December 10, 2007
A Borrowed Home
My name is Ruwaida Alansary, but people call me Roxy. I was born in Saudi Arabia in 1988 and my parents divorced in 1995. My father remarried in 1996 and moved my stepmother and me to the United States in January 2001 in search of education and a chance at a relationship with our ailing grandmother. Even though my mother battled for custody of us, the lack of civil rights in Saudi Arabia for women eventually won; she moved back to Egypt to be with her family, and I found myself enrolled in a seventh-grade class in Tucson.At the beginning of ninth grade, in August 2003, I was separated from family once again. Amid allegations of abuse, the Arizona Department of Economic Security’s Child Protective Services took me into its custody and I moved into the first of seven locations I would come to call “home” over the next three years. When the state took me into its custody, I thought it was to work things out. Instead, I found myself living with drug addicts, gang members and juvenile sex offenders.
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In a swamped courtroom at the Pima County Juvenile Court Center, CPS hearings can take as little as a half-hour.
After I was taken away, my father was left to navigate the labyrinth of courtrooms, lawyers and caseworkers. I, on the other hand, found myself in the hands of complete strangers. My first placement was with a conservative Christian foster family.I remember one of my first nights at that foster home. I was so hungry — the last thing I had eaten that day was a bowl of instant oatmeal for breakfast. The family and I were all waiting at the dinner table for L, my foster mother, to join us. We were having pork chops and mashed potatoes. But I was raised not to eat pork, as it’s against the Muslim religion. Determined not to make a fuss, I grabbed a fork, dove into the potatoes and filled my plate. As the foster family began feasting, L sat back.
“Hey Roxy, can you take off your scarf while we’re at the dinner table?” I touched the black cotton hijab I was wearing that day. The room was silent, awkward. Everything turned red and all I could hear was my heart beating faster and faster until finally I got up and left the dinner table, avoiding showing anyone the anger and embarrassment on my face. As a devout Muslim, I had worn a scarf nearly every day of my life since I was a little girl. For me, the scarf was a constant reminder of my religion, the one constant in my life that was keeping me strong. Being asked to take it off was like a slap in the face.
After that night, L’s racism only snowballed: snide comments, avoidance, blame. I felt like she took advantage of my need to please: I wanted to be comfortable, I wanted to help around the house. But she never trusted me. Even though I told my caseworker I was uncomfortable, and I knew CPS was looking for a new placement for me, I was still impatient. I began to think about escape.
A few weeks after the dinner-table incident, I stuffed as many clothes as I could into two duffel bags and ran away from L’s house. I spent the day roaming around Downtown, exhausted and hungry. At sunset, I stopped at the snake bridge near Broadway and Euclid. The cold air blew and the sky was purple and the mountains were huge. It was all so beautiful. The view made me want to live forever. For the first time in years, I felt free.
When I woke up the next day, it was cold outside and I was shivering. I covered myself up in my blanket and walked to the Islamic Center of Tucson near the University of Arizona, where I knew I could find warmth without discrimination. When I got there I felt an immediate sense of closeness with these strangers. They fed me rice and lamb and they listened to me. They treated me with respect. I didn’t tell them I was on the run.
