The Asian tick box

How Asian do you have to be to think that tick box is for you? Is Asian the tick box for part-Chinese Keanu Reeves or Indian goddess Priyanka Chopra?

I consider myself Catholic by guilt, Buddhist by philosophy. My mother used to hold up the church. I was sure if she died the building would fall down. She was a three-times-a-week devotee. She rallied behind the young priest who encouraged the young people to attend, even if they were wearing bikinis. She denounced the biddies that got him moved on. She visited the housebound, got jobs for the unemployable. She also believed women should be virgins until they married. This wasn’t the case for men. I remember when we were in our late teens my mother would be heading out to church on Sunday.

“Are you coming to church?” she would ask gruffly.

“No!” my sister and I chirped back in chorus whilst watching Neighbours.

This happened every Sunday. I suspect this was an attempt at martyrdom, giving her something to suffer through, another part of the Catholic ritual.

Mum would stop for a moment at the door for dramatic effect then shout

“YOU HAVE NO GOD!” and SLAM! the door behind her.

My sister and I would look at each other then, in unison, shout out

“Pray for us!”

When Mum returned, still sullen, my father would ask

“What did God say?”

Whatever He was saying, if He was saying anything at all, was not helpful. When Mum’s bipolar disorder was in full swing she would pray to her God like a chant –“God-help-me-God-help-me-God-help-me-God-help-me” – a God who, as far as I could see, had well and truly deserted her.

I was not a fan of the Catholic Church and yet, in my forties, I found myself going to church on a regular basis. It was on the way to the gym and I would stop and pray for my family, myself, for the compassion to forgive my sister. I did not feel the presence of God. A century of hope and faith lingered like a ghost, the air infused with frankincense, myrrh and prayers to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in. There was peace in the building, the indelible imprint of believers. It made sense to turn to religion at this point. I had been rejected by two foster agencies. Whilst the religion was antiquated, Catholics as a group were pretty chilled about their faith. The ‘no sex before marriage’ rule simply made them more inventive. The Catholic rules were seen more as guidelines, open to interpretation. I’m sure it was a Catholic boy who first said “it’s not sex if I only put the tip in.”

I figured that being in the Catholic club would be a plus and I should use any edge that I had. After filling in a dozen forms, and a couple of friendly chats, the first assessment visit was organised. This would be one of six visits in the assessment process.

A century of hope and faith lingered like a ghost…the indelible imprint of believers.

Three young women turned up, notepads and laptops in hand. They looked at the space for the future children’s bedroom and the plans I’d had drawn up for building it. Foster children often shared a room with a family’s biological children; on a square metre/child calculation, the space was fine. They were prepared to progress through the training and assessment as long as the room was built prior to the child being placed.

The youngest of the three sat at the table, laptop open. Lets call her Whippersnapper; I’ve no idea of her name as she wasn’t introduced. The other two sat on the couch and chair at either side of me. I was cornered.

Jenny was definitely doing her phD in something and considered herself an expert. She had an automatic rifle of facts. Her knotty hair was pulled back in an untidy bun. She had a dimple in her nose from a nose ring, discarded along with her dreadlocks when she had to interview with a Catholic organisation. She sat at my right.

The other, Ally, had shiny blonde hair and an open face, bright with good intentions. She spoke slowly, enunciated each word, as if speaking to someone who was grappling with the English language. Perhaps she had parents who were deaf. She sat at my left.

They both turned toward me. It was clear Ally was in charge and Jenny resented it. The Whippersnapper looked out the window, her head suspended by her palms. She was bored and couldn’t summon the energy to appear otherwise.

Ally made some small talk about the weather, the route they took to get here and put her notebook away. This was just an introductory get to know each other chat, no need to be nervous.

Jenny: “Would you take a child with a disability or a child from another culture?”

I ran camps for children with disabilities in my twenties. I knew my limitations. Caring for children with physical and psychological challenges was not just complex, it was exhausting. It took a small army to do it successfully, an army I didn’t have. They didn’t press.

I looked at the women, assessing how best to approach the next question. Whippersnapper was struggling to stay conscious. Jenny had her legs crossed away from Ally and her back half-turned towards us, surreptitiously writing. Was she was drawing butterflies or making notes for her thesis? Perhaps I was her thesis.

“What about children from another culture?”

I wondered what she meant. Not made in Australia? Not Anglo? Not Sri Lankan? Not English-Dutch-Sri Lankan?

“I was an aid worker. I’ve lived and worked with people of all cultures as equals. I have an ethical concern about fostering a child from a different religious background, if there are Carers of the same background able to take that child. I’ve worked in countries where religious organisations were kicked out because of what were called ‘unethical conversions,’ leveraging food and protection to bring people to their side of the religious divide. I’m not sure I believe in God but I still go to church. Taking a Muslim or Jewish child is like a creeping religious conversion. This is not coming from racism; it’s coming from respect.”

Jenny seemed suddenly interested.

“So it’s a question of ethics?”

Ally shifted in her seat. There wasn’t a tick box for this on her questionnaire.

“So I understand your concerns about taking a child from a different religion. Would you take any other Asian, if they were Christian?”

I looked at Ally’s earnest and open face. She wasn’t racist. She was an idiot.

She wasn’t racist. She was an idiot.

I heard my voice become stern, steely, patronising; that voice that should stay in your head, not escape out of your mouth to wreak havoc.

“Asian is not Asian. They’re different countries and cultures.”

