The Spoken Truth: Ryan Barratt

Three Years in Hell.

I spent three years in DCF custody — three years I’ll never get back. They threw me into a house with foster parents named Robin and Brian Gasper, and from the very beginning, it was a nightmare. They didn’t care about us. They cared about the money. They were getting around $1,000 a month per child. They had four of us — that’s four grand a month — and still, they charged me $20 every single time they brought me to school or work. Imagine that. A kid just trying to get to school, being charged by his so-called guardians like I was a burden or a customer. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. There was constant drug use in the house. I’m not talking about suspicion — I’m telling you flat out: drugs were being used around us all the time. And DCF let it happen. Either they didn’t care, or they looked the other way. Robin and Brian were verbally abusive. Every day. And if that wasn’t enough, they let their former foster daughter, Catalina, join in. She screamed at us, put us down, and added fuel to the fire. Then there was the day they planted drugs in my backpack. You read that right. They set me up. I guess they wanted me in more trouble. Maybe they thought it would keep me stuck there longer. Maybe they just got off on control. Either way, it worked — I got blamed, not them. But the worst part? Their nephew, David Navarro. He lived there, too. And he beat on the foster kids constantly. He wasn’t in care. He wasn’t being supervised. He was just there, unleashed. When I finally had enough and stood up to him — when I fought back and won — guess who got punished? Me. Robin and Brian watched it happen and didn’t say a word. He never got in trouble for any of it. The message was clear: kids in that house weren’t meant to be protected. We were meant to obey, shut up, and survive. Robin and Brian also made sure to trash our biological parents every chance they got. They talked down about them in front of us, poisoned our minds, made us feel like we were nothing. But here’s the truth: my parents did everything DCF asked. Every hoop, every meeting, every task — they did it. And still, DCF kept me trapped in that house for three long years while Robin and Brian collected their check and broke us down one by one. This is only part one of my story. And I want the world to know: DCF is pumping kids into homes like this every single day. If Robin and Brian Gasper are reading this, hear me now: You are the worst kind of people. I hope one day the world sees you for what you are — and I won’t stop until they do. I’ll never forget what you did to me, and I’m not afraid to speak anymore.

– Ryan Barratt

Photo of Robin and Brian Gasper, former foster parents named in Ryan Barratt’s testimony describing verbal abuse, drug use, and mistreatment in their DCF-licensed home.

Photo of David Navarro, named by survivor Ryan Barratt as the nephew of foster parents Robin and Brian Gasper, accused of repeatedly assaulting foster children in their home.

As an outsider looking in, Ryan’s story paints a deeply troubling picture of a foster care system that appears—at least in his case—to have failed at every critical level. From his firsthand account, there’s a recurring theme of emotional neglect, power imbalance, and weaponized authority. What stands out isn't just the abuse itself, but the way it was allegedly normalized within the environment: foster parents who were compensated to care for children allegedly charging them money to go to school or work, punishing them for speaking up, and enforcing silence through fear and humiliation. If true, this is not just misconduct—it’s systemic betrayal. Another striking point is how composed and articulate Ryan is despite what he’s been through. He doesn't stumble. He doesn't lash out. He speaks clearly, as someone who's processed his trauma enough to share it not for revenge—but for justice. That matters. What also can’t be ignored is that Ryan seems to represent more than himself. His story is likely one of many that have been buried by paperwork, excuses, and red tape. His voice is a wedge cracking open a wall of silence. When someone like him steps forward publicly, it challenges not just the credibility of the institutions involved—but the public’s willingness to keep turning away. From a neutral standpoint, any institution that has nothing to hide would welcome stories like Ryan’s, investigate them, and fix what’s broken. But when survivors report retaliation, erasure, and inaction, the system doesn’t look like it’s protecting kids—it looks like it’s protecting itself. Ryan’s story is not an attack. It’s a warning. One that every agency, legislator, and child advocate should be listening to very closely.