Yesterday's Scrum

Scrum: (skr-um) n.:

A. A play in Rugby in which the two sets of forwards mass together around the ball and, with their heads down, struggle to gain possession of the ball.

B. A disordered or confused situation involving a number of people.

Yesterday I received something of a panicked called from our new social worker, Jonah. Yeppers, just like the prophet who was swallowed by a minnow or sardine or something! Now, panicked for Jonah, who has a heavy African (I’m not certain what country) accent goes something like this:

Jonah (deep, resonant, paced voice): I am very sorry to be troubling you like this Mr. McCandless.
Me: That’s alright. What can I do for you?
[pause]
Jonah: Well, you see, I’m in something of a predicament and I’m hoping you can help.
Me: Okey dokey, what can I do?
Jonah: Well, you see, the mother of Justice called and is now here and wants to see her.
Me: Alright.
[longer pause]
Me: What can I do for you?
Jonah: Well, you see, I need to know where Justice is right now.
Me: She’s at school.
Jonah: What time will she be getting home?
Me: I think she’s off school around 3, and my wife picks her up some time after that.
Jonah: Ahh, yes. Very good.
[even longer pause]
Me: What can I do for you?
Jonah: Well, you see, the mother of Justice called and is now here and wants to see her.
[still longer pause]
Me: Alright. What can I do for you?

It’s not that Jonah is dense. At least, I don’t think he’s dense. It’s hard to say with the Department of Child Support Services. Our last social worker was an interesting piece of work. I’m sure her heart was in the right place, at least I hope it is and is now causing her to choke slowly and painfully to death. I’m sure that he’s read the file and I’m sure that our last social worker noted that we were “difficult” and that I, in particular, was “inflammatory” and “angry with such intensity that it would cool the fire of a thousand suns.”

I might be exaggerating a little.

But not Jonah. He’s a very calm, quick to respond, and clearly dedicated gentleman. He also makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look small and powerless by comparison. Not the current version of the Govenator either, but the early, young, vibrant Arnold that played in Conan the Barbarian:

Mongolian Type Warlord: Jonah, what is best in life?
Jonah: To crush your enemies, see them driven before you and hear the lamentations of their women.

So I’m pretty certain that Jonah doesn’t often worry about Thulsa Doom-type foster parents aggravating him.

The doubled-edged broadsword he carries on his back also seemed to make that rather clear.

No, I think that Jonah just likes to move at a particular pace all his own, and let those he’s speaking to feel smarter than him by arriving at the conclusion that he is patiently driving towards.

So, Justice’s mother, Carmen, had come into town from Las Vegas for her monthly visit; the same monthly visit that she hasn’t been to since . . . well, since before Lil and I took Justice into our home back in September. Carmen has had her rights to Justice’s three little brothers severed by the state so that adoption can move forward under Rosaleen. But since Justice’s biological father (not the boys’ father), Reggie has shown up, the case has been broken into two until Reggie’s petition for custody of Justice can be determined.

The next court date is set for July 6th.

This means that Carmen still has the right to request to see her daughter.

That’s not something we want to deny her for all manner of reasons, but for the most important reason of all, Justice. Jonah patiently explained to me that this is likely the last time that Justice will be able to see her mother for many years. The next court date should determine custody of Justice and the next steps for her. That will either be adoption by us, or placement with her biological father.

So we madly dashed, scummed, juked, jivved and made all the arrangements yesterday to make certain that Carmen, who in my estimation hasn’t done a whole helluva lot that’s in the best interests of Justice, could see her daughter one more time; promise that she was doing everything necessary to get Justice back one more time, and generally break a little girl’s heart one more time.

What Justice Likes

Lillian told me this morning that she’s had a conversation with Justice that went like this:

Lil: You should talk to Rob about the miscommunication that happened yesterday.
Justice: Ok, but I really don’t want to.
Lil: Why’s that.
Justice: I don’t want to tell you because Rob will get mad.

[insert much haggling and discussion over why talking things out is more important than keeping them secret and allowing them to fester until some one blows their stack and drives a Chevy through the front door, killing the family goldfish]

Justice: I like you better when I’m in trouble with Rob.
Lil [ponders this for a moment]: Justice, do you like Rob better when you’re in trouble with me?
Justice: Yes.
Lil: Imagine that.

Yeppers, that’s our little Justice. She’s a wiz-bang psycho-analyst who has figured out that when you get in trouble with someone, you tend to not be all that favorably pleased with them.

