I was at a fund raising party for CASA a while ago. CASA stands for Court Appointed Child Advocate.
I didn’t pay to go, a person I knew bought a table and asked if I would go to it to fill the seats.
I am never one to pass up an opportunity, even for a cause I do not support. In some ways it amuses me.
The crowd is filled with the usual messed up do gooders. Social workers that are still dealing with their issues, by messing with or messing up other people, lawyers, doctors, a whole host of people from the locust generation that believe in saving the world by FUBAR.
Oh, wait, I’m letting my personal bias shine through. Let me just tell the story.
So I am at this party, eating and drinking (because selling alcohol makes a lot of money, regardless of how many people here are from alcoholic homes).
And a woman gets up to address the crowd. She is thin, old, her hair is dyed that awful shade of red that never looks realistic and she starts to tell a story about a little boy she “rescued.”
She does not go into why the boy was removed from his parent, or parents, or which parent, but the boy is about three, maybe four years old and he is taken by the state and put in a foster home.
And as the boy is being taken away he reaches out to his father, and his father tells him goodbye. And the boy asks to stay with his father.
And the father tells him, “No, son, you can’t.”
And the boy cries in the car and looks out the window at his dad as he is driven away.
And the boy asks this woman, that was instrumental in having him removed, if he can call his grandmother.
And the woman says, “Sure.” In that sweet voice she has, then she tells the audience that it was a mistake to do this.
And the boy gets on the phone with his grandmother and he says, “Grandma?”
And the grandma answers.
And the boy says, “Grandma, I want to go home with you.”
And this woman is listening in, because that’s the thing these people do so she knows the answer that the grandmother gives.
“I can’t sweetheart.”
The boy in a forlorn voice says, “Yes you can, just come and get me.”
And she replies, ” I don’t know where you are.”
“I’m right here grandma, I want to be with you.”
“I’m sorry sweetheart.”
And the phone call ends, and the boy goes to the window, and places his hand on the window and starts crying, begging for his dad or his grandma to get him.
He waits and he waits. The tears fall from his cheeks as he stares out the window until he is exhausted and falls asleep at the window.
Now the woman telling this story goes on to say that the boy “was not crying for what he had lost” but “was crying for something he had never had.”
Little kids don’t cry over something “they never had” that’s adult thinking.
I got drunk that night, and after writing this, I’m going to get drunk again.
