Some of them enter the classroom looking dazed. They move slowly, cautiously. They don’t speak much. They are careful to take the pulse of the room before making a move. They don’t play at recess for the first few days or even weeks. They flinch if I move too suddenly or raise my voice. I speak to them softly, guide them gently, and ask few questions. It’s clear they have been separated from their parents for only a short time, and they radiate lostness.
Others enter aggressively. They’re angry. They don’t understand why they’re here. They hated their homes; they want to return to them. By the end of the first day, they’ve already gotten into fights. I’m careful to respect their personal space, to avoid an accidental bump or a tipped backpack. Their hair-trigger tempers are so easily provoked. I coil, ready to jump out of the way in the event of an explosion.
The more experienced ones are resigned. They’re in their third, or fifth, or seventh foster home. They call all their foster parents “Mom” and “Dad,” in house after house after house. Sometimes, they call them nothing at all, knowing that as easily as they were placed there, they can be moved. They are pros at changing schools, practiced at rapidly assessing the teacher, classmates, and even the lunch ladies in the cafeteria. They know how to make friends quickly, without actually forming deep attachments. They are friendly and compliant. At first glance, they are ideal new students to have; often what they carry is not evident until later. When I ask questions about their prior schooling, they are free with information, schools attended or schooling missed. At times, the information they volunteer is more than I want to know.
Sometimes they come with a language barrier. They don’t speak English, they don’t speak Spanish, or they don’t speak at all. They speak a flow of street invective that triggers conversations about acceptable classroom language. Sometimes they speak non-stop, happy to have a captive audience and much-craved attention.
Those with gaps in schooling sometimes struggle to understand basic classroom items. “Maestra, what is this? What is it for?” one young boy asked me about the globe. When I explained to him that it was a model of the world, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Where are we?” he wondered. Considering that he’d recently been plucked from the streets of Tijuana, housed in children’s shelters both in Tijuana and San Diego, and then arrived at his first foster home, “Where are we?” seemed a very good question indeed.
Others are new to household life, to consistency and stability. A child who’s never had a bedtime, never had a family dinner, or never washed a plate may find himself rebelling against structure and routine. The child who lived in substandard housing with no indoor plumbing doesn’t know that cleaning the bathroom involves more than sloshing PineSol around the floor.
So much is new to the child in foster care. Every refrigerator is an unknown territory, as are the rules about opening it. Clothing is another minefield; will it be old hand-me-downs or a few new pieces? Will it be moved in a black garbage bag when the child moves on to the next foster home? What are the spoken and unspoken rules in an unfamiliar household?
When children are separated from their parents, it’s incumbent on those of us adults who care for them to smooth their path as much as possible. We calm them, guide them, orient them, and show them affection. We quell their fears, even knowing that we can make no promises about their futures. If we are able, we dry their tears, straighten their collars, and tuck stray hairs into their ponytails. We hug them if they will let us, and give them high-fives if they are wary about physical contact. We help them catch up academically and socially. We coax smiles out of them.
No matter what situation brought them to foster care, so often the siren song of returning to mom or dad is stronger than even the security and comfort that a good placement will provide. They may ache to go back even to situations they hated. To those foster families who provide soft landing places for children in trauma, we are so very grateful. For children in mediocre or even damaging placements, we grieve and worry and wonder how to make them whole again.
From the view at the front of the classroom, it’s clear that the decision to separate a child from his parents, while sometimes necessary, has long-term consequences, and should not be made lightly. Today’s ten-year-old is tomorrow’s adult, and the benefits of keeping that child safe and healthy extend to all of us.