Especially when they can send you to time out.

Must . . . Not . . . Laugh . . .

But I'm failing miserably.

So Justice is dealing with the fact that she may have a father she's never met before pretty well these last couple of days. She's actually said she would like to meet him, and that's a big step. But the best part is this:

At her day care, she told Ms. Sonja, the supervisor, "My dad is black!"

She said it as if it was some huge revelation, like, "These are some good cheese-fries!" or "You just missed Jesus Christ!"

And like the dentist on Seinfeld who apparently became Jewish for the jokes, Justice has taken the revelation that she's Black to such heart that she is now adopting lingo and mannerisms consistent with some impressive stereotypes.

For example, the other day when I asked Justice if she'd done her homework, she turned to me, put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and said, "Nuh-uh, white-boy! You did not just ax me dat. It's not 'nuff dat I'm black and being raised by Da' Man, now you gots ta go ax me dat? What-ev-ah!"

She also snapped her fingers in Z-formation.

It may have been the Around-The-World-And-Back-Snap, but I'm not gay, so I don't really know.

I figured why not jump on the stereotyping bandwagon with Justice and see where the ride carries us. You mileage may vary.

Not the People's Court

With Justice, I've now been to what is called "Family Court" three times. Lil has been twice. Justice has been about five-thousand times.

At least, that's judging by the hash-marks she keeps on her bedroom wall under a sign that reads, "Number of Times I've Been to Court".

I could easily be exagerating, as Justice's adeptness with Roman numerals is questionable.

Yesterday, though, we added another hash mark to Justice's board, and as always, it's a stressful time. She feigned apathy about it, but her outbursts for the day previous and the rest of the day were as telling as a neon "kick me, I'm in foster care" sign. As I told her, "I was scared. There were lawyers there and a judge saying a lot of things that I didn't understand. There were baliff's there who looked nothing like Richard Moll, and seemed impressively capable of using the weapons at their sides, and then there was a judge who appeared to have the capacity to eat radioactive waste as a sampler plate."

This particular court date had the wonderfully added stress of the fact that Justice's potential biological father was present with his family. I say potential because paternity has not been established yet. However, among a myriad of other logical evidence, he was paying child support for Justice. Granted, Justice doesn't even know the man, and up until last year, had considered herself "white" with a "good tan".

Yeah, George Hamilton wishes he could get that good of a tan.

Convincing Justice that she is actually half black, and it shows, has been something of an ongoing chore, but one that we've readily pursued. She cannot pass for anything other than black and really shouldn't have or want to. Since almost everyone Justice has ever known of as family has been white, the trick has been to give her roll models that actually look like her. And let me tell you, if you measure racial beauty by this child, then racism would be a thing of the past. The mix of white, black and hispanic has yeilded a very smart, very cunning and very beautiful child.

The best of all things from all races is proof that God loves wonderous variety.

Still, at the end of the day, she's 9 years-old, and she doesn't even remotely understand what's going on with her world. I'm 32 and there are whole stretches that I don't understand. It's asking a lot to grasp that the man you knew and have been calling "dad" isn't, and a total stranger is who doesn't even remotely fit your world view of "dad" is. It's asking even more for her to meet and accept this man, especially when she has found relative peace and stability with perfect strangers. She, wisely or not, refused to meet him, and at this point, is under no obligation to do so.

If paternity is established, that will change.

She has a very real and not unreasonable fear that she may have to pull up stakes and go live with this entirely new family.

This is also the same fear that Lil and I have.

Fear, because as much as Justice has stressed, fought, annoyed and tormented us, she's also taught us how to be patient, kind, giving and grasp that the fundamental job of a parent, beyond loving and caring for a child, is to pass on knowledge and experience, to help them over the big and little bumps of life, to let them burn themselves on the stovetops of life, but not too badly and always give them hugs and kisses until the tears are gone and the smiles return.

This is also the same hope that Lil and I have.

Hope because Justice's father has stepped up to the plate and wants to take ownership for his actions. Because he came calling to the court when he finally got the news and brought a good portion of his family with him, mother, brother, fiancee yesterday. And also because as much as Justice has taught us, every man and woman, if found capable, should be given the opportunity to raise and share in the joy that is their child, their responsibility. In the case of Justice and Reggie, the rare decision that a parent is worthy of a beautiful and smart child filled with potential to become anything, will be placed with a body that has as its credo the best intentions of the child.

