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The Father Did Not Appear By: Jeff Moore on 12/7/2002; 12:41 AM I sat in the juvenile courtroom, observing the docket slowly being whittled down. Cases came and went. Mothers, fathers, and teens filed through the room, towed along by their lawyers. Caseworkers, courtroom staff, police officers, and childrens advocates joined the procession. They all paused before the judge long enough for their stories to be reviewed. A couple of teens were being arraigned on assault charges. The rest of the cases dealt with parents. Most were reviewing progress toward either return of their children to them, or permanent removal of their parental rights. If anything was deemed in need of a court order, the order was made by the judge. Then each set of players moved from the stage, making way for the next story to be heard. I noticed some striking contrasts between similar characters in the different scenes. In one case, a mother acted as though all the recent events in her life had been orchestrated just to inconvenience her. This apparent attitude remained even after the judges warning that she was this close to losing her parental rights over her children. The things she needed to do, like showing up for counseling, and giving urine samples on schedule, seemed a simple thing for her to accomplish, especially with her children hanging in the balance. She simply didnt seem to have the desire to comply. In the next case, a young mother, doubtfully 18 years old, had recently given birth to a baby after having used methamphetamine during the pregnancy. The baby was diagnosed as drug affected, and taken in to the states custody. She seemed to be so wanting of the return of her child, and so remorseful. She looked distraught and terrified, as though she sensed the specter of her addiction laughing over her, mocking her powerlessness over it, even to the loss of her baby. Still, she said she was willing to try anything to turn her life around and be reunited with her child. I hope she makes it. This was how I spent my morning; watching this parade of humanity pass by me. For the most part, I kept my distance from the reality of it. I viewed it as I might a television show. Perhaps having watched so much TV over the years gave me this ability for separation. I didnt have to feel sympathy or sadness, compassion or disgust. This was merely a jumbled story, taken from so many shows Id seen in the past. One case cut through my stare and brought me back into the room, though. A mother had come to petition the court to return her sons to her care. She was such a slight woman. To describe her as a bird might be cliché, but it would be appropriate. She looked frail, as though her bones were hollow for flight. She wore a modest print dress, likely the nicest she had, trying to put forth a good image for the judge. Her hair was red-blonde, and pulled back tightly, adding strain to the skin of her face to match that already in her eyes. She was so small in stature, bracketed by the proud and well dressed lawyers beside her. Still she sat forward and as tall as she could, so aware that she was to be judged, and so aware of her boys sitting just behind her. The two of them sat in the gallery, immediately in front of me, and to my left side. The younger brother was perhaps 11 years old. He had light brown hair, presumably his fathers. He wore blue jeans and a non-descript t-shirt. He sat on the far side of his older brother from me. I didnt see much of him, and throughout the proceedings, he did little to draw attention to himself. I could see his brother clearly though, and I couldnt ignore him. He was 15, or maybe 16, years old. His hair was brown like his brothers toward the back, but on top it flared red-blond as though borrowed from his mothers head. He also wore blue jeans and a t-shirt, but they were oversized and baggy on him, almost losing him in their fabric. He sat slightly slumped in the chair, as though he had already been there a very long time. Like his little brother beside him, he seemed almost a disinterested party to the proceedings at first. As the case was presented though, I saw him change. I saw how he reacted to the discussions taking place before him. The hardest parts of his life were exposed to the room, forcing him to relive them. He seemed at once a little boy, so badly hurt by this life he lived, and yet a young man, trying to maintain his composure in the face of a broken family and torn heart. The court clerk began the case by identifying those present in the court: Mom and her lawyer, the social services caseworker, Dads lawyer, the boys, and the foster parents with whom the boys were living were all introduced. The clerk finished by saying, The father did not appear. The judge and lawyers had a short talk about the possibility that he was in custody, having appeared in court on some charge the day before. The caseworker mentioned that she had been present at that hearing, and that the father wasnt in jail. He simply didnt come. I noticed the boy slip ever so slightly farther down in his chair. I thought I knew how he must be feeling. Of course, all I knew of his story, to that point, was that he and his brother had been in a foster home, away from their parents, for the better part of a year. Now, this hearing was taking place to explore the possibility of sending them home, and his father didnt bother to come. I thought of my own father, and his absences over the years. Though my sister and I never suffered the family trauma of being taken from our home, our parents did divorce. My mother took responsibility for our upbringing. My father, after moving to another state, took the opportunity to live free of his responsibilities. I suddenly thought how the boy must hate his father now, caring so little for his children that he didnt even show up for this most important hearing. Angers I thought I had