By Kieran Loughney
“Such is hope, heaven’s own gift to struggling mortals; pervading, like some subtle essence from the skies, all things, both good and bad; as universal as death, and more infectious than disease!” —Charles Dickens
Two years into this blasted pandemic, essentials are in short supply—such as health care workers, hospital beds, a unified purpose as a country, the oatmeal at Trader Joe’s. Most lacking, though, is a sense of hope. An episode from my work in child welfare, pre-pandemic, showed me what a powerful virtue hope is.
I saw this play out among three children in foster care who had little reason to be hopeful. A particular day stands out in my memory. Eve, buckled in the back seat belted out “There’s No Business, Like Show Business,” the seven-year-old selling the lyrics with all the wit and sass of Ethel Merman herself. After having picked up her four-year-old brother Jimmy at his daycare facility, I’d picked up Eve and her eight-year-old sister Jane at their school. (These are not the actual names of the children.) We were on our way to visit their father.
“Wow, Eve, you crushed it.” I raved. Jane, nearly her younger sister’s twin physically, with an exaggerated eyeroll I caught in the rearview mirror, sighed, “Yep she’s amazing. Can we hear some Michael Jackson now?” We drove on through a snowy squall as the three siblings sang along to “Billie Jean” on the stereo, the kids sharing the glee of the moment in the face of their ongoing struggle.
The children lived in temporary foster care, their troubled parents having been forced to come to terms with their own disastrous choices. It would be six months before their mother would finish drug rehabilitation. Their father, recently moved from the county jail to state prison, faced a possible two-year incarceration. I had been on the job 17 years and my initial idealism had long since faded. I had seen parents given housing assistance, drug counseling, and parenting classes, yet remain incapable of caring for their offspring. So many children faced shattered family lives. How were they to survive, much less thrive? On earlier prison visits Jane had said, “I know we’ll be back with our parents someday.” This trio was not just the exception, but exceptional.
The state prison is a gothic brick complex atop a mountain bordered by thick forest. “Wow! It’s like Hogwarts!” Jimmy accurately observed. Wind howled across the parking lot, heavy snowfall limiting visibility. I cautioned the kids, “We have to stay close guys. Cars might not see you, got it?” The trio, anxious to see their dad, readily agreed. The girls pushed against the bluster, opening their doors and helping their brother out of his car seat. When his feet touched the ground he bolted at top speed and, whooping joyfully, cannonballed into a snowbank. His sisters chided him, their smiles betraying their delight in his antics.
We dashed through snowy gusts to the visitor’s entrance. The door was locked. On the prison website, I had seen that visiting hours began at 10:00 a.m. We were right on time. A group of correctional officers (C.O.s), visible within, glanced in our direction. I knocked and one stuck his head out the door saying, “You are too early, you can’t come in for another half hour.” I countered, “But the website said 10:00 a.m.” “I don’t do the website,” he declared flatly, shutting the door.
After a run back to the car to warm up, we returned to the now unlocked visitor’s door. As we entered, Jimmy dashed through a metal detector, the metal buckles on his boots setting of an alarm. A C.O. barked, “You have to take your shoes off!” Jimmy froze in his tracks. “It’s ok buddy, come back through,” I reassured him. We waited on a bench for further screening as Jimmy asked, “We’ll see Daddy now?” I told him, “Pretty soon Jimmy.” Another C.O. gruffly told Eve, “Hey get back here.” She had walked past a desk containing an electronic device. I quietly told him, “Take it easy, she’s a nice kid.” His reaction faded to a more conciliatory tone as he asked the kids to hold out their palms. He placed a small pad on a stick and swabbed each of our hands, entering the swabs in a device which scans for drug residue. He then placed an invisible mark on our hands with a rubber stamp. We progressed to a booth with a small portal. A disembodied voice from within told us to place our hands under an ultraviolet lamp. After waiting for a C.O. to open another door, we crossed a courtyard bordered by a 30-foot-high fence topped with razor wire and approached a heavy steel door set in a windowless stone wall. A buzz sounded, indicating the door was unlocked.
Plastic chairs surrounded a play area in the large visiting room, with an overflowing toy chest capturing the kids’ attention. Jimmy grabbed a firetruck and, making siren noises, pushed it across the floor. The girls improvised a game, using various small toys from the chest, Eve, the shopkeeper and Jane negotiating prices. As we waited for their father to be brought from his cellblock, a TV crackled to life. An anthropomorphic teapot, candlestick, and cutlery sang, “Be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test…”
Through lightly falling snow we drove home after the visit. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Jane, eyes closed, mouth in a contented grin, rested her head on Eve’s shoulder. Eve held Kevin’s hand, his head on her shoulder as they napped.
Three Little Birds played softly as we headed to the foster home that day, a song I cannot help but associate with these remarkably resilient and courageous children. In the refrain, Bob Marley sings, “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, every little thing’s gonna be alright.”
Jane’s optimism was well-founded. The family would indeed be reunited within a year, just before the pandemic struck. We should all be guided by the hope these kids instinctively demonstrated.