This is a very scary time for all of us. For Lil and I more so than Justice, who is by design and fortune, largely insulted from all of these concerns. For the five of you who regularly read this blog (and just why aren't you commenting on this award-winning articles?) I would ask that you pray, not for us, but for Justice. Pray for both the child and the concept. It is not so important that she do that with us or with Reggie, but that she be given the best chance at a full and rewarding life.

Snips and Snails

"You may be many things, Mr. McCandless," one of the ladies at church told me, "But you have never been a little girl."

My first, second and third reactions were to congratulate her on the assute powers of observation and deductive reasoning. They certainly pale in comparison to my own. I still don't know if Pat is male or female.

I felt like I was at the House Committee on Un-American Activities*:

McCarthy: Are you, ah, now or have you ever been a little girl?

Me: Senator, I have no knowledge of those activities, nor would I be disposed to discuss such activities if they did in fact exist. However, for my part, I can say that I do not now, nor have I ever endorsed myself as a little girl.

This was never proved more fully than this weekend when, while enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon at the house, my harmonious interests were greatly disturbed by Justice and her friend Genna (BFF for those at home wondering). Hoots, screams, laughter of a high and shrill nature such that my entire skeletal system calcified were to be heard for an 8-mile radius. There was much changing of clothing, playing the bathroom, combing, brushing, and more giggling.

I attempted to innebriate myself, as the only defense for two 9 year-olds is several quick shots of whiskey. Not the good stuff either, mind you, but the stuff that is at least 80% wood alcohol and can cause blindness. This is an added benefit, since I was inundated with requests to, "Look how Genna did my hair!" and "Do you like the way Justice is wearing her beautiful dress? Isn't she pretty?"

I'm sorry, but 9 year-olds are cute, in some cases darling, but never, ever pretty. Pretty and beautiful require age and grace that running around with skinned knees and whining because you can't have ice-cream for dinner just doesn't include. There's also a certain ugliness that goes with tantrum-throwing that I've yet to find pretty no matter who is doing the screaming, yelling, slamming doors, and crying loud enough for the entire neighborhood to think, "Dear God, they're killing her. They're actually killing her!" since those sounds are only heard outside Turkish prisons and Keanu Reeves movies.

Now, I know that I was loud, obnoxious and generally made a nuisance of myself, but it was the rare time when I went to my parents and said, "See how Jase did my hair?" If I did, it was because Jase had shaved one side, and we'd spiked the other side to the point that it now had a fine edge and could be used to ram Spanish frigates.

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and everything loud, annoying and related to a hair-care product.

*For the record, I'm aware that Senator Joseph McCarthy was a member of the Senate and not the House, and that his efforts were not tied to those of the HCUA. It just read better that way, ok? Sheesh.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Before I start ranting and ravving, as it my wont, let me make one point crystal clear:

Justice is nine years old.

Nine years old.

Nine years.

Ok, we can move on now. This morning, while going through my morning ritual of shaving, showering and preparing a teaspoon of heroine over an open flame, Lil came into our communal bathroom, exasperated. This being 6:30 in the morning, I was suprised to see her so animated. She quickly gathered up her curling iron, buried a dagger in my chest with a peice of paper attached that read in a flowing, pirate-y script, "It Be Your Fault!" and burst back out of the bathroom door saying, "I have no patience with Justice this morning."

This really shouldn't come as a surprise. Justice, like me, is something of a morning person. True, if we have to wake her up, then she's more of a college-senior-who-partied-all-night-and-part-of-every-day person until she gets her feet on the ground. But in the main, she's far, far too chipper for Lil whose slumber is akin to a hibernating bear: don't wake her unless you like breathing and eating through a tube.

I find the the tube gives food a slightly plastic taste.

Still, we chipper morning people are hard to be around by the coffee swilling masses, and the coffee-denying-masses-who-should-drink-coffee-but-don't. So the fact that Lil was out of patience with Justice only ten minutes after the two of them were ambulatory is really no shock. What was interesting (though not shocking) was the why.

"Justice wanted to curl her hair," Lil told me.

"Ummm, she does know her hair is crazy-curly already, right?" I replied.

"Yes, and I'm tired of telling her, so I gave her the curling iron and hopefully she'll just learn it doesn't work."

At this point, what I like to call my "Duh Factor" kicked in.

"BUT SHE'S NINE," I implored to my wife and any low-flying gods that might be in the area.

