December 2004 to February 2006, Groton, New York

By Andrea L. Beahan

My son turned four last week. His eyes gleamed with wild excitement at the mention of “his” day. No calculable depth can measure my heart’s joy when I remember the day we were finally told he was coming home.

My son was scheduled to come home to New York on Dec. 26, 2005. On Dec. 21, the Child Protective Services (CPS) worker in charge of the case entered a Houston, Texas courtroom for a routine six-month review of this little boy’s case. Judge John P. was told that, after three previous placements in Texas and being turned down by four other adoptive families, a wonderful family had been found for this little boy. He would finally have a forever family that would be able to meet his special needs.

When this keeper of the law saw that this two-year-old disabled child was being placed with two women, the social worker and CPS attorney were called into chambers. They were staunchly told that no Texas child would be given to two queers from New York. There would be no appeal, because any appeal would come to him and his word was final. On the record, he was denying placement because it was out-of–state; anyone claiming differently would lose their jobs.

Our phone rang at 3:30 p.m. that afternoon. Heather and I had just finished trimming the Christmas tree and were hurriedly finishing the decorations in the house. Our new son’s presents were under the tree and his puppy ran rambunctiously through the house, as eager as we to bring our baby home. We had not seen him since November, and the only thing running through my head since then was the promise I made as I placed his trembling little body into bed, tears falling like water falls. “I will be back to get you and bring you home, I promise.” Struggling to hold my own tears back, “I promise.”

When I answered the telephone, I heard our social worker’s supervisor on the other end. I cannot remember specifically what she said, other than, “Your petition to adopt was denied; the case is closed. We will enter a request for an appeal; we don’t know if it will even be accepted. I’m sorry.”

The rest is a blur. I sat stunned and numb. I turned to Heather and said, “They turned down the adoption. He’s not coming home.” As I walked out the door to try and find my breath, the anger and despair that welled within me disappeared and I turned to her again, shouting, “Not yet!”

Stale smoke hung in the air. I confined myself to the bedroom, armed with a phone, a carton of half-smoked cigarette packs, and mountains of papers, all illegibly scrawled with dozens of numbers, names and addresses. I knew what all this hieroglyphic jargon said and exactly where it went. I had not bathed nor slept in days. Heather was stationed at the computer, finding more names and numbers, adoption laws, Texas laws and old case excerpts, in her undaunted quest for answers or ammunition that might provide the slightest ray of hope in the fight to bring our son home.

The North American Counsel on Adopted Children gave us a list of adoption lawyers in the Syracuse area. I scoured the list and found the Irishman. I had no clue if this man was good, honest or even open to non-traditional family adoption, but in my mind he was my ancestral brother, and therefore would help. When I think back on it now, we got lucky. Kevin was a good person and a hell of an adoption attorney.

I called Kevin’s office and left an obsessively rambling message. To this day, I’m not sure that he completely understood my tearful, rage-filled cry for help. He called back within an hour. I explained to him that the adoption had been approved by both Texas and New York and that the interstate compact had been completed, approved, and finalized. We had negotiated a monthly subsidy. We were even given the date the Child Protective worker would be flying into Syracuse with our son. On Dece. 26, 2005, we had planned to celebrate Christmas with our baby.

Kevin was outraged at the audacity of this judge and the pathetic crumbling of an entire Social Service Agency. Kevin accepted the case.

By 5:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve, the players multiplied with every phone call I made. I started with an agency Heather had researched on the Internet as prospective allies. I remember yelling to her, “I’ve got my social worker shirt on today, baby, and it’s working well!” Each person I shared our story with gave me the phone number of someone higher up or someone who knew someone else who might help. I was in a hysterical self-advocacy mania that would not quit until my son was home.

Child Protective Services of Harris County called on Dec. 22 to tell us that they tried to schedule an appeal, but it had been turned down by family court. I was obviously center stage on a speakerphone, as the supervisor introduced each of the players around the table, all of them backing what the others said. All of them cowering down before a crooked family court system.

“They are all cowards,” my mind raged. They were apologetic, but extremely matter-of-fact. These individuals, who had been so supportive through the adoption process, were now asking for my son’s records back so they could find him a “forever family.” I bellowed at them through tears of rage, “He already has a family and I’ll see you in court!” That was the last correspondence we had with Child Protective Services of Harris County, Texas.

