Our Origin Story

The National Registry of Standby Guardians began as a question – is foster care the only answer? Is foster care, in its current form, the best that our society can offer to at risk, neglected or abused children?

As the summer of 2013 came to a close, sitting in my living room, my mother and I discussed adoption. My adoption. At age 42, adoption was the last thing I had on my mind.

In the summer 1978, my brother and I had been placed in the care of strangers once again – our fourth foster home. A place where we would spend 7 years of our lives, a placement that would change everything about us. Fortunately, while in that home, my brother made friends with the Coleman’s children, a neighborhood family a few houses down the street. Mr. and Mrs. Coleman would later report to the Cobb County Department of Family and Children’s Services (DFCS) that my brother and I were being abused and used as child labor in our fourth foster home. And DFCS would later do… nothing. And a few years later, we would move with that same abusive family to a rural community where DFCS would rarely check on us.

As my brother neared his 18th birthday and his “emancipation” in 1985, our time in our fourth, abusive home would thankfully come to an end. No longer of any use to the foster parents, after an afternoon argument, my brother packed his few belongings into a trash bag, as we had always done when moving, and he was summarily deposited at the door of the Carroll County, GA, DFCS offices that night. At 13 years old I was left behind, and scared to death.

Between myself, my brother, and one of the few caring and interested case workers we ever had, we hatched a plan for me to also leave the home. Three days later, freedom secured, I began the process of rebuilding myself, in Darryl and Roger’s temporary foster home, two wonderful men with complex families of their own who often opened their doors to help others. It was a brief and welcome reprieve.

My sixth home did not work out (and I later learned that I may have barely skirted yet another disastrous placement), but I was at least in proximity to Mr. and Mrs. Coleman and their children once again. And they shared my story with my future parents, Bob and Doris Jefferson.

In October of 1986, at age 15, I packed my belongings into trash bags for the last time and moved into my seventh and final home. I am still amazed of the willingness of my family to become my family. At age 46, mom (Doris) had just had surgery for breast cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. Friday night dinner was always Chinese take out – all that she could keep down after chemotherapy. Dad (Bob) was in the advanced stage of SCA-2 (Spinocerebellar Ataxia type 2), an inherited disease that slowly deteriorates the cerebellum. Their oldest son, 24 at the time, also exhibited the disease. And their youngest had just graduated high school. I was incredibly fortunate to be in that home and in that family, and to be the focus of their care. My luck in becoming a part of their family was not because of DFCS, but in spite of DFCS. DFCS had not found a home for me, the village did.

Fast forward to 2013. Dad passed away from his disease in 2008. Their oldest son died only a few months later in 2008, also from the disease. Mom had undergone open heart surgery in 2011, and my wife and I had just recently celebrated the first birthday of our daughter.

As a foster child, adoption was not something I wanted. In 1978, when I was seven and my brother was 11, our birth father had first signed away his parental rights under pressure from DFCS. A few months later in 1979, our birth mother followed suit. We spent the remainder of our time before turning 18 as wards of the state.

Identity is everything. And my identity was simply, foster child. It was front and center because every adult made it so. Discussions at school, at church, in public, in private, always. I was, you are – we always are – foster children. We are always connected to someone else’s mistakes.

As survivors of a failed child welfare system, it is that identity that we mistakenly carry forth into adulthood. No encounter was ever without worry of the dreaded question, “tell me about your family.” But as I aged into adulthood, family was clear – Bob and Doris were mom and dad, and I had always called them mom and dad. I learned to navigate the questions. Answer briefly. Move on.

In 2013, as we sat in my living room, mom and I agreed to move forward with an adult adoption, something she and dad wanted to do earlier. As I processed that moment, a renewed sense of gratitude and purpose was awakened. Many years had passed since I had worried about being a foster child. I began to speak again. Through outlets on the web, to friends, to strangers.

One thing about my journey has always been rare and unique – Bob and Doris Jefferson. They had become my family not because they wanted to “go into foster care.” They did it because someone I knew – someone who knew me – knew that I needed them. At risk children need to be with someone they know and someone who knows them, not strangers. At risk children need familiarity, care and understanding. They need placements of choice. Those placements work. Those placements heal. And that is why the National Registry of Standby Guardians exists.

We are the village.