Sam Riviera Archives - Page 2 of 10

Below is the fourth letter in the series, “Letters To Dad.” They are written by Sam Riviera, and are based on the true stories of people he actually knows in real life.

Dad,

You probably thought you’d never hear from me again. Well, it’s me. I’m alive.

But now I’m somewhere where you can never find me or hurt me.

There’s a public library near here where I can get on the internet. I check Facebook. Sometimes I see your posts. I read that you found out I’m gay. Did you really say “He’s better off dead if he’s gay”? What is that supposed to mean? Is that some kind of threat? To your own flesh and blood? You want me dead? Seriously?

I didn’t have a choice to be born. I didn’t get to choose who my dad is. I also didn’t get to choose that I’m gay. Regardless of what you think, I didn’t choose any of those things.

I wasn’t kidnapped. I had been planning my escape for a long time. I had to get away from you. Why? You scare me. Actually, you terrify me. I figured sooner or later you were going to find out I’m gay. I had to get as far away from you as possible before that happened.

Now that I see what you wrote on Facebook, I’m glad I ran.

I didn’t want you trying to beat demons out of me. That’s what you said. “If I ever find out any kid of mine is gay, I’ll beat those demons out of them if it kills them.” You said that.

Seriously? You think I have demons in me? Why are you such an angry person? You need help.

Where did you learn this stuff, anyway? From those homophobic guys you work with? You know that some of them are gay, don’t you? Seriously, dad. Some of them are gay. Don’t you know that? You have gay neighbors and gay relatives and gay coworkers. Which of them are you going to beat the demons out of? That could get you some serious jail time.

You said the Bible says gay people are abominations and should be stoned. Nice. Is that supposed to be Christian love? Where did you learn that? That is sick. And frightening.

Anyway, not that you care, but I’m surviving. For now. I’ve hooked up with some other kids in similar situations. About half my group is gay. Some got thrown out by their parents when they came out. The rest of us took off before our parents found out so we wouldn’t get the crap beat out of us.

We live outdoors most of the time. We steal to survive. We panhandle. Some of us sell drugs. Some of us sell sex. Don’t be surprised. Stealing, begging, addiction, dealing drugs, selling sex, and being homeless is our lifestyle … chosen for us by our parents … by dads like you.

Oh, and add dead to that list. Our lifestyle makes for a short lifespan. Suicide, overdosing, disease, getting stabbed, shot or beaten to death, or dying from exposure on cold nights is our lifestyle.

I’m not really mad at you. I’m seriously afraid of you. Thinking about you hurts. You are my dad for God’s sake. How can you be like that? How could you sentence me to a life like this? You’re the one who made that choice. You chose. I didn’t. You cut me off. You threatened my life. You’re responsible for me being on this earth. You brought me here. Now you want me dead?

One of my group read online that kids like us have a lifespan of four or five years at most. Maybe I’ll beat those odds. Maybe not.

Seriously, Shaun

So far, I’m not using drugs

By Sam Riviera

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Below is the third letter in the series, “Letters To Dad.” They are written by Sam Riviera, and are based on the true stories of people he actually knows in real life.

Dad,

At least that’s what I’ve called you the last few years. You’ll probably be the only person I’ll ever call dad, even though you were my foster dad. According to grandma, if my mom knows who my real dad is she’s never said. She probably doesn’t know. Grandma says mom was strung out most of the time around the time she got pregnant with me so who knows who my real dad is. I’ll probably never know.

Grandma says it’s a wonder I ain’t in prison or some institution. All the meth mom was using when she was pregnant with me shoulda fried my brain. Well, I didn’t do great in school and spent a lot of time in the counselors office, but I’ve managed to stay out of jail. So far…

You told me I could go live with grandma or some other relative. That isn’t happening. No one wants me or has space for me. Grandma thinks I should be able to find a job. I’ve tried, but they tell me I don’t have any experience and they’re looking for people with experience. How much experience do you need to wipe off tables and take out the garbage?

I think grandma’s afraid she’ll have to support me. She barely gets by on her Social Security check and her landlord is threatening to raise her rent. She says she can’t pay more and doesn’t know where she can find another place for what she can afford, so she can’t have another mouth to feed and a big guy like me must eat a lot.

There’s this place for homeless and runaway kids where I can get a hot meal every night. They have showers and used clothes and a few other things. I got a backpack and I’m hoping for a sleeping bag. There’s a place I sleep up under a freeway bridge behind some bushes. It keeps me dry when it rains.

I was trying to sleep on the street, but it’s too dangerous. I couldn’t find anyone to hang with and you can’t sleep on the street alone. You’ll get kicked in the head when you’re trying to sleep and they take your stuff. You can’t get any sleep.