We were given the name of a Human Rights attorney from Austin, Texas. She had a reputation as a fighter, among other things, depending on whom you asked. Her name came from Lambda Legal Services. Lambda is famous for being avengers of the gay community, but they told us there was nothing they could do because of the power pyramid in the Harris County court system. I only got the name for the Texas attorney after insisting, and then becoming abrupt and rude, making it clear that we were not giving up until our son was home. If they wouldn’t help me, they were going to give me the name of someone who could. So much, I thought, for the great avengers of the gay community.

The quest went on during the biggest pre-holiday week of the year, until every local, regional and national contact I could find received a cry for help. Each correspondence of any kind was recorded and filed in a different pile on the bed.

The Christmas lights danced off the ornaments as the last part of the sun disappeared behind the row of houses across from our little bungalow. The frantic whirlwind of phone calls had finally ceased, leaving only calls from family urging us to come home for the holiday. I lay emotionally paralyzed on the couch, starring blankly at the twinkling lights. Heather gently took my hand and said, “Let’s go home, Andrea. It will do us good.”

At first I argued that there would be no Christmas until my son came home, and I wanted to be alone. Moments later, all the rage and sorrow that had kept me going crumbled around me like a clay casting shattering from my body onto the floor. I sobbed inconsolably for what felt like days.

Wal-Mart is the only store open after 5 p.m. on Christmas Eve. We had not bought many presents for our families yet, because we were planning a Christmas gathering in our hometowns in mid-February, after our son settled in at home. Now, at 5:15, we were dragging ourselves through plastic Santas and artificial trees on clearance. It was only us, a few frantic last-minute shoppers, and begrudging husbands, sent out for some overlooked treasure. No one was thrilled to be there.

I suddenly looked at Heather and said, “I wanted to get him a fishing pole. Where do you think they are?”

“I think he may be too little for a fishing pole,” she said quietly, gently touching my shoulder.

“No he’s not.” I argued, running off toward the toy department.

As we walked through the toys, I began to shake. It felt like someone had thrust an enormous dagger through my heart and I lay bleeding, with a gaping mortal wound, my soul spilling out all over the ground. I was terrified. Uncontrollable tears began to flood my cheeks. The pain was overwhelming. “I can’t do this,” I sobbed. I wanted to lie down and die.

We stopped at a gas station and got coffee. “What the hell is God doing?” was all my exhausted mind kept repeating. It was a long trip to the Adirondack Mountains on Christmas Eve. Again, I had mustered just enough of my hard-shelled exterior to shelter my fragile soul for a little while.

I looked forward to the beauty and solace of the mountains. We arrived late at Heather’s mother’s. We sat, talked, and wrapped gifts far into the night. We spent Christmas Day with Heather’s younger sister and our four nieces and nephews. The living room was a mountain of brightly wrapped gifts in every size and shape imaginable. It did my heart good to see a family together, the excitement and anticipation in young eyes as they patiently waited to open gifts. Was our baby boy opening gifts in Houston, or was he feeling lost and alone like his mommy?

We left for Rochester the next day. My family was waiting with big hugs and pained smiles just like the ones we saw in the Adirondacks. Nothing felt like Christmas; nothing felt like anything. My sister gave Heather and I each a small wrapped box, telling us to open them together. From within each box came a gold locket on a chain. The heart-shaped lockets had beautiful diamond-cut designs.

She told us to open them and inside was a picture of our son. “Wear them until you bring him home,” she lovingly smiled. No one could have given us a more poignant gift. The locket alone would sustain me one more day. We left for home the next afternoon.

We passed most of the ride home in a nervous silence. It was only two and a half hours from Rochester to home, but it felt like forever. Our voicemail held my saving grace. There were messages from the head of the LGBT division of the Child Welfare League (CWL) in Washington D.C. and from an ACLU attorney in New York. “Here we go,” I cheered with a newfound confidence. Someone was listening; someone else cared about this child, too.

We spoke with Ron from CWL many times over the next few weeks. He contacted his division in Houston and requested that they contact CPS. They reached the Commissioner of Social Services. Although Kevin had left several messages for the CPS court liaison, and the supervisor of the CPS department where our son’s case originated, he was ignored. We received an email from my son’s social worker, again requesting his records and, strangely, asking if we were planning to visit our son anytime soon. Kevin replied that no records would be returned until this case was resolved; he said nothing about her other question.

