LETTER FROM 18Y DAUGHTER

Letter from 18 year old daughter

Here are our 18-year-old daughter's thoughts regarding yesterday's meeting with our three CAS social workers. Her own words follow:

I (finally) met the social workers yesterday.  It was a meeting I dreaded. I had to leave school in the morning because I couldn't concentrate during my English class.  Everything in the room was blurry and looked like it was moving, and I couldn't see my teacher or the students who were presenting their essays clearly.  I felt like throwing up.  During my peer tutoring class I asked if I could sign out.  I have never signed out because I was feeling sick and have rarely missed school for that reason. I avoided going downstairs, but I knew eventually I would. I went into the closet in my new room and sat down to read.  I was already crying by then.  My dad's co-worker found me as my dad called me and I reluctantly followed them downstairs.  Two of the social workers met me and noticed my tears.  They asked me if I was upset because of the phone call from my little sister (!!!) or because they were there.  How was I supposed to answer?  First of all, I didn't know them, so what grounds did I have to answer?  Second of all, my whole family is suffering, and has been, for a prolonged period of time, and it's not the only time that people have been reduced to tears.  Generally I get along pretty well with people despite the fact that I am shy.  But by the time I was sitting in the new living room, I could feel myself giving them a cold stare when I wasn't crying and I was "talking to" them.  It was awful and I couldn't wait for them to leave.  The over-friendliness made me sick, not because it was friendliness but because it was superficial.  Afterwards I told my dad that I hated not being able to say "thank-you" to visitors.  My dad corrected my terminology by assuring me that they weren't visitors.  I then said they were "intruders".

These are the people who have legal charge over my little brothers and sisters, and who wrongly accuse my parents of not being able to take care of us properly, and who are keeping our family apart by twisting the truth.  Or representatives of that, anyway.

My dad wrote: >After all of the misery, God was truly gracious. Within minutes after the >social workers left, there was an incredibly beautiful sunset which caused our >18-year-old daughter to toss her deep sadness aside and leap with incredible >excitement as she announced it to us. In case we missed it, the lady from >work, who was now on her way home, called us from her car to tell us about it >too.

He also caused our friend Carmen to call us and ask if she could come over that evening, and I was excited because Carmen is a very encouraging and generally bubbly person, and I really like her.  She was a welcome visitor, the others weren't.  I wish I could welcome the others too, as friends, but how do you do that when they have a integral role in the separation of your family, and use great euphemisms to make vain accusations of your own parents under the pretense of wanting your family to be back together?

Basically, from what I can tell, they are saying that my parents have absolutely no idea how to do anything, and don't know how to raise us properly, and need to be trained how to take care of our house; and while I thought they were over with the accusations of abuse, they brought the accidents up yet again, and refused to acknowledge the truth about the cockroach situation.  And they think that they know how to fix everything when they have absolutely no idea what we've been through in the past or what caused our old house to deteriorate, yet they blame it on my parents' "incompetence".  I don't trust them.

I think I've lived with them for long enough to know that they know that they care about us, and are not perfect, just like us children are not perfect, and neither is any family on the face of the earth; but that indeed they do know how to care for us, and that they've already done more than enough to get the children back.

Consider this: my dad has put much thought into our new house, and gone to the details of the type of furniture and practically everything.  Let me explain.  (As if he didn't explain enough to the social worker.)  Our new house, first of all, is situated in a nicer location.  A much nicer neighborhood.  It is much closer to our church and our schools (or potential, HOPEFULLY,) schools.  I've already met one of our next door neighbours, and another one is hoping to meet us soon.  I can walk back home quite easily if I happen to go to school early on the wrong day (I thought I had band practice this morning.)  The bed rooms are all very nice with closets and space enough for more clothes than we will need.  We have three bathrooms and two baths, whereas before we had one shower/bath bathroom and another small washroom.  There is more space in our house, and there are no cockroaches from Cayman.  Our floors are much nicer and will be far easier to clean.  It is much better designed.  We don't have so many trees around our house that they will mess up the watering system.  And stricter rules such as the one about eating food only at the table were promised to be better enforced.  And we got rid of my family's precious dog, Job; my 11th birthday present.  It was hard to put him in that lady's van, I had to get in it to get him to go with her, friendly as she was; because Job knew he wasn't supposed to go in people's cars.  I felt as bad as a social worker should.  Yet the social worker says she sees no change that is adequate for the return of my little brothers and sisters (!)  As if my mother and father haven't poured their time, love, support, money, skills, into quickening their return because they care about them (!) (!) (!)  Man it is hard to listen to my mother crying because she misses them and to see my dad fight and defend not only himself and my mother but my brothers and sisters.  It's encouraging, in a greater way, because it shows even greater the depth of their care; but it's still hard.  The lady kept saying that she knew how we must feel and were hurting, and she would feel the same way if someone did that to her.  But I don't believe her.  How could she possibly know?  And in her position, how could she possibly be sympathetic? And how could she observe that the possibility of reporting someone for some minor fault did not sound like something someone of my dad's religious faith would do if that is all they need to act on something (i.e., anonymous reporting), IF she really respects the organization for which she works?

When they got up to leave, it was more of an "I don't want to pursue this further right now" than a "I was trying to work with you to help you out". The lady left her e-mail address for my dad, and her phone if I ever wanted to call her, she said.  Why would I want to talk to her?  Did she think that I would appreciate it, or that I would be able to give her more evidence not to appreciate my parents, or that she would be able to change my outlook on what has happened?  I don't want to risk having my own words twisted, or misunderstood, too.  I've been learning about euphemisms and other literary devices in my English and writer's craft classes.  I don't know if I intended "misunderstood" as a euphemism.