De'Von was lucky—and resourceful. Most of the 20,000 foster kids who "age out" of the system every year are far less fortunate. The statistics are stunning: Nearly 40 percent fail to graduate from high school, and an equal number end up on welfare. Within two years a third have children, usually out of wedlock, and 18 percent are in prison. "They're a terrifically vulnerable population," says Robin Nixon, director of the National Foster Care Coalition in Washington, D.C.
In 1999 Congress addressed the problem with a law that pumps $140 million annually into transition-to-adulthood programs and requires agencies to teach independent living skills. But local resources vary widely, and many foster children are unaware of them when they leave the system. The net result, child welfare advocates say, is that far too many young people still fall through the cracks. Some seek stability by joining the military—like the real-life hero of the just-released movie Antwone Fisher. Others try to make it on their own, with often disastrous results. "Some trade their bodies for a place to live or plan their lives around stays in prison or in homeless shelters," says Philip Mangano, executive director of the federal government's Interagency Council on Homelessness. "We should do better for these kids."
De'Von could easily have become another casualty. The eldest of four brothers born in Lincolnton, N.C., he never knew his father and says his mother, a sometime textile worker and welfare recipient, left the children alone for days at a time. By age 8, De'Von was often forced to care for Porter, now 15, Nicholas, 14, and KaShawn, 11. "I had to cook, wash their clothes, make sure they were dressed," he says. "Sometimes I had to take a few dollars out of my mother's purse to get food."
In 1997 social workers put the boys in foster care, initially in different homes. By 2000, when they were reunited in a group home, De'Von was determined to find a parental figure who would be there for the long haul. "I was afraid to be basically cut loose," he says. The scheme was a long shot—older children are difficult to place, and his brothers, who remain in foster care, accused him of abandoning his real kin. "I caught a lot of grief," he says, "but once I set my mind on something it's hard to get me turned away from it." He persuaded child-welfare workers to put him on a list of adoptable youngsters and became active in a statewide organization of foster kids called Say So. De'Von's picture and story were featured on posters and billboards during a national adoption-awareness campaign. A sympathetic social worker also posted his photo and biography on a Web site. Letters from prospective parents poured in from across the country--including one from Walker, a Tennessee native who teaches at the State University of New York in Geneseo. The pair eventually bonded over a shared love of politics, barbecue and their southern heritage; De'Von moved in with her last summer, and the adoption is expected to be finalized within months. (He remains in touch with his brothers but hasn't spoken to his birth mother in years.) "She listens to me and cares about what I think," he says. "It feels permanent."
Rebecca Sani's tale is more typical. Unable to make it on her own after aging out of foster care, the Tucson, Ariz., native lived with her birth mother for 11 months, despite a deeply troubled relationship. "She was my last resort," says Rebecca, 19, who is struggling to raise a 4-month-old son with the help of public assistance. Rebecca was 18 months old when her father died suddenly, leaving her and her siblings (Lelani, now 28 and a homemaker, and Jeff, 25, a college student) in the care of their mother, a former nurse. Rebecca first entered foster care at 3, after officials investigated allegations of abuse and neglect. "My mom did drugs," says Rebecca, who also says a boyfriend of her mother's sexually abused her. (Rebecca's mother declined to speak with PEOPLE.)
Rebecca then passed through a succession of foster families and group homes. The frequent moves, typical for foster kids, left her angry and rebellious. By her teens she was running away from caregivers—a pattern that didn't end after she left foster care at 18. Although Arizona provides housing for ex-foster children until the age of 21, officials dropped her from the program when she didn't show up for life-skills training. She spent months in cheap motels, then drifted to Sacramento, Calif., where she fell in love with a college student. The couple broke up after she became pregnant. Returning to Tucson, she sought refuge first at a homeless shelter, then with her mother. Working over Christmas as a Toys "R" Us cashier, she subsidized her $6.30-an-hour earnings with child support and $275 a month in welfare, a part of which went to her mother for rent. "I didn't want to come back to her," says Rebecca, "but a shelter was no place to raise a baby."
For emotional support and practical advice, Rebecca turned to staffers at Open Inn, a Tucson shelter and youth crisis center that provides counseling and parenting classes. In January the agency arranged for her to move into a subsidized apartment, and it may be able to help with community college tuition. Still, says caseworker Lisa San Jose, "Rebecca is not totally ready for independence." There's no time to lose: When she turns 21, she will no longer be eligible for Open Inn programs. "I've never been afraid of anything," Rebecca says, "but it's scary when you age out."
The problem, many former foster kids say, is that no one has taught them the skills needed to survive outside the system. "If the county is my parent, I think they could have done a better job," says Charles Savage, 20, who spent 14 years in Los Angeles group and foster homes after his biological parents split and officials found that his father, who died of AIDS in 1989, physically abused and neglected the children. (His mother lives in Tacoma, Wash.) Charles spent a year in shelters before finding his way to L.A.'s Covenant House, where counselors helped him find a job at a movie theater. As a foster child, he says, "I depended on other people to make my decisions."
For N'Kenge Howard, 20, learning to trust others was the challenge. One of seven siblings growing up in Dayton, Ohio, N'Kenge was 3 when her mother, a schizophrenic, allegedly pressed her legs against a heater, causing third-degree burns (her mother pled guilty to child endangerment and served five years in prison). N'Kenge was sent to live at an aunt's house, where she says a cousin sexually assaulted her. Then she bounced between foster homes and her violent mother. "I felt like a little pinball," she says.
Nonetheless, N'Kenge became a cheerleader and B student at Cincinnati's Woodward High School, and at 16 she found a stable foster placement. Though the family offered to adopt N'Kenge, the relationship soured. "I had a lot of anger inside, and I didn't think too highly of myself," she says. After aging out she enrolled at Central State University but lacked a home and an income. Bunking at a friend's house, she eventually learned about Lighthouse Youth Services, one of the few agencies that helps homeless young people as old as 23 find housing and jobs. Last August she moved into a $500-a-month one-bedroom apartment subsidized by the group. "I got tired of moving from house to house," she says. "I wanted something stable of my own."
In return, N'Kenge is expected to stay in school, find a job and contribute 30 percent of her income toward rent and other expenses. When she finishes college (tuition is mostly covered by a scholarship), she'll be on her own. "N'Kenge is doing just great," says Judith Moore, her former high school job counselor. "But the biggest challenge of all is whether she can stand the test of time."
N'Kenge, who on Christmas Day became engaged to a musician from her church, is optimistic. "This place is beautiful," she says of her apartment. "I finally feel like my life is back on track."
J.D. Heyman
Joanne Fowler in Cincinnati, Geneseo, Los Angeles and Tucson
- Contributors:
- Joanne Fowler.
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