According To Addie

Angry adoptee

What We Have Learned From Carolyn Pooler

If you’re wondering who the heck Carolyn Pooler is, check these links out..

 The Missouri Compromise


Carolyn Pooler Come Out And Play

The short answer, not much.

The longer answer, quite a lot.  We’ve learned that reform isn’t always about what’s best for everyone, sometimes it’s about desperation and clinging to things that no longer work.

Nobody is really sure if we heard from Carolyn or not, though I’m pretty sure that we did.  Twice.  There’s a good lesson.  If you are not willing to take credit for your actions and defend them, you probably shouldn’t be working on anybody else’s behalf.  You have to believe in what you’ve done enough to put you name on it and claim it.  Hiding behind different screen names and posting from public computers, so you can’t be traced isn’t going to inspire a lot of confidence in what you have to say.  So from Carolyn we learned to be ready to explain your actions and claim them.  If you’ve managed to fuck up royally, admit it.

I suppose there is a an argument riding into town, hoopin’ and hollerin, killin’ all the women and rapin’ all the cattle.  Hell, I’ve done it myself.  But if you are going to do that, you need to case the place you are ridin’ into first.  Carolyn didn’t do that.  And because she didn’t do her research, all she managed to get done was fall in a pile of shit.  Hell my blog was right there.  If she had even read the previous post to The Missouri Compromise, she would have found that I’m staunchly anti-whining.  As to the other folks she managed to insult, she didn’t check up on them either.  There’s a lesson.  Do your research.  I don’t imagine she’s researched adoptee issues, or the current state of reform actions, any better than she researched me.

Lastly, and most importantly, we learned the price of alienating those that can help you in your cause.  I can tell you it will be Frozen Margarita Night In Hell before I’d piss on her if she were on fire.  I’m guessing there are a few others that feel the same, most of them in a better position to help her than I am.

Yes,The Carolyn Pooler Affair, as it will from now be known, because I say so.  Has been an excellent lesson to us all.  All the lame newbie internet insults, all the pathetic kicking and crying aside, Ms. Pooler has given us something to learn from.

There will be a test afterward.

Drawing The Line

A few days ago someone left a negative comment on my blog. I get a lot of negative comments, but I noticed this one because it was so filled with the kind of stuff that has almost become a joke among adoption bloggers. Take a look…

Blah, Blah, Blah…can’t you write anything original? You think you are so smart, but you are really totally stupid and SO ungrateful! You could of been aborted you know. I feel sorry for the suckers who took you in. You are such a bitch. Get help.


See. Other than concisely fitting in all the big gripes that every civilian seems to have about adoptees who aren’t spreading sunshine, happiness, and gratitude, like a rancher spreads manure, it a fairly unimaginative comment. I honestly thought it was one of my friends fucking with me. I would think if someone was truly displeased, they would be a bit more creative.

It’s come to my attention that the comment might not have been made in jest. That the comment may have been made by an adoptee who has issues with her own adoption. The thing is, even if this is so, I can’t work up a whole lot of sympathy.

First of all, there’s just the total boringness of the comment. There’s no passion, no originality, hell it gets a 3 out of 10 on style points. I’m surprised that everything is spelled right. I just really don’t think think they are approaching their self-martyrdom with the proper dedication or creativity. Let’s face it, if this is the best they can come up with, what’s the point of even doing it?

My commenter needs to look to some who have been really good at irrationality and get a few pointers. First of all, if my commenter hasn’t already done it, they might want to think about embracing anarchy. This has worked well for nutjobs though out history. Just in the 20th century it’s been the main force behind everything from political assassinations, to music, to t-shirt moguls, to cult leaders. I think the philosophy would be a good fit for our commenter and something they could make their own.

Barring any real interest in Anarchy, try religion, many times it amounts to about the same thing. You might have to bow your head once in a while, a dress up a bit, but those who can embrace one can usually embrace the other with equal gusto, given the same level of mental incapacitation and neediness.

