I Was Raised by Wolves

That sounds pretty bad, doesn't it? I'm not referring to my parents. My mother, in fact, is the one the Lord commissioned to bring me to Himself. I can't wait to see her again (she resides in Heaven). I'm not alluding to grandparents, aunts, uncles, or any other adult in my life who may have had a hand in my upbringing, indirectly or otherwise. I'm talking about the ones who really raised me.
I'm referring to my peers and even some of my instructors; they were my true mentors and teachers. Everything I learned about the streets came from them. Any profanity, sensuality, hair-raising talk of witchcraft, and revelations of what gangs really do to teens in some inner cities, were infused into my being, never to be forgotten. My mind was filled with all that I read in the school library; I won't elaborate for your sake and mine.
Johannah Bluedorn has written a book titled My Mommy, My Teacher. My Julia (now 14) used to cart that small book around when she was four or five years old, tucked under her little arm, because she loved the pictures. She couldn't read the words yet, but if she could, they only would have confirmed in her what the pictures were already conveying--there is safety with Mommy and Daddy. Home is where Julia belongs.