"Duh," Lil retorted.

See how it works?

You see, even for a young girl of nine, the self-proclaimed QUEEN OF HANDBALL, TETHERBALL AND SWING DODGING, Justice is incredibly vain about her appearance. She's been on us almost from day one to buy her make-up, something Lil and I are vehemently against for someone who most days has more grass stains on her knees than the entire U.S. Women's Soccer team. Last night, I found four used fake fingernails in her pencil box that she said, "A friend gave to me." She treats chapstick like lipstick, and asked me at dinner, "Does it look like I have make-up on?" as she played with her upper eyelid.

It's not that I'm opposed to make-up, or taking care of your hair. Lord knows, I have great hair and so I understand the burden of responsibility that goes along with that. It's a heavy load, but for those with comb-overs, tupees, thinning, balding or bald afflications, you understand the gravitas of having good hair. Certainly, if you had good hair, you would treat it with the respect it deserves. I will not fail you.

So, after having shot up and showered, I trundled out to see Justice preening in front of her mirror in the second bathroom. I bypassed her altogether, and went into her room, which was, as I had suspected, a disaster. With an inward smirk, I gallumphed back to the doorway of the bathroom.

"Is it working?" I asked her.

"A little bit," she replied, which in Justice-speak means 'no'.

"Have we talked about you and your hair before?"

"Yes," she says, ready to go into mope-and-whine mode.

"And what did we say?"

"I needed to get my other stuff done first."

"What about your room?"

Justice pauses, and literally, a tear comes into her eye. No, I'm serious. I can make a nine year-old cry at the drop of a hat. Yes, yes, this is the level of power that I command.

You may feel free to swoon.

Actually, Justice is a Master Thespian. She can cry and even throw up with such precision as to make a fashion model turn chartruese with envy. Crying is especially effective with new people who have often shot Lil and I the, "What kind of a monster forces such an innocent and sweet child to read? Have you no shame!?!" The throwing up worked until Lil shut that down over a perfectly good bologna sandwich. It wasn't the sandwich Justice's select palette opposed, but rather the wheat bread it was fixed with.

Wheat bread.

As opposed to white bread.

Oh, the horror.

Being immune to this, and many other of Justice's Tricks-To-Get-What-I-Want, I simply tell her that she needs to pick up and straighten her room before she can curl her hair. But knowing that this fight will continue if there isn't an added threat, I state:

"If we have to fight over this again," and here I pause for dramatic effect, "We'll go to the Great Clips and have it cut off so you don't have to worry about it."

Independence from Fireworks

While driving to church Sunday (as opposed to the other days we drive to church), Lil asked me if I had ever considered living in another country. Justice piped up, as she is wont to do, and said, "Like Idaho?"

"Justice, what country do we live in?"

"California."

"No, what country?"

"Riverside."

I chuckled a little. Ahhh, the innocence of youth.

"On July 4th, what do we celebrate?"

"Independence."

"Independece from whom?"

"Fireworks."

"We celebrate independence from fireworks?"

"Oh, no. God."

"We celebrate independence from God?"

"Yes."

At this point, Lil jumped in.

"Justice, how many states are there?"

"I don't know."

I start to sing, "Mmphty, nifty United States, from the Thirteen original colonies. Shout 'em. Scout 'em. Tell all about 'em. One by one, till we've given a name . . ."

"Ohhh," Justice replied. "Fifty states!"

"Good," I say, taking hope again in the youth of our nation and the education system that attempts to create clones from children regardless of their needs or their abilities. "Now, who did the Thirteen Original Colonies belong to?"

"God."

"Ok, but more specifically, what country claimed them?"

"I don't know."

"When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people . . ." I begin.

"She won't know that."

"Why not?" I ask, baffled. I've been able to rattle off most of the Preamble for the better part of two decades.

"Oh, I know," Justice says triumphanty. "The United States!"

The History of Justice

Justice isn't just a clever term that lawyers like to bandy about, and sculpters like to craft handling a sword, a set of scales and being blind-folded. In general, a woman trying to measure things and swinging a sword with a scarf around her eyes seems like a bad idea to me. Maybe there's some kind of symbolism that I'm missing. I doubt it.

But the point is, that Lillian (my wife, who I might call Lil, Beautiful, or The-Ultimate-Woman) and I have our own Justice.

Justice Nicole Diggs.