Kevin contacted the attorney in Texas, who agreed to look into the case. She knew this judge and would talk with him. We heard nothing from her for weeks, even after calling and emailing. She finally called, abruptly stating that the case was dead. The judge’s liaison told her that the judge was very upset, and denying any suggestion that the placement was turned down due to the sexual orientation of the perspective parents. He did not feel the child should leave the state.

She said that we could file an appeal to another court, but could not guarantee it would help. If we wanted her help, she would need a signed contract and a retainer. We were furious that she waited two weeks to call with only this news.

We received a call from the ACLU attorney, who left her direct line and a promise that she would meet with her colleagues to decide if they would take the case. After speaking with Kevin, the ACLU attorney advised us to sign a contract with the Texas attorney. If the Texas lawyer did not succeed, then the ACLU would take the case. The director of Adopt U.S. Kids was also appalled by our story, and agreed to contact her representative in Texas to put pressure on Social Services.

Although we were hesitant, we contacted the attorney in Texas. At this point we didn’t trust many people, especially those who insisted that our case was dead, just because this one judge said so. It was beyond our comprehension how one man could be given so much power. How could one social servant ruin so many lives with a single bang of the gavel? Something had to be done.

Heather had been corresponding on adoptive parent email lists, eliciting any help or knowledge they could give. On Jan. 15, she got an email from a parent who had a similar experience with a state-to-state adoption and recommended looking at the Child Protection Act of 1995.

Heather came running into the bedroom and handed me a section of the Child Protection Act of 1995. “It is a federal law that a state cannot deny adoptive placement based on geographic location if the placement has been approved by both state social service agencies and the ICPC is in place,” she stated with incredible conviction.

“This judge is breaking federal law,” I echoed back. We got him!

She read on, “States that knowingly deny placement based on geographic location will lose state funding at the beginning of the next fiscal year.” We immediately called the lawyer in Texas, who said she would look into it.

The telephone rang early the next evening. It was my niece. She was in her last year of law school at Syracuse University. She directed us to a law review website that included Harris County, Texas. She was floored when she looked up the records on Harris County. She angrily told us that the first entries about the county courts were two articles about this specific judge and how he had actually closed his courtroom doors on National Adoption Day, refusing to hear the adoption case of a lesbian who happened to hold a county seat her self. He physically locked the courtroom doors.

“He needs to recuse himself, as he is obviously prejudiced,” my niece insisted. “Send this article to your lawyer and tell her that in no uncertain terms. Also, tell her you are going to the press if she doesn’t do something.”

We called our son’s foster mother, to let her know what was going on. We had been terrified to call earlier, fearing it would get her in trouble and jeopardize our case. She began to cry. She said although he had been with her for over a year, they had recently taken him away from her, claiming they smelled gas in her home. She didn’t believe their claim, as CPS continued to leave a one-year-old child with severe brain damage in her care.

The strange question weeks earlier finally made sense: They removed our son from the foster mother’s home because they suspected we would come to Texas looking for him. We had no idea where our son was, and neither did he. We were sick. We held each other and sobbed.

By that Friday, we were frantic. We had heard nothing from the attorney. At 5:00 p.m. she finally called to say that the judge had recused himself. He had transferred the case to another court, blaming the caseworker on the grounds that she failed to make him aware that the child had so many previous placements.

The next call came from the social worker we had dealt with months before. “The case has been transferred to another court and Child Protective Services still feels that you are the best family for this little boy,” she said, sounding tired. “Are you still interested?

Tears poured from my eyes. “Yes, we are certainly still interested.” I turned to Heather and cried, “He’s coming home, oh dear God, our baby is coming home!”

Our son stepped off a plane in Syracuse, New York, on Feb. 7, 2006, with his Mama Heather and a Texas CPS worker. As I came down the escalator, I saw him clinging to Heather. I ran to them and she placed him in my arms. I held him tightly and, through joy-filled tears, I whispered, “Mommy promised she’d bring you home. You’re here, baby, and you’re never going back.”

The state of Texas has the highest number of foster care children waiting for adoption in the nation. It has lost federal funding each of the past five years for not placing anywhere near the number of children it is supposed to in adoptive homes.

Andrea Beahan is a 46-year-old mother of two adopted sons. She is a social worker by necessity and a writer at heart. A shorter version of this story first appeared in Associated Content.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007 | Email This Post

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