I know exactly what you're saying, and as I myself am not such an eloquent writer, I am releived that someone wrote what I feel every day. Only, instead of two troubled teenagers that drop in on my life every few months, I am something of a perma-mentor. I am a teacher in a juvenile detention facility, boys in the morning, girls in the afternoon. I work with about 100 children a year, as they rotate in and out of jail. Some of them appear like clockwork every six months or so, some are there 30 days and leave, some go "on the run" and come back to us years later with a rap sheet a mile long.

And it's not a lifetime movie or an afterschool special. It's not dangerous minds. We don't save them. We talk reason, we teach anger management, social skills, job skills, parenting skills. We teach elementary financial management. We give them food, clothes, we give them gifts when they leave. But sad truth is that despite our efforts - that can bleed us dry emotionally - we effect very little positive change. We hear stories from our kids, through the bad-kid grapevine: who's dead, who's graduated to "real" prison, who's pregnant, who's on the run. It's sad as hell.

So yeah, I know how you feel. And I urge you to remain a mentor. Because the truth is - I know, and you know - that the chances you'll fix any of the kids that get referred to you are slim. But if you love them, that's enough. If you just keep taking those phone calls, then Felicia will know that there is someone in this world that loves her. I will tell you the truth: Felicia will probably continue to make bad decisions. She will probably end up in circumstances that will break your heart. But she is a human being. Do not underestimate the power of loving another human being. Is there anyone else that loves that girl?

She knows the answer to that as well as you do. Which is why, heartbreaking as it is, you should remain a mentor. It's why I go to work every day.

Where can readers to go learn about becoming mentors?

I'm a social worker who works with adults, and in our agency, we teach that you can never fix another human being-- the impetus for change can only come from within them, and it's not there until it's there. Sometimes people have no reason to change until they have experienced a lot of loss and suffering from the life they have so far been living.

Our role is to keep believing that they can change, and to keep reminding them that they are worthy of a better life, and that they are capable of doing the hard work and make the hard choices between here and there. We can also model a different way of doing things, a way of living which they never saw in their families or neighborhoods and which they may only dimly believe is possible-- a way of living that only exists on television, where they come from. If you can do these things, then you are not helpless at all. You're doing everything you can possibly do.

Dear god, Martha...you haven't failed.

We failed. Our country, our culture, our species we've all failed the countless people like Felicia and her family. From what I read, you have done everything you can.

You've done everything possible.

My wife has been a big sister for a number of years, and I've watched as (like you) her expectations were lowered by the numbing attrition of a poisonious environment and an apathetic culture.

There are no easy answers. For all I know, there may well be no answers, but I don't want you to feel blame.

That's all of ours.

Great article. Thanks. God bless.

I just received a call telling me that my ex-foster child's parental rights were terminated. When her child was born she was in foster care, and her child was placed in another foster home. I was appointed by the Family Court to represent the baby. I wanted the two of them to be together after I got to know teen Mom Rachiel, who was 15 when her baby was born. By the time I was able to get them placed in my home together, Rachiel was 17 and Keahi was 2.

The two of them lived with me and my daughter for two years. Rachiel did great, and Keahi thrived. Then, Rachiel lost her way. How that happened is too long a story to tell. She moved to another town and only called me when things were going well, so the calls came farther and farther apart. Finally the day came, and it seemed inevitable to me then, when Keahi and her new little brother were removed from Rachiel and placed in foster care. Keahi had been abused in every sense of the word. I flew to the other town to give Rachiel support, to tell the people who were judging her so harshly, that she had the capacity to be a wonderful mother, I'd seen it, I'd helped her, I'd learned from her. I asked them to give her time and asked her to try to become the mother I knew she could be. But nothing worked. Rachiel's mother hung herself on the lanai when Rach was 12 and now I waited for her to do the same thing to dear, sweet, damaged Keahi.

And now Keahi has no legal parent. Rachiel's rights were terminated, and I wonder if Rachiel, no longer a mother to Keahi, is someone I ever really knew. I wonder, how much better off would Keahi have been if I hadn't decided she and her Mom could move in? Did I only delay the inevitable? I don't care about all of the money lost on co-signed loans, everyone knows those are a stupid idea, but I care that she lost her child. I was also told that Rachiel is going to be cage fighting; her first fight is in January. That almost made me laugh, it sounded so ridiculous. But I picture her, teeth bared, hands like claws, wanting to hurt someone, and I wonder, was that all that was ever going to happen? Did I try too hard, or did I not try hard enough? Rachiel is no longer Keahi's mother. I don't think I'll ever forgive her and I know I won't forgive myself. Clearly, I could have done more, or less. Would doing nothing have been more helpful?

The wounds these children have are untouchable until they themselves reach down and bring them painfully to the surface. There is a place in their heart that is assuaged by the unconditional love and support of people who want them to succeed. They allow themselves to briefly see, reflected in our eyes, their own potential for greatness. But once they see that we see them that way, they are afraid to let us see the rest, ever again. Their sadness and anger becomes something to hide, because they want us to hold on to that vision, the vision of their goodness and potential. They will only contact us when that vision can be reflected back at them again. And so, our optimism is the reason they leave, because they can't stand to see that optimism gone from our faces. And the hardest thing to accept is that the more they believe we love them, the more ashamed they feel. I hate that.

Thanks for your letter Ms. Baer. I hear you. I don't have any answers, but I still represent children and I try to believe that every moment we put towards helping a child means something, somewhere. Never give up.