Asian is the tick box that might contain Indian goddess Priyanka Chopra or part-Chinese Keanu Reeves. How Asian do you have to be to think that tick box is for you? Would Ally and Jenny be having the same conversation with Keanu and Priyanka that they were having with me? Would they consider them “sufficiently Asian” to warrant the term? Ironically, I think of myself as black, but that’s another story.

Asia is Jordan to Japan, India to Indonesia. I don’t know what it meant to Ally. She ploughed on, either oblivious or reckless. I was too shell-shocked to tell.

“For example, would you take a Vietnamese child?”

I could see Ally on a Contiki tour bus with other drunk Australians in their 20s taking the “10 Asian countries in 20 days tour,” having them all blur into one.

“Well, Ally, I don’t believe it would be morally responsible for me to take that child if there was a Vietnamese family in another agency that was looking for a Vietnamese child. I don’t want to rob a child of their culture. I don’t speak my native language. My parents wanted us to assimilate. It’s a great loss. So I’d need to be assured you had done your due diligence first.”

Jenny piped in.

“Actually, research shows that culture is less of an issue if the child feels like part of the family.”

Ally rebounded:

“Yes you can take them to Vietnamese restaurants, enrol them in Vietnamese language classes, cultural fairs, cook Vietnamese food at home.”

I took a deep breath, tried to unravel the knots that were forming in my shoulders. I had learned a long time ago when it was futile to argue with bigotry. Some people can be educated and some people cannot. These people needed to be educated. They held my future in their hands.

“Culture is more than language and food. You can try and share the experience of an Aboriginal child, for example, but you cannot understand it. It is not your experience. I have been brought up in a Sri Lankan, English, Dutch culture. I speak French. I’ve lived in multiple countries. I would hope to share my experience with a child that would benefit from it.”

Jenny, enjoying the argument being made, countered with

“There are more important things than culture. We are looking for the best fit.”

It was pointless to continue. There are more important things than culture; safety, love, education. When you are removed from your home, your parents, your food, music, school, friends, relatives, everything that has defined you, what is more important than culture? Culture is the very essence of who you are, not what is in your lunch box. Any foster parent can offer safety, love, support and education. What a child needs is an adult who says “I understand you, I have walked a lifetime in your shoes.”

“Ally perhaps you can give me a better idea of how the system works.”

It was time for me to stop trying to convert them.

“Oh sure. So. FACS has children needing short-term placements for anything from two weeks to two years. We put in Carer profiles and then FACS chooses the Carer and their Agency. Our restoration team assists the parents to access services. A child is either restored to their family or ordered by the court to be permanently removed. In which case they go to one of our pool of long term Carers.”

The cogs in my brain were clunking away. I was clearly missing something.

“So, are you saying FACS doesn’t try and place them with the best parent?”

Ally stiffened a little. Jenny poorly hid a smirk.

“No, I’m saying they like to keep the child with the same Agency, for the sake of consistency.”

“But isn’t it more important to have the best child-parent fit? I mean just say you had eight Vietnamese kids in short term care but had no long-term Carers who were Vietnamese. Would you go to FACS and see if they could be placed with Vietnamese families? There are multicultural agencies after all.”

Ally exhaled in frustration.

Culture is the very essence of who you are, not what is in your lunch box.
What a child needs is an adult who says “I understand you, I have walked a lifetime in your shoes.

“No, they move from our short term care into our long term care.”

“What if you don’t have enough long term Carers and there are agencies with a lot of long term Carers?”

“We are constantly recruiting. We would have to exhaust every option before we went to FACS.”

I felt like Indiana Jones in the Temple of Doom, peeking into an underground cult where children were enslaved and human sacrifice was just an everyday occurence. It was mesmerising but horrifying.

I asked if they would flag with FACS that they had a Sri Lankan Carer with their agency, the only Sri Lankan Carer in the state. They would not.

Jenny was being cordial but it felt disingenuous.

“Children get placed depending on how picky the foster Carers are. We’ve had a single man who wants a baby and he’s been waiting for two years.”

She may have meant to helpful but it came out as a threat.

I looked over at Whippersnapper who was staring out the window. She was dreaming of being anywhere but here. So was I.

The next day I got a call from Ally. She had spoken to her manager about my questioning their system of placement. They recognised I wasn’t racist and my concerns was based on personal ethics. However, if I wasn’t willing to take a child of any nationality they wouldn’t register me on their system.

“I’m part English. Don’t you have Anglosaxon children looking for homes?”

Ally was anxious to get off the phone.

“Yes, but we won’t register you unless you’re willing to take children of any race or religions.”

Let me contrast this with the experience of the Anglo-Australian woman who recommended Religious Agency. She said she’d take children from any other nationality except for a Muslim child because it was so different from her culture and she wouldn’t know how to accommodate that religion in her situation. She was not questioned or pushed further. Within six months she had a child placed with her.

It was clear to me that the young women that had come to judge me saw an Asian woman. Not an Australian woman. Not a part English woman. There was no question in my mind that if they were trying to place an Anglo-Australian child, they would not think of me. Asians go with Asians. Non-Anglos with non-Anglos. Some blacks, some browns, to round out their portfolio nicely.

I wrapped up all that fury in chocolate cake and thought. I wasn’t white and I was going to be put in a claustrophobic tick box. There had to be a place where not being white could work for me, where I wasn’t a minority group. I found a multicultural foster agency that focussed on placing children from culturally and linguistically diverse (that’s a mouthful) backgrounds. I figured that, at the very least, they could tell us Asians apart.

Next: Part 4 Where the wogs go

Wishing you love and all good things x