A Social Worker Named Art

Art worked for Catholic Social Services, the agency my parents had contacted when they learned “I had gotten myself into trouble.” I first met him at Booth Memorial Hospital, the home for unwed mothers where I lived from September 30, 1970 until shortly after my daughter was born on March 3, 1971. I don’t recall precisely how many visits Art and I had, but I remember him, and I remember his kind ways. As time passes, his face, stature and the color of his hair are replaced in my memory as physical features of Fred Rogers.

We talked about the pending adoption of my unborn child. I have no recollection of any discussions of options that might be available to an unwed mother and her child….options that would keep us together. Was it because I was a minor at the time of my pregnancy and birthing? Or, was it simply the boiler-plate approach during the “baby grab years,” post WWII, and prior to the Roe v. Wade supreme court decision in 1973?

Together, Art and I filled out medical history forms. Sadly, my knowledge on the subject was limited, and my baby went off into the world with information based on the ignorant collection of facts of a seventeen-year-old girl, almost completely devoid of the birth father’s family details.

But, Art did his job as well as he could. When I made the trip to the big-city courthouse to “relinquish my parental rights,” Art was the only adult standing beside me as I choked out a shaky, tear-filled and fear-filled “yes” when the judge asked me if I fully understood my decision.

And, when a family adopted my baby girl, three long months after the day of her birth, it was Art that called me with the details. As I sobbed into the phone, he reminded me one more time, that I had done the right thing. This was a professional family with all of the resources necessary to raise a child. This was the right thing.

More than forty-seven years later, I wish I could ask Art if that decision still feels right to him.