It’s clear why the 16 year old in our legal custody has deep compassion for the children suffering at the border.
She was removed from her drug-addicted parents’ custody when she was 10 months old and placed in a foster home for six months.
Then, for the next seven-odd years, she was in her grandmother’s custody until circumstances became dangerous for her there (long story).
The courts then shipped her to another part of the state to live with an aunt she had never met because aunty and grandma had been on the outs all those years.
At first, aunty agreed to take her niece but, two months later, decided she didn’t want to raise another kid. Since her own 18-year old daughter had recently moved out, she wanted to enjoy her empty nest.
That’s when I got the panicky call from the grandmother -- a former neighbor of my mother (mom had passed away a year before all this happened).
The grandmother, aware I used to be a licensed foster parent, asked me to tell the court I would take this child.
I’ve known this girl since she was two years old. Over the last six years of my mom’s life, when mom was living with us, the grandmother would bring the little one along when visiting my mom at our house, three to four times a month.
Grandma told me the court was poised to place the child in the local Christian children’s home -- unless she could come up with another acceptable relative or non-relative to take custody.
I know that children’s home. My two foster daughters had once lived in that children’s home, 20 years ago. The younger of my two foster daughters was sexually abused at that children’s home, when she was eight years old. The same age as the child about to be placed with me.
I immediately said, “Yes. Tell them I’ll take custody.” I didn’t even give hubby a vote – he was at work – but I was 99.9% sure his big heart would agree. And he did.
Now, here’s an example of how quickly child protection services can shuffle these kids around:
The next morning the case worker was sitting at my dining room table rushing through paperwork and having me sign this and that.
She said she was relieved to hear I had once been licensed by the state as a foster parent because it will be real easy to renew my license and officially place the child in the foster system — again.
“Whoa — wait,” I said. “I don’t want to renew my foster license. I want the court to give me non-relative guardian status.”
She was shocked. She pointed out all the support money and services I would lose. She pointed out the only thing the state would pay was the child’s medical insurance.
“Of course,” she added, “the court can order her biological parents to pay you child support but they probably won’t. They didn’t pay the grandmother. Are you sure about this?”
Yeah, I was sure. Because, as a former foster parent I knew, as easily as they placed her in my home, they could decide to ship her to another foster home for any flimsy reason. (It turned out to be the best prophetic decision I ever made – another long story.)
The very next day, the case worker delivered her to our home. Dark rings under her eyes, and far too small and skinny for a kid who turned eight just a couple of weeks before. It turned out she had spent the night at some state case workers’ office that had cots for unplaced kids in a back room.
She managed a small smile and seemed relieved as she gave me a hug and said, “I hope they don’t move me again.”
Over the next eight years, she went from a struggling third grader who tested at first grade reading level, likely to be left back, according to her teacher (she wasn’t), to an amazing young woman about to turn 16 next week.
She’s in AP classes and has a GPA of 3.8. An accomplished dancer, she’s on the school dance team and working a part-time summer job at a dance studio as an assistant teacher.
And – after living half her life to date with these two old liberal hippies – she’s blossoming into a political activist.
Which brings me to the title of this piece.
Earlier in the week, while hubs was cursing at the image of the WH Occupant on TV, I heard the kid raise her voice, annoyed, from behind her ever-closed bedroom door, “How could you NOT know what’s going on?!” When her voice lowered I couldn’t hear more.
I wondered if it was more who-said-what girl drama among her friends but then she stormed in, muted our TV and announced:
“I don’t believe it! All these days, little kids stolen from their parents! Shipped across the country! And not one of my friends has a clue about what’s been happening on the border. Not one.”
As she explained to us, she had used her Instagram and Snapchat accounts to post photos of the crying children and voiced her disgust with trump’s abuse of immigrant families seeking asylum.
Suddenly, about a dozen school friends responded, “Huh? What are you talking about?”
She peppered them with information, links to news stories and – influencer that she is – made sure they became duly outraged. They in turn shared the information on social media with other friends, who in turn did the same. It spread like wildfire.
Hubs said to her, “I’m proud of you.”
She gave him a hug then looked at her phone, “Gotta go. I’m setting up a group call about this.”
This time I slipped into the hallway and eavesdropped a few moments.
“We all have to pay attention to what’s happening. He’s destroying our country. WE will get stuck with this mess…. Tell everyone you know turning 18 before November to register to vote Democrat. We have to get control of the house and senate …. We’ll be old enough to vote in 2020. Let’s make a pact to register together….I will hold you to it, you know I will… ”
I walked away, smiling.
This morning, over coffee, she said, “I decided I’m going to minor in political science in college. Then I’m joining the Peace Corps after I graduate. After that, I’ll get into state politics. And when I turn 35,” she paused and flashed a big smile, “I’m going to run for president. And win.”
We high fived.