Leaving Salt Lake City

by Matthew Timion

  When conference time arrived that year, our friend Tyson came back into town and stayed with us along with two other friends from out of state. In lieu of attending the conference, which would turn into a drunken orgy afterwards, we went to a friend’s house a few blocks away. Everyone we knew was there, so it was kind of like our mini-drunken orgy, without the sex part.

  We showed up and began socializing. There was an out-of-town guest who brought gay pornography to the party, which still puzzles me. Staying true to embodying everything Mormonism was not these former Mormons agreed to watch the video of two men in a field having carnal sex. Watching the videos was a room full of straight men and woman, all with what appeared to be legitimate intellectual interest in what was on the screen. My friend Tyson once again was fascinated with the group. “People just don’t do this,” he said.

  Was he right? As I have previously mentioned my exposure to adult behavior up until that point had been largely influenced by Mormonism (both as a Mormon and as a former Mormon). After performing a quick mental search of my life I realized that I had never, in fact, sat around and watched pornography (gay or straight) with anyone else. Tyson was right: this behavior was not normal. I looked around and saw my wife watching the video with everyone else. A few minutes later she was gone and was nowhere to be found.

  “Matt!” I heard someone yell. “Come get your wife. She’s on the floor.”

  Just as described, Jessica was on the floor. Most people have “one too many” drinks. She easily had five or six too many. It was time to go home. I held her while she stumbled down the street. When we arrived home she christened our front porch with vomit before going inside and passing out. Her CIA background could easily explain her heavy drinking. She had probably seen, and done so much that the only way she could cope was by drinking.

  The next morning we mixed hangovers and mimosas and met some friends for brunch, reviving our old tradition at Orbitz cafe. When we arrived back at to the house the phone rang. It was the foster agency, and they had a perfect placement for us. Three kids, aged thirteen, eight, and three. Since we had told the agency that we preferred Hispanics because Jessica spoke fluent Spanish and I spoke enough Spanish to navigate myself through Santa Ana, California, they found us exactly what we asked for. These three kids’ parents were going to have their parental rights terminated within a few months, which meant that we would be able to adopt them soon afterwards. Jessica gave me the look a child would give her parent when they want a puppy. “What do you think?” she asked. Three seemed like a lot, especially since one of them was a teenager. I was skeptical, but also supportive. My friends from out of town sat there in total shock, saying nothing.

  I knew better than to take three kids without parenting experience, but the part of me that got sucked into Jessica’s personality somehow made it seem like anything was possible. We could do anything!

  “Let’s do it,” I said.

  | FOURTEEN |

  Part of the Problem

  October 2006

  We eagerly called the Foster Agency and told them we wanted to take their placement. Three kids. I couldn’t believe it. Before we could move the kids in, we had to meet them. We drove down to the Christmas Box House, a non-profit in Utah to help kids, foster or not, in order to meet them. We talked with them, played games, and otherwise tried to get to know them. The caseworker told us that they sort of spoke in a different “dialect” that most people were not used to. She said it was half Spanish and half English. The truth is that it was all English, but it was mumbled and featured extreme slang. We met Peter (the oldest), Ariel, and Manuel (the youngest). Manuel preferred to go by the name “Manny." They were all ridiculously cute kids and despite their Hispanic background, they all appeared very Caucasian looking.

  These kids faced two major problems in the adoption culture of Utah at the time. First they were older. Even Manny, a three-year-old, was considered “too old” to be considered by most to be adopted. It was a common problem where people only wanted to adopt babies and not children who were seen as damaged goods.

  Their ethnicity was their second obstacle. Even though they appeared very Caucasian, our caseworker from the state foster agency told us Hispanic children had a difficult time being placed in Utah. There is a racist undertone in the Western United States against Hispanics, and this was especially true in the cowboy culture of Utah. This is not true of everyone in Utah, but our experiences (and the experiences of the caseworker) proved it to be a real problem for minority children who just wanted a home and a family.

  We both decided that we would take the kids after talking it over regardless of my justifiable hesitation of taking three children. When I expressed concern over the amount of work required, Jessica quickly reminded me that we had the money and space, and that those kids needed a home. Turning them away would not only be wrong, but cruel.

  I sometimes felt like I did not know how to function as a person when I was around Jessica. I would express concern, or in this case hesitation, and she would give me of those looks. One of those are you serious looks. It was as if I didn’t know how to do anything. I had to trust her again, the worldly well-traveled beautiful woman with so much experience in life. She would continue to show me the way. She would always give me that look when I underestimated myself or shirked away from doing the noble thing. Having her there to remind me to always do the right thing made me just want to trust her even more.

  And you know what? It didn’t make sense to take three kids. But with Jessica by my side, and seemingly so filled with righteous fervor for helping those helpless kids, anything seemed possible. We could do it! We would save the world one person at a time!

  But things didn’t have to make sense with Jessica around. They just had to feel good and I knew doing what felt good would always pay off. It had paid off so far with us.

