Tafar was born to an Africanized Canadian mother, Carol, who seemed to dress in Rastafarian culture and preferred African design men. Carol initially had two children, Tafar and Kwame. When Tafar was 2 years old, his 6-month-old brother died and his mother, Carol, was judged to be at fault for neglecting him.
A few weeks after I started working at the treatment center, Tafar invited me to sit with him in the break room. Did you ask me if I was married? If I had children? Where was i born? Did he have siblings?
With my answers he felt comfortable. He told me about Albert, the social worker who came to take him away from his mother. He told me about his memory of a pause in the elevator looking back at his heartbroken mother standing crying in the entrance of the apartment. He told me about the horrendous sexual abuse he suffered within 6 months of being placed in a foster home with a state child care agency. Of the many other cases of abuse that followed at the hands of others who should have taken care of him.
He told me when the voices started. The first voice was James and then the others began. As he told his story, he looked from behind me to assess the impact of his words. I like to believe that he saw my love for him and my admiration for him for surviving with such good character. Tafar joined me in that padded room in a way that was more intense than any other experience I have had in the last 25 years working with children.
He put me to the test and, fortunately, found me worthy of his trust. Over the weeks, months and years that followed, I was part of the compliment of the skilled young workers who cared about him and learned so much about this amazing young man’s worldview that I believe he has left his mark on me that will last forever.
I met Carol and her 3 children born since Kwame’s death. Ojuku (then 12 years old). Asai, a beautiful 11-year-old girl and the youngest Sipo, a boy who was her only child who was not biracial. Tafar was 15 years old.
Carol spoke with an almost authentic Jamaican accent and she and all of her children, except for Tafar, wore Rastafarian-style locks. She told stories that she was born in Jamaica, but a social worker confided in us that she was born in Canada and raised in the state second-generation child care agency. When Kwame died, she was charged and sent to prison for 3 months. Shortly after her release, Carol gave birth to Ojuku and the other children followed.
Carol and her children lived in community housing. They were poor. Living below subsistence level. When they went to visit Tafar, they hoarded food from the group home. They resented Tafar because they felt that he was doing much better than they could. I felt that Carol and her children were each very special and, although I found Carol manipulative and at times unscrupulous, I felt as if she was somehow a victim of circumstance herself.
Kwame died in part because the system that raised Carol had failed to prepare her for effective parenthood. Her own sense of self was so frustrated that she could not find a place for her within the mainstream Canadian community, so she created a fictional story and sought a place in a culture that highlighted her differences and contributed to her isolation and that of his family.
While Tafar performed remarkably within the treatment setting, the child care system did not know what they could do for him when he turned 18. He was removed from the treatment setting and placed in a community setting where there was much less support and supervision. Tafar lost his temper one night and when a member of the group home staff came between him and the door, he ran right through and injured her and was charged and sent to a psychiatric unit in the prison where I believe he resides to this day. from today.
His brother Ojuku became a hitman for a street gang and was sentenced to life in prison for murdering an opponent at a gas station. I often wonder what the fate of Asai and Sipo will be. They were all such beautiful children. Sipo was such a small gentleman. I shudder to think of how they might have evolved since I last saw them.
On many levels, Tafar’s story is sad, but we must see through the sadness to appreciate the true responsibility: parenting. Through the gift of inspired and supported parenting, many lives could have evolved and improved to serve a community with integrity. This story is true in all respects except the names of the people. Truly, this story speaks to our understanding of the need for families to find the appropriate supports when they need them and the guarantees to pursue smart parenting.
We are very grateful for the opportunity this forum offers us to share these sentiments with those who may find an interest in these truths.
Helping Good Parents Become Better Parents at http://www.coachingparents911.com