In the world of adoption there would seem to be a spectrum of potential caregivers. The spectrum ranges from one pole focused on the needs of the child to the other pole focused on the needs of the parent(s). On one end of the spectrum you would have parents willingly caring for others’ children in the interest of the community; this is usually referred to as “foster care”. On the other end you would have parents carrying out the economic and political targeting of the marginalized within society by taking their children from them and in the process, doing away with their families and community. This is historically known as “adoption”.
This anti-adoption anti-poem is dedicated to those on the latter end of the spectrum, who pollute the mediated realm with horrid “grown in my heart/not my tummy” poetry and aphorisms; with treacly rhyming pieces of dreck that get Facebooked and WordPressed and Twittered about instead of the actual Voices of those most “touched” by this “peculiar institution”: adoptees, their mothers, families, and communities. This is dedicated to those who would dare put themselves in an other’s place to “tell a story” not their own, or who pretend to give Voice to others: the “Mom, at Last-ers” and the “Rainbow Egg-ers” and the “Having Their Baby-ers”. This anti-poem is a reversal of such a retelling. Maybe I’ll make an illustrated children’s book out of it.
Mom, at Last!
Just like the slaves before their freeing
I want to own a human being
I’ll pay big bucks for better stock
Like chattel on the auction block
In days of yore when things were better
And you could own someone, unfettered
By any quaint social injunction
With biased laws that were a function
Of politics that serve one purpose:
To stuff the wallets and the purses
Of those of us who make the grade
And thus in no way are dismayed
By any so-called voice of reason
To whom we say: “It’s baby season!”
Protesters are so comical
In their desire to make me feel
A smidgen lower than the genteel
Class to which I am beholden
Of silver spoons and all the golden
Parachutes that I might need
That demonstrate no end my greed.
To aid me in my quest, my search
I work the ’net, I work my church
To get exactly what I want
I even chose this awesome font
To make some cards that I pass out
Whenever I am out about
That state the search that I am on
For a baby daughter or a son.
It matters not, I want that pound
Of flesh, I want to hear that sound
Of crying of a baby new
Refugeed from all he knew
And placed here in my arms outstretched.
I know it sounds a bit farfetched
I even thought about kidnapping
The baby whom I see a-napping
With her mom who’s so white trash
I know that she would take my cash!
Does she deserve to keep the child?
The thought of it just makes me wild
With rage and anger that I cannot
Now make the statement: “I begot”.
And so instead I want to get
Adoptlings like I would a pet
From any pound in any mall
Forget the masses so appalled
By what I say. I want my pick
And I don’t give a frickin’ lick
What I must do to make it happen
Coercion, trafficking, kidnapping.
Name the price, O auctioneer!
I’ll pay the fee you need not fear
And if I’m short I’ll make it up
By bake sale, loan, or beggar’s cup
And then I’ll post about my gain
And spell it out in sick refrain
How all of this was destiny
A thread so red, so meant to be.
We’ll just forget that there’s a mother,
Family, or any other
Community whence this child comes
The one I bought with endless sums
Of cash paid out to middlemen
Who take their pay, their only yen
To make bucks from the noisome lie
That is adoption; and who try
The patience of the angels crying
And likewise leave the devils sighing—
Satan even I have bested!
You might say then I have been tested
On caring for my fellow man
And if that’s so, let him be damned
Because it all comes down to me:
I want my child, my baby wee!
And so do not stand in my way
You have no role, much less a say
I want that baby in my grasp!
And with each day, with every gasp
Of breath left to my waning years
I will instill in her the fears
So she will not reciprocate,
In any way become ingrate
To the manner which she will be raised
The manor which will leave her dazed!
And ever grateful she will quote
The lurid promissory note
The bag of silver that just bought
The silence of those now distraught
In abject fear of those like me
Who make the bucks so she can be:
Sold and bought and owned like those
Slaves of yore unpredisposed
To understand the “why” the “how”
The predicament of all those now
With papers false, documents writ
With every lie that might befit
A culture so bereft of graces.
It dispossesses and displaces
In endless ways that leave befuddled
The tired, poor, and hungry huddled
Masses weary of overbearing
Masters and their bogus caring
Who claim adoption, as slavery,
Is “blessed by God” and thus should “be”.
Forget these slaves of former years
Reflected now in endless tears
Of children lost who are imbued
With this indentured servitude;
Its legacy, the slave condition
Just slowed a bit by abolition.
Ignore the cry, “The time has come
For trafficking to be undone
In all its horrifying forms!”
Pay no attention to the storms
Of those who protest and insist
Adoption practice must desist
And cease to be: the last decree
Of all who decry slavery.
Forget that we now stake this claim
With the same voice that states His name
As One who knows all those who tithe
And so deserve a future blithe.
Forget conclusions you might draw
From logic so extremely flawed
And arguments quite narcissistic
And of an act so egotistic.
Forget He Who invoked “the orphan;
To care for him, as well the poor, and
So the widow; too, the stranger”,
One out of four reveals the danger
To those who might ignore the call
To care communally and for all.
To this I say, “You go to hell!
I simply want for you to sell
To me your child with no conditions!
You should be glad that my auditions
Were passed and by the likes of you!
I owe you nothing all this you knew
For years before your belly bloated
With precious cargo to us devoted,
Designed, signed over, and delivered
To us the blessèd and preferrèd.
You have to learn we’re meant to own her
And so demand that you disown her!
Fulfill your wretched destiny
O sow, O brood hen, O queen bee!
Do cut the cord, and make it fast!
So I can cry out, ‘MOM, AT LAST!'”