Decolonizing Child Welfare: Navigating Personal Reflections and Professional Responsibilities as an Aspiring Social Worker

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In this paper, I will discuss how the ongoing colonial project reproduces and maintains a high representation of indigenous children in the child welfare system (CWS), and how such destruction impacts the health of indigenous children, families, and their communities. More importantly, I will explore, as an aspiring social worker, what actions I can take to address these ongoing issues and how to apply these insights to my social work practice. The paper begins with a personal statement related to my paper topic and progresses to contextualization and an overview of the history and issues of the CWS, examining its impact on the health of children and communities. It then discusses the implications of my future role as a social worker. As a settler, I reflect on the significance of discussing indigenous children in the CWS and the responsibilities, opportunities, limitations, and challenges that arise for me in addressing this topic.
I began working in supportive housing in Downtown Eastside, Vancouver, where I encountered firsthand the pressing issue of homelessness among てthe indigenous communities. In the low-use building where I worked half of the residents were indigenous women, many of whom were striving to reclaim their children from the Ministry of Child and Family Development (MCFD). Witnessing their struggles and the often adversarial interactions between mothers and social workers deeply moved me and spurred me to research the issue. Through my research, I discovered that the child welfare system (CSW) played a significant role in perpetuating homelessness, with 20% of out-of-care children becoming homeless within a year (Piat et al., 2015). This realization, coupled with my recognition of how my identity as both a Christian and a settler directly benefits from colonial exploitation, fueled my decision to pursue a career in child welfare with the aim of decolonizing the system. Thus, I chose this topic to explore practical methods that I, as a social worker, can implement to effect meaningful change.
Now, I would like to discuss the context and overview of the Child Welfare System (CWS) in Canada. It is crucial to acknowledge that indigenous peoples had their own methods of child-rearing, regarded as gifts from the creator and cherished their extended families long before the arrival of colonizers (Sinha and Kozlowski, 2013). However, these traditions were systematically undermined by colonial, Western ideologies that viewed children as possessions of parents and prioritized the nuclear family structure to compel indigenous peoples to assimilate into the capitalist system. This racist agenda was deeply entrenched in the formation of Canada’s constitution in the 1870s (Allan and Smylie, 2015). The Indian Act, for instance, classified individuals as “status Indians” and “non-status Indians” based on blood quantum, effectively setting a timeline for the elimination of Indian status in 200 years and asserting that the land belonged to the Crown (Blackstock, 2011a). In the pursuit of land and wealth acquisition, the CWS played a pivotal role in the mass abduction of indigenous children for the purpose of assimilation. The CWS became institutionalized from the 1930s to the 1960s. Operating under the guise of “good cause,” social workers often failed to address the needs of indigenous families and instead scrutinized the perceived flaws within indigenous communities to justify their control (de Leeuw, S, 2014). This enforced assimilation was a prerequisite for the colonization of indigenous lands and resources. As a result, one in three indigenous children was taken into the CWS, and during the sixties scoop between the 1960s and 1985, over ten thousand children were placed with American or Canadian families, a practice deemed cultural genocide in 1985 by Justice Edwin Kimelman’s report (Sinclair, 2016). The legacy of residential schools and the CWS has left enduring trauma within indigenous communities, which will be explored in detail later (Thomas, 2000). Today, there is a disproportionate number of Indigenous children, comprising 53.8% of the CWS, despite Indigenous children representing only 7.7% of the child population (Government of Canada, 2023). While Indigenous communities have made efforts to establish Indigenous child welfare agencies since the 1970s, they have been constrained by provincial regulations that often disregard cultural sensitivities (Blackstock, 2011a).
