That Time I Helped Steal a Car ... And a Small Plea

I think a lot about how we become who we are, sometimes gradually, and sometimes in sudden lurches. I also think about the very fine lines that can separate one fate from another. And while I can occasionally be a judgmental jerk just like most everyone can occasionally be, I also spend a lot of my life thinking, “there but for the grace of god go I.” That’s what this essay is about.

Most of you know I spent my teen years living mostly with friends, teachers, and in foster care. The foster care part was truly, magnificently, kaleidescopically awful. The foster home where I spent the end of my senior year had a buzzer on the backdoor (the only door we foster kids were ever allowed to use), so that the foster parents could hear us coming and going. If we got home past curfew, that door would be locked, no ifs, ands, or buts. Just locked. Also, police would be called.

You might be thinking, well, boundaries are important. And they are. It’s true. But I lived—and still live—in Minnesota, wh…