What does it mean to be a child in the foster care system?
For me, at 7 years old, it meant telling caseworkers that your father hits you, only to be met with the reply, “Even Obama hits his children.” At 9, it meant begging to not be sent back to a house of abuse in the parking lot of a state-run child facility riddled with corruption, only for my caseworker to say, “It’s too late.”
And, finally, at 15, it meant spilling your life story to a man from the agency that you have never seen before, begging him not to push for reunification as tears drip from your eyes — not because you do not love your father, but because you know that some people are not meant to be parents.
It took almost a decade before anyone took the words of this child seriously. My guardian ad litem attorney, the only one I ever met in my years in the system, saw me not as another number in a plethora of cases, but as a child forced to make a choice that the adults around her failed to make.
To be a child in the foster care system is to understand that the adults are and will always be above you. To be a Black child with a vagina in that system and not end up pregnant is beyond many people’s understanding, but at 15, I had my Black female attorney, who saw me before I even knew who I was.
When my attorney prepped me to testify against my father, her calm demeanor and tenacious advocacy soothed my nerves, because I had someone I knew who truly cared for my best interests. And above all, it was because of her constant pushing me to apply to universities in Washington, D.C., that I found out about Howard University, my alma mater. She did not just treat me like her client; she treated me with care in a careless system.
So, what does it mean for a child to have an attorney? It means a dedicated advocate for when the child speaks. It means a serious conversation before having to testify against your father. It means knowing each child’s name that they’re representing. It means being able to say, “This child is my client,” and treating them with that level of respect and care in their decisions when they tell you what they want, and of course, being able to tell them the truth when no one else can.
When children enter the system, they may feel weak, broken and unlovable, but when they leave — whether it’s months or years later — they become strong, not because they want to but because they have to. That is a lesson I learned over my 10 years, and if your attorney is not going to fight for you, then no one will. Because for every one good attorney a child in care has, five caseworkers have already walked out.
So members of Congress: If you care about children even a little bit, then cough up the money and votes for each child to have an attorney, across the country. Make sure such support is directly sent to the already dedicated lawyers, the fierce advocates, and not those just in it for an easy paycheck.
It makes a difference having someone to fight for you instead of fighting yourself. And when it’s over, and the years have passed and the system is just a PTSD-induced flashback, they will remember the attorney that stayed and fought for them.
