Adoption Poetry and The Earth’s Final Destruction

It’s Carnival time again at Grown In My Heart, this time it’s all about poetry.  You can participate by writing a blog post on the subject and clicking Mr Linky (that always sounds kinda dirty to me, like “Come sit on Mr. Linky’s lap, little girl.” ) right here.

OK, here we go….

The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy defines Vogon Poetry as such….

“Vogon poetry is the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent, of his poem, Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning, four of his audience members died of internal hemorrhaging, and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council, survived by gnawing one of his own legs off… The very worst poetry in the universe died along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Sussex… in the destruction of the planet Earth.”

Though very little of Mrs. Jennings poetry survives, I am certain that she was must have had some connection to adoption.  There could be no other way The Guide would have granted her the distinction of worst poet in the universe.

Adoption brings out the most evil of muses.  That muse that would tempt one to compare not just body parts but bodily functions with the act of filling out paper work.  To entice one to draw parallels between celestial occurrences and bureaucracy. Between one’s arms and a dumpster.

It is almost impossible not to fall into the many traps that lay in wait for the aspiring adoption  poet.  The more passionate the writer, the more dangerous the pitfalls.  The state of mind responsible for one poet to rhyme ‘orphanage’ with ‘mother’s gaze’ is nearly unimaginable.

If for any reason you are tempted to pen a poem about adoption, first call a trusted friend, or seek the support of family or clergy.  You don’t have to be responsible this.  Help is available.

I Wonder If I Can Relinquish Myself?

Since my state continues to treat me like a child that can’t be trusted with my records, I think I’d like to relinquish myself, to the state.  the problem is I don’t want to be a ward of the court.   Since I’m relinquishing myself I think I should be able to pick my new adoptive parents.

I was thinking the governor would be a good choice.  He can afford another kid, and let’s face it, the prestige would be nice.  I think it would be a mutually beneficial relationship.  He could get all kinds of publicity for adopting and I could live in the governor’s mansion.

I think it would be a great way to bring adoptee rights issues home to someone who could do something about it.  At all the family photo ops, conventions, and tree lighting ceremonies I could raise my fist and yell “GIVE ADOPTEES THEIR ORIGINAL BIRTH CERTIFICATES!!”.   I’m betting that could get something done fast.

We all should do it.  Just imagine if all the governors, in all the states that don’t allow equal access for adoptees, had tens of thousands adult adoptees trying to relinquish themselves to them…….

The potential news story.

Addie Pray Nixon, yeah that sounds good.

I’m Horrifying Adoptive Parents Again..

..over at Grown In My Heart.

It’s Sex and Drugs and Dear Birthmother letters for me this time.

see-adoption-blog-post

Alternatives To Violence

Being an adoptee can make you want to throttle everyone you meet sometimes, but you just can’t do that. Read more about it here….

Melanie’s bitchy post at Grown In My Heart

To anyone that might take offense, I was talking about someone else.  Really.  I was.

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The National Council for Adoption: Mothers, Money, Marketing, and Madness, Part 1 – DivineCaroline

Thought I’d share this with you guys.  Very well worth reading.

The National Council for Adoption: Mothers, Money, Marketing, and Madness, Part 1 – DivineCaroline

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Where Was Cynthia Davis Born?

Where Was Cynthia Davis Born?

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Also check out Worst Person In The World…

And this...Free Whores In Missouri

Now why would I post this?

I’ll let you figure it out for yourself.

What The Hell Was Going On?

Joy’s post about foster care got me thinking.  I was in foster care too, but I was with my adoptive parents.  I was about 2 weeks old when they took me home from the hospital on a trail basis.

I had known that I was a ward of the state until my adoption was finalized when I was 2, but I had not known it was a “trail adoption” until recently when my a-mother mentioned it.

What the fuck is a trail adoption?

A-mom really didn’t know.  That’s just what the social worker had told them.  They were pretty much under the impression that I was with them to stay.

I don’t know the date of my relinquishment.  All I have are my adoption papers and they only mention that my first mother had given up parental rights at an earlier date.  Not what date.

What the hell was going on for those 2 years?

Had I been relinquished immediately after I born?  Was I not relinquished until later?  Was my relinquishment voluntary?  Was I removed from my first mother because she was judged to be incapable of caring for me?

Were the concerns with my adoptive parents?  Had they not decided if they wanted to adopt me?  Did the state have concerns about their fitness as adoptive parents?

