I met him about seven years ago. He was small, chubby, a great smile as wide as the ocean and eyes the color of a blue sky with a lisp to boot. A lisp that would tug at any adult no matter how tough they thought they were. Yet, that only lasts a little while. This little guy came to me from a residential home. For those of you not familiar with residential housing for kids, it about getting a child's behavior under control. They do it by using rewards, unrealistic living as they have a lot of outings, more than most families could do. But they are staffed, and that's makes a big difference. They also don't require as many educational hours in a day, so if a child is already in special classes for emotional and or learning support, you can almost bet on it that he'll receive as little educational as possible.
On my first visit, I was taken to peek in on him in his classroom. He had his head down. The teacher didn't give a crap as long as behaviors were in order and the lights were so dim, I don't know how anyone was able to see. I asked about the lights and was told, it keeps them calm.
He was very good at pretending. After a few visits it was decided he would come to live with me, and we had a good time, until, yes until he got very comfortable with me, got to know me, trust me, know I wouldn't abandon him, curse him out or starve him, and also know that I wouldn't lay a finger on him. On our way home that first day we stopped at a local diner and I gave him a menu. In a soft quiet voice he said, but I can't read this. Really? You're kidding me, I asked him as he was shaking his head no at the same time. So menu aside I just asked, what do you like. The answer is usually the same, cheeseburger or shrimp.
The day before I picked him up, his Mental Health Professional came to my job, and finally showed me his profile. This little guy at ten was on probation! What? Why didn't you tell me before I asked as I read so much more of his unbelievable history. Her reply was, would you have taken him?( I don't know as he was my first) Now here she stood in the hall with me and asked after I finished, do you still want him? She was a professional with a masters degree. Little did I know that would come to nothing to me . Where is the honor? Did I still want him? Was I going to be a rat and say no when he was expecting me and already packing?
So we get home and I unload bags and bags, yes bags. Clear trash bags filled with clothes I found out didn't even belong to him, and pee soaked yet. There were some of his clothes, but most were four or five sizes too big. We do receive a clothing allowance, but not until a month later. Screw that, he needed clothes now, so off we went. Then I saw holes in his socks, and embarrassment with his little face flushed. Residential homes are paid to the tune of four to eight hundred a day, depending on level of care and facility, and he barely had clothes. This in America? ( Cont'd tomorrow)
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