As I learned the history both in class and in my research for this paper, I realized that while I had some awareness of the history of child welfare and the reproduction of indigenous poverty within the system, I had not fully grasped the severity of the situation. Seletze’s story of torture, humiliation, and sexual abuse, as recounted in Thomas (2000), and its enduring impact, exceeded anything I had imagined. It forced me to confront the fact that despite our claims to understanding, how many of us, myself included, have truly taken the time to sit and listen to the experiences of Indigenous peoples? Upon arriving in Canada, I wondered why so many indigenous homeless people on the street, leading me to feel deeply ashamed of my previously ignorant attitude. Additionally, while conducting research, I came across the tragic story of Skye, a First Nations child who tragically passed away shortly after her mother Olivia. The note made by a social worker about Skye’s potential as a future social worker moved me to tears (Charlesworth and Chouhan, 2021). It reinforced my sense of duty to ensure the well-being and pride of all indigenous children as I pursue a career in social work. I felt compelled to share both Seletze’s and Skye’s stories on my social media platforms, believing it to be part of my responsibility to educate my community, as well as myself. As a social worker, I believe our values should extend beyond our profession, guiding us to uphold moral ethics and continually question our readiness to truly care for those we serve, as articulated by Qwul’sih’yah’maht and Kundoqk (2015).
Next, I would like to address the structural issues within the Child Welfare System (CWS) in Canada and how these barriers contribute to negative health outcomes for indigenous children, families, and communities. The primary concern lies in the colonial invasion perpetuated by imperial ideologies and values. As previously mentioned, the CWS has historically served to exert control and sever ties within indigenous communities under the guise of the notion that indigenous people are morally inferior in their child-rearing abilities, a concept foundational to the ideas of child “protection” and “rescue”. However, historical records reveal that indigenous children were often removed from their families simply due to poverty, particularly during the 1950s to 1980s, which was itself a consequence of economic alterations imposed by the West (Greenwood and de Leeuw, 2012). A recurring criticism found in the literature is directed towards the concept of the “best interest of the child”, which is inherently a Western value and often disregards the indigenous values of community decision-making and extended families (Blackstock, 2011a; Sinclair, 2016). In British Columbia’s child welfare legislation, care is defined as the “physical care and control of the child”, echoing the colonial legacy of controlling indigenous children, akin to the practices of residential schools (Blackstock, 2010). Social workers frequently embody these ideologies in their practices, often portraying mothers with abusive partners as “failing, bad mothers” without adequately addressing the underlying issues or providing sufficient support (Hughes et al., 2016). The CWS tends to individualize issues, overlooking the broader context of colonialism and focusing solely on the safety of the children. However, this does not guarantee a meaningful connection or attachment with their adoptive families, a point to be elaborated upon later. While neglect, often linked to poverty, is the primary reason for child removal, indigenous children in care experience less abuse compared to non-indigenous children (de Leeuw, 2014). Additionally, there is a pervasive belief among social workers that abused parents will inevitably abuse their children, and children whose parents or grandparents attended Residential Schools are twice as likely to be placed in foster care due to the intergenerational trauma suffered by their guardians (Carrière, 2017; Barker et al., 2019). Compounding these issues is the fact that the Canadian government allocates 22% less funding to indigenous child welfare agencies, perpetuating a cycle of child abduction and systemic racism against indigenous communities (Blackstock, 2010). These systemic challenges underscore the urgent need for reform within the CWS to address the root causes of injustice and inequality faced by indigenous peoples.
Learning about the structural and ideological issues of the CWS was profoundly disheartening, yet I could not ignore the realization that I, too, sometimes perpetuate the colonial role while working at the supportive housings and shelters. Reflecting on the findings of Hughes et al. (2016), who highlighted how social workers often prioritize their own interests over those of the families they serve, I recalled instances where I documented my interactions with residents at the shelter for indigenous female elders. At times, I found myself engaging in surveillance and noting details that I found “concerning”. In doing so, I inadvertently attributed problems solely to the individuals without considering the broader colonial impact on their lives. However, I am grateful for gaining insights from researchers’ perspectives, which have prompted me to conscientiously question my motives and purposes. I now strive to decenter myself and center the clients’ situations in a more comprehensive and decolonizing manner.
