Shaniece

Today I drive through Inglewood, onto the 105 East, past Watts Towers and through Lynwood. It finally feels like August in Los Angeles, and the sun hangs in the sky like a splattered egg yolk. It's so bright that the city is awash in white and grey, and the stream coming from the air conditioning in my Honda Civic does little to stop the backs of my knees from sweating.

"Welcome to Compton" a blue sign in the center of the road reads as I roll down Long Beach Boulevard. "Birthing a New City" it says below. I can see little of that though - just women pushing grocery carts and carrying babies, men hanging outside Mel's Liquor Store, clusters of teenagers in tight tube tops waiting for the bus. Compton often feels closer to an African township than to Beverly Hills.

I eventually pull up at the address for Shaniece Thompson. She is staying with a friend, she told me, while she waits for her social worker to find her a foster home. If I wanted to meet with her, I'd have to come right away, because she had somewhere else she had to be at two o'clock. It's already 1:20pm according to my cell phone, and I gather my clipboard, my packet, and several pens and swing open the car door. I usually allow at least an hour to meet with youth, ask them questions, test their math and English knowledge, and have their foster parents sign medical consent forms. Today's meeting will have to be quick.

Shaniece is waiting outside for me, dressed in a long summer dress in brilliant pinks, oranges and yellows. She smiles at me and I introduce myself, sticking out my hand to shake hers. I notice that her short nails are painted purple. She is walking, breathing, talking color and she shines against the bright day and the dark circumstances.

"I'm sorry for the mess," she says softly to me as we walk through the living room, stepping over plastic toys, discarded shoes and coloring books. She briefly introduces me to her friend, the girl who took her in, and I wave from across the room. A baby is crying in another room, and two little girls fight over the remote control on the tattered couch.

We step into the room where she is staying, a blow-up mattress next to a washer and dryer. In the corner, a large bookcase is staggering under the weight of dozens and dozens of Spanish textbooks. Shaniece motions to the mattress, and I gingerly lower myself down.

I start by introducing the Independent Living Program, and explaining what she would learn once enrolled. I tell her that my agency works with the Department of Children and Family Services, and that our goal is to help foster youth transition out of the system successfully. She nods, twirling a strand of her braided hair.

"So what I'm going to do with you today is complete an intake packet, and then go through a few tests just to see where you're performing academically. Does that sound okay?" I ask.

She nods again.

"Alright. I'll start with the intake packet then, which should take about 20 minutes." I begin with the questions, standard things like where she attends school, whom to contact in case of an emergency, and whether she has an email address. She sits on the edge of the air mattress, opening and closing her cell phone, and smoothing the front of her dress again and again.

Toward the middle of the packet, I ask her who she admires most in the world. She is quiet.

"I mean, anyone you look up to or respect?" I prompt her. "It can be someone you know, or a sports star or celebrity. Anyone."

She looks at me. "To be honest, I would have to say myself." She nods. "Yeah, definitely myself."

I get this answer a lot. A few kids will name a rapper or basketball player, a few more than that will say a grandmother or older sibling. But more often than not, the teenagers I meet don't look up to anyone.

"Why?" I ask. "Why yourself?"

"Becaaaause. I look at other people, people who are doing real good but have never had struggles. And then look at me, and everything I've been through."

I think about her best friend sitting in the living room, 17 years old and taking care of 3 kids, preparing them lunch on a Tuesday afternoon while they watch cartoons. I can't imagine that none of the people Shaniece knows have struggles, haven't battled hardships. But perhaps they are dim complaints next to Shaniece's problems.

That's the strange part of my job, the few hours I step into these kids' lives with only a fraction of the story. I don't know what happened to Shaniece's biological parents, or why she was removed from their home. I know she was recently forced to leave her grandmother's home, but I'm unsure if the grandma pushed her out, if the living conditions were deemed unfit by DCFS, or if her grandmother passed away.

Shaniece may end up enrolling in our Life Skills class; I may get to know her and find the answers to these questions. I may have the opportunity to help her a little more, connect her with other resources. Or she may not return my calls after this. She could easily go AWOL, her social worker unable to track her down. She may just be a girl I met briefly on a hot day one summer, another name in a folder on my computer that contains hundreds of names.

I always resist the urge to hug these kids goodbye as I gather my things and leave, knowing what I do. I press my card into her hand, and urge her one more time to call me if she needs anything.

"Thanks," she says. "Thanks for coming all the way out here."

And then she waves and closes the gate behind her.