  It became evident that Jessica’s motivation for wanting the kids seemed to be a mixture of helping people in need and also showing her family and friends that she was a good mother. Much of the Mormon identity is tied around the “family." The family is the central unit of the Mormon Church, so much so that the ultimate ceremony performed within the walls of the Mormon temples is to unite the family for “time and all eternity." Family is the ultimate goal.

  While we were no longer Mormon, there was a part of her that needed to prove to her family that she was still a good person and that being an ex-Mormon did not prevent her from putting family first. Being an atheist did not stop a person from doing good. She didn’t need a private temple ceremony to have a family. She needed to make a public spectacle of it so that everyone could see. At the time it made sense to me too. In our minds we were persecuted by Mormons for our lack of belief. We had something to prove.

  Most of our friends were skeptical and tried to warn us of what we were getting into. We took what they said as friendly advice because our friends wouldn't speak bluntly. My friend Nadia said, “I don’t know Matt, three kids is a lot to suddenly have to deal with. It will be a lot of work." In hindsight she was saying, “don’t do it,” but all I heard was, “this is a challenge so be prepared."

  If someone had been blunt, Jessica would have probably removed that person from our lives. She never took criticism well, and I learned later that the fear of social isolation was the reason so many people stayed loyal to her. No one wanted to be outcast from the group of friends that revolved around Jessica.

  With friends feigning support and excitement, I have no idea why the Utah Foster Agency gave us, first time foster parents without any real experience raising children, three children ranging in age from three to thirteen to care for. At the time I was glad that they didn’t disqualify us outright. Jessica and I were on a mission to be part of the most amazing family ever. Everyone would know how giving and helping we were. Everyone would want to be us.

  It was October 26, 2006, and Jessica and I picked up our new foster children from a temporary foster home. We climbed into our
cars and drove home. They brought with them garbage bags, filled with their only earthly possessions. Suddenly my new Honda Fit was full. Every time we went somewhere it would never be empty again. We set up the kids in their rooms. Peter, the oldest, took a room in the basement. He insisted on the room being cold. Calling it cold was an understatement as he made sure to leave the windows open in the middle of October. It was freezing, but if he needed that to feel “at home” in our house it was the least we could do.

  We expected the kids to have a difficult time adjusting, but all of the foster training classes in the world couldn’t prepare us for everything. We were not affected when Peter wet the bed because wetting the bed was a very common thing for foster kids to do. If my entire life were uprooted and I were taken away from my family I would probably wet the bed too.

  Manny had a difficult time adjusting as well, but this was mainly due to the fact that he was almost four years old and had a vocabulary of roughly fifty words. His communication skills were almost non-existent, he was not yet potty trained, and his ability to manage his anger was poor at best. In college I learned that the best way to extinguish a behavior was to ignore it. If the child gets no response then eventually the behavior will stop. Manny, at three years old, did his very best to prove that everything I learned in college was wrong.

  If Manny were upset (he didn’t get a toy, didn’t like his food, had to go to bed, had to wake up, etc.) a tantrum would start. The tantrums usually involved him screaming at the top of his lungs and then falling on the floor. When the wailing wasn’t acknowledged (even after forty-five minutes of it, up to four times a day) he would escalate the behavior by banging his head against the floor. And he banged it hard. We couldn’t allow that and had to pick him up, holding him while he flailed and kicked. I guess in some way we reinforced the behavior by giving him the attention he wanted. All we were trying to do, however, was protect him.

  And then there was Ariel, who adjusted right away, started calling us mom and dad, and was generally happy. When Ariel got upset, however, he would wrap a belt around his neck, choking himself. He learned this behavior from Peter, and years later I would catch Manny doing the same thing. As much as I believed human behaviors are biologically driven some behaviors have to be learned. I refused to believe that there is a wrap a belt around my neck and choke myself gene. Choking themselves was clearly a learned behavior and probably the only way they ever received attention at home with their biological family.

  We slipped into a routine fairly quickly. Jessica picked up some of the domestic routines (cooking dinner) and I, working at home, was the designated taxi. In the morning I would get Manny on the bus for his therapeutic preschool, take Ariel to elementary school, and then take Peter to junior high. By the time I got back it was around nine in the morning, so I would get as much work done as humanly possibly considering just a few hours later Manny would be dropped off from preschool. I know people love the idea of working from home, which has its perks, but the truth is there is no way you can do something that requires any substantial amount of brain power if as a parent you cannot read a book with a three year old in the next room.

  At two in the afternoon Ariel would come home from school, and then we would go pick up Peter. Getting Manny in the car was a nightmare. He couldn’t be budged from the television. He loved watching “Sponge-a-bob" as he called it. Ripping him away from his Bikini Bottom lifeline usually involved screaming and crying. He couldn’t tie his shoes yet but he managed to figure out how to undo his seat belt while I was driving. This resulted in a screaming, flopping three year old on the floor of the backseat. Since I was driving I couldn’t do much about it. A few hours later Jessica would come home and we would eat dinner, do homework, and start the cycle all over again.

