"272 Results Matching"

Kendrick, Male
Age 1
Sweet, engaging, enjoys his meal times
Makes sounds that resemble words
Unable to sit by himself
In need of a Forever Family
Willing and able
To prepare for any future needs
Help him
Reach
His full potential

Melody, Female
Age 17
Great sense of humor, considerate, thoughtful
Doing very well in the ninth grade
Working on trusting others
Would do well in a single parent home
Or possibly
Two women household
Melody writes,
"I would like to be adopted
And find my
Forever Family"

BLOG NOTE: Inspired by my previous blog entry about foster and adoptive homefinding, I browsed the New York State Adoption Album Photolisting to create this found poetry.  All the words to this poem were taken from the listings of two children who are waiting to find their new families.  Total number of children on the NYS online adoption list today: 272.

How do you feel about gay couples adopting babies?

Most people in the United States have no idea the numbers of children in foster care much less the even larger numbers of children currently freed for adoption.  Nor do people understand the child protective services, foster care and county adoption process.  Unless you are a part of the system, you simply have no clue.

I worked for the Department of Social Services in a unit called "Homefinding".  While I wasn't a caseworker for very long, it was enough for me to understand how much is hidden in plain sight, and how much is wrong with society that the average person doesn't understand.  For example, the prime goal of a children's services caseworker is to keep children with their families.  These people work very hard to assess situations and provide whatever support necessary to get those families the help they need so moms, dads, brothers and sisters can stay together.  The most tragic action you can take is to pull children from their mothers and fathers.  And yet.  And yet there were caseworkers who, upon visiting a home, had to take children without warning, bring those kids in their car back to the social services building, sit those crying/stunned/angry/terrified children in a waiting room and call Homefinding.

In Homefinding, we had a list of all the families in the area who could take in foster children.  It was updated minimally once a day.  There were pitifully few families on the list.  Most homes were already full, and many available couldn't take the kind of children who came so suddenly into care.  The crack-addicted baby with a heart condition, the fourteen year old boy, the family of ten brothers and sisters.  It just wasn't possible.

Halfway through my tenure in Homefinding, they gave me the one and only position in "Adoptive Homefinding".  It was here that I saw the even greater disconnect between reality and what is known.  We have a vague idea that there are children available for adoption.  Have you ever seen the Blue Books?  The Blue Books are thick three-ring binders filled with pictures and descriptions of children emancipated from their birth families, waiting for a new family who will raise them and love them and help them become adults.  Binder after binder after binder, each filled with page after page after page of children.

Here is the most terrifying disconnect:
Family wants to adopt a child.  A baby.  No crack babies, please.  Possible spina bifida?  No.  No disease.  No genetic problems.  Can you guarantee this baby is okay?  Twin toddlers?  So adorable!  But... was the mother a drinker?  Were these kids abused?  Are they damaged?  This child has bathroom problems.  This child poops in my closet.  This child hides food.  This child is damaged.  I need a promise this child will be like my own: perfect.

A child is put into foster care.  A child is only put into foster care when there has been abuse or neglect, meaning keeping the child with his or her family is too dangerous, no matter how hard the caseworker has tried.  This child is damaged.  This child is pulled away and put in a stranger's house.  Caseworkers work very hard to help the birth family become better.  Services are put into place.  Visits are made.  The foster family works with the birth family so the child can go home.  But... the birth family is too dangerous and it cannot be.  No other family member can take the child, so the child stays with strangers.  Perhaps for years.  Perhaps many strangers in different houses in different towns.  Perhaps in a group home.  This child was abused, neglected, torn from home, shuffled around, and, finally, "freed".  Free for adoption.

Is this child damaged?  Yes.
Can you guarantee this baby is okay?  No.
Can you promise this child will grow up and be okay?  No.

But...

But the damage can be mitigated.  These children are humans, and they learn and they live and they love.  There is no baby or child that comes with a guarantee--not even one born to you.  These children were freed from their birth families because it was too horrible to return.  Of course they need help; you would need help, too.

We need to know.  We need to understand.  We need to get a clue.  We are needed.

What would you rather be, liked or respected?

Ms. Peterson was one of the youngest teachers at Leete Road Elementary School and she was the newest.  Her hair was shiny and blonde, flat-cut in a bowl around her pale face.  She always wore a dress.  Ms. Peterson expected disciplined third graders.

"Neat desk, neat handwriting, and neat appearance equals a neat mind," she intoned every morning as her heels clicked on the floor between the desks.  Most of the children sat up straight, but some were what she would call "underdeveloped".

Kelly sniffed and rubbed her sore nose with the back of her sleeve.  The clicking paused beside Kelly's desk.  In an instant, Ms. Peterson had a tissue wrapped around Kelly's nose and mouth.  "Blow," she commanded.  Kelly started to cry.  "Blow!"  Ms. Peterson shook Kelly's face and waited.  The dirty little girl with the chronic sinus infection blew as she sobbed.  Ms. Peterson pushed Kelly's face away.  "You will be staying after for detention."

What makes you blush?

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, lady.  I still reply it in my mind.

