There is a young boy I work with. He is a handsome little guy; twelve years old, he is rangy, thin, and very much alone among many people.
Justin's life changed radically five years ago. He was woken in the dead of night by a SWAT team member. A black-clad boogie-man carrying an AR-15, and wearing a black kevlar helmet shook him awake and dragged him outside to a waiting van. His siblings were there, waiting in the darkness, sitting on the ground with a group of police men and women surrounding them. Justin remembers his mother and father, their heads pushed into the ground, hands cuffed behind them. He remembers blood running down his father's face from an injury received in the raid. He remembers being bundled into a white mini-bus and being told to shut up by an irate police woman and a man she would soon come to know as a state social worker.
Justin would never see either of his parents again.
The ride to the state CPS office was noisy. He recalls his younger siblings crying, and the youngest screaming endlessly. His thoughts then were that he wished she would shut up, stop screaming, it was getting on his last nerves. Those thoughts plague him now. He has not seen his baby sister in four long years.
Justin and a brother close in age to him were placed with a foster family. Justin recalls the house was neat, and everything was in its place. He also recalls his new foster parents had little tolerance for him or his brother. Dinner was served at a certain time, as were both lunch and breakfast. The boys rode together on a school bus to a school they had never heard of just a few days before. There they were bullied relentlessly. The children quickly learned they were poor kids in foster care, and this made them prime targets. The staff at the school offered no support, and the reaction of the boys' foster parents was to accuse them of causing the problems themselves. Typical unfortunately.
Justin was angry. He was angry at everyone. The state workers, his foster parents, the police that started the whole thing, and he was angry at his parents. After all, they were supposed to protect him......... Weren't they???
His foster parents soon tired of his anger, and Justin started out on a journey of foster home after foster home. Some were treatment foster care, others regular foster care, and a couple of them residential treatment centers. Fifteen moves in all... Fifteen times in five years... Three moves a year on average from the time Justin was just 6 years old. The message was always the same... He was not supposed to be angry... Not supposed to be sad... He was supposed to be grateful to roomfuls of strangers who all claimed to know what was best for him. Oh yes... He knew his parents had done wrong... Knew they had dealt drugs... The social workers told him so... And he knew they were in prisons, and that they would not be coming home for a very long time. But he couldn't help it... He was angry...
During this time all but one of his siblings had been adopted, but not Justin. Justin, you see, is not only angry, but he has cystic fibrosis, and it keeps him ill and dependent upon medical interventions constantly. His illness angers him too.
Two people came forward. They wanted to adopt him. It looked like he would finally have a home. A real home. They were nice people, and they spent time with him, preparing him. Justin, they said, would be their son.
That was eight months ago. But Justin is still angry, and they no longer want him.
Sitting on a fence stile between two pastures on the adoptive family's farm, he looked into my eyes and asked why it has to be this way. He asked me if I thought he would always be lonely, and if the anger would ever go away. I couldn't say the loneliness would go away, or the anger, because I just do not know.
"I'm twelve..." he said, "I thought twelve year old people were supposed to be kids..."
I replied, "You are a kid... I'm looking right at you, and you sure look like a kid to me."
Justin has a very handsome oval face, shadowed by a mop of very fine, dark brown hair. His nose turns up slightly, making him look a little impish, but there is anger and fire in his eyes, anger clouded by chronic sadness.
"Where will they take me? Do you know?" he asked
"I don't know..." I answered honestly, "That is not information the state tells me. Your parents will tell you, or your social worker..."
We talked awhile, and I walked back inside with him. We went to his room, and he looked around at all the things that were in there. I could see it in his eyes that he had suddenly realized this was not his room, these were not his things... There were people all around him... But he was the only person in the world...
Justin and children like him number in the millions. They are alone because no one exists for them. Justin is alone because he lives in no one's heart. I grieve for him terribly.
Justin's life changed radically five years ago. He was woken in the dead of night by a SWAT team member. A black-clad boogie-man carrying an AR-15, and wearing a black kevlar helmet shook him awake and dragged him outside to a waiting van. His siblings were there, waiting in the darkness, sitting on the ground with a group of police men and women surrounding them. Justin remembers his mother and father, their heads pushed into the ground, hands cuffed behind them. He remembers blood running down his father's face from an injury received in the raid. He remembers being bundled into a white mini-bus and being told to shut up by an irate police woman and a man she would soon come to know as a state social worker.
Justin would never see either of his parents again.
The ride to the state CPS office was noisy. He recalls his younger siblings crying, and the youngest screaming endlessly. His thoughts then were that he wished she would shut up, stop screaming, it was getting on his last nerves. Those thoughts plague him now. He has not seen his baby sister in four long years.
Justin and a brother close in age to him were placed with a foster family. Justin recalls the house was neat, and everything was in its place. He also recalls his new foster parents had little tolerance for him or his brother. Dinner was served at a certain time, as were both lunch and breakfast. The boys rode together on a school bus to a school they had never heard of just a few days before. There they were bullied relentlessly. The children quickly learned they were poor kids in foster care, and this made them prime targets. The staff at the school offered no support, and the reaction of the boys' foster parents was to accuse them of causing the problems themselves. Typical unfortunately.
Justin was angry. He was angry at everyone. The state workers, his foster parents, the police that started the whole thing, and he was angry at his parents. After all, they were supposed to protect him......... Weren't they???
His foster parents soon tired of his anger, and Justin started out on a journey of foster home after foster home. Some were treatment foster care, others regular foster care, and a couple of them residential treatment centers. Fifteen moves in all... Fifteen times in five years... Three moves a year on average from the time Justin was just 6 years old. The message was always the same... He was not supposed to be angry... Not supposed to be sad... He was supposed to be grateful to roomfuls of strangers who all claimed to know what was best for him. Oh yes... He knew his parents had done wrong... Knew they had dealt drugs... The social workers told him so... And he knew they were in prisons, and that they would not be coming home for a very long time. But he couldn't help it... He was angry...
During this time all but one of his siblings had been adopted, but not Justin. Justin, you see, is not only angry, but he has cystic fibrosis, and it keeps him ill and dependent upon medical interventions constantly. His illness angers him too.
Two people came forward. They wanted to adopt him. It looked like he would finally have a home. A real home. They were nice people, and they spent time with him, preparing him. Justin, they said, would be their son.
That was eight months ago. But Justin is still angry, and they no longer want him.
Sitting on a fence stile between two pastures on the adoptive family's farm, he looked into my eyes and asked why it has to be this way. He asked me if I thought he would always be lonely, and if the anger would ever go away. I couldn't say the loneliness would go away, or the anger, because I just do not know.
"I'm twelve..." he said, "I thought twelve year old people were supposed to be kids..."
I replied, "You are a kid... I'm looking right at you, and you sure look like a kid to me."
Justin has a very handsome oval face, shadowed by a mop of very fine, dark brown hair. His nose turns up slightly, making him look a little impish, but there is anger and fire in his eyes, anger clouded by chronic sadness.
"Where will they take me? Do you know?" he asked
"I don't know..." I answered honestly, "That is not information the state tells me. Your parents will tell you, or your social worker..."
We talked awhile, and I walked back inside with him. We went to his room, and he looked around at all the things that were in there. I could see it in his eyes that he had suddenly realized this was not his room, these were not his things... There were people all around him... But he was the only person in the world...
Justin and children like him number in the millions. They are alone because no one exists for them. Justin is alone because he lives in no one's heart. I grieve for him terribly.