Born September 16, 1996, this little 9 year-old girl is really something. She's half Black and half Caucasion, which resulted in a lovely skin tone and curly hair that most women would kill for.

Lil and I have known Justice now for nearly two years. Lil worked with Justice's granny, Rosaleen, in the biochemistry labs of UCR. Rosaleen had taken in Justice and her three half-brothers (Chris - 4, Jeff - 3, Nathan - 2). Begining in December of 2004, we started taking Justice to church with us. About six months later, it was clear that Justice would need a more permanant place. Rosaleen just couldn't handle a 9 year-old and three little boys at the same time. The needs were different, and Justice required more direct attention than Rosaleen could provide. Two completely inexperienced and overly selfish people seemed to fit the the right bill.

Ok, fine. I'm not selfish at all. But that Lillian . . .

At this point, Lil and I began to attempt to take Foster Parent classes from Riverside County, and to get "Lifescanned". Apparently, it's easier to become the head the of the CIA than it is to become a foster parent. We attended the intial, and mandatory, orientation class, which boiled down to: here are your eighteen thousand forms, please fill them out; oh, and don't torture the children, thanks!

Then we waited.

And waited . . . and waited.

It felt like we would never get out of Casablanca.

In the interim, Rosaleen tore through two new social workers. The children had various court hearings, and so forth. Finally, Rosaleen got a new Social Worker who had apparently been in the system for some time, and legitimately cared about the welfare of the children and making everying run smoothly. She determined that Lil and I were actually friends' of the family, which allowed us to take in Justice without going through the 16 weeks of foster parent classes that are normally required.

By this point, Lil and I had sold our condo and had purchased our 1922 clapboard house. It had a front and backyard, cost more than the national debt, and had interesting little problems that made living there an adventure all its own. Like the airconditioner popping the breaker whenever you run it and the microwave at the same time.

This means you can't have hot chocolate in July.

Or you can, but it becomes really, really silly without the A/C.

But I digress.

Justice moved in with us at the end of August of 2005. It was an immediately and unprecedented adjustment period that, according the experts, will end when Justice turns 18 and goes to college. At that point, we'll all be so used to living under the same roof that seperation anxiety will occur, insuring that psychologist everywhere can worry less about their trips to Barbados and Cancun.

A national concern we feel strongly about solving.

And thus begins the history of the us. This is the way we were, the way we lived, and the roles we took to try to make one little girl's life that much better . . . even if it drove us to drinking, insanity and voting Republican.

An Apology of the Humblest Sort

Thomas Paine wrote, "These are the times that try mens' souls."

Clearly, he had peaked into my personal future, and was writing not of Colonial America about to embark upon the greatest socio-political-cultural experiment of all time, but rather specifically of me, my wife Lillian and our foster-child-soon-to-be-adopted-daughter Justice Nicole.

As with petitions, I'm not a big fan of the true blog.

They generally encourage the banal and the pedantic, the arm-chair philosophers, and the desk-bound politicos, the God-fearing fire-hell-and-damnation religious right to state their views on the well-being, or lack thereof, of what they see as the most important aspects of life.

Specifically, their life.

That's not something I'm highly encouraged to add to, or to become a part of.

I believe that while my life may generally be all kinds of exciting and action packed to me (yes, riding a train for 3 1/2 hours every day is amazing), it probably isn't to the 6 billion people currently living on the planet, or the 3 billion Chinese who are currently blogging their little hearts out.

So I set forth pen to paper with a few caveats.

(Yes, I know it's keystrokes to monitor. I'm waxing poetic. Work with me, people.)

Caveat:
a. A warning or caution: “A final caveat: Most experts feel that clients get unsatisfactory results when they don't specify clearly what they want” (Savvy).
b. A qualification or explanation.
c. A way to cover one's ass without using one's hands.

Caveats regarding this blog:

1. This is a blog. This will not be the funny, quirky, humerously toned articles that you are used to seeing from me. If you want those you can go to Accelerated Culture, or to A Goose Egg.
2. This is a blog that is only intended for viewing by family and friends. It's simply the easiest way to give updates on the McCandli adventures into foster-care, adoption and general child-rearing.
3. Opinions are like tailpipes. We've all heard them, and they all stink. Some may stink less than others, and will be weighted accordingly.
4. No matter how exciting an event or a statement may be, I will never use more than two exclamation points. Winston Churchill put it best, "Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never . . . Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the multiple exclamation point in your personal blog."

Hey, he said it. It's on a blog, so it must be true.