Read an Excerpt
Airdrie's Boys
Fostering as a Family Form
By Airdrie Thompson-Guppy
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Airdrie Thompson-Guppy
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3048-1
Chapter One
The Group Home 1963–64
In 1963 my first husband, Evan, and I moved to Waterloo, Ontario, with our one-year-old daughter, Trisha. We had just come through a very traumatic year, but Waterloo seemed to be a delightful little city, and we settled in nicely. My days were tedious—I spent most of them alone with Trisha, as Evan worked very long hours. We were in an apartment building in a newly developed area on the edge of town, but because everyone was new, it was fun meeting and talking to our neighbours. I remember watching TV with disbelief when President John Kennedy was assassinated; although they were troubling times, we seemed safe and far removed from it all in Waterloo.
When I agreed to provide day care to three other children in our building, my days became busier and full of fun. I felt as if I were running my own little school. We had outdoor play, when I would walk the children across the street to see the cows in the fields. Indoor play was crayoning and whatever else four children under the age of three could manage. There was TV time, rest time, snack time—we did it all. But 15 dollars per extra child per week (one was already mine) did not work out to much additional income. So at the end of the year, when two of the children moved away, I decided I had to get a job outside the home.
Because I had been a social worker in both Montreal and Toronto, I felt I would have no difficulty getting a job. In Montreal I had worked with foster families, helping them deal with the many challenges that confronted them. I was 21 at the time, and I wonder now how those foster mothers really felt about my visits. But they seemed to like me, and I was by nature very supportive of their efforts, having come from a nontraditional family. I was the eldest of five children—the three youngest a set of triplets who were adopted at the age of 22 months. So I already understood something about integrating children into an established family and recognizing their normal but special needs, and I knew the hard work that was involved.
In 1961 I worked in what was then called the "Unwed Mothers Department" in Toronto. I loved my job counselling the young women, discussing their circumstances and helping them sort out what they wanted to do. Most were on their own; many had not even confided in their families. Out of my caseload of 30 young women, it was considered permissible if one decided to keep her baby. Twice in that year I was sharply chastised by my matronly supervisor—each time because I had two mothers keeping their babies. Really, I mustn't have been doing my work properly, and even worse, I was skewing the statistics! I worked for a few more months and then discreetly resigned.
Three years later, armed with my own beliefs about recognizing clients' needs, I applied to the Waterloo Children's Aid Society. I assumed that like most social agencies, the CAS always needed staff. With a résumé that included a bachelor's degree in psychology, two summers in Montreal working with foster parents and then my year working at the Toronto CAS with unwed mothers, I felt certain the Kitchener-Waterloo CAS would be impressed with my experience.
I arrived at my appointment with the director feeling confident. He scanned my résumé, and then, without commenting on my experience, looked directly at me and remarked that I had a daughter who was nearly two—and I should go home and look after her. I was shocked; it was clear to me that there was to be no further discussion.
Trisha was bright, and she was used to being with other children; surely she would fit into a day care setting. But the thinking of the day, at least in Waterloo, was that young mothers should not work outside the home. That mentality did not fit my cosmopolitan view, but it certainly took the wind out of my sails. It did not occur to me to apply anywhere else.
Looking back now, I realize that the societal norms regarding working moms were still in transition, and the little city of Waterloo was not keeping pace with the Montreal girl who thought that mothers should do whatever was necessary and that they could cover all the bases.
But the CAS kept my résumé and apparently took note of my work history. A month or so after my meeting with the director, I received a call from Mrs. Simon, a CAS staff member. She wanted to visit me to discuss a new project the agency hoped to undertake. I told her that would be fine. I had no idea what the project was about.
Mrs. Simon arrived accompanied by another staff member. Both were very pleasant and interested in my family. They noted my experience, particularly with foster parents, and they proceeded to explain the concept of a group home—like a foster home, but taking more than one child at a time. The group home the CAS envisioned would be for boys between the ages of 13 and 16 who had experienced significant difficulty in their own homes or in the community.
The project was to be funded by monies that had been used to support an orphanage in Kitchener-Waterloo called Willow Hall. Many traditional orphanages were being closed by the province because there were fewer orphans, and those children who did require care were being integrated into foster homes. So funding for the orphanage was made available to CAS to use for ongoing work with children.
