Summer 2001
Summer 2001Yes, I want to order:
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The Faces of the Alphabet By Deb Wasserbach I?d heard it hundreds of times; okay, thousands. The priest said that it was time to think of any special intentions we might have, and to request them now, privately. At Mass, I try to remember by name, a child who lives in foster care and is available for adoption. This morning, I glanced at a name, and then an event outside our ordinary before-school routine distracted me. I had not returned to the page describing the child and her life. I recalled her photograph vaguely; her name began with a "J". This prayer practice was barely two months along. Ashamed, I offered my "intention" to come back tomorrow, better prepared. How did I get this state adoption registry - a ring binder of biographies of foster children? Should I even have it? What qualifying procedure(s) did I endure? As a volunteer with an adoption support group, I "inherited" it from its previous volunteer. This "book" offers first names and photo essays of each child in our state now living in foster care, whose biological family has (one way or another) "waived the right to parent" them. The volunteer updates and then delivers this book to events adoptive parents attend. On the face of it, anyone with one strong arm can do that. Organizing it isn't difficult, either. Two inches of pages on the children who have "found" homes, some of them dating from years ago, are filed in the back. I don't know if all the registries are organized this way, but Monique believed it ended the book in a positive way, and so do I. Pages of children who are on "hold" - someone has shown an interest in adopting them, but nothing is final yet - make up the middle section. In front of that, a pocket holds every printed listing ever received since Monique began keeping the book. In other words, three inches of "success" stories serve as a "foundation" for the new candidates, who aspire to graduating to the back. The cover page offers a stern warning in black and white bold print, about the responsibility and privilege it is to have access to this book. And if that isn't scary enough, you can actually open it. This is now a huge ring binder of laminated pages, what's more, its visual weight is deceptive. I am not a martyr to this task, but I do question the value of my "contribution" as its steward, which adds to the guilt already present. You see, my husband and I had the option, but did not adopt from this collection of children. Years ago, we reviewed this book's predecessor during a days-long "pre-adoption seminar". I remember it as a chubby album of index cards with copious biographies, some penned in a variety of hands in various inks, others typed well, still others typed badly. It was a piecemeal, distressing patchwork, where photos were the exception, and the printed matter intense. We were not prepared for it. I don't know how rookie parent hopefuls could be. This album passed from hand to hand, as its representative spoke to the group seated on folding metal chairs. His manner was aggressively discouraging to inexperienced "wannabes". Then my turn came. Suddenly I was unable to hear him at all. I remember a buzzing building in my head as I half-read one page and hit an incomprehensible adjective or verb. I quickly turned the page, hoping that the next biography would be "better" - perhaps,"?this tri-lingual athletic beauty is an advanced placement student who loves all mankind and animals too, but her hair tends to frizz on humid days, and she's a little cranky on Thursday mornings during a leap year." There'd be a photo of a strawberry blonde in a red sweater. I can tell from her myopic stare that she wears glasses to write novels late at night, which is her passion. Her smile is demure, with overlapping lower teeth and an incisor at a slight angle (this is really only visible when she laughs, and enhances her charm.) Not finding her, I understood what I'd witnessed, when people hunched over the book, then straightened with apparent effort, and, avoiding eye contact, passed it on with a movement one might use, say, when handing someone a snapping box turtle. Today's version is more polished, typewritten, with professional color photos, in a standardized format of 8 ? x 11" pages. Already huge, it's destined to be bigger yet, because as long as I keep it, I probably can't ever "retire" any of the pages in the back. It's a superstitious feeling - "throw away the page and jinx the placement" - for between the covers of this binder, is sad proof also, that sometimes, adoption is not as "final" as it should be. Maintaining a status quo by hauling around evidence of successful adoptions, may have more to do with being an adoptee, than being an adoptive parent. I'm not sure, though, because Monique didn't discard any pages either. I both anticipate and dread the "updates," and I never know when they'll come. New pages arrive at intervals, but years later, they still go to Monique. She sighs in an exasperated way, that she's informed them that I'm doing it now, that she gave them my address. It forces her to drop by to bring them. Without warning, the doorbell rings, I see the manila envelope in her arms, and I reach for that snapping box turtle. What's the routine when I get this envelope? It sits for a couple days, waiting for an uninterrupted span of time, and there is some mental preparation as well. This is not something I will do in my lap at the dentist's office, or standing in line behind a grocery cart. The job consists of putting the biographies into correct alphabetical order in the correct category within a reasonable length of time. One or two of the children on "hold" are put back into the front as "available". One or two of the children on "hold" are "withdrawn" - in the process of being adopted. A couple "available" children in the