Part 2 of my precious fantasy, interrupted.
So, I started a creative writing program at the Foster School campus. I was TB tested, fingerprinted and interviewed, but not nearly as much as I expected to be. I guess if you aren't yet a hardened, fingerprinted criminal you can work with troubled children until you become one. I did everything cheerily, knowing it was a 'good thing to do' and until the night before the first class the good thing feeling sustained me until I realized I had nothing to teach. No games, no ideas, no clues whatsoever.
So I got a stomach ache and decided to cancel the whole thing. It was a terrible idea. I'm no teacher, especially of heavily medicated children who look 9, speak like they are 5 and are in fact 14... I stayed up all night and scoured the internet for writing exercises for children- that was a bust. Most writing exercises were created for children with the basic luxuries of parents, homes, bedrooms, and annoying siblings to write about. So, my partner (an equally over achieving, guilt ridden enabler) made up writing games that avoided the landmines of parents and home.
We drove there, terrified that some random word like 'rain cloud' would set off a kid into a horrific abuse shame spiral. The most cheerful negative person in the world- the Librarian greeted us like a gallows vulture. She was smiling as she showed us where some kid had busted a window in the library. She beamed at us while relating that it was a good thing no one was hit by flying glass, but I could tell she almost wished more mayhem had been caused. She was aching for stitches and I was kinda itching to help her out with that.
As the kids filed in Librarian grinned at us to not say "no" to the kids as that was most likely to set them off. Soon we were outnumbered with the equivalent of 8th graders. I was stunned that no one sat there with arms crossed, sullenly hating our assumed authority. And then I realized- these kids are hungry for whatever they can get. They don't have the luxury of parents to complain about or teachers to bitch about- anyone who wants to give them a moment's time is okay by them. They all jumped in the big artsy mud puddle as best they could. Until we realized one big thing. They didn't know how to make stuff up. They had no imaginations to speak of.
Foster kids don't have regulars kids' imaginations. They haven't had the time, safety, comfort or well-ordered stability that brings on the sheer boredom which lulls "normal" kids into making crap up so that time passes faster. Of course, as I was to discover- some foster kids lie pathologically, which is a form of imaginative creativity, and an attempt to control their lives, and it's scary.
So, our biggest task was goading the kids into tap into their imaginations. And they really did respond and write. And some weeks we left there sobbing, other times we left ebullient. My Precious blew us away with her soulful words, her neat rows of self inflicted scars, and her occasional bouts with sickle cell anemia.
She asked my partner to adopt her- which made my partner and I both have to take long naps after class. The collected heartbreak of 16 injured children is exhausting. Sure, it felt like we were playing Simon Says on the Titanic... what will happen to these kids when they inevitably age out of the foster system? We didn't know and we knew we couldn't take them all home- "Mom, this 5 foot 11 inch two hundred pound African American 14 year old followed me home. Can I keep her?" But we couldn't stop.
The cheerful negative Librarian kept encouraging us with warnings like "You think you know these kids just because you spend one hour a week with them." But kept inviting us back week after week. We even made books with the kids. They were so proud of their hand made books. Cheerful Negative Librarian grinned as she told us to be careful to not publish anything as the kids most likely were copying ideas read elsewhere. My partner and I cackled over how horribly consistent Cheerful Negative Librarian always managed to be.
After my Precious made her gorgeous heartbreaking poetry book I became determined to get her on Oprah- I had visions of foster kid poetry books and college scholarships and even... yes... I dreamt of making Precious my child. My fiance was very lovely as he listened to me go on and on about her- friends were either very encouraging (Adopt her! All these kids need is love!) or they told me I was a hot box of crazy for even thinking of endangering a new marriage with a seriously unwell and self-injuring teenager. "Your fiance wants a baby. You agreed to adopt a baby. Stick to the plan..."
My fiance, who really does want a baby, finally told me he wanted to meet her. As visions of My Precious Blind Side movie played in my head I met with her case worker, in order to become her special friend. I tried not to tear up as I asked how long my Precious might be expected to live with her sickle cell anemia... and was met with a silent wince.
Now, having seen enough episodes of "Judging Amy", I was prepared for a jaded social worker who was over-worked and a tad indifferent to her clients (who can forget Mariah Carey's harrowing, mustachioed turn in "Precious"?)- but I was not prepared to hear- "She's not sick."
I stared at the case worker's frogs- she has two mini frogs in a bowl on her desk. "They eat like once a week and I only have to change their water once a month. Easier pets ever." I stammered, "But she just showed me the injection site where she got platelets over Christmas break." Case worker smiled sadly at me. I must have looked so crestfallen that my Precious didn't have sickle cell anemia. My stomach dropped like I was on a log flume. "She's not sick? But that's great! But she lies and hurts herself and that's not great. But she's an amazing poet. I'm determined to help her--"
Again a wince. A slow, pity-ful wince. (Pity-full, as in full of pity for me.) "Precious is... talented... but she plagiarizes. From Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul." This was now a punch to the gut. Not only is my Precious a pathological liar but her stunning poetry is hacked from one of the cheesiest book franchises ever to darken literature's door... and all I can think is... what does this say about me??? And my taste in poetry???
While I hold my head in my hands, I find out my Precious has cut herself, on her head- 5 stitches. She told everyone she fell in the shower, but that's untrue. She's under one on one lock and key, which means she is never allowed alone- and I'm given the choice to not pursue becoming her special friend. But I do. My only warning- don't confront her lies. She will flip out.
As my Precious Blind Side child fantasy crumbles, I walk to Target. It's Precious's birthday, and that is the truth. I buy her earrings and some silver glitter nail polish. I visit her and Darius, her shadow. She beams when she sees me and beams even brighter when regaling me with the details of her seizure, which led to her skull fracture and her stitches. She was proud of her handiwork. I just said, "Wow. Well, I want you to stop having accidents, okay? I don't want you hurt." Precious nodded solemnly.
"Sometimes accidents happen to me. And I get hurt. It's not my fault." And sometimes love can't fix everything or everyone. I had to admit to myself I was out of my depth. This damaged young woman needs so much more than what I can give. And she may never find it. Her desperation for a family is completely mitigated by how she damages herself with lies and box-cutters.
We sat together and I looked around her 'house' at the bedrooms, the common rooms and the attempts for it to resemble a regular old home. And as Precious painted my nails silver I thought about the mini frogs that thrive on neglect.
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