I was under no delusions: you sign up for a foster kid, you get a child with a history of trauma. Maybe it’s sexual, maybe it’s physical. Could be neglect or emotional abuse but these kids are in the system because they’ve been injured. I also knew it would be tough. But knowing intellectually and experiencing are two very different things.
The first blow-out came not long after she arrived. She could be surly, petulant – what some might describe as a typical teen, though I would have to disagree. She was usually rude, which I found most difficult to deal with and though I tried to do it as kindly as possible, I would correct her incessantly about saying please and thank you and she did not like that.
“Die, bitch, die! Burn, bitch, burn. I hate you! I hate being here. You annoy me!” The first time she screamed these words to me in a frightening rage, I let it roll off my shoulders.
It’s not me she hates or is angry at, I told myself. It is the rage accumulated from years of trauma that needs release. I was new and fresh and she hadn’t worn me down.
But with each progressive tantrum, it became more and more difficult to ignore the rage. It was most definitely directed at me now. It was me she hated, me she wanted to punch. And that is exhausting and frightening - especially when all I ever wanted to do was help her.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
First Night
She arrived while I was at a community meeting just a couple of minutes away. There had been no specific time designated for the social worker to drop her off so I figured I’d get it all in- community activism and new motherhood.
She was a big girl – tall and big-boned with a beautiful smile. She was 18. “Eighteen?” I’d asked. I thought they aged out of the system at 17. She’s a voluntary, they said. At 18 they can sign themselves in and the State will provide housing and health care as long as they’re in school.
“Whoa,” she said as she dragged a huge suitcase into the hall. Later she asked if I was a health freak because the first things she noticed when she came in the door was a big empty carton that had “organic” food in it.
The social worker was a smiley guy – not her regular worker because she was on vacation. He gave me the Child Placement Agreement and left.
I showed HT her room and asked her if she was hungry. I said I’d make her a burger, not telling her it was a turkey burger until I placed it in front of her.
“I’m gonna die here,” she said. But she ate it and enjoyed it. She preferred fried foods. This was when she asked the “health freak” question.
She was charming and chatty, telling me about herself and asking about me and my life. She was really open and honest about why she’d been booted from her previous foster home and her version had a lot in common with the story I heard from DSS.
The reasons for leaving that home, according to the CPA, were that she was disrespectful, that she let others into the home when the foster mom wasn’t there and that she had a knife in the house.
HT showed me the knife and explained that it wasn’t illegal because the blade was smaller than her hand – some sort of street poppycock, apparently. HT said she was seeing a guy and she didn’t bring him into the house – how could she when she didn’t have keys? They were talking on the front stoop when she saw the foster mom walking down the street and got nervous so she told the guy to hide – in the bushes. He did and the foster mom, who according to HT was new and nervous, freaked out. New and nervous or not, I explained that of course the FM freaked out – there was some strange guy hiding in her bushes. HT had made a tactical error.
She is preoccupied with race and made a point of telling me that her family was “mixed” and that she preferred mixed people. This was a good point of agreement because I have always believed that miscegenation will save us and her attitude gave me hope that we would have things in common. Her mother is married to a white guy and one of her sisters married a “Chinese” as HT calls anyone who is Asian. Turns out the brother-in-law is Philippino.
Whenever I mention someone in conversation, her first and immediate question about the person is “What is she?” meaning what is her racial/ethnic background. I suppose that curiosity doesn’t differ much from what tends to be the first query of professional people, “What does he do?” Either question is an attempt to categorize a person, have an idea what he is about.
I’ve always loathed the “what does he do question” because I think that truly interesting people can’t be defined exclusively by what they do to make money. In the first few minutes of a conversation, if someone asks what I do, I know I’m dealing with a really crappy conversationalist.
We made it through the first night and the first morning was about getting her up and finding the most expedient T route to Brockton, from whence she had come and to where she had to commute daily for school. Roxbury was the closest placement they could find.
I didn’t have internet access at home so I was at the mercy of the social worker who suggested going to Jackson Square. HT knew how to get to Brockton from Ashmont. She got there and back and that first night and we were off on our exciting Foster Mom/Daughter adventure.
She was a big girl – tall and big-boned with a beautiful smile. She was 18. “Eighteen?” I’d asked. I thought they aged out of the system at 17. She’s a voluntary, they said. At 18 they can sign themselves in and the State will provide housing and health care as long as they’re in school.
“Whoa,” she said as she dragged a huge suitcase into the hall. Later she asked if I was a health freak because the first things she noticed when she came in the door was a big empty carton that had “organic” food in it.
The social worker was a smiley guy – not her regular worker because she was on vacation. He gave me the Child Placement Agreement and left.
I showed HT her room and asked her if she was hungry. I said I’d make her a burger, not telling her it was a turkey burger until I placed it in front of her.
“I’m gonna die here,” she said. But she ate it and enjoyed it. She preferred fried foods. This was when she asked the “health freak” question.
She was charming and chatty, telling me about herself and asking about me and my life. She was really open and honest about why she’d been booted from her previous foster home and her version had a lot in common with the story I heard from DSS.