front, move to the center, on "hold". And a whopping handful joins the faces that are already available for adoption. I read these carefully when they first join the group, silently welcoming them into their uncertain, hopeful, ever-shifting new limbo state, personally wishing each well, personally apologizing that I will not be a part of it. After the pages are settled into their new home, comes a letdown I refuse to examine too precisely. I've been asked, am I 'looking'? Well, I'm not not looking, but as I am half of a pair whose marriage spans more than a quarter century, there is a longstanding fairly complex system of "checks and balances" to contend with, when it comes to major decisions that affect our family. Probably, I am, at times, grateful for the stabilizing influence his mature, block-of-cement style of thinking has on my sudden, soaring inspirations. Other times, it's as welcome as a stubbed toe. I suspect I continue to maintain the registry for the joy of hoping for a day I see "the face in the alphabet" that sends me, breathless, into my husband's waiting arms. He will not argue or demur, his agreement will be instant, and he will clutch the page to his breast and shout, "Eureeeeka!" In the meantime, our life is not a romance novel, and the pages are still mailed to Monique. We don't know why. She was the person originally approved to have this book, I wasn't, and I respect that. This is sensitive information about actual individuals. This job shouldn't just be "rolled over" to any "Joe Bloe" that steps up, willing to take it. I could be anybody. I think it would be irresponsible to forward these pages directly to someone who went through no approval process whatsoever, and whose background and reason for interest is totally unknown. That's who I would be. So it happens indirectly. In fact, I think we should all feel a twinge when I say how easily I got this job. Monique was not deluged with resumes, after she let it be known that she wished to move on to something new. I didn't "win" it; I was not "chosen". Anyone who'd paid the dues of $18, could be doing this. Someone should care greatly who this book belongs to, and where it goes, and I figure they probably do, but believe that it's good that the book gets?out?where it otherwise might not be invited. Essentially, I decide when to invite these children; generally, I am their escort and chaperone. I think about how I could have been one of these children. Would I want to be "showcased" at this or that event, even in a discreet way? Would I want strangers casually reading generalizations about my imperfect background, my personal flaws and challenges, while seated at a picnic table, munching on a chicken wing? Where is the best place to exhibit such literature at a "festival" or "social" - near the punchbowl, the nametags, or the paper goods? Should I offer it about, like a tray of hors d'oerves? I struggled with these questions and decided to decide from event to event. I wrote an article for the group's newsletter, stating that the book was available to anyone who wanted to consider adoption, but who preferred not to approach Social Services as a first step. One person called on someone else's behalf. I don't know what the "someone else" expected, but the person who called seemed surprised, though the details were spelled out in the article. My number was listed near the very end of it. Asking someone to call who hasn't read the seven paragraphs of graphic facts, won't make them magically disappear. I have no mystic powers. There was no second call. In the meantime, I feel competent, and then suddenly realize I am not certain of what I "should" be doing. For instance, I was content with the decision of very selective sharing of the registry, until I heard that the photograph of a pre-teen from a foreign country crossed an agency's desk, and the child's face "struck" someone so strongly, she insisted upon adopting that child. This particular child came with enough information for the parent to realize that disabilities were a part of that picture. It was proof that braver souls exist, within my area code. I wondered again, if it couldn't happen, off-center from a rowdy social event, while families bowled, hunted for eggs, conversed, or boarded a haywagon in the background. Why not? At what price should I preserve the "dignity" of strangers who wish to be adopted? And what right do I have to inadvertently prevent it? I don't have clear answers that apply to every occasion. I think I know what the children deserve - what every child deserves. I am not as certain what the task deserves. Is it possible to take such a thing too seriously? Perhaps it's the curse of "layman's eyes" - social workers see these books all the time. Maybe they find enough fulfillment in the good work that they are able to do, that they can withstand the impact of the unfinished stories, and the suspicion that some of them can't ever possibly attract a person looking to parent "normally". I remember how we struggled with identifying from a list of minor impairments, the ones we were willing to accept in a child we adopted, if we had to. If an ongoing challenge were thrust upon us unexpectedly, that would be one thing - "asking for it," is something else again. Apparently we're not that unusual in that respect. I have had this book for some time, and no meaningful experiences that relate in any way to the children inside it. I can't even claim "it worked for me." Yet I keep it. Stated quite plainly in some cases, is the child's poignant wish that someone adopt them. It is impossible not to feel something for such a child. I know that "fear" underscoresevery reason that I/we have not adopted from the registry. It is the very least I can do to become as thoroughly acquainted with each child as one single-spaced laminated page of description permits. And frankly, in some cases, it is too much