A guy I know down there said there was a shooting on the other side of the street last Saturday. Ten cop cars showed up. They ran everyone off the block and took what you couldn’t carry. The next night there was a stabbing in the alley around the corner. Some guy died. More cops. This stuff doesn’t even make the news. Like anyone cares when a homeless person gets murdered. Bad for the tourist business. Pretend it doesn’t happen. We’re not real people.

I guess I understand. The foster kid checks you got for me stopped when I aged out of the system. You have other kids and your job doesn’t pay much. You said it’s time for me to make it on my own. So far that looks like dinner at the homeless kids place, sleeping under a bridge, and hoping I won’t get stabbed. I’m trying to follow up with several places that are supposed to help people like me, but they really don’t have any place for me to live or work.

So far, I’m not using drugs. I don’t have money and I’m not selling my body or dealing for the privilege of getting messed up by drugs. You don’t know what it’s like down here. It’s a lot more messed up than you know. There are a few people who care, but they don’t have a place for me to get off the street. The system is totally messed up. Guess I’m luckier than most. So far…

Tony

Letters to Dad

By Sam Riviera

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Sam Riviera is a frequent and popular contributor to this blog. Many of his posts on loving your neighbors and ministering to the homeless are consistently among the most popular articles on this blog. As I type these very words, one of his articles about homeless people has received several thousand pageviews in just two days.

Based on his many years of friendship with lots of homeless people in San Diego, Sam Riviera has learned the stories of several of them, and, with their permission, is writing their stories in the form of letters to their dads. These are the letters that they might have written to their dads.

Below is a brief explanation of the purpose of these letters, and some links to resources for you to learn more and get involved.

What is the purpose of writing the Letters to Dad?

First of all, hopefully they will open the eyes of parents who are considering throwing out or abandoning their kids. Many parents do not know what life on the streets is going to be like for their kids. These letters will let them know.

Many of these children will survive by selling their bodies.

Many will become thieves.

Many will become addicts.

Some will never make it off the streets alive.

Secondly, hopefully they will open the eyes of those who follow Jesus to what is happening across America to homeless and runaway teens.

Can we allow this to continue?

Why are there so few temporary and even fewer long-term beds (shelters) for these kids? (The kids usually are not safe in adult shelters.)

Do we have anything to say to “Christian” parents who are about to or already have thrown out their kids because they’re gay, on drugs, having sex or doing other things the parents do not accept?

Religion and the Homeless

One tragic thing to note is that there is a significant relationship between religion and the homeless, runaway kids.

Conservative Christian parents tend to throw out kids who go against their religious beliefs. Often the kids run away before their parents figure out the kid is gay, pregnant, using, a thief, etc. The kids are often afraid of how their parents will react. Sometimes they’re embarrassed or ashamed. Almost always they don’t want to talk to their parents about the “problem.”

If You Are a Parent…

This series of letters is not intended to pile guilt on the parents of troubled teens. Instead, they hopefully serve as a reminder for all parents to:

Tell your children often that you will always love them, no matter what, and that they can always come to you with anything.
Do not judge the homeless person or drug addict we pass on the street. Some of them lived through hell at home before entering into the hell on the streets.

The Goal of this Series

I would love it if the series could open up the conversation nationwide and send kids and parents to those organizations that can help, regardless of where they are at in the continuum the letters will describe.

I would also love it if the series would result in more beds available nationwide for homeless and runaway kids in our country.

We believe in this cause, and have made provisions in our trust to fund homeless and runaway teen programs, especially those with dedicated beds. Maybe this series of letters will encourage others to do the same.

A List of all the “Letters to Dad”

More Resources about Troubled Teens

Although statistics vary, and probably no one knows the exact number of runaway and homeless youth in the USA who are living in the streets, alleys, canyons, beaches, parks, under bridges and any other place they can find, almost everyone agrees there are at least one million homeless and runaway kids in our country. This number does not include those who are “couch surfing”, living temporarily with friends.

The purpose of the “Letters to Dad” series is to tell the stories of a cross-section of these kids. Why are they homeless? Where are they sleeping? How are they surviving? What happens to them when they’re homeless? Why are they invisible to many of us? How can we help them survive and ultimately get off the street?

Below you will find links to numerous sites that give statistics and information about homeless and runaway youth, including programs that provide services to these kids. You may not agree with some of the beliefs shared on these links. We do not agree with all of them. They are here for your information. Explore them and use the information and resources you find useful.

We will continue to add more links to information and resources as the series continues. If you are aware of sites with information or resource for homeless and runway youth, post the links in a comment on any of the “Letters to Dad.” We will review the sites and add the most helpful ones to the links below.

