Trigger warning: Paris's story includes accounts of child abuse, neglect, trauma, and bullying.
Peeling off my polo neck, I heard a sharp intake of breath from my school nurse and saw her eyes widen as she scanned my body.
I was six years old and my skin looked like a battleground: burns on my arm where it had been held over a flame, blue-black bruises from where I’d been hit with a belt, scars all over my scalp & a feeling of terror that followed me like a cloud. The school nurse was accompanied by the lovely lady from the NSPCC, who gave me my first ever toy, a small black and white dog called Snoopy.
I spent two weeks in the local hospital. The assessment and x-rays - which seemed relentless - had a two-fold purpose: to ensure I was not suffering from any internal damage & to piece together the awful experiences I had endured. The evidence of previously broken bones was what caused my mother to be arrested on suspicion of child abuse.
After hospital, I was placed in an assessment centre, a large, brick building, devoid of windows, with high barbed-wire fencing all around the perimeter. There were 4 sections, an education facility on the premises, and residential staff who worked various shifts. I resided in section A, and section B, C and D housed the children who had behavioural and learning difficulties. Back then, the terminology was very different and full of negativity and offence. I recall my first night. With the light off and the glow of light under my door as a guide, I got up to use the toilet and realised my bedroom door was locked. I crawled back into bed tired, confused and sad. That night was the first time I had wet my bed in many years.
Mum was convicted of multiple counts of abuse, neglect and what was termed ‘failure to thrive’, meaning she had consciously did what she could to prevent me growing and developing in a healthy and happy way. She was sentenced to four years in prison. Her ‘two-year reign of terror’ was splashed over the newspapers. However, I was astute enough to know that this was not something that had started two years ago. She served eighteen months in an all-female prison in North London called Holloway, spending most of her time in isolation to protect her from the abuse she would endure if her fellow inmates knew why she was there. I think about that protection she had while incarcerated, and the lack of protection I had from her as a child and, on reflection, it seems somewhat ironic. Even now I feel a sense of anguish at what I endured at the hands of my Mum.
At Christmas, everyone went ‘home’ to their respective families, at which point it slowly dawned on me that my life was different, that I was different, in many ways. The staff expressed concern, as I was the youngest child and the only child who remained for the duration of the holidays.
I ate lovely Christmas food for the first time, and I received my first life-size doll, who I named Kathy. A white member of staff, (I nicknamed him My Fox in my mind, as his hair was the colour of fox’s fur), had tried to wash my afro hair. He used a bar of soap, and I recall the pain as my hair matted into a clump and he tried to comb it. I began crying, and he said it was best if they cut my hair off. When the other children came back after Christmas, they decided I was no longer a girl & I was teased relentlessly. My short hair had turned me into a boy overnight, and for the second time in a short period, I realised I was different from the other children. When my dad came to visit me, he was sad and angry that my hair was gone, he wanted to know who had cut it & why they had done so.
It was at this point in my journey that I began to look at food
differently, a sense of loyalty to Mum and a strange desperate feeling of being out of control, made me limit my food intake. I no longer enjoyed the strange, unfamiliar food I was given, and apart from the sweets I spent my pocket money on, I rarely ate.
My keyworker at the children’s home informed me that an advert was being placed in the local paper for a new home for me. Initially, I felt excited and terrified. They asked me what I would like to be called, as they would change my real name to protect me, especially as my name was so uncommon. Kathy, my favourite doll, that would be my name in the paper. There was a response to the advert, but it was hard to find black families with enough room to take in a child. But I was delighted when I met the Hendon* family. They had five children, one only 2 years old, so cute, although he was never keen on playing with me as he loved his cars and trains. Julie* was the same age as me, and the only girl in the family. It was time for me to leave primary school, so we would attend school together, I was only a few months older, but I was in the academic year above her. We played together lots, but she was larger and stronger than me, and it wasn’t long before I was bullied into doing things I did not want to do, like shop lifting. It began with sweets and crisps, but soon led to bigger and more expensive items, and if I didn’t do it, she would hurt me.
One day, I came into my bedroom to find the light off. It was bedtime, so I attempted to turn on the light switch to get ready for bed, only to be confronted with the bulb removed. Julie proceeded to jump onto my back, attacking me with a sharp object, which I later found out was my foster mum’s knitting needles. I tried helplessly to defend myself, but the muffled laughter in the background, as my foster brothers hid in the dark to watch the onslaught, gave me a dejected feeling of resignation.
It was pointless. Julie reminded me that I was not welcome in her
family. Kathy, my lovely life-size doll, had been damaged; Julie had cut off all her hair. It wasn’t long before I asked to leave the family.
