List every relationship you’ve ever had and why it ended
Foster Care System Part 1
Choosing a foster agency involved greater deliberation than I had ever used with men, even those I’d considered marrying. I couldn’t just jump in and damn the consequences because I was drunk on love, pheromones or piña coladas. This relationship needed to last up to eighteen years. That was fifteen more than — evidence would suggest — I was capable of.
The foster care system is a system; not a functional or compassionate one but a system none-the-less. It is a system with inherent biases like any other. I have never been good at being part of a system. Too sure of myself, too happy to shake things up, too outspoken. People don’t take well to comments such as “well that makes no sense” or “oh, you’re serious.”
The thing is, I can’t lie. If I think you’re an idiot, you probably know it. These are not great qualities for navigating a nonsensical and impractical system. Moral outrage is not a good platform for getting what you want; unless you’re in warzone in Darfur or a cholera outbreak in Haiti or a cyclone in Myanmar. Well, hell, it worked everywhere else but here.
The thing is, I can’t lie. If I think you’re an idiot, you probably know it.
I did some research. I talked to people who knew people who knew people who had fostered. Everyone was happy to offload about how poorly it all worked. In Australia, the Government has — for the most part — outsourced fostering to charities (Non Government Organisations, NGOs). The Government does a very small amount of fostering on its own. However all children remain under the Parental Responsibility of the Minister.
1. Kindly Society:
I first called Kindly Society. I stood outside Lion and Buffalo, a café where strangers at neighbouring tables strike up conversations. I paced as I waited to be put through to the arm of the giant beast that would take me by the hand to my future life. They were non-religious. They trained corporate leaders in compassion and leading social change. If anyone knew how to do it well, it would be them.
Disembodied voice: “So why do you want to foster?”
Me: “Because I’d like to have a child and provide them with a loving and safe permanent home.”
Disembodied voice: “It sounds like you want to bring up a child in your own ethos.”
Me: “If I was bringing up a child, I suppose I…would be bringing it up in my own ethos…”
Disembodied voice: “We operate in a public parenting framework. I don’t think you have the right motivation.”
It was clear there was no ‘but’ that would make an impact. I crossed them off the list.
2. Bigger Than Ben Hur Agency (BBH):
Go big or go home right? BBH was the only agency to which the Government wholly outsourced its Parental Responsibility. That meant that instead of having to go back and forth to the Government for approvals, you went directly to them.
They sent me a weighty application pack. I leafed through page after page after page.
List all your relationships and sexual partners:
Hmm…what was the best way to lie about that? Thank Thor it wasn’t face-to-face.
Name:
Date started:
Date finished:
Reason relationship ended:
I counted anything under 6 weeks (the length of most of my relationships) as a dalliance not worth mentioning. There were the clandestine ones that went on too long. Those couldn’t be mentioned without me looking morally bereft. I left out the two great loves. Why had they ended? They weren’t risk-takers. There was no way to put a positive spin on that. That left three. I looked at the large holes in my relationship resume. I wouldn’t hire me.
I looked at the large holes in my relationship resume. I wouldn’t hire me.
The reasons for my breakups were stark in black and white. Relationships were never black and white. The endings had always been grey, watered down by not enough love on my part. I couldn’t write the real reason. They just didn’t feel like they fit. Two of them (including Dan) were amazing men. If there was a 6-page tick list — I promise I don’t look at it — they ticked almost every box. Problem was there was something on the list in invisible ink and I couldn’t read what it was. Even worse, I wasn’t sure it was there at all.
List every aspect of your medical history:
Asthma, epilepsy, should I mention those? What about the breakdown I had after being bullied for 18 months by my boss? Everything was now managed by medication or the healing of time. Plenty of parents have medical histories. They would never make it past the foster process. Only uber-humans need apply. Even Rainy, the 6 foot 4 captain of industry got rejected because he had high cholesterol. I decided to include asthma and lie about the rest. Epilepsy and mental health issues were acceptable but well, let’s be honest, not accepted.
Somehow I made it to the first home visit. I own a largish one-bedroom apartment, big enough to be converted into two bedrooms. I’m part of a strong community of neighbours and we are close to parks, the beach and good schools. My family — at least on paper — were close by. In reality they may as well have been on Mars.
I looked around my apartment. Dusky pink carpet not yet threadbare; a poky kitchen repainted white with a chequerboard linoleum floor that I was marketing as retro; a wall that divided the kitchen and living room, leaving the living room shaded; a 70s bathroom with a railing for the previous elderly occupant; and the alcove that I used as a study or a bedroom for three children.
There was a knock on the door. I looked around the room. Three chairs, an eruption of pink peonies on the white IKEA expandable table, three coffees and pastries from the local café. The two women were white and in their twenties. I doubted either had children. Jessica had brown hair ironed straight and funky glasses. Her colleague Emily wore a black suit. They were trying to look corporate, playing dress-ups. They sat at the square table that looked over the strip of garden and the neighbouring blonde block of units. It wasn’t flash but it was home. It was an affluent neighbourhood and even owning an apartment was an achievement.
