Reading my own file

Patrice Njie

I went into care as a young baby on a Care Order. For the following 17 years, my file was a forbidden manuscript locked in the office wherever I was placed. Apart from nicking it once at the age of 14 when the office had been carelessly unattended (and getting heavily sanctioned for the luxury of twenty minutes' browsing) I hadn't seen it during all that time. On several occasions since leaving care, I've needed important details of my history “the sort of thing most people would ask their parents or family about. Education and medical records have been particular issues.

'Not known'
One day in 1988, it really got to me. There I was, again putting down 'not known' on a form. I realised that I should know and, more to the point, I am entitled to know. After all, it's my life. This prompted me into action. I needed to see my files. I knew they were lying defunct in storage somewhere, gathering dust. I rang the local authority in whose care I'd been, and managed to get the phone number of the relevant department that deals with such matters. After much explaining, I was informed that I had to put it in writing as they didn't know where my files were. Within weeks, I received a reply asking me to phone a certain person. My optimism was dampened when I was told that, although they had located some of the files, a decision hadn't been made as to whether I could see them. I felt like I was negotiating for something which was of no use to anyone else. It wasn't as if I didn't know most of my history anyway. The conversation ended with the promise of further contact when a decision had been made. Then there was a local authority strike, which delayed things even more. Months passed, and still no word. When I tried to find out what was going on, I was fobbed off. I left the issue at that point.

Success
The subject re-emerged nearly five years later in 1993, when my brother told me he also wanted to see his files. I came to see Tory Laughland, who first started the “Who Cares?" organisation. She suggested writing to the Director of Social Services. I did, and BINGO! This time I got lucky. He referred my letter to a foster, care and adoption worker, who in turn offered me an appointment to see the files they had. I had spent a great deal of my childhood in voluntary children's homes. I discovered that such places have their own independent records about children, which can only be obtained by applying direct to the relevant organisation. At that point, I was more interested in seeing the main local authority files though this may change in the future. Finally, my appointment day came. The foster, care and adoption worker warmly welcomed me. We went into a private room for the consultation. She explained my rights and her role. She also warned me that 'third party' materials had been removed for reasons of other's privacy. Until I was 13, my brother had shared the same care experience as I had. Then someone decided that we should be separated. When I came to look at my files, information about him (even things I already knew) had been removed. As an adult, I felt that this rule was separating us as brother and sister yet again.

Support
The person assigned to my case had been working in the care system for a long time, witnessing many changes. This proved helpful when going back on my own experience. Initially, I had hoped to be left alone to look through the files. Now that I'd finally got there, it was good that someone was being supportive at this stage. Later on, I was left to read one big file. She took the rest out of the room with her, only popping in from time to time to see if I was OK. The file read a bit like a birth certificate. It was very flat and negative, with even flatter opinions. None of those opinions were mine “that's because nobody had asked me. Some of the jargon used was an utter disgrace. The only contents indicating I had my own feelings were the letters I had sent to several social workers over the years. I was allowed to keep these and get photocopies of other things. My first session was over. I needed to pace myself between then and the next visit, so that I could take stock of things “much of which I wasn't happy about. I went back a couple of times, before making the decision to stop. The worker was very sympathetic, informing me that if I felt the need to come back at a later date, I could. I never really found what I was looking for.

Little recorded
From the files I saw, there were no medical records, recordings of known abuse, sanctions or achievements. No one had recorded any of these things. A mixture of anger and amusement consumed me for a short while. I wondered if, when adults ask their parents about childhood matters, it's regarded as privileged information. I was angry about the way things were so badly recorded, or were missing altogether. Things of value, like how I was getting on at school, weren't even there. At the same time, I was amused to see that such a fuss had been made about less important things. The way the recording was done seemed to present me as an item, rather than a person. Looking back, I wish I'd had the chance to give my own point of view. It would have been good to have had a say and to contribute to the recording of my own life and feelings in those files.

From Who Cares? “the UK magazine for young people in care.