I first wrote about my stint as a social worker a few blogs back. Folks wanted more. Here's more.
After graduating from Morgan State College (now, University), I went to work for the Baltimore City Department of Public Welfare, Childrens Division, Emergency Care Squad. There were only five of us for the entire city. When a child was reported in difficult straits, abandoned, neglected, brutalized, or otherwise abused, one of us would be called to ensure the child's safety. Most of my clientele were Black, but two families come to mind who weren't: Miz Homewood's and the DeCosmo kids.
Miz Homewood was a thief with three sons. She'd been intimate with all three and taught them well. When she came into my life, her two oldest were serving prison terms for breaking and entering, and her youngest might as well have been. He was in reform school, now due for release, so, since he was still a minor, I went to the mother's apartment to do a quick home study. There was no place else for him to go except for foster care which, it turned out, was better than going back to mama or the street. But, this was an official visit and had to be done to keep things official.
Her apartment was the second floor of a small brick building that should have been boarded up, originally built to house slaves, a fact that caused her a fair amount of grief. She was immediately on me to find her some place else where "they ain't". "I don't want my boy raised like this," she told me, completely oblivious to the irony. As low as she was, she needed to know someone else was even lower. Lyndon Johnson once said, "If you can convince the lowest white man he's better than the best colored man, he won't notice you're picking his pocket. Hell, give him somebody to look down on, and he'll empty his pockets for you." Emptying pockets was Miz Homewood's specialty: yours, mine, hers...
Miz Homewood, native daughter of West Virginia or Tennessee or someplace like that, called herself a back porch Baptist because she loved the Lord but loved to sing and dance and sip her whiskey, too. "It don't hurt none to frolic." Wasn't gonna give neither up. She also had no teeth, not an incisor, not one molar, stumps maybe. I never wanted a closer look, and all she wore was a ratty, chenille bath robe. She assured me, "I'm gonna f*** you 'fore we're through." I assured her she wasn't, although I remember motoring down the hall to get away from her which wasn't easy given that back then suit, tie, and cordovan brogans were normal attire, even on the mean, hot, Summer streets of southwest Baltimore. Nothing Nike about it, but I did leave her cackling in my wake.
That's not the worst part. The worst part follows.
While her youngest was in reform school he left the care of his prized flock of homing pigeons to his mother. I didn't see any. Where were they? She beckoned me into the kitchen where she opened the oven door to reveal a number of baked birds, stomach side up, little claws reaching for the sky. She didn't say anything, but her gummy jaws moved back and forth. I'm sure I recommended foster care, although what ultimately happened to her son I can only guess, as is the case with all my clients. I wonder what happened to them? Did any of them escape? Did he? Have I passed him on the street and not known it?
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The DeCosmo kids (there were three of them - Karen, eight, the oldest, a younger sister and still younger brother) came into my care when child services was called to a rundown apartment where these three children seemed to be waiting patiently for someone to pick them up. They had been bathed and dressed well, their nicest clothes, hair fixed and combed, plus there was enough food to last them the day plus an extra large box of Rice Krispies, their favorite cereal. It was a Hail, Mary play by the parents who could not find work and had no money, so desperate and incapable they concocted this scheme to park the kids as safely as they could, report their whereabouts as abandoned children to the police (who would then call in child services), and drive off to find employment while living in their car. These were not ragamuffins but cared for little creatures who could no longer be cared for. I was an emergency care worker, and here they were. We were immediately drawn to each other.
Even after all these years I wonder at their comportment? All three remained calm and agreeable, and I could already see the oldest, consciously or not, assuming the role of Older Sister, fixing her little sister's dress, brushing back her baby brother's hair. What had their actual family life been like? All of them had reddish hair and freckles. They did not want to be separated, so I needed to find a home that would take all three, preferably on a continuing basis. I managed to find one, and, once they were officially in that home, my job was officially over. I'd provided emergency care, and others would take over from here. I was supposed to let go, but this is one of the few times I didn't. I wanted to be a staple for them as long as I could and so visited them periodically, stayed in their lives awhile. I don't remember how it came about but the three of them were transferred to a convent, so I no longer had access to them. Then the time came for me to move on.
Morgan State had been my saving grace. They accepted me provisionally when I'd run out of other options and my life had ground to a screeching halt. I'd failed so many times - high school as well as college - I had nowhere else to turn. But, Morgan was there. Morgan accepted me. I wrote my first play at Morgan. Morgan jump started my life. I graduated magna cum laude and was accepted to Yale for grad school. Yale? Me? That's right. Yale! Given my pathetic academic history, how could I turn Yale down? I couldn't. Being a social worker was and remains the best gig I've ever had. It was a tough choice, but I had to make it. I would need to say goodbye.
I thought of the DeCosmo kids, wondered, again, what would happen to them, wanted again to see them so literally went and knocked on that convent's formidable front door.
The door was so thick I marveled that the knock even went through when suddenly it flew open and there stood a force so potent it pushed me back. A nun in full regalia glaring at me as if I were sin incarnate or a turd on the hem of her habit. How dare I knock on this holy timber! Who are you? What do you want? What I wanted was to see the DeCosmo kids one more time, to thank them for the delight they brought into my life - Some day I will be a father - how they'd helped to soften my days with their smiles - And this is what that will be like.
Sister probably shouldn't have relented, but she did, and I spent the next hour chatting with the DeCosmo kids about this 'n' that. A sister may have overseen us, but I have no memory of that. There was still no word from the mom and dad, but those kids were quite resolute in believing their parents were coming back for them. Yes, the sisters were very nice, and there was plenty of food. They had Rice Krispies. You did have to chip in and help at table, though. This is school, too.
I heard from an ex co-worker a couple of months later that the parents had come back and collected them. Word was there were jobs and a home in a neighboring state. There was no word of charges brought.
Nearly sixty years have passed, and I still have their school size photos on my bulletin board.
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