Discover Smith Mountain Lake
WINTER 2016
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many they could take. She had come to know some of
them personally, and there were only a dozen or so
whom she trusted. The others, she was convinced, were
doing it for the money. The State paid for each foster
child, and in many cases when children were orphaned
or disabled, federal funds were available.
It was 1964, and foster care was just becoming
popular. “It all looks good on paper,” Maya thought,
but in reality there were plenty of problems. If children
were puppies, it might have gone flawlessly. As it was
there were reports of abuse on both sides – the foster
parent and the minor child. Plus, the best foster homes
filled up quickly, and the kids stayed longer.
Maya had just turned 23 that summer, and was fresh
out of college. In school, she had been sold the idea
that she could make a difference in a world where too
many children were being hurt from abuse and neglect.
Poverty, she believed, was the root of it all. She had
taken a job as a probation officer for the district
children’s court in Chicago, where in 16 short months
she had seen some of the worst living conditions that
she could ever have imagined.
She flashed back a couple of days to the memory of
one home, from which she had recently removed three
children. She recalled having to step over feces to enter
the living room, where ash trays were overflowing onto
surfaces otherwise thick with dust. The sofa and an
overstuffed matching chair were stained and sagging.
A portable TV with rabbit ears was sitting on a rickety
stand with large plastic wheels. The smell of nicotine,
urine, and neglect hung in the air.
Two of the children were school aged, and the third
was a toddler, obviously still not toilet trained. All
three children slept in one of the two bedrooms in
the apartment. There was a metal framed cot with a
thin cotton mattress along one wall, and a double bed
next to an adjoining wall. The mattress of the double
bed was bare, except for a balled up blanket and two
stained and filthy pillows. At the foot of the bed was
a forlorn looking stuffed animal. It was so worn Maya
couldn’t tell whether it was a teddy bear, or a rabbit
without ears, or neither.
There was an old quilt on the
cot and a flat grimy pillow.
“Is that your bed?” Maya
asked Ben, the oldest of the
three children. She pointed
toward the cot. Her voice was
gentle and friendly, and she
tried to hide the lump in her
throat behind a smile. The
boy, wide-eyed with concern,
searched her face, trying to
read her thoughts.
He nodded, but said nothing,
fearful, no doubt, that he
might unwittingly betray his
mother. The loyalty that these
children had toward their
parents always touched her. They would make excuses
for the most neglectful of parents: a drunken, slovenly
mother, an abusive, lazy father… it didn’t matter.
Invariably, they claimed the parents’ guilt as their
own.
“Whose stuffed animal is that?” Maya asked.
“Mine,” said a voice behind
her. It was Anna, the 8 year
old. She was surprised, as
she was sure that the stuffed
animal must have belonged
to the baby. She saw no
other toys.
“Does it have a name?”
Anna shook her head. Anna
was the reason that social
services had been alerted to
check on the children. Her
teacher had noticed neglect
due to her appearance. Plus,
her classroom behavior
signaled a warning.
Developmentally, Anna
lagged far behind the others
in her age group.
Down a dingy hallway, she found the bathroom. Inside,
a stack of dirty clothes literally touched the sagging
ceiling. The enamel sink was marbled by layers of soap
scum and rust from a leaky faucet. A mosaic tile floor
had numerous pieces missing, and it was so dirty that
she found it impossible to decide what color it once
had been. “The sidewalk outside is cleaner,” Maya
thought to herself, “at least it is washed occasionally
by rain.”
The worst room by far in the tiny apartment was the
kitchen. Move anything, and roaches scattered. The
sink was piled high with dishes, and the stove was
covered with dirty pots and pans, spattered grease
and spilled food. Even the kitchen table was filled
with dirty dishes, empty grocery bags, and carryout
containers. A waste can in the corner was overflowing
with beer bottles and soda cans.
“How do you cook for your children?” Maya
remembered asking, unable to hide the disgust in
her voice. She meant because of the condition of the
kitchen; however, it was clear just from the mother’s
appearance that she did not spend much time cooking.
She had long, freshly polished nails and professionally
bleached hair, and was wearing a satin robe that clung
to her figure. She didn’t even try to hide the fact that
she was a prostitute.
“Ben and Anna are old enough to cook for themselves,”
the mother answered defiantly. Ben was 12, a skinny
kid with rusty hair, freckles and a broken front tooth.
