Attitude: The Re-Making of a Family

Quote of the Month: June 2008

Nothing can stop the man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal; nothing on earth can help the man with the wrong mental attitude.
~Thomas Jefferson

Attitude: The Re-Making of a Family

Emma waited for the judge to call her case.  The hallway was packed with families, some dressed in their Sunday best and some with holes in their jeans and muscle shirts.  That alone told so much about a person.  She watched as young mothers held their infants as they watching their social worker’s facial expressions to see if the day would end in joy or sorrow. 

She saw a small woman, dark hair, round, and her thin husband, also very short.  She wore a skirt and blouse and had her hair slicked back in a bun. He had black jeans, a button down shirt, belt, and polished loafers.  His hair also slicked down and neatly combed.  They were meek and overwhelmed, but respectful and friendly when approached.  Emma walked toward her clients, hoping the translator would show up soon.  She knew Spanish, just a bit anyway, which is why she got the case.  No one bothered to notice that the family did not speak Spanish. 

Being from a big city, and having to adjust to small town life, she wasn’t at all surprised when the folks who ran the agency assumed everyone from Central and South America spoke Spanish.  Even Emma could tell, the minute the man opened his mouth, that it was not Spanish he was speaking.  She found that they knew as much Spanish as she did, which wasn’t much.  However, she brushed up on her Spanish anyway, as it was the only language they had in common.

During many of their supervised visits, Emma sat at a table at McDonalds with two of the most caring and nurturing parents she has seen in her work.  Emma noticed a total absence of anger and machismo here, just two gentle parents who missed their little boys more than they could express.  They passed a notebook back and forth, and with the use of a Spanish book for social service providers and a bit of sign and body language, the formed a bridge between their two languages, English and an obscure native dialect found in the mountains of Guatemala. 

What Emma noticed, once she found a translator and had a real interview, was that these two parents were completely open and willing to learn what it took to be parents in America.  They spent several entire Saturdays with a parenting coach and the translator to learn and then were seen actually practicing what they had learned during visits with the children. Emma watched as they tousled their sons' hair, kissed their boo-boos, brought outfits each week, and labored over books and videos that would teach their children English so they could have a life here. 

While Emma waited for the judge to call them into the courtroom, she saw a woman she had worked with several years before.  She was there to have to have her parental rights terminated.  She nodded to Emma briefly then approached her, unlit cigarette waiting for when she could escape again.  Emma expected her to give an update of what latest slight the agency or counselor, or even the father of her children had done against her.  She stood there, looking uncomfortable for a few minutes, antsy like she couldn’t stand to be still another minute. 

“Ms. Emma, I know you ain’t my worker, but would you stick your head out that door if they call my name and let me know.  I can’t take the stress any longer.  You know that woman I got now for a worker ain’t even come to talk to me since I got here.  No tellin’ what she’s gone say about me.  You know I love my babies, don’t ya?  God knows, I tried get clean but ya’ll don’t know what it does to a person.  Burns me up inside to know I chose this life over my kids but damn if I can just stand here and let that woman say I didn’t even try.  Thanks for listenin’ to my griping.  Do ya mind gettin’ me if they call my name?

Emma just nodded her agreement to keep an ear out for her name.  She let herself drift just a little, thinking about the dozens of families who didn’t get their children back and those few who did.  What was the difference?  What made one family out of thirty or forty admit what they did wrong, strive to do what is asked of them, and succeed in having their children returned?  What made a woman get in a series of predicaments and lose parental rights to her children when she has above average intelligence, attractive looks, years of counseling, drug rehab, daycare assistance, parenting classes, and lord knows what else that has been offered and perhaps completed?  What was it, deep inside, that activated the switch between drive and resignation?  Who is to blame; their parents, their genes, society, drugs, agencies, molesting relatives, the juvenile justice system, the foster care system, or all of the above?  Emma wondered if she were placed in a family’ life just in time to stop the derailment, for the kids at least, would she be able to prevent it?  She was deep in thought when a fellow social worker tapped her shoulder. 

“Did you see the lady with the white tank top and tight jeans up here?  I swear I saw her earlier but I can’t find her and the judge is ready.”

“She’s down there smoking.  Asked me to listen for her name.  I’ll get her.”  Emma opened the fire escape door and was assaulted by a gush of thick, humid air.  Leaning over the rail of the stair landing, she caught her ex-client’s gaze and motioned for her to come up.  After an expletive, likely from having to waste a half-smoked cigarette, she made her way up the stairs. 

“Here goes nothing” she said as she followed her worker through the double doors of the courtroom.  A bit ashamed of her curiosity, she shrugged to herself and slipped in to hear what was said. 

