The Keenans; The Start of It All

I never would have become a foster parent if I hadn’t met the Keenans, a young couple back in the 80’s.

I had fled to the safe haven of the US Air Force, a refugee from the drug wars, hoping to find an island of safety, a place to grow up and turn my life around.

I met the Keenans at church, one weekend. They invited me over for dinner, and I was soon coming over two or three times a week. We would joke/argue over politics and current events and play one-up-manship in practical jokes, and I came out on the losing end nine out of ten times. The Keenan’s house became my home away from home. I was lucky they didn’t charge me rent. Paul and Dawn Keenan had two daughters, but for some intrepid family adventurers, this is never enough. Think of a swimmer who wants to go scuba diving. That was the Keenans.

Think of the Mary and Martha parable. Dawn was a Martha who, instead of wearing a martyr frown, smiled, laughed and kidded around, in spite of her schedule. Paul wore a near constant sardonic, almost cynical, grin, knew more jokes than anybody and in unguarded moments spoke like a classics professor who knew arcane details from the lives of the first five emperors.

Paul had been in the Navy during Vietnam and spoke in no uncertain terms about how much he disliked having people fire torpedoes and bullets at his boat. He met his wife, Dawn at church, because her father was the military liaison for the congregation.

“We are becoming foster parents,” Dawn said one day.

My eyes must have grown wide, because she smirked at me and said her parents did that for years.

Fostering can be an inherited condition.

I lost track, but I would guess that they had at least thirty different foster kids during the time I knew them.

Candace was a kindergartner with a round bowl cut. I dropped by on Christmas Eve, wearing a Santa suit. Candace’s smile could not have been bigger. My stomach pillow and John Lennon glasses dovetailed with the red and white outfit and made it happen. She thought I was really Kris Kringle. Her Mom was another story. She came to the visit high and feeling no pain. Slumped down in a kitchen chair she said not a single word the whole night. I was proud of her for not passing out. I doubt that I could have stayed awake under those conditions, much less driven home.

Alicia was four, and her sister, Laura, was six. I spoke passable Spanish, and I got to practice with both of them, especially Laura. They would haul out gobs of picture books when I arrived so I could read to them.

Visits with birth parents can be traumatic for children. I didn’t understand the parent visit/anger issue connection. Rage over abandonment issues and past abuse rises to the surface. I came to the Keenan’s house one day after their Mom showed up for a visit. Alicia was sitting quietly on the couch, while Laura was shoving her fists into her eyes, trying not to cry, I suppose. She stared darkly at me like she was angry, like whatever was wrong was my fault. I tried to talk to her, but she said nothing, giving me the dark stare angry at me along with all adults for the pain and confusion in her life. I started to get up, but she grabbed my arm hard, pulling me back down. We sat for a long time, me not talking, her barely even blinking.

Chris was my favorite and vice-versa. (Only the coolest people get the name Chris). He was a cute five-year old boy with bright blazing eyes and a near constant smile. He had been through some trauma and before bedtime we had to run the family dog through every room in the house to make sure no bad men were hiding out.

“Brad is going to act defiant, but don’t worry about it,” Dawn promised. I was babysitting and there were three other kids, the Keenan’s two biological children and another foster kid. Sure enough at bedtime Brad walked in the front room and announced, “You can’t make me go to bed!” His hands on his hips and his eyes unblinking, he glared as hard as he could, and I tried, really tried, not to crack a smile.

“You’re right,” I answered. “I can make you go to bed.” I picked up a newspaper and read or rather tried to pretend I was reading. Finally, the nine-year old got tired and stumbled back to bed. We got along fine after that.

Angela stayed with the Keenans for several months. She was fourteen and kept Dawn worried, because she constantly referred to the Madonna song, “Papa Don’t Preach,” and its signature line, “I’m gonna keep my baby!” Angela asserted that if she were pregnant she too would keep her baby too. The skin around Dawn’s eyes would crinkle into an odd worried halo, and she would warn Angela not to get pregnant in the first place. I have no idea how that worked out in the long run.

Vicky was sixteen and had round, brown eyes that shone with equal mixtures of mischievousness and cynicism. She would try to get me to wrestle with her, but I have this policy about not wrestling sixteen-year-old girls. I was nervous about Friday evening when the Keenan’s wanted me to babysit their two daughters and Vicky. I lucked out. Vicky ran away on Thursday, and I was happy, happy, happy.

A few years after I got out of the Air Force, the Keenans moved to Yuma, Arizona. I rode my motorcycle there for Thanksgiving. They were still fostering and were caring for two brown haired girls, ages three and four. The four-year-old started to tell me about their life. She wasn’t quite five, but she could still operate a gas stove, boil water and make soup, eggs and oatmeal on her own. It was her job to take care of her sister when mom was gone. She had been a mini-adult in more ways than one. She told me about a man who would come into the house at night. She remembered him as a giant who pulled her hair and touched her “down there.” I told Paul and Dawn, and they informed the girls’ social worker. They were never sent back to Mom as a result.

Twelve years later, when my wife wanted to do foster care, I said yes. I doubt that I would have agreed without the experience I had with the Keenans. I often thought back to the Keenan kids and remembered a four-year-old who could use a stove and had survived abuse and molestation. It was an honor to be part of the lives of so many little heroes who already had more life experience than most adults ever would.