to worry about food, she could get a few odd jobs and make enough money to buy food for us. When Cookie finally returned two nights ago, she beat Gi so violently that there were raised bruises like purple walnuts running from her brow to her cheek. Around Gis swollen and now-lopsided lips were craggy lines of scabs. Gi thought it was probably her social studies teacher, Mr. Brown, who called Social Services the next day. Gi told me she hadnt realized how bad she looked until she saw Mr. Browns face turn white at the sight of her. Its always harder to ignore the truth when you see that truth in someone elses eyes.

Now Cookie was in the kitchen with a silver-haired social worker, and another social worker sat in the living room. She was a pretty blonde-haired lady who looked just like Mrs. Brady from The Brady Bunch.

Why cant I go with you? I asked Gi. We were looking out the window at the two gray cars parked on the gravel driveway. One was waiting to take Norm and me away; the other was for Gi and Camille. After Gi learned that Social Services was snooping around, she called Camille at her friends house. Camille rushed home to take care of us.

There are too many of us to fit in the same car, love bug. Gi was as skinny as a piece of licorice, losing her hair from malnutrition and the stress of having to steal food just to make sure Norm and I would keep growing.

But we always fit in one car!

Not this time, Gi said. Tears streaked down her face.

I grabbed Gis licorice leg and said, But you always said that we are so skinny we can all be folded up to fit anywhere. And we are