Emma sat in one of the church pew seats and pretended to read over her court report.  She marveled at the contrast between the formality of the walnut and marble adorned courtroom and the emaciated, leather skinned, drug addicted mother dressed in street-walking clothes.

This woman just stood there watching as the attorneys pointed out her mistakes and asked if she had anything to say in her defense to give the court a reason to postpone the termination hearing set for the afternoon.  Shaking a little but with a sour attitude behind her voice, she complained that she hadn’t been given enough time to finish the classes and get stable.  As if two years weren’t enough, Emma thought.  The hearing was set for that afternoon and the woman turned to  make a brisk exit, pausing by Emma to pull out a fresh cigarette from her purse.  She mouthed the words “told you so” as she passed Emma and walked out of the courtroom

Emma heard the Bailiff call her case.  She slipped out of the courtroom, found her family, and returned to the courtroom, followed by the translator who had just arrived.  They all walked toward the double doors, the mother wringing her hands and looking at Emma with such sad but hopeful eyes.  Silently, their social worker was rooting for them. There were limits to what she could say in court but she knew what the outcome would be.

“Who’s going to start?  Mr. Jackson, you represent the agency, right?  Why don’t you start?”  Mr. Jackson read off a portion of Emma’s report while the translator filled in his pauses with a rhythmic but almost Germanic sounding language full of “ch” sounds and abrupt consonants, not at all the fluid Latin melody of Spanish.  It was surreal to Emma, being in a courtroom with a room full of people, professionals even, who have never been out of the country, other than Europe perhaps.  Emma had been to Bolivia in college and had at least been exposed to what these people have been through just to give a good life to their children. 

After a year of visits, classes, translators, and struggles to understand each other, the judge flashed a genuine smile at the couple and asked them if they understood what had just occurred.  The couple glanced at each other as they listened to the translator tell them they could go pick up their own children at the daycare center and take them home.  The mother reached out to hold Emma’s hand as she stood at least an inch taller than she did just moments before.  “Gracias, Miss.” Emma smiled as she heard words that made her job worthwhile.  The father reached out to shake her hand and proudly thanked her in English.  Emma smiled and returned the handshake, “de nada”. 

Emma walked to her car, the burden on her heart lifting.  She was so proud of them for doing all that was asked of them.  No complaints, no denial, just a determination to make their family whole again.  Most of all, she was proud of them for showing her that there are still people who can and will succeed in righting a mistake, showing the system that they can’t predict success or failure based on one’s background, culture, color, or any other “window dressing.”  On that humid day in August in a small southern town, Emma finally realized who and what controlled the lever between success and failure; a person and their attitude, nothing more, nothing less. 

Six months later, Emma made her final visit to tell this family she would be closing the case.  The children met her on the sidewalk and motioned to put her shoes on the rack just outside their door.  The family cared about the property they were renting and did not believe in shoes, especially muddy children’s shoes, tracking dirt on the carpet.  The home was spotless for this unannounced visit.  The children proudly showed Emma the new videos their parents bought for them; American cartoons and classics from the sale rack at a second rate retail outlet nearby. 


The mother helped her one year old son climb in her lap.  Emma held her hand about three feet from the ground and pointed to the older boy. “He is so tall now” she pronounced as deliberately as possible.  The mother, understanding the body language if not the words, replied “Si, he’s big boy now”.  Emma smiled at her, acknowledging her improved English.  The other child hopped in Emma’s lap and showed her a toy car.  “My car.  It goes vroom.  See.”  Emma thought this one would be their translator some day but felt certain his parents would continue their efforts to become part of this country, learning what English and Spanish they could.  Spanish was still helpful to them as many of their friends in the factory spoke Spanish and they all depended on each other for childcare and transportation at times.   

As she stood to leave, both parents hugged Emma and thanked her again for helping them get their family back.  The children climbed on her until she finally had to pick them both up to give them hugs.  She said “Adios” and they said the same.  As she was walking to the car, Emma heard the older child, almost four years old, yell “Bye-Bye” and giggle as he shut the door.  Emma carried her shoes to her car and just sat, watching the window of the apartment.  A family once more, this was one set of parents Emma did not expect to see again for a second round of foster care.  It was rare that she could say that with any sense of certainty.  Attitude, that’s all it was.    A positive attitude. 


SWPoet 1966 Words









Disclaimer:

Names and reasons for children being placed foster care were omitted to protect confidentiality.  Other details have been changed for the same reason.  However, this is an ongoing problem in the South (USA) as jobs are better and the standard of living are better here than in Honduras, Guatamala and surrounding countries.  Many times, the children are born in the USA, therefore most agencies do serve the children.  However, the families are usually not legal citizens so they are not able to access services for themselves and live in fear of deportation or separation from their children.