Some of these sites are Christian. Some are not. While we have reviewed each site, we have not read all of the thousands of posts and articles that can be accessed through these links. We cannot attest to the accuracy of the statistics these sites report. Remember, some of the information is statistical, based on the statistics gathered by that site. Some of the information is based on experience, interviews and opinion.

Statistics vary by location and when the statistics were gathered. At least one runaway and homeless teen program of which we are aware, for example, reports that their group usually consists of about 10% LGBTQ teens, while another program in another city reports that their group is usually about 60% LGBTQ. Gender, age, economic background, race and many other demographics vary widely in the homeless and runaway youth population, and vary by program and location. What do these kids have in common? They are trying to survive in difficult circumstances. Most of them do not have a place they can call home.

Links about Homelessness in America

Information about Homeless Foster Youth Who Have Aged Out of the System

Facts about LGBT Homeless Youth and Related LGBT Resources

I’m the Ice Queen now, and you’ll never see me again

By Sam Riviera

4 Comments

Below is the second letter in the series, “Letters To Dad.” They are written by Sam Riviera, and are based on the true stories of people he actually knows in real life. This letter is from a woman named Amy, who is now an adult (Amy is not her real name).

In case you do not know, “Boosting” means stealing. “Doing me” means molesting her. “Ice” is meth. “Ice Queen” means she is sexually frigid and can never have a sexual relationship with a man. She is not a lesbian. “Ice Queen” also means she is doing well enough stealing to buy all the ice she wants.

Dad,

You are probably hoping I’m dead, but I’m not. Ignore the postmark on the envelope. Wherever it says, it’s not where I am. A friend on a cross-country trip promised to mail this letter several states away from me. The most I’ll tell you is that I’m nowhere close to you and it’s going to stay that way. Permanently.

Oh yeah, I have a new name and identity. Once I got a birth certificate with a new name, the rest was easy. So don’t bother looking for me. I don’t exist anymore, at least not by the name you know. Even if you could somehow find me, you won’t do it before I turn eighteen. Then you can’t ever make me do anything I don’t want to. Never again.

The money I had saved ran out a few weeks after I took off. Then I hooked up with a couple of people on the road. They’ve taught me how to survive. We’re luckier than most. We don’t have to sell ourselves to dirty, perverted old men. We rip ‘em off. Boosting is the name of the game.

You gave me an education too. That’s what you called it, right? How stupid did you think I was even when I was little? I didn’t need your brand of education.

“Readin’, writin’, and ‘rithmatic.
Taught to the tune of a hickory stick.”

You thought I wouldn’t remember what you sang when you were doing me when I was eight? I remember. Every stinking detail.

Are you doing the same stuff to my sisters? Maybe your sheriff will be getting an anonymous letter one of these days tipping him off. Maybe the neighbors and the church people will be getting some anonymous letters too. It would serve you right.

I’m not asking for an apology. Never will. You’re not capable. I wouldn’t believe you if you apologized. You wouldn’t mean it. No matter how many times you said you’re sorry it wouldn’t make any difference.

But you’re not sorry, are you?

I still wonder though … Why did mom think you took me out to your workshop in the garage several times a week? How could she not know what was going on? She was afraid of you, wasn’t she? That’s why she never came out to the garage.

Whatever. You’ll never see me again. You’ll never know my name. You’ll never know where I am or what I’m doing. But you should always be looking over your shoulder. Maybe that car door closing out front is the sheriff getting out of his car to come get you because I’ve decided to testify against you.

Maybe, just maybe, I keep in touch with someone who’s keeping an eye on you. If I ever, ever hear you’ve been touching my sisters or any other kid you can bet your ass you’ll see me again. On the witness stand at your trial.

In the meantime I’ve moved on. I’m doing just fine, thank you. I’d be doing just fine living under a bridge so long as it was nowhere close to you.

Keep yourself out of prison, old man.

The Ice Queen, formerly known as Amy

Killing Me Softly with your Jesus Songs

By Sam Riviera

31 Comments

The following is the first post in a new series by Sam Riviera called “Letters to Dad.” You don’t want to miss these …

Dad,

I remember you singing Jesus loves the little children. All the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious in his sight.

I loved that song when I was little. I loved hearing you sing it. I felt secure. Jesus loved me and my dad was there to take care of me.

You sang as if you knew him and knew all about him. He would take care of me. I was precious to him and to you.

You gave me a brand new red Schwinn bicycle for my eighth birthday. I had admired that off-brand bicycle in the window of the Western Auto store. But when you came home from work on that hot summer day when I turned eight you unloaded a new Schwinn bicycle from the car and said it was mine. I knew you loved me. I heard you tell your friend that I was your pride and joy.

Every day with Jesus is sweeter than the day before. Every day with Jesus I love him more and more. I remember you singing that song clear and strong. You sang it all the time.

