By Donna Marto

I am sitting here in a room full of Public Service Administrators and Social Service Providers listening. They so want to do the right thing for children. The memories start to creep in…the memories of the child me, the memories of Tina, Silvia, Wilma, Oscar and his brother, and the other faces with names I can’t remember but I remember them. It’s been over thirty years, years of drug use, then years of therapy with years of layering myself to keep people away, and still they won’t go away. The higher me comes into my thoughts, “They never will, They MAKE YOU who you are!” So now we are sitting here together. They are using words like “normalization,” “permanency,” “home settings” and the memories come pouring in—those same words were used so many years ago.

There is the memory of my mother telling me not to answer the door, and the man in a suit standing at the window talking to me, using my name telling me it is OK to open the door; they are here to help my mother. Finally I open the door to have many men with suits push me away and dive on my mother, handcuff her and take her away. Could this explain why thirty some years later I still am uneasy around white men in business suits? Then a man comes in, picks me up and takes me to the police station. At the station people are walking around looking at me, not talking to me. I am eight years old and have just become an outcast, a freak. How are we going to turn that into normal? I did have a social worker visit me when I first was placed. She was beautiful. She talked to me; she told me my mother and sisters were OK; she let me call my grandmother. The nuns never did. I thought she was so cool; she even said she liked meeting me. She never came back! Oh well, I guess she was just being polite. Why would anyone like or care about a freak?

The memory of all of us at Guardian Angel Home (GAH) —we were going to be normalized by going to overnight summer camp for two weeks! The buses pulled up; all the campers that came in cars with their parents and staff were looking at us. We tumbled out of the buses all excited to meet new friends and see what “normal” kids are like cause we think we forgot. We were assigned to cabins. We were introduced to our cabin mates; a staff person in her attempt to be compassionate introduced us. These are the kids from the orphanage; they have had a hard life kids; let’s be nice. The Freaks are here. So there we are, Tina and I, and the kids start talking to us, asking questions about what is it like to be us and live where we live. Tina and I, being the “give them what they want,” entertaining, eight year olds that we were, made up stories about how the nuns made us work all day long cleaning. We only eat once a day and GAH is right across the street from the insane prison (that part was true). The older kids from GAH heard about the stories Tina and I were telling and beat the crap out of us. But we noticed your cabin mates were not playing with you either. Our attempt to be normal did not work very well. We never went back to camp again.

Oh, wow, more excitement at GAH! All the kids that did not have parents, or any hope of being united with their parents, were going to go on “home” visits to get some new parents. All kids were notified that they better be on their best behavior so they can get some parents. I remember one teenager girl—with my little girl eyes I thought she was so cool. She dressed hip and braided her hair; she was Native American and was more different than most of us. The nuns gave her a hard time about it, but she still stayed true to herself. She had gone on a few “home” visits—always to come back a few weeks later. I was always happy she came back, but she was sad. She always said they just did not want her. But now they found a relative for her, she was going all the way to Denver. She was so happy she would get to be with her people. She was back a few months later, sadder then ever—not even her aunt and uncle wanted her. Tina, my troublemaker buddy at GAH, went on a home visit and she was gone a long time. She was back just for a few weeks so they could “complete the paperwork” and get her ready to “transition.” She was so happy to have a home, she did not care that the man that lived there was sexually molesting her. She told me not to tell Sister Davis because she really wanted to have parents. I wonder if Tina ever felt like she was normal; she wanted to so badly. Did she ever feel permanency and security?

So here we are, all sitting in this room together, we all want to do the right thing. We all want children to be safe, feel secure, remain innocent, live in loving homes, be part of their community, receive the benefits a solid education, and grow to be happy productive adults. We want to make the work count!

The little girl me, and memories of children I knew, are screaming at me, “Say something!” Say what?
“Say how I wanted someone to talk to me, to tell me what is happening to my life.” They can’t tell you what they don’t know. Those decisions always change with each court order, new social worker, and new initiative. Your life may also depend on if your family can follow through on the hoops they have to jump and can live up to the pressure of life under a microscope.
“Say how you will never be normal because it’s not normal to be ripped away from your life, whatever it was.” They know that.
“Say how I wished someone would have asked me want I needed?” They are not ready to hear you and understand.

So some thirty years later, we sit and talk, we want to do the right thing! What is going to be different this time? I’ve been invited to the table this time, but will my words make a difference? Will the work count? Will children finally belong to us all? Will the Tinas of the world find permanency, love, acceptance, and security? Will I ever find the right words to speak for them? Will we forever be freaks?

And then the words of Jackson Browne remind me of what I came to the table for …

“Oh Lord
Are there really people starving still?
Look out beyond the walls of Babylon
How long will their needs go unfilled
I want to say right now I'm going to be around
I'm going to be around
When the walls and towers are crumbling
When the towers are tumbling down
And I will tune my spirit to the gentle sound
I want to hear the sound
Of the waters lapping on a higher ground
Of the children laughing.”

 

THE FUSE It's coming from so far away It's hard to say for sure Whether what I hear is music or the wind Through an open door There's a fire high in the empty sky Where the sound meets the shore There's a long distance loneliness Rolling out over the desert floor And the years that I spent lost in the mystery Fall away leaving only the sound of the drum Like a part of me It speaks to the heart of me Forget what life used to be You are what you choose to be It's whatever it is you see That life will become Whatever it is you might think you have You have nothing to lose Through every dead and living thing Time runs like a fuse And the fuse is burning And the earth is turning Oh Lord Are there really people starving still? Look out beyond the walls of Babylon How long will their needs go unfilled I want to say right now I'm going to be around I'm going to be around When the walls and towers are crumbling When the towers are tumbling down And I will tune my spirit to the gentle sound I want to hear the sound Of the waters lapping on a higher ground Of the children laughing Jackson Brown