It's apparent to me in hindsight that the exact plan was not clear, but the CAS felt it would develop along the way. This new program was to be a resource for adolescent boys who were in significant trouble but who did not belong in an adult institution. The number of boys involved was undetermined; it was possible that some would come through the court system. And although the boys would be required to attend school, there was no plan in place for their daily care or for therapeutic services.
As our discussion unfolded, the younger of the two women tried to explain that the group home would be like a foster home but on a larger scale. Her pretty face darkened as she explained that these would be the most serious cases—the CAS was trying to keep the boys out of training school or jail. The older woman nodded in agreement, and while she looked concerned for me, she also seemed to be acknowledging what I may be able to do; after all, I did have experience working with children. She would turn out to be a strong support for me through all the adventures of that year.
When they asked if I would take on the project, I was shocked by their proposal. Yes, I had a little day care project, but that was with preschoolers. And yes, I had dealt with families, but that was as a social worker, working out of an office. I was a serious professional. I did not take children into my home full-time, particularly when they were half-grown and in a lot of trouble. No, no—I could not do that job. No! And so they left. I did not give it another thought.
But a month later I received another call from Mrs. Simon, asking if we could meet again to follow up. I agreed, and this time the women described how Evan and I could pick out a house that would accommodate our family of three plus four foster children. They would pay the rent, buy our appliances and furnish the bedrooms. They would also, of course, supply the foster children. The plan became more interesting, but I was still overwhelmed.
"No, I don't think so," I said quietly. I did give it some thought, though. And free rent—what a disgraceful point to consider, under these serious circumstances—would really help us! It was a long, hard decision, but finally Evan and I came to the conclusion that we would give it an honest try. Evan had a secure and interesting job, and this new plan would enable me to continue taking care of Trisha at home. The three of us were in good health and spirits, and hopefully we had something to offer. That was in October 1964. I was 24 years old.
I don't think I signed a formal contract, but whatever the terms were, I essentially had carte blanche to do whatever I considered helpful and right in caring for the boys. There was no discussion about any issues or problems the boys might have or how I might (or must not) address them. There was no training for foster parents in those days, and the CAS did not seem to have a model from any other group home in the province. There was no discussion about accountability of any kind, and there was no thought about safety measures on the part of CAS—or on our part, either. Evan and I were given no direction about choosing a location or how our neighbours might react to our presence. It was just a pilot project that would unfold in its own way.
But as we discussed it further, the whole idea became more exciting and challenging to Evan and me. It would be my job, mainly, as he was very busy with his work, but he was supportive and planned to be involved whenever he could be. And in fact, he got to work right away, making two sets of bunk beds for the boys' rooms. We also bought a small bureau for each boy. As a social worker in Montreal, I had seen situations where children had their own beds to sleep in but only an orange crate to hold their belongings.
Jane, one of the CAS representatives, took me shopping one afternoon, and for $475 I was able to pick out a beautiful stove, a large fridge and a matching washer and dryer. Oh my gosh, I was so happy! We moved into a split-level, four-bedroom home, where most of our own furniture fit in nicely. It seemed to be a quiet neighbourhood, and apparently the CAS hadn't told the neighbours anything about us. As a young couple with a darling little girl, we were easily accepted. During the weekdays, the boys were at school most of the time, and on weekends we often went out and did things together.
Over the course of the next year, we would have five boys in our care, staying for various amounts of time and for various reasons.
Chapter Two
Lefty December 1963–July 1964
We had been in the house for only two weeks when the first boy, Lefty, arrived. All I was told was that he had a problem with his father.
Lefty was 15, the second of four children, and despite his bad home life, he had a friendly, relaxed manner. He was of average height, with straight brown hair brushed to the side. He smoked and had very bad teeth, but you were distracted from that by his sparkling eyes and easy smile.
Lefty's father was in the armed forces, and his family was living in Africa when he was born. His father was away at the time; his mother delivered him on the living room floor, which she had spread with newspaper. Perhaps as a result, Lefty's father didn't bond with him and, in fact, questioned whether Lefty was indeed his child. I believe this strengthened the bond between mother and son, particularly as the years went by.
There was continual conflict—verbal and physical—between Lefty's parents, and because he felt some responsibility and wanted to protect his mother, Lefty often would act out to redirect his father's anger toward himself. As a result, Lefty's father would punish him severely, sometimes in extreme ways. At one stage he chained Lefty to the swing set outside so that everyone could see him. This experience had a profound effect on Lefty, and he was only able to resolve his anger and find some peace years later, when I took him to visit his father's grave. There he had a long talk with his father, who he felt could now understand and accept him.
