Before the April 15 death of 5-year-old Andrew “AJ” Freund of Crystal Lake, there was 2-year-old Ja’hir Gibbons of Chicago, allegedly beaten to death in March by his mother’s boyfriend who, prosecutors say, used a rolled up T-shirt as a weapon.
Before Ja’hir, there was 2-year-old Ta’Naja Barnes, found starved and wrapped in a urine-soaked blanket in her unheated Decatur home in February. Before Ta’Naja, there was 2-year-old Malachi England of Charleston, discovered by his worried grandmother, dead in a playpen that had been placed in front of the TV where his mother left him for several days. The grandmother said she had contacted the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services about living conditions at her daughter’s apartment.
Then there was 6-year-old Liam Roberts of Jerseyville, slowly starved to death by his parents as a mode of discipline. His father finally brought him to the hospital, limp in his arms. It was too late.
In each case, DCFS had received a hotline call about the child or been involved with the family. In AJ’s case, DCFS had a long history with his mother. Politicians already are looking to assess blame. DCFS Director Marc Smith answered questions before an Illinois House committee last week. Some lawmakers on the panel have been repeating this drill for decades: Another child death. Another new director. Another hearing.
It’s natural to want to assign blame. It’s a coping mechanism to process the revulsion of child abuse.
But bureaucracy is not always the culprit. DCFS case workers are not the evildoers. Agency directors are not the offenders.
In most child deaths investigated by DCFS, parents or their paramours are the thugs. By the time DCFS starts showing up for well-being checks, the parents know how to game the system. Many of them are addicts. They are conniving. They are manipulative. While plenty of adults failed AJ, no one failed him more than his mother and his father, Andrew Freund Sr. and JoAnn Cunningham, both now facing murder charges. They are accused of beating the child to death and burying his body in a shallow grave days before reporting him missing.
So how do we reduce the number of AJs? Certainly reducing caseloads at DCFS is a top priority. But it’s also time for DCFS to tilt away from the agency’s firm and risky philosophy of keeping families together, which it maintains even in circumstances where parents are fighting addictions, abuse allegations have surfaced, and living conditions are unsanitary. Too often, the rights of parents outweigh the safety of children. It’s upside-down.
Parents suspected of abuse or neglect who temporarily or permanently lose their children are given ample opportunity to regain custody — and often do. They’re asked to take parenting classes or enter drug treatment. They’re asked to show up for appointments and court dates. In many cases, they’re offered visitation during the time of separation. Terminating parental rights is not a cursory process. Parents get many chances to change their lives. So did AJ’s. But vulnerable children should never be kept in unsafe living conditions due to biology.
That’s where the rest of us come in: DCFS needs a foster parent safety net. We can’t expect case workers to yank children from bad homes if they have nowhere to place them. Case workers will tell you of their desperation trying to find someone willing to take in a child during an emergency. Would you open your doors in the middle of the night to a traumatized child?
Becoming a licensed foster parent requires 27 hours of classes, a home visit, a background check and a faith built of cast iron. As one foster parent told me, you have to jump in all the way. No tippy-toes in the shallow end.
The DCFS website includes a section on children currently searching for their “forever family.” There’s little Mary, 11, wearing a pink pea coat and eyeglasses, offering a shy smile. She would “like a home where she can have a family, friends over and her own room.” Michael, also 11, would like a family “who will help him with his homework and do fun things with him.” Twelve-year-old Jaxson just wants “a family that loves me. He would also like to be able to maintain contact with his siblings.”
Would you explore becoming a forever family — or being a safe place for a child on the path to forever? Are you willing to jump into the deep end? Consider AJ your gentle nudge.
Kristen McQueary is a member of the Tribune Editorial Board.
kmcqueary@chicagotribune.com