long ago forgotten felt fresh in my mind, and I assigned them to that young man as though I sat in his chair. I recalled my own sadness and longing at that age. I remembered feeling what I thought he was feeling, hating my father for being absent, yet longing so much to talk to him. Despising that I carried his name, yet still aching for his approval of me. Seeing some of my fathers personality in my own, and hating that part of myself for it. At times I almost felt that he must be dead, or else he would be with me, doing father-son things. At other times, I wished he was dead. At least I would be afforded a reason for his lack of caring. All this ran through my mind, as I suddenly realized I had been staring at the boy. Being in the far back of the courtroom, no one saw me stare, and he didnt know he had become a reflecting pool. I looked around the room, and listened to the presentation of the case, and tried to ignore all the ramblings in my head. I felt a stab of guilt as I listened to the rest of their story. The mother had wanted the boys back before this, but couldnt because of the father; whose presence made it impossible. Although specific details were left unspoken, it was made clear that this small bird of a woman had been terribly beaten and emotionally abused by her husband for many years. His violence and rage had been the true catalyst for this familys destruction. The legalists spoke of previous attempts to reunite the mother with the boys. These had been unsuccessful because their mother couldnt stay away from Dad as required. With this, another pain was revealed, and I noticed the boys eyes turning wet. He tried so hard, yet so unsuccessfully, to hide his tears. He rubbed his eyes with a swift finger, and dabbed them on his shirtsleeves when no one was looking. I saw him, though, and I wondered that I could have ever put myself in his shoes. My feelings for my own father, still burning in my own eyes, left me. I knew I couldnt imagine the hurt in his life, and my pity for him was immeasurable. His father had beaten his mother. I was somehow sure he had witnessed it more than once. No experience in my life could possibly give me any grounding to understand his feelings now. I thought I had known his feelings for his father as my own. How wrong I was, or at least, how incomplete in my understanding. How would I feel if my father had beaten my mother before my eyes, instead of merely breaking her heart by leaving her alone? How would I feel if my mother had been so meek in her own heart, that she believed the love of a monster was the one she most needed? How would I feel knowing the monster was my father, and that part of him was part of me? How could I ever pretend to know these things? I would never say that I wished to know his pain, but I wanted to understand somehow. Hot tears rolled freely down his reddened cheeks now, and there was no one there to hold him. His brother glanced quickly at him, and then did so again and again, unable to offer comfort. Maybe he didnt know what his brother knew. Maybe the few years between them allowed the younger one some measure of innocence or ignorance. I felt the urge to reach forward, and place a hand on his shoulder, to let him know he wasnt alone. Nevertheless, I stayed as I was. Even with the tears pouring from his eyes, he was trying so hard to be in control. He wanted to be unnoticed. This wasnt the time for the intrusions of a stranger. The whole story was out now. The worst trials of this little familys life was open to be seen by anyone in that room. I had come as an observer of the court, tagging along with my wife who works within the juvenile system. My being there had felt so routine and justified just half an hour before. Now I felt ashamed and embarrassed, as though I were standing at the side window of a car, gaping at the supposedly private acts of young lovers. Nothing as light as young love was happening here though. This was ugly, and terrible, and I didnt belong there. I sat there intruding, and feeling out of place. The mothers lawyer then spoke about her progress since the last hearing. She had found a new place to live, and hadnt seen or spoken to the father in over two months. She had managed to conquer some of her devils. She still looked small to me, but now so much less frail. From somewhere, this tiny battered woman found a strength she had not had just a year before. She found the power to choose the love of herself and her sons over that of the monster, and she left him behind. With this same strength, she now asked the judge, the symbol of another kind of monster in her life, if she could have her children back. Before specifying her decision, the judge said how pleased she was to see the woman take the necessary steps to getting her life in order. She commended her on the hard road she had so difficultly, yet so willingly walked, and praised her for her courage. The judge said she thought things were as they needed to be, at least for now. Then she turned her face up, looked out to the womans sons, and said, Pack your bags for home, boys. There was a little more small talk, as the lawyers and judge tried to find a date for a future review hearing. Mom had already turned around though, her own eyes as full as her oldest sons. She smiled at them, and I saw the older boy sit up taller now, wiping more tears away under his mothers gaze. They didnt speak to each other. They hadnt yet been excused yet. There was so much in their eyes though: their whole reunion was there. The father did not appear, but in that moment, in that look, he wasnt missed by anyone.
RE: The Father Did Not Appear By: Sherman Williams on 12/8/2002; 2:28 PM Wow i got the chills as i read this. I especially liked that last line "The father didn not appear, but in that moment, in that look, he wasn't missed by anyone>" Excellent writing Mr. Moore
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