The other day, an earnest young
writer, who grew up in care herself, asked me, “Why at your age do you describe
yourself as a care leaver?” The question
surprised me, as it is not something I have ever thought about. To me, it was
like asking me why I describe myself as a Mancunian, or a grandfather, or a
university graduate. It’s an integral part of what I am. I grew up in care. That is a fact. At 18
years old, I left care and became a care leaver. The status of care leaver did not disappear
when I reached a certain age, got married, got a degree, a career or any other
threshold. It is what I am and will always be.
The question then caused me to wonder why another care
leaver would ask such a question. Is there some internal measure that suggests
that as soon as one becomes successful or independent, one should stop calling
oneself a care leaver? Similar perhaps to when one recovers from an illness and
no longer needs the doctor one ceases to be a patient? Or when one pays one’s debts to another, one
ceases to be a debtor?
It occurred to me that my earnest interrogator viewed
‘care leaver’ as a negative and transitory stage in life, one to be
experienced before we move into full maturity, and certainly not one that a
successful retired professional family man should include in his
self-description. Care leaver is a ‘label’ that should be discarded as the
label adolescent would be discarded as we grow up.
Care leaver means more to me than that. I grew up in the
care of the state. I grew up in a random collection of children’s homes and
foster homes, and experienced different carers and placements. I experienced the powerlessness of being
moved around whether I liked it or not, and having to change schools, even though
I was happily settled where I was. I
experienced a sprinkling of physical abuse and a liberal helping of emotional
abuse at the hands of some of my carers. I met some unpleasant people in care,
and I also met some lovely caring people who had a real impact on my later
life. I left care with nowhere to go, few resources, a large chip on my
shoulder, lots of unresolved issues and unmet need.
Whereas other kids can enjoy their adolescence and higher
education, I needed that time to sort myself out, and I was in my late 20’s
before I finally found my way to university. By then, I had also found myself a
professional career and married a wonderful woman who was my wife for 41 years
until she died. That ‘sorting out’ process was a collection of lucky breaks,
being in the right place at the right time, bloody hard work and resilience on
my part. It was also attributable to some key people being prepared to commit
to me, support me and give me the chances I needed to develop though the
disadvantages I had accrued in the care system.
I ‘survived’ care.
By my 30’s I was an ordinary middle class professional
with a developing career with prospects and a loving family. We care leavers do
not wear a badge on our foreheads, so I was just another unremarkable member of
the community. I think that this journey into social invisibility is true for a
majority of care leavers. We are a pretty
resilient bunch, and if care has not damaged us too much, and if we get the
lucky breaks and have the practical and emotional support, most of us disappear
into Society as we grow older. I think
it is largely a lottery rather than the result of any carefully considered
master plan.
But there’s the rub. Not all of us escape as lightly. Not
all of us get those lucky breaks in the care lottery, or have people who are
prepared to love us, or to go the extra mile to support us. Some of us suffer
such abuse in care or experience such a level of disadvantage that they are
unable to make that transition from care to invisibility. This is not the place
to insert statistics, but there can be little doubt that the dice are loaded
for many young people and adults coming out of the care system and they will
not enjoy the journey into comfortable invisibility that I made.
I am a care leaver. I crossed that bridge to social
invisibility successfully. I have proved
many times that I am as worthy as anyone else, and that being a care leaver
need not mean that I cannot achieve my wishes. To me, being a care leaver is
not something to hide or be ashamed of.
I have no need to be invisible, and if my not being invisible helps
other care leavers who are struggling, surely I have a moral duty to declare my
status and show my peers that if this clumsy old man can ‘make it’ then so can
they. More than that, I have a moral
duty to challenge the inequalities and disadvantages that my care leaver peers
are suffering to help them on their journey to happiness and independence.
I am a care leaver, and I am proud of it.
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