The Texas Foster Care System is so awful, a jury decided not allow CPS to have custody of 6-year-old boy.

With a span of 18 months, a 6-year-old boy has been in the custody of Child Protective Services had been promised four times that he's getting adopted. He never got adopted. Things fall apart…but kids, especially desperate 6-year-old kids….don’t under understand what that means.

Two years before that, the same boy was sexually abused in the foster care system with no charges against the 14-year-old who abused him and now the boy's mental state has deteriorated to the point that he needs to be hospitalized….and just to add to their complete incompetence, the Texas CPS put the child on psychotropic drugs.

So a lawyer sued the CPS on the boys behalf and a jury decided that the child would be better off out of the states care. (Let that sink in for a moment) CPS then asked the judge to follow the jury's wishes to terminate the mother's parental rights and ignore the rest of the jury’s decision.

What will happen to the boys after this remains to be seen.

This week’s death in the world of foster care

Nevaeh Gerrior, a 5-year-old foster child in Fall River Mass. died in a foster home in December of 2018.  A criminal investigation is underway into the death. She and her younger brother had been placed in the home in early 2018. There aren’t many details in the case except that the Easthampton Police Department said “prolonged, length lifesaving efforts were rendered” Sources say that there were adults living in the house who may not have undergone background checks.

English

And now a word from F. Scott

Run!

Art

TO PRACTICE ANY ART, NO MATTER HOW WELL OR BADLY, IS A WAY TO MAKE YOUR SOUL GROW. SO DO IT.

Franny and Zooey

He let his attention be drawn to a little scene that was being acted out sublimely, unhampered by writers and directors and producers, five stories below the window and across the street.

A fair-sized maple tree stood in front of the girls’ private school-one of four or five trees on that fortunate side of the street-and at the moment a child of seven or eight, female, was hiding behind it. She was wearing a navy-blue reefer and a tam that was very nearly the same shade of red as the blanket on the bed in van Gogh’s room at Aries. Her tam did, in fact, from Zooey’s vantage point, appear not unlike a dab of paint. Some fifteen feet away from the child, her dog-a young dachshund, wearing a green leather collar and leash-was sniffing to find her, scurrying in frantic circles, his leash dragging behind him.

The anguish of separation was scarcely bearable for him, and when at last he picked up his mistress’s scent, it wasn’t a second too soon. The joy of reunion, for both, was immense. The dachshund gave a little yelp, then cringed forward, shimmying with ecstasy, till his mistress, shouting something at him, stepped hurriedly over the wire guard surrounding the tree and picked him up. She said a number of words of praise to him, in the private argot of the game, then put him down and picked up his leash, and the two walked gaily west, toward Fifth Avenue and the Park and out of Zooey’s sight.

Zooey reflexively put his hand on a crosspiece between panes of glass, as if he had a mind to raise the window and lean out of it to watch the two disappear. It was his cigar hand, however, and he hesitated a second too long. He dragged on his cigar.

“God damn it,” he said, “there are nice things in the world-and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked.

J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey