In my current occupation, I often come across strange circumstances. That is to say, I read about people's lives. My job is to review the cases of children whose custody has been transfered from that of their parents to the state. If the state, after much deliberation, decided the best thing for the child is adoption, someone must write a summary of their experience with the Division of Youth and Family Services, the difficulties they have faced growing up in whatever situation they have had, what problems they have, etc. I am that someone.

I have found this occupation to be rewarding and distant at the same time. The often times devestating details of children who suffered abuse, abandonment, drug exposure, and the continual deterioration of their parent(s) and life are presented to me on paper, leaving sufficient room for my imagination to claim, "It's just a story on paper". All the while my speed in writing these reports makes a difference in lives that are so distant from me, as my completion of this task determines when/if the child is adopted.

Recently my imagination was challenged when I sat on the couch with my boyfriend. We were watching Texas Hold'em Poker, a favorite passtime of ours. While I do not have the luxury of playing poker on a regular basis, I have another imaginary belief that if I watch it enough times on television, when I do get the chance to play I will surprise everyone with my passively-attained skills. This theory has yet to fail me.

Suffice it to say I was sitting on the couch learning, studying the style of one of my favorite professional poker players, Jennifer Harmen. The camera showed her hold cards, panned to her blank face, and remained breathlessly still as she nonchalantly tossed three chips into the pot, totally unfathomable thousands of dollars.

The show then switched cameras to one trained on a man who I did not recognize. The name popped up under his body, and I repeated the name. "Does that say - " I asked my boyfriend, and he replied in the affirmative. I blinked in amazement, and he asked if I knew the guy.

"He's one of my cases. I mean, I wrote a report for his daughter last month. The case said he was reported to be a professional poker player. My god, there he is." The case wasn't one that stuck in my mind. I couldn't remember the details of the case at all, whether the daughter had behavioral problems, if she had any relationship with her father, where she was living, etc. I merely remembered pulling out a few sheets of paper from the massive red folders that showed the father's ranking in a tournament some years ago among names I well recognized: Negraneau, Harmen, Nguyen. Originally shaken, I now found myself unable to take my eyes off the screen.

The illusion I gave myself to keep from feeling for these children was not shattered by the reality now facing me. Rather, I found myself wanting to be affected, wanting to see this man's face and feel some loathing, some negative feeling about his presence on my television screen. But I didn't. I felt nothing except amazement that the only thing I remembered from the case at all was something related to a game. I suppose that has become my defense: turning my job into a game.