Adults on your side
Special advocates watch over children
Kurtzman, Lori. Cincinnati Enquirer, Dec. 9, 2007.On the day they were supposed to meet, the girl ran away. Kelly Gries drove her hulking Suburban through the city, looking for a 13-year-old she'd never seen. The girl's little brother sat beside her. He scanned the streets and wondered aloud whether the sister who loomed so large in his eyes would fit in the SUV. She's big, he told Gries. Big? Gries wondered. And then there she was, walking toward them. Patricia Bush wasn't big at all. She was just a kid, a slender girl with light-colored eyes and a lifetime of disappointments, an orphan always on the run.Bush hopped into the Suburban.
Gries's life would never be the same.
Nearly eight years after they first laid eyes on each other, they sit side by side, the two of them.
In the intervening time,
Bush has been through six foster homes and two treatment facilities, running away so often it almost became a joke. She's graduated from high school and become a mother to a boy, then a girl. She's making plans to go to college and lives on her own.Gries has been there through it all.
"We never grew apart," Bush says. "Kelly was just always there for me. I can call her 14 years from now and she'll be there for me."
Bush was Gries's introduction to a new volunteer job. The year was 2000, and the youngest of Gries' children had gone off to kindergarten. Gries, a former nurse, wanted to keep busy. She wanted to do something meaningful.
She ended up at ProKids, a Walnut Hills-based organization that trains volunteers called court appointed special advocates - CASAs - to work with children in foster care.
The CASA movement started in Seattle in 1977, according to the National CASA Association, when Superior Court Judge David Soukup wanted more information about the abused and neglected children whose cases he was deciding. He asked for community volunteers to work with these kids and represent them in court.
Fifty people signed up.
Today, according to the National CASA Web site, more than 50,000 people serve as advocates in about 950 state and local CASA programs. ProKids - which has an annual budget of $800,000, most of which comes from donations - has about 140 volunteers, providing CASAs for about one-quarter of Hamilton County's 1,100 foster children.
In ProKids literature, CASAs are called "the eyes and the ears of the court."
Supplementing overburdened county case workers - who may juggle as many as 20 cases at a time - CASAs talk to everyone from teachers and relatives to therapists to form the recommendations that help judges decide whether to return children to their parents or remove them from potentially dangerous homes.
"From a child welfare perspective, it's nice to have another person out there helping us," said Moira Weir, director of Hamilton County's Department of Job and Family Services. "It's a true team approach in terms of making sure a child's needs are met."
CASAs, who are not paid, take 30 hours of training, work at least two hours each week on a case and see the children on their cases at least once a month. Many stay with a child longer than a social worker does.
Bush, for instance, experienced a parade of case workers but only one CASA.
"These kids wind up in this kind of a system where they could be switched between foster families and relatives and social workers. They don't have any constants," said Hamilton County Juvenile Court Judge Thomas Lipps. "In some cases, the CASA is the most constant person they've had throughout their history."
CASAs are people like Gries, who once discovered the reason a 10-year-old foster boy was doing so poorly in school was that he had lost his glasses - five years earlier.
They are people like Janie Miller, 49, a Blue Ash lawyer who spent more than two years working with a young boy who was finally adopted last month. They're like Patti Minbiole, 59, who's working on a case of siblings born with a drug addiction.
They're people like
Glenna Miller, 56, who spent a recent day visiting a girl at school, her mother at jail and three of the woman's other children at two different foster homes.
Their experiences are all different, although the basics are the same. Each has followed a child, and often several children, through the foster-care system. They've spent hours writing reports and visiting foster homes and talking on the phone. They've celebrated cases that worked out well - adoptions, reunions with parents - and agonized over ones that didn't.
Each has been changed by her experience as a CASA.
Minbiole once ran into one of her former foster kids on Fountain Square, a boy she'd worked with for six years who was never adopted. He was watching a movie on the big screen. He was homeless. She caught his eye, unsure whether to approach him, and he stood up and wrapped her in his arms."There's so much going on in any of these children's lives that if we can be one constant in all of that chaos - if we do nothing else - that's really important," Minbiole said.
Being a CASA, she said, "has probably been the single most important volunteer commitment of my life."
