Fostering Thoughts

Today in my sociology class, a foster family came in to speak with us about the process and their experience. They have been this for 2 years. I have been involved in the foster care system for 11 years. That is half of my life. They have had one long term placement; off the top of my head I can remember at least 14. They were newbies. They had one child to reference. I could have referenced 47. I was quiet. I raised my had when they asked if anyone had a connection to the foster care system, and I said how many kids we had, and that it had been a mostly positive experience. I don’t count it as lying.

It was a mostly positive experience. I love my siblings. I love my parents. I love that I can handle babysitting just about any child, because I have dealt with just about every behavioral issue…

I just don’t love my ability to “forget” that I ever called someone sister or brother. I don’t love that I cannot see my family for a month or two, and not miss them (not because I don’t want to miss them, but because I just don’t). I don’t love my attachment issues. I don’t love that I learned about child abuse from a sobbing girl.

This is an excerpt of an essay I wrote; I thought it might help explain me:

“In 2000 my parents became foster parents for children in need of a home. This means that children with stories no child should be able to tell were living in my house. This means that I was no longer the baby, the princess, the only little girl. This means that I had forty-two brothers and sisters, with lives so much worse than I had imagined possible, in the space of eleven years. This means that I want to be a social worker, so that I will be able to help children in situations similar to those my foster siblings have experienced. Since the arrival of the first sibling group of foster children in my home, I knew that I would be a social worker. I really have never debated this concept. My reasons for becoming a social worker are clear.

…One event stands out more than any other. Ingrained in my memory forever is the image of a single night in my life. One of my foster sisters lying in bed beside me, a girl not even five years younger than I at the time. Crying uncontrollably, grieving over her turbulent life, her unspeakable past, and her uncertain future, I hadn’t even known this little girl a month. She was baring her soul to me, telling me things I would never except to hear, from even my closest of friends.

That night I became aware of what abuse really is. I learned that people hurt people more than a playground taunt or an undeserved scolding. That night I learned that children can be used in place of punching bags and stress balls, in place of wives and mommies. That night, I cried just as hard as she did. I cannot say that I cried just for her that night in a comfortable bed full of nightmares. I think some of the tears were for me, for my shattered innocence, for the knowledge I never wanted to acquire. Those tears were for my world, for all of its newly discovered evils, for the sadness forced to dwell in hearts of children too small to bear it. As I lay beside her I couldn’t imagine that much pain; that much unfairness in the world my God created.

I could not imagine how parents could not know how to be parents, not know how to treat their children, and not know that they just did not love right. I had loving parents, I did not know that was special, rare, a gift. That little girl was only seven years old, and had more traumatic experiences squeezed into them than I had ever dreamed a possibility in my eleven years. She was a small, meek child with deep brown hair, deeper brown eyes, and a pain with a depth I cannot even put into words.

The sobs racking through her body and matching the tremors of my own, tears warm and salty on faces, arms, shoulders, the pillow; left stains on tangible and intangible surfaces. Maybe though, the stains I obtained that night lessened some of hers... After she was asleep I made my way back to my bed and lie awake. I made a promise to myself and to God to help her, that night. Over the years I have realized I cannot really help her now. She has a new home, a new life and hopefully, less pain. I haven’t seen that little girl in over nine years. However, I can help others in her situation. That night I could do nothing, I was only a child myself, trying to help a child. Now, I will be able to do something, I have to do something. I have to fulfill my promise…. “

That night will never leave me.

Abuse wasn’t the only thing I learned from the children in my home. I learned snarky remarks, witty comments, and cuss words. I also learned how to lie perfectly (we once had a master of lies in our home), I learned how to bend the truth.

I learned how to love brokenness, I learned how to be a big sister instead of the baby, and I learned how to grow up.

I learned ugly, but I learned inner beauty. I learned self-sacrifice and self-actualization through looking at my parents. I learned a lot of things that I don’t feel like they have yet.

So back to the young couple in my class, fresh eyed and with two children in tow (and a third on the way). I looked at those two little girls and I say a flash of myself in their eyes. I saw my parents in them. I saw the desire to help society and make a change burning within them.

I saw that, and I was afraid for them. I was afraid that in ten years, they would be haggard and have eyes clouded with the evil they had seen. I am terrified that one day they will realize that those two perfect little girls and that baby, still protected completely by his mother’s womb, will be just a haggard as they are. I fear they will one day realize that loving children has hurt their family.

I don’t pity them though. The bad, as dark and foreboding as it may seem, is dark and painful. The good though, the good will shine through hardened hearts and blazing eyes. The good will still be there, it will be underneath a harder exterior, it will be.

It will be worth it all. It will be worth the missed parent teacher conference and the non-existent birthday party and the forgetting to pick from schools. It will be hard, but it will be life changing and it will be elating.