Child Warfare

By Sunny Irish

The burdens carried by those working in child welfare are huge. Answering the phone 24/7/365 to help a child, and then having to quickly determine if the child is safe to stay or needs to leave their home-that is a level of responsibility few wish to take on. As a military veteran who transitioned from serving her country to serving her communit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Apr 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649908650

Sunny Irish

After retiring from the U.S. Navy, Sunny went to work in the Child Welfare system. She has served on all sides of the system and is currently the executive director of a non-profit residential program. This book is the first in a planned series that will give readers a glimpse into the job that never sleeps, a field that has the highest turnover rate of employees in the nation, and the people who must respond to it all.

Book preview

PREFACE

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very year, more than 3.6 million referrals are made to child protection agencies involving more than 6.6 million children in the US As a military veteran, it’s much like a deployment. For those who are working in the field, it’s a heavy burden to carry. There is little time to spend with loved ones, and those who share your burdens often become your family. The horrors seen by those who are asked to respond, assist, remove, and rehabilitate families are often memories that only soldiers can understand.

The turnover in child welfare is higher than almost any job in the nation. If you’re curious to know what keeps us sane, read on.

WHERE MY TOUR BEGAN

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hirty years ago, in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I answered an ad in the local paper’s back to apply for a caseworker position. Sitting in the parking lot of a former furniture showroom, I wondered what type of job it entailed. Would I have my own office? What hours would I work? What kind of families would I serve? I tossed my Styrofoam cup in the bed of the truck, secured my hair with an elastic band, dabbed on a bit of lipstick, and entered the double glass doors.

The inside of the building was pretty unimpressive. The watercooler choked in anticipation of the next mouth longing for a cool drink on a stiflingly hot day. The scuffed walls stood naked with the occasional remnant of tape and a dog-eared corner from a page torn from the wall. Commercial carpet with worn patches led the way to a freight elevator and a single sign that read Interviews Upstairs. As the doors closed and the elevator belched like a happy patron polishing off a big meal, the bell sounded, and the doors opened. The upstairs resembled the downstairs; only multiple offices led to a vast room where a panel of supervisors sat in observation to find their next candidate.

A quick scan of the room estimated over one hundred applicants lined in four long rows of innumerable eclectic chairs that appeared to be rounded up from a salvage yard—ladder-back, ergonomic, swivel, and reclining chairs all lined up like recruits on the first day of basic training with no evidence of symmetry found between them. I made my way through the mostly female aisles and settled into a straight-backed chair that wobbled a bit when I shifted my weight. The multicultural panel of supervisors took turns asking a series of questions, often straining to see the candidate’s name pinned on a lapel.

Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves and tell us a little bit about you, said the first supervisor. One by one, first and last name introductions were made, followed up with a synopsis of large and small triumphant stories justifying their candidacy.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I drowned out the stories and began assessing shoes. Why would she wear those to an interview? I asked myself. Sandals, flip-flops, loafers, mules, and the occasional sighting of high heels told a story to me of the feet shoved inside them. I quietly assessed the shoes, as the candidates gave their pitch, and made some deductions that might or might not have been accurate. A woman, short in stature, chewing vigorously on a large amount of gum, pushed her glasses to the rim of her nose before calling my name.

Sunny. Sunny Irish? Can Sunny Irish stand up?

I sprung to my feet and thought, Geez, give me a minute!

Hello! I’m Sunny Irish. I recently moved to the area after leaving the military and working the night shift in a children’s residential program. I attended Norfolk State University and relocated to Florida, hoping to continue to work in the field. As the interviewer hurriedly took notes, I waited for the next line of questioning.

Do you have a Florida driver’s license? she asked.

I do, I answered.

No further questions.

I contemplated the abrupt nature of the questioning and assessed it with the vigorous chewing of the gum. My assessment was equally weighted on a hell yes or a "hell