I represent parents in juvenile dependency proceedings. What that means in plain English is I often defend child abusers. I have had clients who have raped or murdered their children. I have had far more clients who physically or emotionally abused their children, and far more still who have neglected or endangered their children. I have stayed up all night coming up with legal defenses for them. It can really suck sometimes. (Trigger warning 'cuz I’m gonna talk about it.)
But I’ve learned some surprising things along the way. For example, I’ve learned that the single most important factor in determining whether a social worker will ever take your kids away is poverty. We almost never see middle-class or rich families in this courthouse; when I hear of sketchy things happening among my extended circle of acquaintances, they always seem to get quietly shunted off to family court, where maybe a judge will grant temporary custody to grandma instead of the kids being ripped from their families and placed in foster care for eventual adoption. Another thing I’ve learned is that children are remarkably resilient as long as they feel loved. I’m in awe of the kids I see who survive being hit and screamed at, who continue to show up for school and fight for their place in the world. If you look closely, behind every one of those kids is someone who loves them unconditionally. But every day I’m also heartbroken to see kids falling through the cracks, kids whom no one ever laid a hand on but also whom no one has hugged in a long time. I think the former group is better off.
I’m still haunted by a case from four years ago. A teenage girl’s mother committed suicide and she was adopted by her maternal aunt and uncle; dad wasn’t in the picture. But the aunt and uncle weren’t really up to the task; they were apparently still grieving and just couldn’t open their hearts to this child. They came in to the system because they told the social worker they didn’t want her anymore. I remember sitting alone in my office, bawling my eyes out, as I read the girl’s interview in the social worker’s report. “I don’t understand,” she told them. “I try to be a good kid. I made some mistakes, but I didn’t hurt anyone. Why don’t they want me?”
Shit, I’m tearing up again just typing this.
I thought my client would come around. I thought she was just frustrated raising a teenager, and once she had some space to think, she’d change her mind. She never did. The girl aged out of foster care. I think about her often and wonder where she is, if she’s all right, if she can ever love and trust again after what my client did to her. I expect that, when I finally burn out, this will be the story I tell people about why I had to change jobs. Not the one where I had to look at autopsy photos of a two-year old with a subdural hemorrhage and bruises all the way down his skinny little back that even my expert said could not possibly be the result of accidental trauma. Not the one where I had to cross-examine the frightened thirteen-year-old outcry witness who was my client’s victim’s best friend, and who thought she was in trouble for telling the teacher now that the victim had recanted the allegations of sexual abuse. Not the one where my DV perp client physically intimidated me and the bailiff had to drag him off. I’m not saying that not loving your kids is worse than murder, rape, and violence. I’m just saying that of all the shit I’ve seen, it’s “why don’t they want me?” that still sends shivers down my spine.
So congratulations, Declanium. At least until I pick up another big one, you’re the worst parent I’ve seen so far in 2020. I sure hope their dad sucks less than you do.
