Smashed Dreams, Smashed Roaches, and The Corn Dog
NOT the actual investigation photo, but not far off. Just restrict the fresh air and natural light and you get the idea. Photo by Pixabay.
Story Number 7: Servitude Number 2
(Written 8/6/22)
After five months of training, which consisted of classes, reading reams of policy and procedure, and shadowing a variety of seasoned social workers on their investigations, my first solo investigation as a Child Protective Services social worker was for a three-year-old boy and his eight-year-old sister who had been seen wandering the neighborhood, asking for food. Pulling up to the home I scanned for any potential safety issues and looked for immediate clues of abuse or neglect. I did see that it was a small house and the front porch was definitely cluttered and unkempt. I got out of the car and I was not yet ten feet from the closed front door when the smell hit me, a tsunami of stench. And any windows not covered by the mass of random items on the front porch were observed to be closed. This means the smell was so strong it was emanating from inside the house. It was the fairly classic smell I would become too familiar with over the course of my career, the combination of body odor, cockroaches, no discernable housekeeping, trash, dirty dishes, and just general funk. Getting back in the county car and peeling out, leaving nothing but swear words in my wake, was not an option. Onward I trudged.
I knocked on the door and it was answered by a disheveled-looking man who appeared to not be mentally all there and it further appeared I had awoken him. The man only opened the door about eight inches and stuck his head around. I said who I was and why I was there, the simple “CPS received a report.” Never tell the allegations outright because then the clients immediately start constructing their lies, half-truths, and stories and know what evidence to hide. I asked for permission to enter the home (always get clear verbal permission to cross a threshold, not unlike a vampire, but for constitutional reasons). The man did not open the door more than eight inches initially because that was all it could open, I would soon discover, due to the amount of clutter in the home. He agreed to talk to me and said I could come in and then he began the process of clearing enough items from the door to allow me passage. I took a deep breath of the last only partially-fetted air I would breathe for a while.
Once inside I could see the floor was covered with general debris, bits of trash, cigarette butts (in access to the children), toys, clothing, some cleaning chemicals, which was ironic (and in access to the children). I queried about the son and the father said he would get him out of bed. And don’t be fooled, this was not nap time, but the son sleeping the slumber of the hopeless and depressed with his father in the middle of the day. The daughter was at school. The mother was out running errands. The son, upon awakening, shuffled into the living area in an extremely sagged, overloaded diaper and an adult-sized t-shirt and he appeared to have cerebral palsy based on his gait; he too was unkempt and scratched his head a lot, indicating he may have lice.
Further inspection of the home revealed the following: a sink overflowing with dirty dishes that the live roaches were enjoying as their personal amusement water park, roaches climbing up and down the walls, prescription medications and carving knives (in access to the children), food and filth caked to the cabinets and floors. I asked to look in the cabinets and refrigerator to verify the food situation and was given permission and found, much to my surprise, that all were packed with lots of food, and more live roaches. Upon further inspection I saw cases of food stacked against the wall. I was to learn that some clients do take full advantage of food pantries and food give aways, only to hoard the food. When I opened the refrigerator and freezer, at first, I did not comprehend what I was seeing. There was a speckled, lumpy, black trail of something all around the seal where the doors close. I peered closer, thinking “What the fuck is that?” only to discover it was rather unfortunate roaches who had been smashed in the door—I only hope they did enjoy the water park before their demise. I further observed un-safety plugged electrical outlets with metal tools directly underneath, as if directing the children to electrocute themselves. Also present was a vacuum cleaner being used as a coat rack; another strange ubiquitous artifact found in investigations (my favorite being not one, but two vacuums and one carpet cleaner, all three being used as coat racks).
I asked to see the bedroom, which was very tiny and with bunks the entire family slept in. But to gain access to the rest of the house I had to play a game of limbo under and around the matted, filthy, horrifying blanket that was being used as a curtain to separate the rooms. I never want to disrespect a client or indicate in any way that I am disturbed by what I am seeing (or smelling, or hearing them say). At the cotillion in my finest ball gown or in the middle of the foulest house ever, my demeanor could not vary. To this day I am impressed how I navigated around that blanket without touching it or drawing too much attention to myself. The bedroom was dark, and packed with things. The bathroom was filthy and the toilet filled with feces. The back porch was floor to ceiling with boxes of God knows what, again blocking any thought of natural light from entering the house. The place, as well as being unsanitary and filled with safety hazards for the kids, was a firetrap.
When I left the home to retrieve the camera to take pictures I stood by the car, dry-heaving, but trying to not let see anyone who might be watching see me. I returned to the home to take pictures. And I learned from that day forward, to always take the camera inside the home in my initial foray; the father could have refused to let me back in, but he did not. I was grateful for a few lungfuls of fresh air though.
After the investigation and placing the children in the home of a relative (with acceptable living conditions and no CPS or concerning criminal record), so the parents could clean up and make the home safe, I returned to the office. At the office, I was able to look again, in detail, at the pictures and at all that was contained in the tiny, hopeless, filthy, unsafe home that housed two innocent children. I catalogued every concern in my case notes. And then I spotted it, something that I had missed in my investigation. But there it was, clear as day: the lone corn dog sitting in quiet repose, partially hidden under a dresser in the kitchen and surrounded by all matter of filth. And now I want to make this clear: there is nothing, I mean NOTHING, funny about child abuse or neglect. But as I sat in my cubicle that day examining all the pictures, I completely lost my shit. Laughing so hard I had slumped back in my seat, arms dangling to the ground, paroxysms of laughter shaking my whole body as I gasped for breath. Child abuse is not funny. Corn dogs are not inherently funny. But something about seeing that corn dog, like a lone witness to what should not be, loosened something in my brain and I just lost it. Perhaps it's because I could not show any emotion while in the family’s home. And it is said that hindsight is 20-20. I think, after serving almost 17 years in the field of CPS, now being retired, my melt down was the beginning of the crack in my sanity that was to eventually become full blown PTSD. Something in me knew, seeing that symbol of childhood innocence, that single, simple corn dog, stuffed in a corner amid horrors, was to symbolize how I would come to feel.
This is NOT what I found in that home, but it is what I wish for for all children! Photo by Pixabay.