staten island advance.

mother to many has a big family and even bigger heart.
joanne reese has been caring for and adopting foster children for 20 years and she's not done yet.
10.12.2003

Joanne Reese's house doesn't really need an address filled with street numbers. Nestled on a hill in New Brighton, the home introduces itself on sight.

At least seven windchimes hang along the awning. In the front yard, potted and planted shrubs overflow onto mosaic stepping stones, marking the path to the house with a wonderful wild green. Geraniums bloom like fireworks, surrounding stone gnomes, a tilted birdbath and a large silver garden globe.

Wooden ducks, a statue of the Virgin Mary, a miniature windmill, a baby carriage, a barbeque, knee-high legal scales and a stake bearing the inscription "Grandma's Garden" make appearances if you poke around. The front gate is decorated with two patriotic ribbons: one in "support the troops" yellow and another in "support the country" red, white and blue.

Life seems to burst uncontained from every corner. There is no mistaking it: This is the Reese household.

The headcount in the home currently stands at two adults, 10 children, four dogs and a hamster.

"I wish I had a house that I could take 100 kids," Ms. Reese said wistfully. "I wish I could do that."

As it is, the house is bursting at the seams, routinely packed with children of all ages and ethnicities. "We've got the League of Nations in here," Ms. Reese jokes.

Ms. Reese has been adopting and fostering children for almost 20 years. To mark her selfless labor of love, to honor her devotion to young people who might otherwise be cast aside, to show respect for a job done quietly, with no fancy footwork and even less fanfare, she has been named a 2003 Staten Island Advance Woman of Achievement.

loves children.

She started simply because she loved volunteering with handicapped kids.

Ms. Reese stopped working to care for her biological son, Chris, who was born with a seizure disorder. Her next-door neighbor at the time had two foster children with Down Syndrome, so she inquired about how to adopt. Fifty or 60 youngsters later (she's lost count), she still wishes she could take more.

There are pictures of these children everywhere - at least 150 lining the walls of the living room alone, and a whole other box hidden under a desk, waiting to be hung. Most photos are of current residents, but there are sections in her homespun gallery devoted to foster children who have moved on. She tries to maintain good relationships with the biological parents, so they'll let her see her old charges, because "any kid that comes here is my kid."

When she doesn't have a child on her lap, in her hair, around her neck or caught by the back of a T-shirt, Ms. Reese spends her time tidying and preparing for her family to return.

After school, two of the eldest Reeses (Benjamin, 15, and Kevin, 14) come straight home, unless Benjamin has basketball practice. Three (Mohamed, 7, Claudette, 12, and Vinny, 8) spend their afternoons at Goodhue Children's Aid Society, where they play and do homework; and three (Theodora, 16, Michael, 7, and Damon, 8) spend their afternoons making the rounds on their Advance paper routes.

"I don't want my kids sitting in front of the television all day long," Ms. Reese said.

After 6 p.m., in the space of 10 minutes, they reappear, hungry and hyper. Dinnertime resembles a free-skate session at a roller rink.

lots of action.

Mohamed jumps on and over so many things it's impossible to spot that one of his legs is prosthetic. Drew is a 5-year-old who has a mild form of cerebal palsy, but that, too, is well-masked by his mischievous eyes, movie-star smile and unquenchable desire for hugs.

Ms. Reese hangs out in the kitchen, where she says she eavesdrops for the good gossip while the youngest six eat and discuss their lives. The older ones hang back so the young can eat first, helping "Uncle John" (an actual relation) spoon Rice-o-Roni from a vat in the kitchen. Uncle John does all the cooking for the household; Ms. Reese calls him "my savior."

When they finally sit down to eat, the children say Grace without having to be reminded. Then, they rush into conversations about school and their lives in general. Damon and Vinny argue about their most important school subject - a toss-up between reading and math - but later decide, with the air of sages, that if you're in the Army it's most important not to get shot.

Trauma is never far from their minds. It has besieged each of these children, but at the Reese home, the damage is really hard to spot.

Benjamin's mother and sister were caught selling drugs. Another child's mother is mentally ill. Mohamed has only been with the family three months; his left leg was cut off with a machete by a soldier in the civil war in Sierra Leone. Now he's happy as a clam.

"Not to minimize what [Mohamed] has gone through, but every one of the kids that lives in this house can relate. They didn't have their limbs cut out, no. Their hearts? Yes," said Ms. Reese.

provides structure

As chaotic as it may seem, it's easy to discern a definite order to life in the Reese home. The older members help the younger, without having to be told. Homework is done and checked. By 8 or 9 p.m., everyone is either in bed or winding down in their rooms. On Saturday morning, all the kids wake up as if it was a school day. They work together to clean the house before they can see their friends. On Sunday, the entire family goes to church at St. Paul's R.C. Church, New Brighton.

Teeny "time-out" chairs are placed around the living room for the younger kids. On the crowded bulletin board, a "Family Pledge of Nonviolence" hangs in pride of place, setting forth directives to "respect self and others," communicate, listen, forgive and be courageous.

There are no idle hours on street corners for the Reese children, either; they don't run with any of the boys' groups that have sprung up around the Island. That's why there is always a basketball hoop out front, even though a neighbor once demanded it be dismantled because the boys made too much noise.

"I said, 'You know what? You're the type of person that passes a neighborhood corner and then complains about that. My kids are up here staying out of trouble,' " said Ms. Reese.

If they do cause trouble, mom takes care of it immediately; Kevin once had a tendency to come home after curfew. These days, he doesn't go out without an adult.

misunderstanding.

In fact, the only real trouble Ms. Reese has experienced has been at her neighbors' hands. Although relations have improved in recent months, nearby residents weren't initially welcoming of the large family when Ms. Reese moved in two years ago. The complaints were instant and numerous.

They called the cops about her block party (for which she had a permit); they accused her children of breaking windows and even breaking into their homes. (The issues were settled when Reese proved the children had been with her all night.)

Once, they even complained about the "group home" that had taken up residence on the block. "A cop came around. I said, 'I have one big family. This is a family, it's not a group home,' " recalls Ms. Reese, growing angry at the memory. In response, she composed a letter and left it in the mailboxes of everyone in her neighborhood. "The gist of it was: Leave us alone," she said.

She got one reply, with no return address, admitting that the children weren't a problem, and that she was doing a good job.

She knows it. "I have the cutest kids. They sent me all the cute kids," boasts Ms. Reese.

happy together

Ms. Reese stands among her children, grinning, as Benjamin, fills out his first job application. Drew requests another hug (at least the 30th); Chris dances and sings; Vinny, Damon and Michael watch cartoons; Mohamed jumps over the couch; Kevin goes to his room for a nap; Claudette heads to her room to gab on the phone; and Theodora helps in the kitchen.

They all give Ms. Reese spontaneous hugs. They talk to her like friends in one breath and whine like children in the other. They all call her "Mom." Even Aja Davis, a 7-year-old Ms. Reese baby sits, calls this amazing woman "Mom."

"This is my sweetheart," Chris says, beaming and hugging her.

Kevin comments that without all these children, Ms. Reese's life would be a lot easier.

"Easier?" she says, sounding honestly puzzled. "Why? I don't think my life is so hard."