First Look: A Place Called Home
This excerpt is part of our First Look column, where you’ll find exclusive sneak peeks of new and forthcoming books across all genres!
David Ambroz, now a child welfare advocate, brings us a heart-wrenching memoir depicting his early childhood of poverty and homelessness. Against all odds, Ambroz rises above. Read an excerpt from his memoir below and order the book here.
Also, be sure to listen to his episode on Moms Don’t Have Time to Read books here!
When all the presents have been opened, there is only one item left under the tree—an envelope.
“This one is for all of us,” Mae announces.
William is in his favorite blue onesie. His diaper is full—I can smell the poop, and his squirming is changing from excited to uncomfort- able. But this is Mae’s big moment; he’ll have to wait. I hold him more firmly and whisper in his ear, “Okay, sweet boy, just a minute and I’ll change you.”
Mae opens up the business-sized envelope and holds up a white piece of paper with two words written on it in bold black Sharpie: Disney World.
“We’re going to Disney World!” Mae exclaims. Could she mean all of us? Even me? She looks around the room and smiles proudly. It’s too good to be true. There’s going to be a catch, and we all know it. But we thank her as we did for the presents.
“Oh my gosh, you’re so generous!” Malcolm says.
“Thank you so much,” Ben murmurs.
“That’s amazing!” I say.
Mae clicks her dentures. “Let’s eat,” she says, and everyone files into the dining area.
Details about Disney World emerge over breakfast.
“We’re going to drive, and we’ll have an adventure on the way,” Mae says. I don’t have a firm grasp on how far Florida is or how long the drive will be. I’m not even completely clear on what Disney World has to offer, but I don’t care. I know it’s the best trip a kid could ever want.
The family has a small camper van with a TV. It’s white, with fierce blue stripes, and is the pride of the family. The seats are luxurious—the back seats are captain’s chairs. Behind that is a third row that seats three. So in total the van fits seven people. If Mae and Buck both go, then there is room for only five kids. But right now in the house there are three boys in the basement (me, Ben, and Malcolm) and her three biological children (Tiffany, Sandy, and Neil). William will probably stay with a babysitter, but even so, one of the kids won’t fit in the van. Mae doesn’t share which one of us won’t be making this trip, and nobody asks. We’re afraid of the answer, afraid that it’s a secret test and whoever asks will be eliminated from the running.
A few days later, on the morning we’re supposed to leave, Mae sits us down.
“Unfortunately, we cannot bring everyone on the trip. I don’t want a lot of hysterics, do you understand? Everyone got a lot of great gifts. My sister will come over, and whoever stays with her and William will have a good time,” Mae says, convincing no one.
“Buck and I will be doing the driving. Neil, Sandy, and Tiffany will obviously bejoining us. So we only have room for two foster kids.”
Ben, Malcolm, and I, seated together on the beige sofa, lean forward, each of us hoping to be picked.
“David and Ben, you get to come,” Mae says. “I need you guys to pack and bring your stuff to the foyer.”
Malcolm, who is on my right, is trying to hide his tears.
“You are new, Malcolm, the newest. So it’s only fair the others get to go,” Mae explains. “All right, start packing.”
“I’m sorry, bro,” I say to Malcolm as we go down to the basement. “It’s whatever. Have fun.” Malcolm’s tears are gone already, displaced by anger.
On the drive down the van is full of joyful energy—even Mae and Buck are in good spirits. To save money, we sleep in the car while Mae and Buck take turns driving. We have four cassette tapes that we play over and over, starting with REO Speedwagon. I’m in my silky boxers, and I have to admit, I love them. They make me feel like I’m in water.
Two days later, we arrive at the biggest parking lot I’ve ever seen. We take the long shuttle ride into the park, all of us levitating in excitement. At the gate, we are each given a blue ticket. I make an internal vow to keep mine forever. This is going to be a day to remember.
We walk down Main Street, wearing our winter jackets. In this family there are rules about clothing that are tied to the season, not to the weather. It is seventy degrees out, but it is December, so we must wear jackets. I don’t mind. I’m too distracted to worry about comfort. This place is magical. Pluto waves at me and I wave back. The smell of fried dough wafts through the air. On each side of the street are olden-times- styled storefronts. People spill out of the doors; families negotiate maps; kid scream with joy or tears. Many people are wearing Mickey Mouse ears—even the adults. My head swivels back and forth in wonder.
“Listen,” Mae says. “Stay with us. If you get lost, meet right back here. Do you understand? I need a yes from each of you.” Buck and Mae seem to have a game plan, and they lead us straight to the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. From outside the arcaded building, we can see that the line is ridiculously long, but who cares? “Yo Ho a Pirate’s Life for Me” is painted on a ribbon above the entrance, and thematic music plays. But just before we enter the line, Mae directs us over to the side of the path, beneath a massive old tree that shades us from the morning sun.
