The Audition
By Sally's Mom
Sharing only degrees of awkwardness and nerves, the girls shifted around in their space, wary of their competition. Some of the old pros clutched pictures and artifacts of past successes. The new ones tended to pace, uneasy with such an unnatural process. Each minute felt like an hour as the girls waited to see if their type and style would win the day. Many knew each other well, intimate secret-sharing, bosom buddies. But an outsider would be hard-pressed to find the connections.
Priscilla stood off alone in the corner, not making eye contact with her friends. She had been successful in the past, but her long-legged blond beauty and intelligence probably wouldn't be enough to mediate her devious diva reputation. She feigned indifference, but felt extreme anxiety. She was getting too old, and her chances were dwindling.
She glanced at her newest best friend, Kyra, but looked away before they made eye contact. Kyra had entered the game late. She was almost as old as Priscilla, and her resume was much thinner. But so was her list of failures.
Little Jenny didn't know what to do or how to feel. Her mama had gotten her here, completely against Jenny's will or control. But she still had faith that mama would change her ways and Jenny could just stay home in peace your average kid.
All the girls looked around in hope and then irritation as the door banged open. It wasn't the woman they were waiting for; instead, it was HER. Even though she was no longer the youngest or cutest, Lula always scored big. Adorable, and look at all that beautiful curly hair, was often the reaction they overheard. Lula's secret, though, was she didn't play the game that's what appealed to the adults as they scanned rooms full of desperate, pleading eyes. Most of the other girls didn't get it, but they hated Lula all the same.
Finally, the woman arrived and the girls put on their game faces. The girls were called on to audition regularly especially around the holidays and they knew enough not to openly clamor for attention. Still, the woman felt the press of desperate need coming from them. Picking a child was impossible because that meant you weren't picking another child. It was Biblical, Old Testament in its harshness.
The woman was new to this, but she tried hard not to convey her unease. After all, she was the adult. It was her job to bridge the awkwardness and to facilitate instant bonds. It was easy with some. But then there were girls like the misnamed Smalley. Lumbering above and around her slender, coltish peers - twice their size, half their grace. The woman tried to ignore her instant feelings of revulsion. But the girl so obviously didn't fit; nobody would ever pick her sweating, gushing intensity.
One by one, the girls took their turns. Sometimes they would encroach on each other's time, only to be hissed and snapped at by the others. The woman tried to keep the peace, but her role and boundaries were confusing and unclear. Mostly, she allowed the professionals to corral the girls. Why be the bad guy? But this thought made her wonder why she was even there.
You see, this wasn't any old audition. While everyone has a sense of how harrowing an audition can be, the stakes in this particular instance were so much greater. I know because I was the woman, and the girls were "auditioning" to be my daughter.
I had always wanted to parent, yet I've never felt a strong need to actually birth a baby. The option I had settled on was foreign adoption, but it became clear that the cost and logistics were prohibitive at this point in my life. A friend suggested foster care. I completed the training over a six-month period. Then came the time to match me with a child. During the training, I had come to love many of the girls, but I knew I had to narrow down my choices. Some of it was easy. I was looking for a long-term situation, and I needed a child who was open-minded enough to create a family with two moms (I had gone from single to committed during the training; my partner would be part of our lives and was just starting her own foster parent training). This narrowed the field. But there were still too many girls, too many impossible choices for me to make. Every time I walked in the doors of the group homes, I would be mobbed. Some girls promised to be good. Others offered to do all the chores. A few demanded I take them.
The decision-making was torturous, but I knew I had to pick. I had thought I wanted an elementary aged girl, but those precious babies were not yet ready to reenter the world. This became clear after a few chaotic afternoons with them "on campus." Instead, it turned out that the teenagers tugged at my heart. Lost young ladies. I thought maybe I could help one or two find their ways to college and a happy life. But who to pick? How to choose one over the others? I had to decide.
My first choice was Lula, but the staff didn't think she was ready yet. She had been with them since she was seven, and they were intensely protective of and invested in her. Priscilla was my next inclination. She was so bright and shared many of my interests singing, reading, games. But the staff warned me that she was trouble, a long history of failed placements and accusations made after failed manipulations. Images that were hard to reconcile with the sweet teenager I had come to know. It became a moot point, however, because Priscilla decided she didn't want me as a parent because I am gay. It was a blow to my confidence, but I recovered and went back to the CHOOSING.
The agency wanted me to consider Alicia, and I did. She is a quirky young lady, brilliantly mentally ill due to a head injury caused when her step-father threw her across the sidewalk. I could love her, but I couldn't see parenting her. This made me feel bad. Guilty. I tried to talk myself into it, but I knew that it was the wrong match. Yet, I still feel bad. I can still see her face when I explained why I wouldn't be taking her home. She had claimed me, but I couldn't claim her.
Then there was Chloe. A seemingly perfect match. We began to move forward with the placement, and we were all happy. But the gay thing reared its head again. She was a country girl under the purview of a small town court. They pulled the placement, and our hearts hurt.
I tried again with Lula. I knew she was the one, and this time they agreed. But it was hard for them to let go, so the normal pre-placement visits extended over three months instead of the usual three weeks. Finally, however, I had picked right. She has no biological family involved she belonged to the state. Now she belongs to me, and I belong to her.
Later I went back and did it again. I was still drawn to Priscilla; I still thought it would work. Priscilla cares for me, but she just couldn't get over her religious taboos. Instead, I was steered to Kyra, and this time the professionals were right. Within weeks of us meeting, she was part of our family. It's not the same as with Lula. Kyra still has ties to the birth family that has done her wrong. But I love her no less and I will be there for her as long as she needs me.
So, how did I pick? Part of it was that neither of my girls participated in the "audition" it made it easier to get to know the real child. Part of it was serendipitous the right conversation at the right time with the right people. But the biggest part was, and still is, their resilience. My girls are fighters. Many of the girls in the system are "done" by the time they get into foster care, negative patterns so ingrained that their futures are already written. But my girls want more, they want to overcome, they feel love. And that makes it easy to "pick" them over and over again.
© Sally's mom. All rights reserved.
I wrote this story in June, before my darling's RADiness reared its ugly head (my dear child is so beautiful until she goes to "that place"). The conclusion might sound different now it's not so easy to "pick" her some days. But I still believe, I have to believe, that she will heal because at least half the time, she is that child of the honeymoon again. She wants to get better. I try to remember those times when she's raging or stealing food or brushing her teeth for 5 minutes after not brushing them for a week or telling yet another outrageous, crazy lie.