Horrible.  Stupid.  Lame.  But that's the way public restrooms are.  I rejoice in the empty public restroom, but how often does it stay that way?  Spying between the cracks.  Maybe even ducking to check for feet.  Listening carefully for sounds.  Nobody there?  Hurry!  Into the stall to paper the seat and do your business before anyone enters, except...  The paper wouldn't come loose.

I spun and spun.  It was full roll, but I couldn't find the end!  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  Somebody enters and goes into the handicapped stall.  Spin, spin, scrabble and spin.  Where's the frigging end?  I gave up.  I left the stall and futzed around at the sink.  The other other stall had some fat woman trickling in little bursts and shifting her tiny feet stuffed into tiny shoes on the tile floor.  I pretended I was busy.  I had to pee so badly, but I was too stupid to figure out the toilet paper!  Maybe it was because I had to pee.  I paced.  I listened for the sound of pants being lifted, and the door opened.  You walked in.

I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry you asked me if I was going into that stall because what could I say but, "No."  I couldn't add that I was too stupid to figure out where the end of the roll was.  You went in.  The fat lady rolled out.  I ran in and held my breath from the stink while you spun the roll.  Spinning one way; spinning the other.  And cursing.  Cursing me.

I came out first and was washing my hands as fast as I could, but I wasn't fast enough.  You drip-dried and burst out of the stall like a gunslinger slapping open the doors to the cantina.  You saw me and your eyes narrowed in the mirror.  You faced my reflection and I blushed and blushed and blushed and thought, "Oprah waits for the handicapped stall because she likes it.  Maybe that's what I was doing.  Maybe that's it.  That's it.  I didn't even know.  How could I know?  Maybe I only decided at the last moment I should pee.  How do you know I was even in that stall?"  You knew.

"You could have told me.  That was awful, not telling me.  You let me go in there, and you knew.  You're horrible."

I'm horrible.  I know.  Public restrooms.  Horrible places that bring out the horribleness in me.  I can't talk in a public restroom.  I'm sorry, lady.  I'm sorry, but I couldn't tell you.  I can't discuss anything bathroom-related, much less public bathroom-related.  I wish you hadn't been there.  I wish I had been able to talk.  I wish you had found the end of the paper the way I thought you would.  I wish you hadn't yelled at me and looked at me with such hate.  Such hate that twisted your face and haunts me to this day.  I wish I could let go, but I'm like that toilet paper: stuck in a loop.  I'm sorry, lady.  Forgive me.

What question have you never been asked that you want to answer?

I have a great apartment.  Crappy, but great.  It's in a terrible part of the city, but it's the entire second floor of a commercial building.  My mother thought I'd be assaulted and raped every day, but I've not yet felt very threatened, even late at night.  Inside is sanctuary, if a bit sparse.  It's an open floor plan and has high ceilings, which means I essentially live in a giant brick box.  I bring my bike up one of those old-fashioned service elevators that I dreamed of ever since I saw Flashdance in the theaters, twice.  I have to bundle like an Inuit from late fall through spring, putting on more winter gear inside than out.  To turn on my computer, I have to unplug everything in my kitchen, but it's worth the slight hassle to have the freedom of the place, and the giant windows looking down on the street.

In high school, I was a dope.  I guess every teenager is a bit dopy simply because of the learning curve, but I look back and have complete and total awareness of my dopiness.  I lived in the suburbs and the sidewalks were rolled up by 9:00 pm.  I had terrible insomnia brought on by thinking about the miserable state of my love life, and about how I wanted to be taller and blonder and more fit, and about how I wanted to live an adventure like I saw in the movies.  I would crawl out of my little twin bed and sit on my dresser to look out the window.  I would crank the casements open and wrap myself in a comforter so the radiant baseboard heat would keep me warm.  I'd even take out the screens so I could look out clearly, just in case.  In case of what?

In case Jason from sixth period Government would finally have succumbed to his desire for me, found my address, and ridden his bike over at three in the morning to whisk me away.  I wanted to be ready.

In case Bill from third period Chemistry would ditch his weird obsession with my friend and instead walk the streets of our town, calling my name, and wishing as badly as I did that I would hear him.

In case Indiana Jones would ride up on a motorcycle and ask me to join him in the sidecar because he needed a companion on his next trip to Egypt.

God, was I a dope.

What's worse is that I'm still a dope.

Here I sit, the same goddamn comforter wrapped around me, in my ill-advised open window at three in the morning, wishing something would happen, someone would need me, I would have somewhere to go.

How do you define success?

Nobody remembers where they were when the world was saved by me because nobody knew the world was so close to destruction.  No parades.  No holiday in my honor.  Not even so much as a "Thank you" from my own family.  I tell myself that it's enough to know that I did it, but, turns out, it's not, which is why I'm writing it down as I remember it before even I start to forget my heroic tale.

It's not all heroic.  I want to be honest about it, so I promise I'll tell the entire story, even the bits that make me look like a coward or a dummy (there are more of those bits than I'd like to admit, but there it is.)

If you could be a door or a window, what would you be and why?

