Every time I hear the glass doors
slide open, my eyes lift with a twinge of apprehension, wondering if it is her.
Because I had been warned that she would be here today, I have purposely
arrived early for this appointment, so that I could check in at the front desk,
fill out the necessary paperwork, and get settled in the waiting room before
having to face her.
Inevitably, the doors slide open
once again, and this time she storms in.
She takes one look at the child – her
child - sitting on my lap, and scowls daggers at me before choosing a seat far
enough away from me to ensure that we won’t feel the need for small talk. I
mean, what could we possibly have to say to one another? In spite of her strongest objections and
denials of any wrongdoing, Child Protective Services has taken her child away
from her and placed him in foster care.
In my home. In a white woman’s home! She is furious that I am caring for her
child. Furious that someone somewhere considered me a more “fit” parent than
her. Even though she has never met me,
in her mind I am the enemy.
While we are waiting for the child’s
name to be called, I discreetly steal glances her way, trying to size her up
and form an opinion. I have been told
that she can be confrontational and spiteful, so naturally I am wary. She is smaller than I expected. Short and extremely thin, with hands that
fidget nervously. Her tiny braids hang
down her back and partially cover her face, a face that might be pretty if it
wasn’t so clearly filled with anger. I
know the reasons why her child is in foster care. I have heard about her faults as a
mother. I have little tolerance for
parents who do not properly care for their children. Why is she
angry? It’s her fault that her child is in foster care. Even though I have never met her, in my mind she is the enemy.
