Separating Children Disturbs the Psyche!

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By Janet Grace

When I read this, I closed my eyes. I am guilty of this. I am guilty of not paying attention when a problem so large, falls on my lap. It is easy to pass that tragedy off to anyone else. Sometimes, life consumes us so hard, that prayer is all one has left. This is one of those times. “It’s a foolish thing to believe in” some might say regarding prayer. Good thing I believe, I say.

On April 9th, 1970, my Dad passed away. This story is not about that. It’s about what happened afterwards.

My parents became foster parents when I was in the third grade. I’d sprint home in my cool PF Flyers after school, couldn’t wait to see if there were any new babies in the crib.

They’d gone to the classes, done whatever they did whenever we all got dressed to go to the Spence Chapin Adoption Agency.

My parents were so happy. You could tell because they always whispered and giggled to each other and everything became private. That’s what they were doing again.

Finally, one day, there was a light knock at our door in the middle of the night. My Dad always had to overtake me because I’d open the door to the devil, if not. Yes, I knew better, but I loved to race. Knowing I was serious about opening the door gave me the edge. He’d laugh so hard, he’d get weak in the knees.

It was one of the case workers from Spence Chapin and she was holding a tiny white blanket which she held open so we’d be able to see her weapon of choice, up close.

Monique Mock was a two month old whose mother had been forced to give her up because she was of mixed heritage. I didn’t know what all of that was yet. I was already in love with the baby. She was perfect. She had brown hair little wisps and curls beginning to form, big green eyes that stared right at me, ten little fingers with a tight grip and she loved to make sounds.

I got my parents in trouble once for telling the teacher that I hadn’t done my homework because I was feeding the baby, leaving out the part where I’d sworn to my mother that I had finished everything and then begged her to let me assist her.

By the time my Dad passed away, my parents had successfully adopted Monique. There had been a plethora of other babies I remember fondly, Joey and Joey. Two Italian babies whose lungs were blessed, my mom said. Jennifer, aww, a teeny tiny sweetheart, etc. but Monique was ours and we were hers. She was two years old, I remember getting her out of the crib and closing the bedroom door so my mom would think she was still napping. Then, we would play.

When my Dad passed away, we had to travel to P.R. where he’d been building a summer house for us. My mom decided against taking Monique with us because she’d had a life or death situation when she took my sister to the Caribbean in 1954, so, Monique stayed with a woman who my mother had recommended to the adoption agency as a potential adopter who lived in our building.

The woman called the agency and told them my mother had left Monique with her and because the ink on the adoption was still wet, they overturned it. The verdict was that without my father, we were no longer deemed a family fit to adopt.

When we returned from burying my father, we lost half of the family. My two most favorite people. The man that understood and encouraged me and my favorite tiny person.

To make matters worse, we weren’t allowed to talk about it unless we wanted to see my mother hit the bed and not get out for weeks on end and then my sister and I would cut class and open the family store, or she would. I’d go with her to bother her incessantly and eat the merchandise.

So, when I read:

“The Parents of 545 Children Separated at The Border Still Haven’t Been Found” I closed my eyes.

I see Monique screaming with her arms outstretched to my mom, Ali and I.

I sat and watched my mom make her extra pretty every morning, with her beautiful little curled pigtails and bows and her pink and white flowered dress.

She loved the attention. Everyone’s approval mattered. She’d go to everyone of us with her little hands on her hips to see if we’d noticed her shiny shoes, new dress, little bow. We all stopped whatever we were doing to tell her how amazing she was. Wherever she may be, I know she is.

I remember my mother’s rock-hard grip keeping me from ripping my baby sister out of the arms of that woman. Why was she smiling. How could she?

And I turn my eyes to the Wall Street Journal headline again. 545 children and how many parents, screaming, souls ripped into tatters: that pain that knows no words and goes beyond translanguaging into ones molecular structure.

Why?

They WERE a family. Perhaps, we weren’t, but they were whole when they came to the land of the free and the home of the brave. There was no need for that.

Whomever is responsible for that needs to be jailed. Making people suffer unnecessarily is not okay. It is all I have, so, I offer a prayer for the children.

One day

Tomorrow will arrive.

It will taste of carnival magic.

Butter cookies with chocolate and rainbow sprinkles on top.

May Angels Guard and Guardians Guide them. Round and round, on Every side of them. May they be beacons of light for their parents to find them. Beacons of light protected through nights till together they be with their families again.

That’s all I’ve got. Amen.

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