Orphaned America By Michael Maris Mitchell [email protected]

Drawn from the garbage, at just two years old, I was abandoned in a Chicago dumpster, discarded like trash. Somehow, some way, someone heard my cries and pulled me out, saving me. From there, I was taken to the Area 6 Violent Crimes Division on Halsted Street in Chicago, where I was identified by Paul Parizanski, my uncle, a Sergeant Lieutenant in the Chicago Police Department. He arranged for me to be placed with the grandparents, Sophie and John.

Sophie and John were elderly and did what they could to provide for my brother Richard and me, but they weren’t equipped to raise young children. Life in their home revolved around routines that rarely included us. Soap operas of the day played on their black-and-white console TV. Shows like As the World Turns and Days of Our Lives filled the afternoons with their iconic openings: “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.” Occasionally, my brother and I could sneak in some cartoons or an afternoon of Speed Racer if we were lucky. Anyone else remember, Go, Speed Racer, Go!?

Those small moments of escape were bright spots in a home that felt otherwise disconnected. There was no bonding, no meaningful connection, and no one to invest in us as developing children. We were cared for in the most basic sense, but there was no nurturing or guidance to help us thrive.

By the time I was seven, I began running away—not because I hated my grandparents, but because I craved something I couldn’t define. Freedom? Adventure? Love? I didn’t know, but I kept searching. Every time I ran, it became harder to come back. My repeated escapes brought attention to my situation. The Illinois Department of Children and Family Services (DCFS) got involved, and child abuse was indicated, not out of deliberate harm, but because the environment wasn’t fit for children to grow.

I was removed by my social worker, Betty White, and placed in St. Joseph’s Orphanage, a Catholic institution on 35th Street and Cottage Grove in Chicago. The orphanage was run by nuns who believed in discipline, respect, and fear of God. They were lovingly strict, their rules unwavering, but they showed us genuine care. While their methods may seem harsh to some, they were rooted in a desire to teach us to live with dignity and respect for others. We prayed daily, followed routines, and were taught to honor God and people. Their love was firm but always present.

St. Joseph’s was my first placement, but it was far from the last. From there, I moved through several group homes and boarding schools, each one adding a new chapter to my story. Some were better than others, but none truly provided a sense of permanence or belonging. I was always on the move, always adapting, always trying to find my place.

Throughout my childhood, the state instructed me to write “deceased” on any paperwork asking about my parents. I didn’t question it at the time. I was just a child trying to survive, believing the adults and the system around me. I had no reason to doubt them.

It wasn’t until college, where I was paying my own way through school, that I began to question everything. During my search for answers, I discovered a truth that shook me to my core. My father, John Parizanski, the elder brother of my uncle Paul Parizanski, was alive. He had been alive all along, living in San Rafael, California, married for decades. He had a life, a home, a wife—but no time or thought for the children he had abandoned.

I reached out to him, and while I found him, I found no solace. He admitted he had known about me but believed I was “better off” in the system. Better off? I had been abandoned in a dumpster, shuffled between homes and orphanages, and left to figure out life on my own. What kind of parent decides that’s better for their child?

As for my mother, Margaret Ann Groves, her story remains a mystery. I’ve never had the closure or the answers I deserve. I don’t know what happened to her, where she went, or why she made the choices she did.

As an adult, I made the decision to change my name to Michael Maris Mitchell—not to erase my past, but to reclaim my future. The name “Parizanski” carried too much pain, too many reminders of rejection. I kept Michael because it felt like the one constant in my life, and because of the angel in the Bible—a symbol of strength and protection. I chose Mitchell for my son and Maris for my daughter, names their mother and I chose together. They represent love, family, and the future I’ve worked so hard to create.

But this story isn’t just about me. It’s about what’s happening to so many people in Orphaned America.

The younger generation feels hopeless. They look ahead and see nothing but struggle—no security, no safety net, no path to a better life. They’re burdened by debt, crushed by stagnant wages, and watching corporations hoard wealth while their futures crumble.

The older generation feels tired. Like my grandparents, many are too exhausted to fight or too comfortable to care. Some have hoarded wealth, while others live on the edge, scraping by on shrinking retirement funds. They’ve tuned out, content to let the chaos pass them by.

And at the center of it all? The corporations.

These massive entities—the Fortune 500, the Fortune 100—run America, not for its people, but for their profits. They exploit workers, suppress wages, and profit from poverty. Healthcare isn’t about healing—it’s about billing. Education isn’t about learning—it’s about debt. Housing isn’t about shelter—it’s about profit margins.

How many more Luigi Mangiones will there be before we wake up? Or perhaps the real question is: how many more CEOs will be targeted in acts of rage and frustration?

The truth is, this rage isn’t random—it’s systemic. It’s about a system that dehumanizes its people, that values profits over lives, and that leaves countless Americans feeling discarded, exploited, and invisible.

We can’t afford to ignore this anymore. It’s not just about the young losing their futures—it’s about the old tuning out, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. It’s about a nation where corporations run the show, dictating how wealth is distributed, how people are treated, and whether anyone gets a fair shot at life.

We need to hold these corporations accountable for their greed. We need to demand a system that values humanity over profit.

This isn’t just one person’s insanity—it’s America’s insanity. Rich, poor, black, white—no matter who you are, we need to fight for this country. Not with greed or violence, but with the virtues of God and the Bible. Love your neighbor, not your corporation.

We need to take America back.