“David, wait for us here,” she says, then turns to the other kids. “Give him your coats and bags. He’ll hang on to them.”
I stand in mute shock as the family and Ben pile their belongings onto me. It sinks in. I’m not going on the ride. They walk off toward the entrance, and I am left leaning against a railing. For an hour, I watch armies of families walking in all directions. She told me to stand, so I don’t sit.
“Oh my God, that was amazing. The cannons . . . the waterfalls . . . did you see the pig?” When they return, their exclamations overlap. I’ve been here before, watching opportunity and fun and family happen to other kids right in front of me. A knot rises from my stomach up into my throat, and I realize I’m near tears. I swallow hard and hand off possessions to their owners.
Mae looks directly at me. “Good job,” she says.
Bitch, I think, and look directly at her without replying.
“Okay, let’s go,” Mae says, turning away from me and taking a quick look at the map. She’s planned every moment of this experience. We walk on toward Tomorrowland. I see the characters, the rides, and the families. I imagine joining any one of them, being part of a family where I am included, cared for, loved.
Space Mountain looms over us, a white UFO. Again, Mae pulls us to the side before we get in line for the ride. Is it going to be someone else’s turn to stand and wait with the stuff ?
“David, wait here,” she says again, looking pointedly at me. Maybe this was her plan all along. But maybe she saw the hatred in my eyes and is punishing me for it. They walk away. My foster sister Sandy looks over her shoulder at me and mouths, “I’m sorry.”
A lump returns to my throat. I’m outside again, looking in. Time passes; the temperature rises; I guard the jackets and sweaters that none of us need. You can’t break me, I think. The more you hurt me, the stronger I get. I look at the people around me—babies, children, teen- agers, adults—and it occurs to me that no matter what happens, I’m going to grow up. I’m going to finish school, leave this family, get a job, and build a life. This misery is not forever. And when I’m older, when I have my own money and freedom, I’m going to find my way back here. First chance I get, I’m coming to Disney World.
Before they get in line for the first ride after lunch, Mae thrusts her disposable camera into my hands.
“Take a photo of us, and don’t drop the damn thing,” she says. They line up, smile, and I point and click.
“Aww, would you like one of all of you?” The heavyset woman who offers is wearing a pink T-shirt with Minnie Mouse on it, her frost-blond hair cropped short. She takes the camera out of my hands and enthusi- astically shoves me toward the others. I feel like Cinderella, awkwardly forced to pose with her stepfamily. Standing to the far right, I stare into the camera, focusing on a thought that only I will recognize if I ever get to see the picture: Fuck you Mae and Buck. I think, Fuck you. I’m going to come back here when I’m older. I’m going to bring my real family.
The woman returns the camera to Mae. “You have a beautiful family,” she says.
“Those two are not my kids. They’re foster kids,” Mae clarifies, pointing at me and Ben.
The woman looks taken aback, more by Mae’s tone than the information. “Okay, well, have fun,” she says, turning to leave. I watch her walk away. When she looked at this hodgepodge of people, she saw a family. I wish it were true.
On the way out of the park that day, Mae cheerily asks, “Did everyone have fun?” She peers at me, looking for a reaction. She wanted me to have hope and to be punished for that hope. Why? I can’t say. Perhaps flexing her strength with me made up for insecurity in her own life. But at least she took us in—possibly the only kids who could be grateful for her roof are the ones who know what it’s like to have no roof at all.
When we get home, I squirrel away the park ticket and later, the photo, and keep them forever. This is a moment that defines my pain, proves to myself that I didn’t imagine the cruelty, and I need to remem- ber it. Over and over, as the years go by, I vow to myself and the boy that I was that I will make it up to myself. I will return one day, with my real family, a family that I make, and I will enjoy that park for all it’s worth. And though I can’t possibly imagine it then, one day in the future, that vow will come true, and this framed ticket will adorn my office wall at the Burbank headquarters of the Walt Disney Company. When I look up each morning from my desk and see it, I’ll remember how far I’ve come.
Excerpted from A PLACE CALLED HOME: A Memoir by David Ambroz. Copyright © 2022 by David Ambroz. Reprinted with permission of Legacy Lit. All rights reserved.
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David Ambroz is a national poverty and child welfare expert and advocate. He was recognized by President Obama as an American Champion of Change. He currently serves as the Head of Community Engagement (West) for Amazon. He previously led Corporate Social Responsibility for Walt Disney Television, and has served as president of the Los Angeles City Planning Commission as well as a California Child Welfare Councilmember. After growing up homeless and then in foster care, he graduated from Vassar College and later from UCLA School of Law (J.D.). He is a foster dad and lives in Los Angeles, CA.