Mark: Most of us think of foster care as a last resort safety net for kids in danger. But what if for some children, the most terrifying outcome imaginable—the one they would lie, steal, and starve to avoid—is the system itself? Michelle: Wow. That’s a heavy place to start. Because you’re right, we see it as the rescue. The cavalry arriving. The idea that the rescue could be the thing you fear most is a profound and disturbing thought. Mark: That terrifying choice is at the heart of Etched in Sand by Regina Calcaterra. It’s a memoir that is, without a doubt, one of the most harrowing and yet inspiring stories of resilience I have ever read. Michelle: And what's just staggering is that Calcaterra, after surviving a childhood of homelessness and abuse, went on to become a prominent attorney and public official. She was literally in the helicopter surveying the damage after Hurricane Sandy, a key figure in the recovery efforts for Suffolk County. Mark: Exactly. It’s this incredible journey from being a victim of a broken system to being someone who fixes broken things. And it all starts with this unbelievable story of five kids against the world, bound by a single, desperate pact. Michelle: A pact to stay together, no matter the cost. Mark: No matter the cost. And that cost was immense.

Mark: And that pact to stay together is the engine of this entire story. It begins with one of the most chilling scenes in the book. The five siblings are in a rusty Impala, driven by their mother, Cookie. She pulls up to a dilapidated, abandoned-looking gray house on Long Island. Michelle: And I’m guessing this isn't a happy "welcome to your new home" moment. Mark: Not even close. Cookie turns to her daughters and says, "This is it. Sluts and whores, unpack the car." Then she leaves the keys in the ignition, a clear signal that she’s about to go on another one of her benders and disappear for days, or weeks. Michelle: Oh, man. That's brutal. So what do the kids do? They’re just left there? Mark: This is where the magic, if you can call it that, happens. The older sisters, thirteen-year-old Regina and her sister Camille, don't panic. They don't cry. They exchange a look. It’s a look of shared understanding, a silent communication honed by years of this. They become co-captains of a mission: get Cookie out of the house as fast as possible so they can secure their territory and take care of the younger ones, Norman and Rosie. Michelle: They’re strategizing. At thirteen. Their strategy is to encourage their own mother to abandon them. That’s just mind-bending. Mark: It is. They unpack the car with frantic efficiency. They even set up the younger kids to play a board game, Trouble, near Cookie's room, knowing the noise will annoy her and make her leave faster. And it works. Cookie leaves, and the kids are alone. They have a roof, but no food, no money, and no parent. Michelle: So what happens next? How do they eat? Mark: This is where their resourcefulness becomes almost unbelievable. Regina and Camille find a five-dollar food stamp left behind. They walk to the local Pathmark grocery store and execute a plan that is both brilliant and heartbreaking. Michelle: A plan? Mark: A heist. Regina, the narrator, distracts a stock boy by asking for empty boxes, pretending they’re moving. While he’s occupied, Camille slips food into her pockets and shorts. They use the food stamp for the items they can't easily hide, like milk. They steal macaroni and cheese, Jell-O, pudding mix, toilet paper—enough to last them for a couple of weeks. Michelle: I’m just floored. How does a child even learn to do that? And what does it say that their biggest fear wasn't getting caught stealing, but being put into foster care? Mark: That’s the absolute core of their existence. Regina states it explicitly in the book. She says, "No matter what horrible circumstances Cookie dumps us into, it will always be better than being separated and put into foster care." That was their prime directive. Staying together was the only form of safety they knew. They created their own family, their own rules, their own moral code, because the adult world had completely and utterly failed them. Michelle: It’s like they were building a fortress against the world, but the walls were made of sand, constantly being washed away by the next wave of their mother's chaos. The title, Etched in Sand, is such a perfect metaphor for that. Their names, their existence, felt so temporary, yet they kept rebuilding. Mark: And they did it with such maturity. Regina becomes the de facto parent. She figures out how to secure the house by jamming sticks in the windows because there are no locks. She cleans the filthy house with vinegar because they have no cleaning supplies. She rations the stolen food, often skipping meals herself so her younger siblings can eat. Michelle: She’s a child raising children. It’s a story of survival, but it’s also a profound indictment of every adult and every system that was supposed to be watching out for them. Mark: Exactly. They were invisible. They learned to "never act hungry, never look dirty" to slide under the radar of social services. Their survival depended on their invisibility. Michelle: But that invisibility can't last forever. Eventually, someone has to see.

