NABJ Black News & Views
For Black youth in foster care, storytelling can be survival—and resistance.
I remember I was 8 years old when I received my first diary as a Christmas present, a small 4×6 pink journal with a lock. I always kept the key with me, even at school. That diary became my space to express myself and understand the world. I’d begin most entries with “Dear God” and write about my day, my hopes, and ask all the questions I wanted without judgement.
At that point, I had been in foster care for about three years. Nothing in my life felt certain—however, my diary remained a constant in my life. It gave me something I didn’t know I needed—my voice. I didn’t show my writing to anyone, but over time, I filled in more and more journals. That’s how I started understanding the power of storytelling. Even then, I knew I was meant to be a communicator.
Learning to bear witness
May is National Foster Care Month—an observance created in 1988 to honor foster parents and the more than 600,000 young people served by foster care in the United States each year.
I entered care at the age of 5 due to a family crisis and spent the next 13 years in several placements. One of the hardest parts of being in care was being separated from my siblings. Although I entered the system with a younger sibling, we were eventually placed in different homes. Being in care, away from my family, was one of the most difficult periods of my life. And yet, it lit a fire inside me. I became determined to create a life beyond what I was experiencing—one fueled by big dreams and a deep connection to my inner passions.
Author Jamerika Haynes-Lewis as a child. Photo courtesy Jamerika Haynes-Lewis.
When a foster parent once asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, “An actress.” She laughed and said, “Okay.” But I wasn’t joking. I didn’t know the word “communicator” yet, but I knew that actors told stories and made people feel something. That’s what I wanted to do—reach people.
Growing up on the Eastside of Tacoma, Washington, gave me a sense of security. It’s a working-class neighborhood with a diverse group of residents. Even when I went into foster care, I still felt like I belonged in my city. But everything changed when I moved to Poulsbo, Washington—a smaller town named after a Norwegian village, located on the land of the Suquamish Tribe. I went from a city with a significant Black population to a place where I was one of the few Black kids in my school—and sometimes in the entire town. I felt invisible.
I found comfort in forming friendships with my classmates, some of whom I remain close to today. I remember going to powwows and learning about Suquamish tribal life. It was comforting and eye-opening. It showed me how people survive systems and work hard to maintain connection, cultural tradition, and sovereignty.
Later, as a high school senior in Gridley, a small northern California city of 7,300, I remember riding the school bus past a neighborhood with a sign that read “Labor Camp.” At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. I later learned that some of my classmates lived there, and their parents worked in the nearby orchards. Before moving to Gridley, most of what I knew about agricultural labor came from textbooks or the news. Seeing that neighborhood daily, and understanding who lived there, helped me realize that policies and systems aren’t just ideas—they shape the everyday lives of real people with dreams, responsibilities, and families, just like mine.
