When the Crumbs Disappear
“The true measure of a society can be found in how it treats its most vulnerable members.” Mahatma Gandhi
I am spending my day at a non-profit, one that serves children with physical, mental and emotional challenges. I sit tucked away in a back office that could use fresh ceiling tiles, a new door, and a coat of paint. The carpet, unraveling beneath my feet, needed replaced long ago. A decades old sound machine fires a hum from the threshold as an extension cord snakes along the hallway behind it. Passersby are alerted of the trip hazard by a bright orange traffic cone. This is the setting in which children who have undergone trauma are evaluated, at least those who find themselves pigeon-holed by state and federal funds. This is the best we can do for our kids.
Upon my arrival, I’d missed the driveway, ending up in the parking lot of my dermatologist instead. This medical mecca, freshly constructed with floor to ceiling windows, modern furniture and tasteful artwork, was the vision I thought I would be walking into this morning. But, to no one’s surprise, physical appearance is far more lucrative than mental health. Who wants to cover the cost of children’s emotional recovery when there are laugh lines and thin lips to be filled?
Once I’d crossed the street to my intended destination, what I found was much less inviting than its glossy neighbor. Small and aged, the neglected office was not what I had imagined when I scheduled this appointment. I checked the address twice to confirm I was in the right spot.
A handful of people bustled about as I walked inside, one of them warned of ongoing construction down the hall. I was told there might be sudden loud noises and the flickering of lights – not the best environment for a kiddo wrestling the demons of trauma. Land mines lay all around.
Eventually, we were greeted by a woman wearing a smile and a comfortable pair of jeans. She escorted us to a room which would serve as my home for the day while my tiny companion underwent testing in a similar space across the hall. I sat down at a table with mismatched chairs and was presented with a stack of paperwork to complete. This is where I sit now. My assignments all finished, I am typing my observations to pass the remaining time.
It is cold in this room. The temperature and the stiff vinyl sofa with the remnants of a spilled drink or a child’s saliva suggest I might be more comfortable someplace else. But there is nowhere else. This crumbling building is what our state has to offer its displaced children.
The smiling woman is very helpful. She is kind and warm, the antithesis of the room in which we gather. The man who follows her has soft eyes and a voice that brims with joy. He is upbeat to the point of annoyance, making him adept at entertaining the children he is charged with. The chasm between the environment in which I’ve found myself and the people who choose to work within its walls is confounding. I think of the dermatology office next door with its somber staff and polished countertops, the receptionist’s botoxed forehead reflected in the marble. Everything shimmers.
I think of the thousands of dollars pumped into those faces, cash that could easily cover stained ceiling tiles or a can of paint. How many dollars are being shot into a neck or aging decolletage this morning, and what percentage passed through insurance with a therapeutic code? Surely, the recipient of that therapy didn’t have to wait the 10 months it took to get us here today.
When I get up to use the bathroom, I find that only one is working. A black sharpie indicates the other restroom is “out of order.” Even the toilet supposedly “in order” is not functioning properly, its last user’s deposit still circling the top of the bowl. I head to the front to inform the staff. A plumber is on the way, but for now, there are no working bathrooms on site. The apology is sincere; I am certain it has been given before.
I sit in this office the entire morning. It took us so long to get here, to this table in this broke down building. It took phone call after phone call. It took emails sent way up the chain and attorneys and court orders. It took months of incessant nagging, four different caseworkers, and one savior who finally got up from the countless other children they were looking after and took care of this one thing for this one child.
And this isn’t just about foster care. It’s about everyone who has encountered unthinkable traumas but does not have private insurance or deep enough pockets to expand the list of options for mental health providers. It’s about any child who has to wait months on a cancellation list or inside an unread email, a child who, in the interim, has to beg their body to stand quietly in line, recite their ABC’s, sit criss-cross applesauce without fidgeting. These kiddos are expected to put one foot in front of the other and continue on into their childhood without complaint or resources.
These kids and the adults they eventually become, who never asked to be abused or endangered, should not be viewed as wasted tax dollars or a drain on society. They should not be left with crumbs when we have filets in the freezer. We are not who we claim to be.
Once I’m in the car at the close of our very long day, I glance at the clock. It’s only 1:15. Child welfare takes its toll on everything it touches. Even the structures that house the pain can’t withstand its impact. I watch the building sink down into the ground another few inches, knowing that when it disappears completely, only a few will notice, no one more so than those who have nowhere else to turn.
Ashley, Woman of a Certain Rage