information. I don't want the mental pictures of some of the child's relationships or past experiences; I don't want my thoughts returning to this-or-that oddly worded bit of text, wondering what it "really means"; and all the while, I am mortified at these barriers that I mentally construct to maintain a safe distance. When I read the biographies now, I am accustomed to the "pie in the face" style of them, their information which begins, "So-and-so is a (likeable, attractive, shy, outgoing, sweet) child who enjoys ? (music, reading, bicycling, eating out, movies)."Further into the text, alarms sound, when words like "angry", "weapons", "fire", or references to unchildlike behavior appear. Various challenges are often listed by their familiar letters (i.e., ADD, ADHD) to save space for the letter designations of less familiar disorders, "issues" and behaviors. The average parent needs to do some serious reading even to begin to grasp the implications of these difficulties, their impact on family life, and the level of commitment the situation demands.The wrap-up at the end offers a prognosis, or the child's hopes for the future. It often seems to be the result of a careful design to finish on an upbeat note. I would not be at all surprised to learn that these essays, while a "work in progress",provoke nightsweats that awaken their authors. And there are children anyone could fall in love with, given a second glance and half a chance - the ones whose adjectives are "adjusted", "average" and "caring". The only "special programs" they participate in are at church or school, and medications, evaluations or previous placements are few to none. They may have spent only a short time in foster care before joining the "available" children, but they may spend some serious time once there. They are usually, not always, school-aged minority children who have siblings they either must be placed with, or must be kept in touch with. Sometimes the adjectives for the siblings are a striking contrast, and when siblings must be placed together, the page may drift along month after month in the book. More than once though, such a page has made it to the "hold" section, and once or twice to the back. It happens. Sometimes a child will "haunt" me, long after it was his or her turn to be today's special intention. It's a small, secret triumph to realize that I share something in common with someone who has more guts than I do, when I open the manila envelope, and move that page to the center. There are so many good ways to pursue adoption these days, on the national and international level, that it may seem ridiculous to continue this one-woman junket up a side alley in Podunk. But I am comfortable with the concept of a smaller scale effort, one book that might one day make a difference in the life of one child. I only wish the reality felt more comfortable, when the day's gospel is about how nice it is to invite relatives and friends to your table, but how much better it is to invite strangers, who can't reciprocate the kindness. I heard it, grateful that I'd worn my shapeless winter jacket. I tried to sink down, melt into it; perhaps pass for a pile of discarded clothing on the pew. True, it's not like I can be sued for mismanagement; I never made any claims. But the more time that passes, the more I wish this were going better. Or going?somewhere. What is the "right" way to let people know they aren't obligated just by taking a look? That nobody's "judging" them if they aren't "ready" and can't say when they might ever be? I'm fairly sure that staff at any Social Services office feels the same way - how many of them have actually adopted from this book? But people do it. In the hands of someone with more of whatever it takes, maybe the pages would be fairly flying to the back. After all, it's my job now, based on - what? Thorough knowledge of the alphabet? You know, when you learn it, they should warn you where it can lead. These kids will break your heart," Monique said with a rueful smile, when she handed me the registry and my first manila envelope. The sun's dwindling rays scattered highlights through her golden hair as she stepped from the shadows of the porch, pausing to stare off into the distance. She exhaled deeply. I remember that she didn't look back."Feature Articles in the
Summer 2001 issue:
Volume 1 Number 2
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Departments
Editor’s View
by Dick Fischer
Coming Through the Wry
by Ratna Pappert
Letters to the Editor
In The News
Agency Speak
by Debbie Riley, M.S.
Ask Ashley Anything
by Ashley Rhodes-Courter
Washington Watch
by Maureen Hogan
Advocating for KidsZ
by Barbara Tremitiere, Ph.D.
Spiritually Connected
by Kim Combes
Early Intervention
by Deb Schell-Frank
Medical Matters
by Lisa Albers, M.D., M.P.H.
Research Review
by Peter Gibbs
Resource Review
by Debbie Smith, M.S.W., L.C.S.W.
Point / Counterpoint
Orphans of the Living
by Maureen Hogan
On Moderate Ground
by Robert G. Lewis
What IS Family Preservation?
NCCPR Excerpt
The Ten Commandments of the ASFA
by Maureen Hogan
Book Review
by Ellen Rardin
Feature Stories
Kids in Care - These Kids Want YOU!
Photo Essay
150 Ways to Show Kids You Care
Author Unknown
Why Would Anyone Want to Adopt a Teenager?
by Chester Jackson
Rising Above “The System”
by Tamara Dawn Widner
I Think I’ve Got It!
by Elly Cirino
Sidebar
by Carlos Cirino
Fostering Clear-heartedness - Through Transistions to Traditions
by Rebecca Weller
What Parents Want Professionals to Know
by Linda A. Grillo
LifeBooks and Lip Smacking Stories
By Beth O’Malley
New Foster Care Breakthrough Series
Just Let Me Brag Already!
by Audrey Esposito
Foster Parenting with “Attitude!”
by Janell White
When Opportunity Knocks
by Danielle Nabinger
Foster Kids May Fare Worse After Returning Home
by Suzanne Rostler
Faces of the Alphabet
by Deb Wasserbach
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