Mark: You’re right. And the moment someone finally does see is the moment their pact, the one thing holding their world together, shatters. It happens after months of Regina caring for the younger two alone. Cookie returns in a drunken rage. The youngest, Rosie, accidentally breaks a glass. Michelle: Oh no. I have a bad feeling about this. Mark: It’s horrific. Cookie attacks Rosie, and Regina, now a fierce protector, intervenes. She screams at her mother, "You’re not her mother anymore! Let go of her!" This leads to Cookie turning on Regina and beating her so severely that she flees the house, bruised and battered, and sleeps outside in the cold. Michelle: And this is the breaking point? Mark: This is the breaking point. The next day at school, her social studies teacher sees the bruises covering her face and arms. He calls social services. A social worker named Ms. Davis shows up at the house. Michelle: Finally. The system arrives. Mark: It does. And at first, Regina sticks to the code of silence. She lies. She makes up stories. But Ms. Davis is persistent. She looks at Regina and says the words that finally break her: "Do you want Rosie to look like you in a few years, to feel like you feel? You owe it to them to tell the truth." Michelle: Appealing to her role as the protector. That’s clever. Mark: It works. Regina breaks down and tells her everything. The years of abuse, the neglect, the homelessness. She tells the truth to save her siblings. And the immediate consequence of her bravery? Michelle: Let me guess. They’re separated. Mark: They’re separated. They are immediately taken from the home and sent to different foster homes. The system, in its first act of "rescue," confirms their absolute worst fear. The very thing they starved and stole to prevent, happens because she told the truth. Michelle: That is just devastating. So the one time she trusts an adult in the system, it backfires in the most painful way possible. What was foster care like? Was it the safe haven they were promised? Mark: Not at all. Regina and Camille are sent to a temporary home with the Petermans. Regina describes the foster mother, Addie, as having a forced, superficial kindness. The house is clean, the rules are strict, but there's no warmth. Regina, with her finely tuned survival instincts, immediately recognizes it as a performance. It’s a business. Later in the book, she confronts Addie, accusing her of being in it for the money, and Addie’s response essentially confirms it. Michelle: So the system wasn't the answer. This is what makes this book so powerful and why it's apparently become a staple in social work courses. It’s not just a story of a bad mother; it’s a story of institutional failure on a massive scale. Mark: A complete failure. The social workers are portrayed as overworked, easily manipulated by Cookie, and bound by a bureaucracy that prevents them from acting effectively. At one point, Cookie essentially kidnaps the younger kids, and the system is powerless to intervene across state lines. Michelle: It’s infuriating to read. So if the system failed them, where did the real help come from? Where were the glimmers of hope? Mark: That’s the other side of this story, and it’s beautiful. The hope came from individuals. It came from the landlord who, knowing they weren't paying rent, quietly filled their oil tank in the middle of winter and left vegetables on their porch without a word. Michelle: Wow. Mark: It came from the librarians who gave them a safe, warm place to go after school and never asked questions. And most importantly, it came from teachers. The teacher who noticed the bruises. Another teacher, Ms. Van Dover, who, when Regina was being pulled out of school yet again, told her, "The only thing that will get you out of your situation is to stay in school." She empowered Regina. Michelle: So the real safety net wasn't the institution, but the individual people who chose to show basic human decency and kindness. Mark: Precisely. Those were the 'beacons of light' in the darkness. They were small, inconsistent flashes of humanity, but they were enough to keep the flame of hope alive in Regina, enough for her to believe that a different life was possible. And that belief is what ultimately propelled her to college and to her incredible success.

Michelle: It’s just an incredible story. When you put it all together, it feels like the siblings had to build their own tiny, functioning society with its own laws and loyalties, precisely because the larger society around them had completely abdicated its responsibility. Mark: That's the perfect way to put it. They created a powerful, resilient micro-culture of survival because the macro-culture, including the institutions designed to protect them, was a catastrophic failure. The book's power isn't just in the horror of the abuse. It's in the stark contrast between that systemic, bureaucratic indifference and the profound impact of small, individual acts of grace. Michelle: It really makes you think about our own roles. It's easy to feel helpless in the face of a 'broken system.' We hear that phrase all the time. But this book suggests that maybe we're asking the wrong question. Maybe the question isn't "How do we fix the whole system?" Mark: What’s the right question? Michelle: Maybe the right question is, "How can I be a Ms. Van Dover? How can I be that landlord?" The story seems to argue that a single person choosing to offer genuine, no-strings-attached humanity can be a more powerful force for change in a child's life than an entire government agency. Mark: I think that’s the ultimate takeaway. The system is vast and impersonal, but humanity is specific and personal. Regina Calcaterra’s life is a testament to that. She survived the system and then dedicated her life to public service, to being one of those people who helps. Michelle: It leaves you with a really challenging thought. We all have the capacity to be a beacon of light for someone, even in a small way. And for a child lost in the dark, a small light can be everything. It makes me wonder, for our listeners, have you ever seen a small act of kindness change someone's trajectory? Mark: A powerful question to reflect on. We'd love to hear your thoughts on that. The story of the Calcaterra siblings is a reminder that while we can't always mend what's broken on a grand scale, we can always choose to be the person who leaves the vegetables on the porch. Michelle: This is Aibrary, signing off.