I never denied the use of drugs, but I did deny that I was a horrible parent because of it. I was silenced into submission, not allowed to speak up about what my family needed. The workers, who were allowed to speak as experts about my family, gave misinformation which was accepted without question by the court. Those years were filled with meetings and court dates and drug programs and parenting classes and evaluations and more meetings and court dates.Įvery court appearance was an insult to my boys and me. When I tried to go back to school the caseworker introduced herself to my advisor. Workers went to every shelter I stayed in to speak with case planners. My children’s doctors knew who ACS was and why they were in my life.
There was no part of my life that wasn’t picked over by the system. The themes of compliance, submission, and obedience that would permeate my seven-year battle with ACS began that night. They didn’t remove my children, but said that they would do so if I failed to follow their directives.
Instead of acknowledging my pain and desperation, they told me I was crazy and would have to undergo an evaluation. At one point, I told the workers that they would have to carry my children out in body bags. The idea of living without my boys was unfathomable-they are the air I breathe. The workers then gave me two slips of paper, a referral to take a urine toxicology the next morning and a directive to go to ACS for a meeting about whether I was fit to parent my children. My boys were afraid, but one by one they lifted their pajama tops, dropped their pajama bottoms, and twirled around so the strangers could search their little bodies. They told me they were there to remove my children because I used illicit substances and walked right past me and ordered me to wake my children so that they could do a “body check” for marks or bruises. They were caseworkers from New York City’s Administration for Children Services (ACS). I looked through the peephole and saw an African American man and woman. I was residing in a family shelter with my 2,4, and 6-year old boys when it happened. It was a knock on my door in the middle of the night in 1999 that altered the trajectory of my life.