Because of the ongoing conflict, Lefty's father wanted him out of the house, and so he was taken to the CAS. Viewing him as an outof-control child, the agency placed him with us. However, he adjusted easily to our family and was particularly taken with our two-year-old daughter, Trisha. He was protective of her and played very carefully with her, saying she was like a little sister to him. Lefty was able to continue going to his same school with his friends. Our home was only a few blocks from that of his parents—a fact that Lefty considered weird—but somehow that proximity was not taken into account at the time of his placement. In fact, his mother came to visit on occasion, and she seemed reassured that he had settled into our home and that we were quite happy to have him. His father, on the other hand, never came by or called. Lefty later told me how guilty he felt at the time, not being at home to protect his mom. On the other hand, his new, peaceful environment gave him some comfort.
There were other interesting challenges with Lefty. Although I was just 24 and he was 15, he decided he would call me Mom because he could not pronounce my name. So when we went to the store to buy clothes—I had a CAS charge card for these excursions—Lefty would go to the opposite end of the store and call out, "Mom!" Of course, people would stare at this young-looking woman with a young child, and then at Lefty, who was so much older. He loved it! Then we would go to the counter to pay. Inevitably, the girl at the checkout would look at my card and then call (it sounded like hollering to me), "I have a CAS card here—I need help!"
Then there was the morning when I stripped the sheets off Lefty's bed and, in doing so, moved the mattress slightly. There, poking out from under the mattress, was some kind of magazine I had never seen before. I pulled it out and ... Oh my God, what is this? There were photos of scantily clad girls in various poses and doing various activities that I had never even imagined—probably because of my own strict and rigid upbringing. But that did not hinder my curiosity. I set down my cleaning supplies, sat down on the edge of Lefty's bed and about two hours later finally went back to work. Whew! What an education. I made the bed and tucked the magazine under the mattress, where it belonged.
Lefty mixed well with the other boys who came to live with us during his stay. In the summer of 1964, he was nearly 16—the upper limit for CAS care—so it was decided that he would return home. I believe that since there had been no particular incidents of concern, the agency thought it was safe for him to move back. There was little discussion about it, but his mother was very pleased. His father seemed to have a change of heart and offered Lefty a car if he would behave. That was the drawing card, and Lefty departed, happily believing his life would continue as it had been at our home. Unfortunately, there had been no discussion of or preparation for his transition on the family's end. Because his family continued to function as it always had, Lefty quickly slid back into his old role.
By then, Lefty was too old to return to care at CAS, but he left home anyway. He dropped out of school and drifted around, sometimes staying with his friend Ed. He showed up regularly at our place, particularly at suppertime, but he also enjoyed seeing the other boys because they were his old family. On occasion he would even stay overnight, but I could never get him to take a bath!
Eventually Lefty got a job at a local gas station, where he became well respected and quickly learned the trade. He managed to save some money to buy an old car of his own, and that made all the difference in the world to him.
Of course, there was never enough money. So he made friends with those who could help him get more—the wrong more—and soon he was drinking, drugging and selling. Lefty understood that he could not bring this behaviour to our door. When he came to visit, he was sober, and he seemed to want to continue to see the other boys and be the big brother in the family. Continuing these contacts was still important to him. To my knowledge, he did not share his vices with the younger boys.
Around 1967, three years after our group fostering project was finished, Lefty finally went to jail for his activities, and he called me and asked me to visit him. I asked a friend to go with me because I had never been to a jail before, much less visited someone I knew there. It was a bit traumatic for me, but Lefty seemed fine and seemed to consider the experience as just a brief chapter in his life. I tried not to think about it.
In 1968, when Lefty was 20, he met a girl named Sally, and their relationship really redirected him in a positive fashion. They were two lost souls with significant family issues, and they thrived together, bringing out the very best in each other. Life was good—they were both happy and working.
One day Lefty came to me, very excited. He had put some money down on a beautiful little watch on a gold chain. Sally would love it, he said, and he was going to work hard to pay it off before he gave it to her. When that day finally came, he brought the watch over to the house to show me. It was lovely, and I shared his joy. But then I saw that there was not just one watch, but two: one for Sally, and one for me. There are no words, even now, to describe how I felt. Should I accept it? There were so many questions whirling around in my head. But of course I did. After all, I was Lefty's mom.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Airdrie's Boys by Airdrie Thompson-Guppy Copyright © 2012 by Airdrie Thompson-Guppy. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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