  That routine quickly became my life: somehow passing off two hours of work a day as eight, and dealing with two dogs, two cats, a gerbil, and now three kids. I totally understood why stay-at-home-moms often feel unappreciated by their spouses. I felt like a chauffeur and my own needs (emotional and physical) were not being met even on the most basic level. The toll it started to take on me was that I was losing weight, and the only way I could cope was by starting to smoke again.

  Our social life was non-existent. The clubbing phase was over. The parties at our house were over. Weekly brunches and roller-blading with our friends no longer happened. The only interaction I had with friends for the next while only happened through email or phone calls.

  Since the kids became a part of our household just five days before Halloween, it was a chance to go trick-or-treating as a family. Peter dressed as some sort of monster, Ariel was a ninja, and Manny was a lion. They already had their costumes. Jessica walked hand in hand with Manny around the neighborhood. I walked with Ariel. Peter just walked around trying to look tough and scary. Peter would split the candy he acquired with his two brothers. I saw in Peter a thirteen year old who was forced to raise and protect his brothers for his entire life. His own childhood was sacrificed for the greater good of his brothers. It was very noble, but also very sad.

  Foster children can come with a slew of behavioral and emotional problems. Some are caused by neglect, abuse, or just the very fact that they have no real “home” and their family was ripped away from them. We received training on how to deal with most of these issues but we did not receive training on how much our lives would change. The constant chaos and stress was starting to take a toll on me. Jessica and I started to have almost no time to ourselves as I put everything I had into raising the kids as best I could. When we did have time it was usually me being told how I was falling short, or her being frustrated and tired. What was originally a truly selfless act turned into something that was starting to wear us down and tear us apart.

  We were in over our heads. I knew it. Jessica did not agree, saying I was the one who could not handle it. Maybe she was right. Of course she was right. She was right about almost everything.

  One day while working at my dining room table in the afternoon I received a phone call from Peter's school. He got angry and punched a kid in the bathroom. Anger management and impulse control seemed to be issues for all three of these boys. He was suspended from school for a week. I picked him up, talked with the principal, and went home. It was becoming clear to me the level of attention those kids needed was more than both of us could offer.

  Foster kids were classified in different tiers, and their associated foster parents receive more or less training to account for different needs. After talking with the caseworker, we agreed that Peter needed more help than Jessica and I could offer. The same was true for Ariel who had just turned eight and was still in the first grade. Peter, Ariel, and their older brother Terrance who was at the time in a boot-camp alternative to juvenile detention were all held back in school one year. School officials had labeled Ariel “borderline retarded,” something I disagree with to this day. What I saw in Ariel, however, was someone who needed full time attention. There was no way we were adequate for that.

  Peter was first. We explained the situation to him and that he needed to move. He was devastated. This was only weeks after Jessica told all three boys “We’re going to adopt you all and be a big family,” which we were told over and over again never to do in training. She clearly didn’t pay attention, or didn’t care. Two weeks later it was Ariel’s turn, who was oddly enthusiastic about the thought of another home. His emotional attachments seemed to be with whomever was immediately around him. It made his moving much easier.

  We became part of the problem. Foster kids are shuffled around over and over and it affects them for the rest of their lives. They feel unwanted and rejected. In our attempt to really make a difference in these kids’ lives, we became part of the system that makes it extremely difficult for them to ever be at peace with their childhoods.

  After Ariel happily and excitedly left, all that was left was just the three of us, which was maybe how it should have been in the first place. J
essica made up a story to tell our friends and her family. Since Peter and Ariel shared the same biological father she told everyone we knew the court gave custody to their biological father. Because of this Peter and Ariel had to move to California. Jessica didn’t want to admit defeat. I have always been under the impression that being honest about your shortcomings and limitations is a lot more admirable and helpful than pretending to have it all together all of the time. By telling everyone it was out of our hands she showed me her opinion was different.

  I finally had enough time in the day to start being productive again. I was finally able to work a full day’s work, and Jessica was also not as stressed as she had been before. Manny had the attention of both parents so I viewed everyone as being winners in our situation. When Manny went to sleep we were able to be a young couple again, but now we had a little boy in our lives who would one day be our son.

  Taking care of Manny proved to be a little difficult with his behavioral issues. The potty training was one thing, and the tantrums were another. As I mentioned before, Manny attended a therapeutic preschool for children with emotional problems. Many of Manny’s schoolmates came from homes with abuse, neglect, or other equally damaging factors.

  Part of Manny’s attendance in his preschool required us to meet with an on-site therapist every week to talk about how Manny was doing. Susan, the therapist assigned to Manny appeared to be very good. Jessica showed up for probably four of the weekly sessions over the course of eight months that we had Manny. She always blamed work for not attending, but it was becoming very clear to myself and the caseworker at the foster agency that I was the primary caretaker of Manny.