Was there some concern for my health? Were there questions about my mental fitness?  What?

I’d really like to know.

If the state hadn’t placed me, and I had grown up in foster care, I would be able to know these things.  But since I turned out to be a healthy little thing that somebody decided to keep, they won’t tell me.  As far as the state is concerned I’m a different person than the baby they were responsible for.  The foster child ceased to exist when I was adopted.

I ceased to exist.  I didn’t die.  I didn’t change.  I just ceased to exist.

That’s a pretty good trick, being able to make a person disappear.  Anything at all could have happened, then it’s all just gone.  Like it never happened.

But it did happen.  It happened to me.

Trinkets Of My Ingratitude

A conversation with a friend brought up an interesting image. She remarked,  as an adopted little angel, I must require a halo welded to my sweet head.  I replied that I thought that I could pull it off if I could wrap it with the trinkets of my ingratitude.  

I could just see myself as the towheaded angel that I once was, clad in a white robe, resplendent with my golden halo, wrapped in jingling sparkly charms representing all of my sins.   It reminded me of the charm bracelet that I had as a child that represented all my virtues.  

My charm bracelet was sterling silver, and so were the charms, that was pretty impressive in those days.  It was my first piece of real jewelry.  I had a charm with a musical note because I was taking piano lessons.  A charm with a four leaf clover  because I was lucky.  There was a charm with a little girl carrying books because I went to school.

My adoptive mother bought me the charm bracelet at the local jewelry store.  This was a place of wonder, full of grown up things that you had to be very careful around.  They had glass shelves full of fancy glass vases and candy dishes in beautiful colors I’d never seen before. Lite from the bottom,   I thought they were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.  They had long cases filled with gold and silver and gems that looked like contents of the treasure chests in my books.  There was a display of gold paged Bibles with illustrations in glowing colors that seemed to have had to have come from heaven.  

We didn’t buy much in the jewelery store, my adoptive mom liked practical things.  But one day mom decided that I needed a charm bracelet.  We walked into the jewelry store, past the lite up shelves that rattled ever so slightly with our footsteps, threatening to send the precious objects to the floor.  I felt butterflies in my stomach  and was relived to get to the back of the store without incident.

A woman that seemed so old that she might break if touched showed us a tray of silver bracelets.  There were so many to choose from, delicate ones with thin links, more substantial ones with heavy links, and one made up of delicate links fused together, I chose that one.   Then there were the charms, hundreds of them, made to represent everything I could think of, and some I couldn’t figure out.  My mother told me that we would pick out a few charms today and I could have new ones when I earned them.  I got the musical note and the four leaf clover that day.  The old lady took the bracelet to the back, attached the charms and wrapped it up on a satin lined box.  I wasn’t as nervous passing the rattling glass shelves with my little box on the way out.  

I was only to wear the bracelet on special occasions and to church.  Mom and I put it safely in my jewelry box that played Fur Elise and had the ballerina that spun in front of a mirror when opened.  

I earned more charms, a little Scottie dog when I got a puppy, a rose zircon was a birthday gift.  My bracelet would jingle on my wrist now.  I wore it to my cousin’s wedding, and out to dinner at The Green Circle, a very fancy restaurant where they served Shirley Temples.  I always wore it to church.   

There was one charm that I wanted more than anything.  It was a Bible, that had a little peephole you could look into and see the Lord’s Prayer.  It was like magic.  Mother told me I could have it if I memorized the Lord’s Prayer.  

It wasn’t easy, it took a while, and there was some controversy over if I was to forgive sins or trespasses, but I did it.  I memorized the Lord’s Prayer and got that charm.  

I was quite the hit at Sunday school that week. Nobody else had ever seen anything like that charm.  I refused to remove the bracelet, fearing it’s loss, and made everyone peer into the little Bible while I held up my wrist. My Sunday school teacher was even impressed.  

I couldn’t wait to get home from church to tell my mother, who never attended church herself, about how much everyone had liked the charm.  I never got home with that bracelet, it must have slipped off my wrist on the way home.  I was devastated.  Mother and I retraced my steps, but the bracelet wasn’t found.  Mother even hired a man with a metal detector to look for it the next week.  Nothing was found.  The bracelet was lost.  All of the representations of my virtues were never to be found again.  

I believe my friend was right, they should have welded a halo to my head.  It would have been harder to lose.  Would those representations of my virtues turned to trinkets of my ingratitude eventually?  Who is to know?