Monday, July 26, 2004
Moving.....again
So, it's been a month. Every time I want to write, it's about my job. For some reason, I resist that. I don't want it to seem like I AM my job and/or I find 95% of my identity in it. However, it is what I do 8 hours a day and what I think about the other 16 (well, almost). But I'm learning so much that I believe is worth sharing.
Take, for example, the other day. I drove down to Houston to pick up a 16 year old young woman. She has been "in the system" since she was 4 years old. This is the 13th or so place she has lived. Her therapist called me last week and said, "Move her. We don't want her. She starts riots and gets everyone in trouble. She's a leader with too much influence."
As her legal guardian (and her new caseworker whom she has never met), I go there to move her to another facility in another large city. We travel the distance together, worlds apart, but with music in common. I became very familiar with R&B that day. I asked her during the drive if she was nervous about the move. She said matter of factly, "No, I'm used to it."
Used to it. Used to someone you do not know calling you on a Tuesday to say you are moving on a Thursday. Who cares about the bonds you have formed and that you are leaving a person you have grown to call 'mom' (since, of course, you don't have one). Yet, she went without a struggle. I had the feeling that she has resolved herself to this life as her plight.
Ice cream makes me feel better. I thought it would help her. So I asked her if she wanted to stop at Dairy Queen. When we pulled into the small town between her old place and her new, she said, "Hey, I think I've lived here before." She couldn't quite remember. She has moved that much.
We arrive at her new home with her stuff in tow. She sent 3/4 of it back with me because she is only allowed a certain amount. Her 'mom' from the last place had given her some earrings that she showed me the first five minutes we were together. She loved those earrings. She had to turn them over. All of her jewelry went into an envelope with her name on it and now it sits in my desk. Her stuff is in boxes in my office and will soon go to the basement where her last set of boxes reside. She will probably never see them again.
It wasn't the move that in the end made her angry. It was that she had to give up her jewelry. The last place allowed her that bit of identity. This place stripped her, once again. Granted, she has made choices to get here, but what about the mother who made the choice to do drugs instead of protect her own flesh and blood?
After I moved her in, I left and got into rush hour traffic. I had an errand to run for a co-worker and got lost. My day was 15 hours long and I was dog tired. When I woke up the next day, however, I realized that I was familiar with my surroundings. I knew the feel of my high count sheets, I recognized the 26 year old seal with which I sleep, I remember how you only turn on a little of the cold water in the shower. Most of all, I know the faces with whom I live and I know they love me. I also know that I have blood family 1000 miles away who would die for me.
My new friend knows none of that. All she is sure of is that there will be another move. And another. She knows a system that works on behavior and if you're GOOD enough, you can get those earrings back.
These are the days that make me long for the Advent. Why, Jesus, do you tarry?
Take, for example, the other day. I drove down to Houston to pick up a 16 year old young woman. She has been "in the system" since she was 4 years old. This is the 13th or so place she has lived. Her therapist called me last week and said, "Move her. We don't want her. She starts riots and gets everyone in trouble. She's a leader with too much influence."
As her legal guardian (and her new caseworker whom she has never met), I go there to move her to another facility in another large city. We travel the distance together, worlds apart, but with music in common. I became very familiar with R&B that day. I asked her during the drive if she was nervous about the move. She said matter of factly, "No, I'm used to it."
Used to it. Used to someone you do not know calling you on a Tuesday to say you are moving on a Thursday. Who cares about the bonds you have formed and that you are leaving a person you have grown to call 'mom' (since, of course, you don't have one). Yet, she went without a struggle. I had the feeling that she has resolved herself to this life as her plight.
Ice cream makes me feel better. I thought it would help her. So I asked her if she wanted to stop at Dairy Queen. When we pulled into the small town between her old place and her new, she said, "Hey, I think I've lived here before." She couldn't quite remember. She has moved that much.
We arrive at her new home with her stuff in tow. She sent 3/4 of it back with me because she is only allowed a certain amount. Her 'mom' from the last place had given her some earrings that she showed me the first five minutes we were together. She loved those earrings. She had to turn them over. All of her jewelry went into an envelope with her name on it and now it sits in my desk. Her stuff is in boxes in my office and will soon go to the basement where her last set of boxes reside. She will probably never see them again.
It wasn't the move that in the end made her angry. It was that she had to give up her jewelry. The last place allowed her that bit of identity. This place stripped her, once again. Granted, she has made choices to get here, but what about the mother who made the choice to do drugs instead of protect her own flesh and blood?
After I moved her in, I left and got into rush hour traffic. I had an errand to run for a co-worker and got lost. My day was 15 hours long and I was dog tired. When I woke up the next day, however, I realized that I was familiar with my surroundings. I knew the feel of my high count sheets, I recognized the 26 year old seal with which I sleep, I remember how you only turn on a little of the cold water in the shower. Most of all, I know the faces with whom I live and I know they love me. I also know that I have blood family 1000 miles away who would die for me.
My new friend knows none of that. All she is sure of is that there will be another move. And another. She knows a system that works on behavior and if you're GOOD enough, you can get those earrings back.
These are the days that make me long for the Advent. Why, Jesus, do you tarry?
