Silence of Shame by Wendy Jean Menara

Author:Wendy Jean Menara [Menara, Wendy J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781735396910
Publisher: Indie Author Project

CHAPTER 13

FOOD STAMPS AND SOCIAL WORKERS

Madeline, Jeff, Wendy and Kelly. My older brother Jeff was visiting during my sister's first communion. I seemed to have continually crooked bangs as a youth, circa 1971 or 1972.

As a child I couldn’t fully comprehend what being wards of the probate court of Gogebic County meant, but I knew it was serious and we had to behave. Social Services visited often. Like clockwork, before each social worker visit, Mumma made us clean the house and ensured we were well-groomed and wore our finest clothes. I was always on my best behavior when Mr. Kamny or Mr. Wilson came to call, as I was certain that if we misbehaved, I would be taken away from Mumma.

Regardless of this undercurrent of anxiety, I looked forward to the regular visits. The men were kind and offered encouraging words. I eagerly awaited to see which social worker drove up on visitation days. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I dragged the yellow kitchen chair to the window and perched over the windowsill awaiting their arrival. After what seemed an eternity, a car pulled up and I strained to see who emerged from the car. I jumped down from the chair. “He’s here, Mumma. He’s here. It’s Mr. Wilson.” She nodded, “Keep it down. Behave.”

Both of our social workers were kind men. But my favorite was Mr. Wilson. He visited with Mumma and asked her questions. Then he turned to us and, with a calm, relaxing smile, casually asked how we were doing. I felt like he really cared. And though his visit soothed me for the time being, I knew it was only a matter of time after he left that the angst and fear of being taken away would rear its ugly head again and inwardly torment me. I would go back to my usual routine.

Mumma was adamant about keeping the house clean, even when the men from Social Services weren’t visiting. We all had chores. And though we shared housecleaning duties of vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing the floor, we each had a specific room that we were responsible for—my room was the bathroom. Every Sunday, we took turns taking our bath. Because we had no shower, in between bath days, we cleaned up with a wet rag and soap. Mumma was adamant that our necks and arms were clean. She inspected us afterward and told us, “You still have scurf on your neck, go wash.” I trudged back into the bathroom and scrubbed my neck until all the dirt was gone. I emerged from the bathroom with a dazzling clean, albeit striking red neck from scrubbing.

I liked the smell of Spic and Span. I filled the mop bucket with warm water, poured in the cleaning solution, and dragged the heavy bucket down the short hallway. I took great pride in keeping the bathroom clean. I mopped the floor and fervently scrubbed the toilet with a rag and Comet. I was used to cleaning Mumma’s bedpan and getting pee and poo on me, so I never minded a dirty toilet.

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