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Posted on 12/15/2001 11:48:30 AM PST by Clint Williams

Longing for Christmases with 'real' family
by Judith Conklin-Craddock

My heart travels back to painful Christmases beginning in 1953 when I was taken prisoner in Portland.

My crimes? Having alcoholic parents. I was sentenced to a nine-year term of so-called protection by the foster-care system.

Nine Christmases spent trying to not miss my family turned me into a ghost of a child -- haunted by the specter of Christmas spirit while inwardly aching for those I loved most dearly. I hung ornaments on strangers' trees, while thinking of the decorations I had grown to love at home. I wondered if my mother and father, aunts, uncles and cousins thought of me during their holiday family gathering.

On my second Christmas away from home I was invited to a benefit for needy kids that was held at one of the downtown theaters. I was 10, but don't remember much of the festivities. I do remember that Santa did not bring what I wanted most: a chance to go home.

I can still see the eyes of some of the other children -- there were perhaps 300 of us -- and I still wonder, as I did then, if they missed their families as much as I did.

Some Christmases I received presents from my parents, though I was not allowed to visit with them. So that I wouldn't be sent to my bedroom to be alone, I learned not to cry for my mother. My need to be with people was particularly strong then, of course, even if it meant pretending that my foster family was real.

One Christmas I saved all my money to buy a special gift for my foster mother. It was a beautiful miniature bird bath with tiny pure white birds sitting on its rim. I had hoped it would make her love me. Instead she continued to belittle and physically abuse me.

There were two Christmases when I had to try even harder to pretend that everything was fine. One was the morning when Santa arrived while I was being molested by a foster brother, who at 16 was five years older than me. He said I would be punished if I told. I knew he was right. Like a good girl, I kept quiet so no one could guess my guilty secret. At night I asked God to make it stop.

The next Christmas there was one more secret: a foster grandfather was "loving" me, too. His abuse had started during vacation the previous summer when I had visited his home. He resumed tormenting me during his holiday visit.

We both knew there were no Christmas angels to rescue me, because his daughter, my foster mother, had condemned me as "evil" when she discovered the first molestation. No one would believe me if I told of his violation. Even worse, I would again be called a whore.

There were, certainly, some holidays in caring foster homes. The adults there tried hard to make me a part of their family. I appreciated their kindness, but none could fix my broken heart. Like a litany, I silently repeated, "I want to go home! I want to go home! I want to go home!"

That was my heart's song every breathing moment of my young life. Even when the reality of the problems in my family became clear. When I turned 16, I was allowed to spend a Christmas vacation with my mother.

Sadly, the shadow of separation the day after Christmas lay so heavily on us that my mother needed "one little drink." That little drink led to so many that she couldn't find the bathroom and urinated on the front porch.

I called my foster mother to get me, unwilling to explain why. Though I was sick at heart at my mother's behavior, I still hoped that someone would help us get well so I could go home.

I opened my gifts in the foster home that night, struggling once again to smile, then excused myself to cry in my room for all that was lost. For the millionth time I prayed for a miracle, "God, please let my family be together." Despite seven years of forced protection, I could not reconcile myself to being kept from my heart-source. I still wanted my own safe and secure place with my loved ones.

I never got my wish. I still endure a recurring nightmare about the cold and gray afternoon when I was taken away from my mother., I recall my mother sadly walking to the bus stop alone. I see her as if it were yesterday, through the caseworker's blurred car window, the raindrops crying tears I was afraid to shed.

This story is not mine alone. So many people continue to see foster care as a humane way to protect children in jeopardy. I believe, even in the best of homes, foster care takes away children's rights, puts them into prison and steals from them a piece of their very life.

When will people understanmd that children need, above all, to be with their loved ones? When will we provide options where damaged children and their families can be kept together, taught social and emotional skills and awarded real family value?

Merry Christmas, dear vulnerable children.
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Copyright 1993, by Judith Conklin-Craddock

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