On my sixteenth birthday mom baked my favorite cake. German chocolate. After she finished the frosting, she pounded the pork tenderloins big and flat, dipped them in eggs and cracker crumbs, just the way I like them. When you walked in the door they were sizzling in the frying pan.

“Why don’t you have any girl friends?” you asked me.

“Some of my friends are girls,” I said.

“Why don’t you have a girl friend?”

“Why do I need a girl friend?”

“I’ve been told that friend of yours is a faggot.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were seen kissing a boy.”

“Who?”

“That kid you hang out with all the time. They say he’s a faggot. Are you a faggot?”

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s a faggot. Now I find out you’re a faggot too. You’re no son of mine.”

My birthday cake was sitting in the middle of the table. The tenderloin that mom was cooking for my birthday dinner was frying in the pan.

You grabbed my arm and walked me to the door and said “Get out. You don’t live here any more. Get out of this house and get out of this town or you’ll regret it. Don’t ever try to come back.”

Mom was crying. You wouldn’t even let me go to my room and get some clothes or my wallet.

Last night I dreamed about you. You were strumming your guitar and singing. Strumming my pain with your fingers. Telling my life with your words. Telling your shame at who I am. Embarrassing me in front of everyone I ever knew. Killing me softly with your song.

You sang as if you knew me in all my dark despair. Then you looked right through me as if I was not there. You just kept on singing clear and strong. I was dying. You were killing me, killing me with your song.

Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. You told me Jesus loves me when I was a kid. You sang that song to me. Sang it clear and strong. Now you think Jesus hates me. You’re ashamed that I am your son.

You threw me out on my sixteenth birthday. All I had were the clothes on my back. I walked to the edge of town and hitched a ride.

“Where ya’ going?” the guy asked when he pulled over.

“How far are you going?” I asked.

“Cross country.”

“I’m going as far as you’re willing to take me.”

“Traveling light, aren’t ya?”

“This is all I’ve got. I lost everything else.”

You’ll be happy to know I’m nowhere near you any more. You won’t have to be ashamed of me. You can tell people I ran off. Of course we know that’s not true. You ran me off. Ran me off to hide your shame.

You never really believed the words of those songs, did you? You like your guitar and the music, right? Grandma took you to church and you learned those songs. But you never believed that Jesus loves me. I was precious only if I was what you wanted me to be. You loved me only if I was what you wanted.

My ride dropped me off in a big city a long way away from you. I slept in a park the first night. The next day a guy asked where I was from. I told him my story. He offered to let me stay with him.

That night he gave me something that he said would make me feel better. When I was feeling no pain he raped me. Just so you know.

He threw me out of his apartment the next day. I wandered the streets and found some other guys about my age. They said they would hook me up with some good stuff. The good stuff comes with a price.

Jesus paid it all. All to him I owe. You just kept on singing that song, singing clear and strong.

I live in a tent. I owe everything to my supplier. He comes by every night. I don’t have any money. That’s not how I pay. After he takes his turn, he has several other guys lined up for me. He says he has to cover his costs and make a little profit. He says he used to get more for boys than girls, but now the price is about the same.

After I’ve paid, I get what I need, just enough to last me until tomorrow. Then I have to pay again to get more.

“I don’t give you enough ice to get you so high you’ll slit anyone’s throat when you’re tweaking,” he says. “That would be bad for business.”

I’m lucky. He gives me good stuff. There’s lots of fake stuff out there now. They make it out of insecticide. One trip on that and you’re permanently ruined. I guess that would be bad for business and that’s why I get the good stuff.

Sing the wondrous love of Jesus. Sing his mercy and his love.

In my dream last night you sang to me. Sang as if you knew me. But you looked right through me as if I was not there. But you just kept on singing clear and strong. Singing to yourself I guess. Singing to convince yourself that Jesus loves you and hates me.

I doubt you ever loved me. You loved a fantasy you had created in your mind.

Keep on singing dad. Keep on killing me softly with your Jesus songs. Keep on pretending, dad.

I never had sex with anyone until the night that guy raped me. I was there because I needed a place to stay. You threw me out. Remember? Just so you know.

Jason

He’s better off dead if he’s gay

So far, I’m not using drugs

Letters to Dad

What is the purpose of writing the Letters to Dad?

Religion and the Homeless

If You Are a Parent…

The Goal of this Series

A List of all the “Letters to Dad”

More Resources about Troubled Teens

Links about Homelessness in America

Information about Homeless Foster Youth Who Have Aged Out of the System

Facts about LGBT Homeless Youth and Related LGBT Resources

I’m the Ice Queen now, and you’ll never see me again

Killing Me Softly with your Jesus Songs

Theological Study Archives

Bible Study Archives

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