EACH CHILD IS UNIQUE

 Remember when we had a working class, a middle class and an upper class?

And 'blue collar' workers and 'white collar' workers?

No?

I do. 

Ah, categorisation was easy not so long ago. Nowadays we have more 'demographies' than you can shake a stick at.

Thanks to fostering I've come to treating each person as an individual and finding out their personal story rather than pigeon-holing them. My thing now is to try not to jump to conclusions about a family because they live on a particular housing estate, or drive a Range Rover, which was a trap I used to fall into.

We looked after a lad, I'll call him Tyrone, who had been removed from his single mum. They shared a modest house on a notorious estate. Social housing. Blue flashing lights every Friday and Saturday night. Tyrone's mum drove a top of the range brand new 4x4 (probably on lease), had a 5 foot TV, and held down some sort of semi-executive financial job with one of the big supermarket chains. 

She was at war with Tyrone's father, a big man with a police record. I was asked to take Tyrone to Contact with his dad. That sort of thing isn't a problem for the foster parent, the routine is that you hand the child over to a Contact Officer, and when it's over they bring the child out to you. You don't have to even see the parents, unless everyone wants to and it's agreed and supervised.

Tyrone's dad lived elsewhere.

Tyrone used to be left alone in the house when his mother went out drinking every night and came home with different men and a multiplex of substances.

Tyrone was a picture of neglect; a child whose mother and father each made it clear to him that he was unwanted, a nuisance. I often wondered if his mum was glad of the respite when social services took him away, if you can believe that. 

We went to work on helping Tyrone develop a sense of belonging and self-worth. It's often a cornerstone job in fostering, and a mighty rewarding  one.

Contact is sometimes sweet, sometimes tricky; not always easy for the child; we foster parents make it work. 

The Contact was in the community hall in the centre of Tyrone's housing estate - a place some people used to call a 'sink estate'.

Tyrone and I arrived early and rather than sit in the car for half-an-hour I suggested we go for a stroll. This was Tyrone's home patch. We hadn't gone more than 100 yards when two young women, both pushing pushchairs, came walking towards us. As soon as they saw Tyrone they lit up and went;

"Tyrone! Hello mate! How you doing?"

Tyrone waved and they exchanged a few pleasantries. 

Tyrone and I carried on walking and went past a house with a low brick wall. Sitting on the wall was a large older woman and a smaller, younger, tattoed girl, both smoking. The same thing happened;

"Hello Tyrone! You alright kiddo?"

Another brief, friendly chat.

This happened over and over. Everyone knew Tyrone. Everyone knew everybody. Except me. I didn't get a word spoken to me, or even an acknowledgement that I was looking after one of theirs.

That's what Tyrone was; 'One of theirs".

Their community.

I could sense the distinct and heady fragrance of... family.

Tyrone didn't have a mum and dad. He had hundreds of mums and dads.

I live in suburbia. It took several years after we moved in before I got to know even the names of some of our neighbours and even then we only got formal, irrelevant chit chat. Tyrone had an entire village.

Tyrone came when I was newish to fostering. I'll give you a clue to how long ago;

10 years back I attended a childrens award ceremony for young people who were either in care or had been in care. My foster child at the time was getting a trophy. It was a great evening. It was at a posh hotel, so to make it a night to remember for our child we booked a suite at the hotel and stayed the night. He had sausage and chips from room service and watched cartoons before nodding off in his adjoining bedroom.

Next evening, while sat at our table waiting for our foster son to be announced I became aware of a pair of eyes on me. A big man, with a small smile at the corners of this mouth. 

Tyrone! 

I went straight over and caught up with him. Married, one child, good job as a self-employed builder. 

Tyrone was announced and went up on stage to collect his award.

Our kid went up after Tyrone and punched the air heading towards centre stage. You never forget moments like that.

So. Tyrone had been brought up on an estate that sociologists (remember them?) would have labelled socio-economic group "E", ("A" being Knighstbridge, "B" being upper middle class suburbia and so on). 

But in terms of communuty it was an A.

I don't know how much my fostering helped Tyrone on his way. I'm absolutely certain that the warmth of the community was a big factor.

So, from that experience onwards I try to make no pre-judgements about kids and parents based on their affluence or lack of it, or their job, or lack of one. 

Of course I reserve judgement on some of the things that happen in homes that children are removed from, but they are specifics and each deserves specific thought.

Each family is unique, each child even more so.

No pigeon holes.