The Wizard lived in an old RV illegally parked on an empty lot at the end of a forgotten dead end street.  He'd been there for as long as any of the kids could remember, and they'd never see the faded Winnebago move.  The weedy dirt patch had been spruced up with a homemade tire planter, a string of fat Christmas lights, and a wooden wind chime the kids said was really made of bone.

Most of the adults thought The Wizard was a meth-head, cooking in his RV, but they didn't know any of the signs and were just judging based on appearance.  If any of them had gone into the RV, like Jake had, they'd know it was clean and followed what The Wizard taught him was "feng shui".

Recent polls have shown 1/5th of Americans can not locate America on a map. Why do you think this is?

It wasn't rush yet, but it would be soon, and the drive-thru was already getting a line.  Inside, one guy ordered while a girl entered and stood between the herding bars.  She looked around, detached, bemused; nobody noticed that she didn't look at the menu.

Two bowls of chili, small tong full of cheese product on each, one bag crackers for each.  Regular drink cup.  Double cheeseburger, regular.  Regular fries.  Paper on the tray, food on the paper.  Check order receipt fast, place under chili.  Transaction complete.

"What would you like today?"  The cashier's finger hovered over the picture board on the register, her gaze already wanting to look down.

"I'm not ordering.  I have a strange question."

A tremor went through the cashier's hovering hand as her mind already took a tentative step towards her manager.


BLOG NOTE: This is the pageant question Miss Teen South Carolina answered so horribly.  I use the video of her answering this question when teaching my students about impromptu speaking.  They always assume she did nothing right, but she did quite a bit that was good!  They also suspect it's an unanswerable question, which is also untrue.  Many students even believe that she didn't answer well because she's stupid--wrong again!  I feel bad that, in a way, I force this Miss Teen to relive her crash and burn moment, but, to me, it's wonderful.  It's the perfect way to learn the basic dos and don'ts of impromptu speaking, it's a great way to prove that a strong theme will help a LOT, and it's the best way to knock the cockiness out of those students who don't yet know how hard it is once you're the one in the spotlight.  If you'd like to know more about impromptu speaking, or about this question (or Miss Teen South Carolina) in particular, let me know!

Who do you think is responsible for the U.S. energy crisis?

Niagara Falls, New York doesn't have a whole lot going for it, excepting one of the natural wonders of the world, that is.  The city dug itself into a hole with mobsters, corruption, and the giant sucking sound industry makes when it leaves.  Yeah, a giant sucking sound helped dig a hole; this is a picture being painted, and it's not Rembrandt, but it should be enough for you to see.  Empty houses turning into empty lots.  Weeds and garbage.  Gangs and alcoholics and psychos.  Leftover goomba "businessmen" who don't even live there using empty buildings as tax breaks and the people who do live there turning them into public urinals.

The last of the owners who owner-occupied died of old age.  Renters begged and scraped until they could afford to get out, too.  The rash of disturbing killings gave a lot of residents the motivation to get out.  Tourists still came, but they stuck to the path of light and shopped on the Canadian side.  Nikolai Tesla's statue was always a favorite of tourists, which is probably why they moved it out of Niagara Falls.

Tesla.  It's why you're reading about this forsaken city.  Stan was the reincarnation of Nikolai Tesla.

If you were taking a test and you noticed an acquaintance cheating on the exam, how would you handle the situation? If they were trying to cheat off of you, how would you handle it then?

My ninth grade English class was all about smells and vocabulary tests.  Ours was the class with the exchange-teacher from England, Miss Harrington, and all the boys thought she was hot because she had a short, hip haircut and she wore sexy patterned stockings.  And her accent, of course.  This was the year I don't remember doing anything except vocab tests and shunning the attention of Erik, the younger brother of a world-famous tennis star.  Erik played tennis, too, and I guess he was good, but it had to have been difficult to play in the shadow of a Wimbledon-winning older brother.  Besides vocab tests, Erik was the bane of that year's English class.

One of the smells we all fought that year was from Miss Harrington.  While the boys said she was "hot", when the woman was actually hot, she ripened, and in the closed quarters of our small room, it was bad.  I think the jealous girls played it up.  I was not one of them, but maybe it was because I sat in the last row and was most distant from the armpit reek.  Girls would make a show of going to the back and cracking open a window.  If Miss Harrington didn't understand the opening of windows and sides of hands pressed under noses when she walked by, she definitely understood when a bar of soap and deodorant appeared on her desk one afternoon.  I don't know if she used them, but she definitely started dousing herself in perfume, adding to the olfactory excitement of the little room.

Miss Harrington, however, was not my main source of pain: that was Erik.  He hadn't been with our class in middle school, nor had he even been with us from the very beginning of the year.  It was speculated that he'd gotten kicked out of his fancy private school and was only slumming in public school temporarily.  His family was rich, and Erik wallowed in it.  Even my untrained eye could recognize the alligator on his shirts and the freshness of his sneakers.  His clothes were pressed, and certainly not by him.  Erik himself was a sloppy mess.  He thought he was hilarious and God's gift to the girls in this lowly school.  He thought he was cool, and, therefore, he sat in the back row.  Next to me.

I sat in the back because I liked the back where nobody could look at me and I could doodle in my Trapper Keeper and maybe read some Clive Barker before class started.