Listen to thisI remember Harry. He was a brown haired, brown eyed Tasmanian-devil of a boy. Once awake he was perpetual motion, spinning and blurring from one creation of chaos to the next. I often worried that one day, he’d come screaming out of his own skin.
Harry had a pretty intense history, one that scared us before he even came in the door. I now don’t remember the details, other than a theme of extreme deprivation and multiple broken-down placements.
First thing in the morning (before he even opened his eyes, we suspected) he would start screaming and shouting. As you might imagine, this had a pretty unsettling effect on staff and the other 27 kids in the unit. What a way to awaken in the morning.
Because of his extremely chaotic and unpredictable behaviour, it was difficult to connect with Harry. I distinctly remember one occasion, however, of tucking him into bed. I had each of my hands next to each of his shoulders, and was effectively pinning him under his comforter while bouncing him and the mattress. I remember his tickled delight at this, and something sparkled in his eyes. I experienced a powerful, fleeting moment of connection, and I had the feeling he did too. Looking back I wonder if, for a moment, he felt a sense of containment of all the “stuff” he struggled with through his waking hours. I also distinctly remember walking away to do the logs, and thinking, “he’s gonna make it.”
The other distinct memory I have of Harry was seeing him and a member of my team, Lucy, in the “quiet room”. Harry had taken off his clothes and splattered his feces all over this room – particularly up onto the ceiling. The vivid image in my mind's eye is of Harry and Lucy, mops in hands, attempting to clean the feces off the ceiling of the room. It was the kind of ceiling that looked like it has bits of popcorn on it, and they were ducking and swerving to miss the “poo covered bits” from falling onto them.
What a moment of Child and Youth Care genius. Lucy had taken an extremely bizarre and somewhat frightening behaviour and turned it into an opportunity for a bit of normalization and connection. They were doing together (Garfat, 2001). “You got poo on your ceiling, you clean it up, eh?” They were even giggling at the absurdity of it all.
I remember Lucy as well. She was quite young when she started with us, and I remember finding her crying on her second day and thinking, “She’s not going to make this.”
I was wrong. Lucy was an enthusiastic and quick learner. In a short time she became a trusted and respected member of staff, by kids and staff alike. She had an exquisite balance of warmth, humour, affection, gentleness, strength, firmness, clarity and child centred-ness. She was emotionally available and exercised good boundaries. She was good at hanging out, and had the fortitude and stamina to hang in (Garfat, 2004). Lucy was one of those team members who brought a sense of safety to the shift, without ever seeming power-oriented, harsh or punitive. She was collaborative with her team mates, decisive when she needed to be, and never seemed too proud to seek out guidance, information or advice.
I was also wrong about Harry. We weren’t able to hang in there with him, and he was moved on after only a short time with us.
In a way, Lucy didn’t “make it” either. She was concussed a few years later when a different child threw a heavy metal outlet cover at her, slicing open her head just behind her ear. The two seemed to have a good relationship prior to this incident, and we think he was just lashing out in anger with no real intention to do damage. However, upon the sight of Lucy’s blood, something seemed to snap in the boy (perhaps due to a suicide he had witnessed some years prior). He gathered a shirt full of large stones and began an onslaught. Despite what was clearly a traumatic incident, one of Lucy’s chief concerns was the damaging impact this experience would have on the boy – she could see and acknowledge the trauma for both of them. While she did try to resume work after what, in hindsight, was far too short a period of time off, I don’t think she ever felt okay with the work again.
So what do I mean by “making it”? I’m not sure. I think for the most part, I thought and spoke a lot in terms of whether we could hold onto kids, reach them, meet their needs, and also in terms of losing kids. So it’s interesting that as the story poured out of me, I used language that focussed on the individual succeeding or failing. I wonder if the pain of failure and loss is so great that we sometimes project it onto the young person or fellow members of staff, especially when the stakes are so high. Anglin (2002) addresses the toll on staff of continued exposure to young people’s deep and pervasive pain, and the fact that it is often rarely discussed or addressed. This exposure can trigger our unresolved pain from our own childhoods. Perhaps some of the most painful experiences in residential child care are those in which we have been unable to hold onto our kids.
"Making it” might also refer more gently to that part which is the young person's. Sometimes young people just aren’t ready – ready to be reached, ready to connect, to change or grow or heal. And maybe they do change, grow or heal, either in ways not visible to us, or after they leave us.
And what would “making it” look like anyway? How successful would a young person need to be during and after the time she spends with us, and who gets to define success? How effective does a member of staff need to be to make it? How long does she need to stay in the field to make it? Does my semi-recent shift into academia mean I didn’t make it?
I think what this is all leading to is how we make meaning of what it is we’re doing when we’re working with kids. If we’re trying to fix them, then I think we lose them all. If we’re trying to sort out their lives, then we probably lose most of them. If we’re trying to provide a kind of environment, one in which they can “come up for air” and start or continue their own journey of healing, growing, connecting and/or discovering who they really are (whatever that means), then it’s not about making it or not making it.
I reflect often on the young people with whom I’ve worked, and while some of the memories I revisit are happy, more often than not I linger with sadness and regret over those we “lost”. I have similar regrets about members of staff for whom I felt I didn’t do enough. Some of these regrets are related to the luxury of 20/20 hindsight – a hindsight that identifies the gaps in our programme or in my own knowledge, skills or use of self. They are also undoubtedly connected with my own unresolved issues from childhood. Regardless of these factors, the pain of losing a child, often because of the same behaviours he came to us for in the first place, is significant in its own right and can have a cumulative effect over time.
A student in one of my classes had to suspend his studies because he did not know what had become of his wife, children and extended family in his country of origin (a country that is experiencing civil war). In discussing the situation with a fellow colleague, we shared a moment of silence while shaking our heads and feeling helpless, and then she said, “It’s sore. It’s just sore.”
Residential child care work is sore work. Perhaps in the acknowledging of this, we can better address the pain so that we don’t blame, shut down or allow ourselves to become consumed by it. And perhaps by accepting our own pain, we will be better equipped to be fully present with young people who are in pain, and in so doing, allow the kind of space which might enable them to be less “caught” by it. Acceptance can liberate us from that which we resist.
I started this piece wanting to tell some humorous stories about a young person for whom I still carry a great fondness. In the telling, I realised that I wanted to exorcise a demon. In the struggle for completion, I have realised I need to make friends with it.
References
Anglin, J.P. (2002) Pain, normality and the struggle for congruence: Reinterpreting residential care for children and youth. New York: The Hawthorn Press.
Garfat, T. (2001) Developmental Stages of Child and Youth Care Workers: An Interactional Perspective. The International Child and Youth Care Network Online Magazine, 24. URL: https://www.cyc-net.org/CYC-Online /cycol-0101-garfat.html.
Garfat, T. and McElwee, N. (2004). Developing effective interventions with families: An EirCan Perspective. Cape Town: Pretext.