Now I would like to discuss the impact of the CWS on the health of indigenous communities. To begin with, it is crucial to note that the health condition of indigenous people in Canada mirrors that of third-world countries, symbolizing the embodiment of colonization (de Leeuw et al., 2010). A significant issue arises from the lack of extensive studies to gauge the CWS’s impact on health, with little attention paid to addressing the health conditions triggered by it (Greenwood and de Leeuw, 2012). Nevertheless, Greenwood and de Leeuw (2012) have outlined several health concerns, highlighting that children in foster care experience higher rates of incarceration, homelessness, unemployment, unwanted pregnancy, and dating violence. Despite claims to act in the “child’s best interest,” these practices perpetuate the cycle of abject poverty among First Nation communities. Additionally, many indigenous people depend on child benefits, making the loss of welfare income upon child removal particularly critical. Furthermore, the mental impact on children through the CWS is profound. Multiple placements lead to difficulty in trusting people, including their guardians, and removal itself is a deeply traumatic experience that has not been sufficiently studied (Greenwood and de Leeuw, 2012). While it is believed that children develop attachments to their guardians over time, Greenwood and de Leeuw (2012) argue that this is an unsubstantiated notion lacking empirical evidence. When placed with white middle-class families, indigenous children often internalize the stigmatization of "white=good and indigenous=bad" (Greenwood and de Leeuw, 2012). This sad reality, depicted in the short film For Angela (Botkin and Prouty, 2013), underscores one of the most distressing impacts of the CWS --- indigenous children no longer wish to identify as indigenous due to the discrimination and stigma they face. In this vine, the impact of CWS is awfully dehumanizing to the indigenous community.
Lastly, I would like to discuss the implications for social work practice and how I can work towards decolonization. Throughout my research, I have been consistently inspired by Cindy Blackstock, the executive director of the First Nations Child & Family Caring Society of Canada, for her courage and passion for social justice. Blackstock (2011b) emphasizes that the reality of the Child Welfare System (CWS) remains unchanged as most child welfare agencies fail to address ongoing colonial issues. She asserts that the harm caused by social workers is often excused under the pretext of acting in “goodwill” (Blackstock, 2009). In light of this, she calls for moral courage among fellow social workers. Drawing from her frontline experience, Blackstock (2011b) acknowledges the inherent conformity within the CWS, making it difficult for individuals to challenge the status quo without risking their jobs. This is exemplified in the fact that Despite Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada had been aware of the inequities in fund distribution to Indigenous child welfare agencies for over 16 years, no action had been taken (Blackstock, 2011b). Thus, Blackstock (2011b) underscores the importance of moral courage, which aligns with universal values such as honesty, respect, responsibility, fairness, and compassion. In another co-authored article, she encourages all social workers to emulate Dr. Bryce, who courageously exposed the cruelty of residential schools to the public and government (Hay et al., 2020).
Reflecting on Blackstock’s display of moral courage, I began contemplating where I could summon my own courage to drive changes. This led me to recall Lorde’s discourse on anger. As an Asian woman, I've encountered various forms of racism, particularly during my time in graduate school among predominantly white students and middle-aged male American faculty members (Lorde, 1984). The racism I endured was so profound that it became a significant factor in my decision to leave graduate school. Witnessing similar injustices inflicted upon my clients and friends deeply affects me on a personal level. While recognizing that this reaction may stem from my own boundary issues, I am driven by a profound sense of responsibility to address such injustices. Consequently, I have often taken actions that extend beyond the confines of my job description, such as writing emails to HR or contacting program directors. In these moments of anger, I find solace in the knowledge that I am acting in alignment with my values, and thus far, I have never faced repercussions for doing so. Moving forward, I aim to imbue my professional practice with this same moral courage by collaborating with clients rather than dictating to them, empowering them to make decisions about their own lives, and relinquishing some of my own power in the process (Hughes et al., 2016).
In conclusion, the journey of uncovering the impact of the ongoing colonial project on indigenous children within the child welfare system has been a deeply personal and enlightening experience. From acknowledging my role as a settler and Christian in Canada to witnessing the struggles of indigenous mothers fighting to reunite with their children, each step has deepened my understanding of systemic injustices. Exploring the historical and structural issues within the child welfare system forced me to confront my own biases as a social worker. Yet, amidst despair, there is hope inspired by courageous voices like Cindy Blackstock, urging moral courage in the face of institutional inertia. Reflecting on Audre Lorde’s insights into anger as a catalyst for change, I'm compelled to turn my indignation into advocacy and allyship. As I begin my journey as a social worker, I am dedicated to challenging the status quo, amplifying indigenous voices, and working towards decolonization.

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