I was unlucky! Four more families, with short stays in between in group homes, residential homes and a girl’s hostel, left me feeling displaced, unloved, and unwanted. For the next nine years in care, I bounced from place to place, never fitting in. Every family was different, culturally, racially, religiously and I found it increasingly difficult to stay positive and focussed, at school I began acting out. Racism from white staff members left me confused and alienated, I was called ‘a Bounty’ by the older black children, accused of being ‘brown on the outside’ but ‘acting too white’. I was criticised for not conforming with a family’s religion, and I was beginning to form an outer shell of anger and protection to protect myself from being attacked.
I began isolating myself and reading books about twins who only communicated with each other, books about women, psychology, books which inspired me and gave me hope. Bell Hooks, Toni Morrison and Maya Angelo made a fierce and noticeable impression on me. They made me feel determined. I wanted to succeed, and I felt as if I could. I went to a conference led by an organisation called ‘Black and In Care’. It was the first time I was in a room filled with positive people who were all in foster care, children’s homes and other residential units. We spoke about our experiences in smaller groups with people from Manchester, Bradford, Birmingham and Leicester, all mixed-race or black young people who were care-experienced, and most of the adults, the professionals, were people of colour too. For the first time in my life, I felt heard, seen, valued even.
When Mum came out of prison, she sporadically visited me, but I noticed that these visits were less frequent if I lived in a family. She was odd, and I observed how untidy her home was in comparison to other places I had lived. When I confronted her about the abuse, she laughed at me and said I had been ‘brainwashed’ by Social Services. She said she was imprisoned because society was racist. I knew otherwise, and nothing she could say would change what I felt: I had never done anything wrong, not really, and I had never had any of my basic needs for love and protection met, while in her care. But what had hurt me the most emotionally, was the fact that these needs were not met while I was in care either.
It might seem strange that I was able to forgive the woman who had ruined my life but deep down I knew it would help me heal. From the books I read about psychology, the way she spoke, the hoarding in her home and her general demeanour, I could tell she was mentally unwell.
I began to attend some group sessions organised by Black and Care, the organisation which had held the conference, and I became a member of the Steering Group, then the Chair, leading the London arm of the organisation. I began sharing my perspectives with policymakers of what it had been like to live in care as a black child. This led to changes in the law - the 1989 Children’s Act. Foster carers were to be trained in understanding trauma and child development, and children from black and ethnic minority backgrounds were now being placed with foster carers from the same or similar cultural backgrounds. I felt so empowered. Mum had told me I would amount to nothing, and her words had penetrated deep. But she was wrong. Here I was, making life better for every young black person growing up in care. I knew I wanted to practice psychology, I wanted to help Mum and to use empathy and compassion to understand her and her struggles.
I channelled my experience into a force for good, travelling the length of the UK as a motivational speaker, sharing my story and my expertise in psychology to inspire and motivate children in schools and professionals in business.
And I continue to campaign for support for children in care. I’m currently an associate trainer for the Fostering Network, the UK’s largest foster care organisation, and I am a panel member for a private fostering agency, regularly reading reports and assessing prospective foster carers. I’m a motivational speaker, travelling the length and breadth of the UK to speak to children in schools, inmates in prisons, professionals in social work and teaching, therapeutic practitioners and as a keynote speaker at conferences and seminars to inspire change.
The number of children in care is set to rise to 100,000 by 2025. There is a shortage of foster carers in England and this needs to be addressed but much more is required across the care system, including more support when people transition out of care at the age of 21, more focus on helping LGBTQ+ children and, in my opinion, being in care should be a protected characteristic. Care leavers should be given a head start in life. I feel passionate about awareness raising, research, and working with other organisations to develop positive interventions.
Long-term outcomes for care experienced people are shocking, with research across 16 countries showing a higher risk of social exclusion and marginalisation for former fostered young people (Annick, 2011). Recent figures from England (Department for Education, 2019) show 38% of those who leave care aged 19 to 21 are not in education, training or employment (NEET), compared with 11.6% for all young people.
Another study reviewed the prevalence of mental health disorders among looked after children in the UK and found that around 1 in 3 had a diagnosed mental health condition with figures currently standing at 1 in 4 for the general population. Government statistics suggest that around 28% of adult prisoners are care experienced and one in four homeless people are previous care leavers or care experienced.
To anyone in care is reading this, I want to say:
“Believe in yourself. Don’t believe the rhetoric that you won’t achieve anything – I am proof that isn’t true. Get support and remember that being in care means you will be resilient and understand people better than anyone. Being in care is your superpower – remember that.”
Find out more about Paris here.
Follow Paris on Twitter: @survivegrow
If you're an ACTIVIST for the Care Experienced community and would like us to feature you and your activism, contact us via email: careexperienceandculture@gmail.com
This article was taken from its original source and shared with permission to The Book Whisperers' site.