LZ/A/15-1
"Stand up a little bit straighter"
I walk in to the program in the middle of a family gathering. It is a time during which the program staff invite anyone and everyone who is related to the young people to come to the program for finger food, conversation and exchange. There is no formal agenda – no speeches from dignitaries, no planned events designed to dazzle the visitors and no scheduled perfection on the part of the youth. It is just a time when everyone can come together over food and interact as they wish.
I wander around the open space occasionally introducing myself and sometimes being introduced by the young people who stay in the program, to the relatives who have come to visit. A mother here, a father there. The siblings and occasional cousins or aunts. Everyone has someone it seems, even though many of the youth at the time of admission were defined as being ‘without family’. Some had travelled a few miles, some many. All seemed relaxed.
Brothers and sisters played on the computers in the corner. Mary’s brother was paying special attention to Mike’s sister. Ah, adolescence, where every chance encounter seems to have the potential of profound love.
Larry’s parents are in a deep discussion with Sarah’s mother about the struggles inherent in being the parents of teenagers. They share tips with each other and tell a few stories that cause laughter to bubble to the surface. A few of the more reserved staff look towards them as if they must be plotting something nefarious. The more relaxed staff smile and wander over to join the fun. The group around them gets larger and then breaks off again into smaller groups, some composed of only relatives, some a mixture of staff and others.
The rhythms
I think that it all seems a little unreal. I was in the program the night before when three of the young people were screaming about how the system sucked and the staff didn’t care about them. Today it all seems a little like a neighbourhood block party. The rhythms of residential care. Up today, down tomorrow. Violent and then gentle. Loud and then soft. Fast and relaxed. The rhythms of people living together.
As I wander around I notice a small woman relaxed in a chair by the door. Not interacting with anyone; not being approached, just looking out on the gathering. My curiosity gets the better of me and I wander over to introduce myself. I’d like to say I was being kind. Probably I was just being nosey.
As I approach, I notice the woman is older than the rest of the group. Somewhat fragile looking, she seems to be in her sixties. I introduce myself. She answers me in French and I realise, perhaps, why she is sitting aside. A few more words and I know that she doesn’t speak English, only French. Fortunately, in my limited manner, so do I, so I settle down beside her to chat. I ask her what she is doing there.
She points to one of the young women, Marie, who is resident in the program and tells me she is her granddaughter. There is something of love and pride in her voice as she tells me this. I settle in for the discussion I know is coming.
I ask her to tell me about the granddaughter. "She’s a wonder- ful girl," she says. Always helpful and always, always nice to me. Just as sweet as she could be." I look again at the young woman. She was one of the ones screaming the night before. She is known for her aggression and violence as well as her apparent inability to consider the impact of her actions on others. What the grandmother is telling me is inconsistent with everything I have heard about Marie so far. I ask her to tell me more.
"When she was much younger," the grandmother continues, "she used to come out to the farm every day after school and help my husband and me with the horses. She would clean the stalls, brush down the horses, and just love those poor animals to death. I swear, when the horses saw her coming they seemed to stand up a little bit straighter, as if to get her attention. And she made sure everyone of them got a bit of her time. We had eight of them then. And not one was her favourite, she gave them all the same amount of attention. Her grandfather used to say that she treated them all as if they were her own children. When she was all done with the horses, she would come in to the house and help me make dinner and then, before it got dark, she would go home. A lot of the time she would stay over at our place, because her parents weren’t home."
"So, she doesn’t do that any more?" I ask.
"Not since she went in to that first group home," the grandmother answers. That was about four years ago and she hasn’t come to visit since. We miss her, and lord knows we could use the help these days."
"So what happened that she stopped?"
"Well," she says, "it seems like the places she stayed thought we were too old to look out for her and that helping out around the farm wasn’t good for her."
"That must have made you angry," I say.
"No," she says, "it made us sad. Look at her now. Her parents never ever come to see her. She probably doesn’t even know where they are. She spends all her time here or getting in trouble with her friends. How can that be better than spending time with people who love you?"
Better?
This makes me think for a second. How can it be better than spending time with people who love you? How can it be better than spending time loving the horses that ‘stand up a little bit straighter’ when you walk in the barn? How can it be better than helping your granny, who obviously cares about you, make dinner?
I realise that I don’t know anything about this old lady. She could be a lunatic for all I know, wandered in off the street and just making this all up. Before I jump to any radical anti-system conclusions, I decide I’d better keep my mouth shut. Not always an easy task when faced with love and caring.
I ask her to invite her granddaughter over for a minute. "Oh," she says, "she’s busy with her friends." But I persist and she agrees.
She calls out to Marie in a soft Acadian accent, laced with the sound of the farmland. She speaks so softly I think that Marie can’t possibly hear her. But soft as it was, Marie’s head snaps around like it was pulled by a leash, and a beam breaks over her face. She comes right over. She speaks softly, lovingly to the old lady. They look at each other, hands occasionally reach- ing out to touch one another as they make a point. It dawns on me that Marie is speaking French.
"I didn’t know you spoke French," I say to her. "I didn’t know you did," she replies, suspicion creeping in to her voice as she looks at me. "I guess there are probably other things we don’t know," is all I can think of to say. "After all, I only come here occasionally."
"Your grandmother was telling me about how you looked after the horses."
The suspicion leaves and she drifts in to a place obviously filled with good memories. She asks her grandmother about the horses, while I eavesdrop like an unnoticed bird in the corner of the barn. It’s like there is no-one else in the room for them as they talk, so engaged with one another they are. Marie asks after each of the horses by name, glad to hear about some, sorry to hear of the death or loss of a few of the others. I break in.
"I’m curious," I say. How come you don’t go to your grandmother’s any more?"
The suspicion returns. She snaps at me. "Because the system won’t let me."
I decide to switch focus. "How did your grandmother know about tonight," I ask.
"One of the staff called me," the grandmother interjects. "It was the first time in all these years that someone called. Her grandfather would have come too but he had to look after things on the farm. He is going to want to know all about her. He misses her as much as I do." She looks at Marie as she talks, and I swear, Marie ‘stood up a little bit straighter’ as her grandmother talked. You could tell she was feeling special.
"Can I go visit?" Marie asks.
I wish that I could say yes, but ultimately I am just a visitor to the program. I tell her we will make sure she and her grand- mother get to talk to the staff about it.
Unknown stories
After a few more minutes, Marie goes back to re-join her friends and the grandmother and I continue to talk for a little bit. I leave her and go back to wandering around the room, wondering how many other unknown stories there are floating around here just waiting for someone to ask for their telling. How many unknown relationships there are. How much hidden love.
The gathering draws to a close and people start to leave. Promises to call, connect and come visit again are bantered about. Invitations to come visit the families’ homes are offered and accepted. Finally, there is only the grandmother left and as she gets up to go, I wander over to say good-bye. We do the formal thank-you and separation rituals. And then she says, "This has been just like a family get-together. Connecting with each other at the end of the harvest, or in the middle of winter. We used to do this all the time. Tell the staff I liked the chance to see how Marie is doing. And tell them they can come ride the horses with some of the other young folks, as long as they bring Marie with them."
This old lady isn’t fragile at all, I think. Anyone who knows how to offer up a bribe like that knows how to get along in the world.
A little family gathering. No agendas, no presentations, no pretence. Just the opportunity for untold stories to emerge, for connections to occur and, for some, the opportunity to stand up a little bit straighter. We should all be so lucky.