Jessica, the one who seemed to be in charge, started the interview.
“You said you were interested in a baby. I realise they would sleep in your bedroom for the first year but where would they live after that?”
The alcove in the living space was big enough for an Ikea style bunk-bed-desk-wardrobe. One side would have a large sliding glass door and the other a solid blade wall. My ex’s three children slept there six months ago. I didn’t mention that in Finland babies lived in a cardboard box. Or that our concept of space is out of scale, needlessly obese. There was plenty of space for a baby.
I told them about the planned second bedroom. I had engineering plans and strata approvals that I could send them. They looked at each other:
“We won’t progress until the room is built. It’s a question of resources. Of course, we can’t guarantee we would approve once it’s built.”
“So I’d be building a second bedroom on the off-chance? Couldn’t we go through the approval process first?”
“No. We need to see where the child would be living when they’re seven or eight.”
“When they’re seven or eight I won’t be living here.”
“Where will you be living?”
No, no, don’t say it, don’t say it!
“I don’t know exactly. I mean if you know where you’re going to be in five years you’ve got no imagination.”
Jessica wrote something down.
I mean if you know where you’re going to be in five years you’ve got no imagination.
“Why don’t we move on to what type of child you would take. Would you take a Muslim child for example? There are agencies that have a pool of Muslim carers but my manager said ‘if I hear one more person say they can’t take a Muslim child!”
“I’m confused. Why would you want me to take a Muslim child when there’s an agency with Muslim carers?”
They looked at each other as if I was just not getting it.
“The foster system is competitive. Family and Community Services notifies agencies of a child requiring care and agencies put in deidentified profiles. FACS then chooses which agency will be assigned to place the child. You see?”
It took a while for it to sink in. The foster care system was a recruitment agency, a lucrative business. Each agency wanted a wide selection of candidates in order to bid for the business. They needed some blacks, some browns, to round out their portfolio of potential parents; some non-white parents for the non-white children. I dipped my pain-au-chocolat in my coffee, comforting myself with the melted chocolate rolling in good coffee.
They needed some blacks, some browns, to round out their portfolio of potential parents; some non-white parents for the non-white children.
“Now. There’s a maximum of a 50-year age gap between a carer and the child. I note that you’re forty-nine.”
My age had become an accusation rather than a date on my passport. She looked around the room and made some notes. I am 49 but can leg press up to 200kgs. I look and act like someone in their late 30s. It seems somewhat arbitrary.
“Also you can’t foster for 12 months after finishing IVF or losing a child.”
It wasn’t a question so I didn’t need to steady my voice, capture tears before they escaped. I’d love to see the piece of research that rule is based upon. Is 12 months the amount of time they thought it took to get over a child?
“I see that you’re single.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t adopt unless you’ve been in a relationship for 3 years. We had this carer tell us she met someone and we said ‘we’re so happy for you but we have to stop your adoption.’
I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Still, to have the possibility removed gave me pang. No relationship until an adoption was final. How long did they take? Five years? More?
My age had become an accusation rather than a date on my passport.
A week later Jessica left me a message saying my apartment and the proposed space was too small for long-term foster care. She then went on leave for 2 weeks and no one else would discuss it with me.
The space in which I had planned to raise Phoenix was not good enough for a foster child.
Was my existence, what I could offer a child, so paltry that it could be rejected by a phone message?
I took ten minutes to feel sorry myself and looked for the next Agency, the one where my child was impatiently waiting for me.
See part 1: Letter to the Minister
Wishing you love and all good things
Phoenix x
Be a patron of the arts – oh that sounds fancy
You don’t have to own a castle to be a benefactor or patron of a writer and it sounds fancy doesn’t it? You can be a patron for the cost of a coffee. You can say stuff at parties, like “Yes I support a new writer and her foster child. Can’t have them all starving in garrets writing by candlelight can we? How much does a garret go for these days?” Seriously, thank you for supporting me, my muse, and my son in our daily lives.
Wishing you love and all good things x
Good news! You can donate in Euros, Australian, New Zealand or Hong Kong dollars. You can also donate in US dollars, except if you live in some countries – there’s a wall!
You can make a one-off or recurring donation.
PS – Ugh! You can only donate in USD from the following countries: Australia, Austria, Belgium, Bulgaria, British Virgin Islands, Canada, China, Croatia, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, France, Germany, Gibraltar, Guernsey, Greece, Hong Kong, Hungary, Iceland, India, Ireland, Isle of Man, Italy, Japan, Jersey, Latvia, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Malta, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Philippines, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Singapore, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Taiwan, UK, and United Arab Emirates.
A 12 part series on a single woman’s journey through the foster system
1. Letter to the Minister 2. List every relationship you’ve ever had and why it ended 3. The Asian tick box 4. Where the wogs go 5. The Goldilocks principle 6. Letter to Keanu Reeves 7. An Anglican minister, a Catholic nun and a Buddhist philosopher walk into a cafe 8. To be or not to be: The singleton’s conundrum 9. Absolutely fine 10. Fate and other fuckery 11. Danger signs 12. An unusual situation
