I drove up to the house that New Year’s Day morning, not knowing
what to expect. I had been given the address by the caseworker, and was told
they would be waiting for me. It had all been arranged. But still, this was the
first time I had done anything like this, and I don’t mind saying, I was
scared.
We had gotten the call the day before: two boys, ages five and
two, dad was unable to care for them any more because of his developmental
disability. Could we take them?
Yes. We have room, we’ll be more than happy to take them.
There were no workers available to get them. Could we do the pick
up?
Wait. “Do the pick up?” You mean go over and remove them from
their dad’s home? Us? Sure, we had plenty of experience receiving kids into our
home who had been removed, but no one had ever asked us to be the actual ones
to go and get them.
Yes please, if you could. It would be very helpful.
So we said we would. We’re foster parents; it’s what we do. We
take care of kids who need taken care of for a little while. This was a part of
the deal. So we said we would.
I drove up to the house, pulled into the driveway, and turned off
the engine. I saw a face at the front window, small, pale, eyes wide. With a
flick, it vanished, and the curtain swayed shut.
I got out of the van and zipped up my coat against the cold before
I walked to the porch. The door opened as I approached. A woman, about 30 years
old, eyes red from crying, trying bravely to smile. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello. I’m Andy.”
“Come on in,” she replied.
There was a pile of boxes, suitcases, and backpacks just inside
the door. “Here’s their stuff,” she said.
From the back of the house, I heard a child’s voice. “No!”
A man walked into the room, carrying a boy. He didn’t look at me.
The boy was struggling in his arms, pushing against his dad’s chest, trying to
get down. The man had him in that firm yet gentle grip that one only learns
from plenty of experience with wiggly boys.
Another, smaller boy trailed behind.
“Let’s get your stuff, boys,” he said.
The woman started picking up bags, I grabbed a couple of
suitcases, and we went outside. The man held on to the squirming boy, and
followed. The little one was a shadow.
We put our load of luggage in the back, and then the woman said to
the man, “Why don’t you go ahead and put the boys in the car?” This was a
really good idea, and I opened the side doors for him. He began to buckle the
boys into the car seats while we went back into the house to get the rest of
the stuff.
When we got back out to the van, he had calmed the bigger boy down
enough to buckle him in, and he was working on the little one, who was quite a
bit easier to manage. When he had him secured, he walked back around to the
other side of the van.
I watched as he put his hand gently on the boy’s small head, bent
over close, and rested his forehead against his son’s. I did not hear what he
said; his voice was low and it wasn’t my place to invade that moment. When he
stood up, his son again offered a weak, confused, “No!” and began a litany, “Daddy!
Daddy! Daddy!” that was spoken slowly, through the tears that were streaming
down his face.
When he heard his big brother start up, the two year old joined
him, but with less intensity, more like he was sad that his brother was sad
than the bitter grief of being separated from his home. He knew, yet he didn’t
know.
The man closed the van door and walked quickly back into the
house, head down, never once meeting my eyes.
I looked at the woman, who had fresh tears overflowing her eyes. I
tried to smile, and said, “I promise you we will take good care of them.” I
closed the two year old’s door.
She just nodded at me, unable to say anything.
So I got into the van, started the engine, and drove home.
They cried the entire trip.
Granted,
just because I have physically removed children from their parent does not make
me an expert on immigration policy. But in light of our work as foster parents,
the stories coming from our nation’s southern border are particularly
disturbing.
Families
seeking refuge in our country are, by many accounts, being forcibly separated
from one another and the children are being placed in the care of the state. A high-ranking
member of the current administration has referred to this policy as “a tough
deterrent.” Another said that if parents don’t want their children taken away,
they shouldn’t bring them along.
I
find that the arguments in favor of the policy are not even slightly compelling,
and in fact are abhorrent to me. To argue that a parent has violated a law and
therefore anything that happens to them or to their family is justified is not
only a profound oversimplification of the situation, it is flat-out evil. Official
U.S. immigration policy now feels like the kind of thing the “bad guy” would do
in a movie, and not a very good movie at that.
And yet
… how can I think this when I myself
have been the “bad guy?” I am a part of a system that removes children from
their homes when it is deemed necessary. In fact, I have been the one doing the
actual separating! Can I with clean conscience say that what’s happening is wrong unless it’s happening
within the system I’m a part of? What is the distinction?
Whatever
is happening at the policy level, real people have been given the task of
taking real kids from real parents. Whatever is said at a press conference in front of an audience, a person goes up to another person
and takes their child away from them. Whatever may be true at the “macro” level in terms of law or economics or politics, someone has to “do the pick up.”
And
it is awful. It hurts. Trust me, I know.
For
me, the most important questions to ask have to do with the children. Are they
safe? Do they have food, clothing, and shelter? Are they being cared for? Is
someone there with them, telling them not to be afraid? Do they know that they
matter to someone? Do they realize they are somebody who is worth something?
And
is everything being done, with as much urgency as possible, to get them back
home again?