A NATURAL MOVEGries maneuvers her Suburban through rush-hour traffic, headed for an appointment with a Forest Park foster family.
Behind the wheel is a 52-year-old petite blonde with a perpetual smile and a knack for making children laugh. ("Are you married?" she'll ask a 9-year-old, just for the reaction.)
Gries and her husband, a doctor, always wanted a big family and ended up with a huge one - 11 children, nine of them biological, two adopted from foster care. The youngest is 6, the oldest 33. For Gries, becoming a CASA - taking on even more children - was a natural move.
"I was surprised at how many kids are in foster care and lonely," she says.
"Everybody needs a cheerleader."Tonight she's going to see a 2-year-old boy. She walks up to a house and rings the doorbell. The foster dad opens the door and welcomes her up the stairs.
Scott Elsbrock, a Hamilton County caseworker, is already there, sitting on the couch. A white Christmas tree stands in the corner, surrounded by presents. Four stockings hang nearby, two for the parents, one for their son, the other for the 2-year-old, whom they hope to adopt.
"He looks great," Gries tells the foster mother. "You're doing great."
The boys bound through the living room, laughing and playing with the toys Gries has brought. Elsbrock smiles. This is one of 19 cases he's working on, and although it hasn't always been smooth, it looks like it will end well.
"This is a happy one," he says.
NOT ALL ENDINGS HAPPYBeing a CASA, though, isn't all about happy endings and cute kids. It can also be a navigation through filthy homes and lying relatives, a raw insight into poverty and drug abuse, an emotionally draining experience that leaves a person questioning humanity.
Janie Miller, who became a CASA nearly six years ago to "fill a hole" as she was going through a divorce, once visited a house where dog feces lay on the floor and bird droppings coated windowsills. A basket of baby clothes was soaked in cat urine.
"It's been an eye-opener to see the conditions that some people live in and raise children in," Janie Miller said.
The range of human behavior has been startling, too: Janie Miller was fooled by a drug-addicted mom who got her baby back only to lose it again.Glenna Miller was lied to by a stepfather who gained custody of a boy only to end up in prison for abusing him.
Patti Minbiole's now-homeless teenage charge refused any of the help he was offered, and she doesn't know why.
"I feel real content when I think about him, even though I'm not at all pleased," Minbiole said. "He knows that if he changes his mind, we're just a phone call away."
Sometimes the children offer tidbits that would startle most adults.
Glenna Miller recently visited a little girl with curly dark hair who mentioned, nonchalantly, that her aunt had punched her in the back.
Gries remembers an early conversation with Bush in which the girl mentioned she used to change diapers.
Your brother's? Gries asked.
No, Bush replied.
My mom's.Her mother, suffering from cerebral palsy and AIDS, died when Bush was 7.
All of it makes the CASA experience an emotional one. Some CASAs can distance themselves from their cases. Others find themselves in deep bonds with their children.
Either way, the children affect you, CASAs said.
"Even if you don't take (a case) home, it bothers you," Janie Miller said.
LASTING BONDGries and Bush had one of those deep bonds. They still do, years after Bush left the system and Gries could have walked away."When I first met her, she was so happy to see me," says Bush, no longer the runaway teenager but a striking woman who can't wait to start nursing classes. "It was like love at first sight."
Gries made the girl laugh. She never judged. She answered the phone in the middle of the night and dragged herself out of bed to pick up Bush, who'd run away again and didn't know where she was. Gries drove up and down Reading Road until Bush spotted her Suburban.
"You're really the strong one, to put up with someone like me," Bush said.
Gries gave respect and got it back. She once taught Bush how to drive in the movie theater parking lot, right after they'd seen the racing movie "2 Fast 2 Furious" and everyone else screeched out of the lot.
Bush crept along as if she had Miss Daisy in the back seat.
They only argued once, over what Bush wore to her high school graduation, high-top shoes and a skirt. Gries desperately wanted to see her in a dress.
In the end, it didn't matter.
The gown covered everything. Bush graduated.
As Bush grew older, settled down, stopped running, she realized just how deeply her CASA had affected her life. She discovered it as she looked at her two babies, as she realized what it was to care for someone who needed you, who couldn't make it without you."I learned from the best. I learned a lot from her how to be a good mom." She looks over at Gries. "You didn't think you taught me that?"