The reasons for leaving that home, according to the CPA, were that she was disrespectful, that she let others into the home when the foster mom wasn’t there and that she had a knife in the house.
HT showed me the knife and explained that it wasn’t illegal because the blade was smaller than her hand – some sort of street poppycock, apparently. HT said she was seeing a guy and she didn’t bring him into the house – how could she when she didn’t have keys? They were talking on the front stoop when she saw the foster mom walking down the street and got nervous so she told the guy to hide – in the bushes. He did and the foster mom, who according to HT was new and nervous, freaked out. New and nervous or not, I explained that of course the FM freaked out – there was some strange guy hiding in her bushes. HT had made a tactical error.
She is preoccupied with race and made a point of telling me that her family was “mixed” and that she preferred mixed people. This was a good point of agreement because I have always believed that miscegenation will save us and her attitude gave me hope that we would have things in common. Her mother is married to a white guy and one of her sisters married a “Chinese” as HT calls anyone who is Asian. Turns out the brother-in-law is Philippino.
Whenever I mention someone in conversation, her first and immediate question about the person is “What is she?” meaning what is her racial/ethnic background. I suppose that curiosity doesn’t differ much from what tends to be the first query of professional people, “What does he do?” Either question is an attempt to categorize a person, have an idea what he is about.
I’ve always loathed the “what does he do question” because I think that truly interesting people can’t be defined exclusively by what they do to make money. In the first few minutes of a conversation, if someone asks what I do, I know I’m dealing with a really crappy conversationalist.
We made it through the first night and the first morning was about getting her up and finding the most expedient T route to Brockton, from whence she had come and to where she had to commute daily for school. Roxbury was the closest placement they could find.
I didn’t have internet access at home so I was at the mercy of the social worker who suggested going to Jackson Square. HT knew how to get to Brockton from Ashmont. She got there and back and that first night and we were off on our exciting Foster Mom/Daughter adventure.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Rough night. Again.
Rough night Wednesday.
I went to a community meeting for a couple of hours and left her alone. Because of a previous incident where I came home to one of the burners on the gas stove all lit up with nothing on it, I don't allow her to cook when I'm not there. I don't really leave her alone much anymore either but I needed to get out and I really wanted to go to the meeting.
When I got home, she was watching tv and I caught a faint whiff of something burning. I smell something burning, I said. I do too, she replied and I didn't think much more of it. Later when I went into the kitchen, a noticed a new stick of butter had been opened and a good portion of the paper around it had been burned off.
I called her into the kitchen and asked how the paper on the butter got burned. She became enraged, ran into her room and, slammed the door. I don't remember exactly what she said but it had a lot of "sick of this fucking shit" and "sick of all this fucking drama" and 'it's always fucking drama around here" which, as I write now, makes me chuckle. It's actually pretty peaceful in the house; boring, as far as she's concerned. She is all the drama I have in my life now. The rest of it is all dull: work, house, the occasional night out. She is all the drama I have and precisely the kind I can do without.
I went to a community meeting for a couple of hours and left her alone. Because of a previous incident where I came home to one of the burners on the gas stove all lit up with nothing on it, I don't allow her to cook when I'm not there. I don't really leave her alone much anymore either but I needed to get out and I really wanted to go to the meeting.
When I got home, she was watching tv and I caught a faint whiff of something burning. I smell something burning, I said. I do too, she replied and I didn't think much more of it. Later when I went into the kitchen, a noticed a new stick of butter had been opened and a good portion of the paper around it had been burned off.
I called her into the kitchen and asked how the paper on the butter got burned. She became enraged, ran into her room and, slammed the door. I don't remember exactly what she said but it had a lot of "sick of this fucking shit" and "sick of all this fucking drama" and 'it's always fucking drama around here" which, as I write now, makes me chuckle. It's actually pretty peaceful in the house; boring, as far as she's concerned. She is all the drama I have in my life now. The rest of it is all dull: work, house, the occasional night out. She is all the drama I have and precisely the kind I can do without.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
welcome to motherhood - almost
I am not a breeder. The choice not to have kids was conscious and deliberate- more than once. But I'd make a pretty good moma and there are so many kids out there who need pretty good moma's so I called DSS, took the requisite MAPP training, and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
After 4 months, the call from my social worker came in- we've got a kid, if you're interested. He's 17, from Honduras. His mom sent him here to live with friends but they can't keep him. He's not in school but wants to be.
I'm thinking cool - I have to stop procrastinating on taking Spanish. Honduran kid, huh? Beans. Rice and beans - I wonder how they like 'em prepared .. So I googled Honduran food and found some recipes.
Didn't get the kid. They found another placement for him. I guess they put out calls far and wide for several appropriate homes and they had found another.
After 4 months, the call from my social worker came in- we've got a kid, if you're interested. He's 17, from Honduras. His mom sent him here to live with friends but they can't keep him. He's not in school but wants to be.
I'm thinking cool - I have to stop procrastinating on taking Spanish. Honduran kid, huh? Beans. Rice and beans - I wonder how they like 'em prepared .. So I googled Honduran food and found some recipes.
Didn't get the kid. They found another placement for him. I guess they put out calls far and wide for several appropriate homes and they had found another.
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