Malcontents also should invest in some education. There’s nothing more embarrassing than railing on and on about a point close to your soul only to find out that it’s based on bogus information. If you want to be a good moonbat, you need to at least be half right. Oh course, not speaking in absolutes helps with this. You’ll sound like you are a little closer to the truth if you employ phrases like. “In my opinion”, “Could it be that?”, and “Is it possible?”. Check out the average documentary about UFOs, or the exact location of Atlantis for great examples of this. The beauty here is you’re not stating fact, only giving the equally mentally challenged something to grab on to. Which leads me to my next point.

Don’t try to hang too much with sane folks. If you want to be a real crazy, too much sanity can wear you down. Just stick with the other whackadoodles. Sure they may too busy raving on their own to fully appreciate your ravings, but at least they’ll let you keep raving.

What I’m getting to here is that my commenter isn’t going to find any success with the sound of mind. Their only (slim) hope is with the irrational. The rational among us do draw a line when instead of attacking the source of pain, one attacks those who understand and acknowledge the pain. They simply will not one person’s insanity run riot over the innocent. No amount of pain justifies attacking ones who have been through the same experience. My commenter has become something worse than the thing that created them. Until such time that they may come to their senses, they should be banished to the planet Moonbat.

They do not belong among us.

Tama Janowitz, My Canidate for Mother of the Year

Can you believe this wonderful woman has been blocking comments from adoptees?

I can’t either. It must be a mistake, so I’m going to allow adoptees to comment here.

The Real Thing

My husband Tim and I adopted our daughter Willow, who is now 12, from China when she was 9 months old. We were told by the adoption agency that once the process was complete and the three of us were back home, many people would stop to inquire about our daughter’s Mongolian features or why she did not look like us.

It may be that having a child of a different ethnic background from yourself is more difficult in other parts of the country. And certainly that may lead to problems. But In my neighborhood in Brooklyn I see black women with half-Asian, half-black kids and I see kids with dark skin and blond hair — the mother is white, the father is not. There are Indian fathers and Caucasian mothers with their offspring. There are families with two dads. There are also Hasidic families with ten kids and Muslim women dressed in full burkas who have dressed their daughters the same way.

So here in New York City, we haven’t attracted too much attention.

Well, O.K., sometimes.

It is true when she was a baby, if I took her out on my own, sometimes people did ask me, “Is the father Chinese?” If I said “yes” the usual response was “Good for you!” This puzzled me, so then I just said, “Either Chinese, or some black dude – who can remember?”

But as always, if you don’t have one kind of problem, you will automatically be given another.

There are more than enough for seconds! Even fifths!

One thing I figure, whether adopted, mixed race, religious, non-religious, whether your child is biological, whether you send her to Hebrew school or piano lessons – there is no one who does not resent his or her parents, We all have this in common. Indeed, it may be what makes us human.

Everyone feels they are doing the best possible job as a parent. But apart from the most obvious types of abuse, there is little that is clear-cut in regard to child rearing. Some discipline their kids and refuse to allow them to go to school dressed in a tutu. Others allow them to eat McDonald’s. Even if your house is tidy, this could be a mistake in child-rearing! So could being a vegetarian! Or serving meat!

A girlfriend who is now on the waiting list for a child from Ethiopia says that the talk of her adoption group is a recently published book in which many Midwestern Asian adoptees now entering their 30s and 40s complain bitterly about being treated as if they did not come from a different cultural background. They feel that this treatment was an attempt to blot out their differences, and because of this, they resent their adoptive parents.

So in a way it is kind of nice to know as a parent of a child, biological or otherwise – whatever you do is going to be wrong. Like I say to Willow: “Well, you know, if you were still in China you would be working in a factory for 14 hours a day with only limited bathroom breaks!”

And she says — as has been said by children since time immemorial — “So what, I don’t care. I would rather do that than be here anyway.”

My friend has a biological kid who said one day, “I hate you.” She cried and cried and told the child how deeply hurt she was.

I have heard those words, too, and my child is not biological. Like, I care? Hate me or love me, I am her mother and she knows it and since she is not getting a reaction out of me she almost immediately revises her opinion.

Is it my fault she is still angry because I kept coming home with another dog? I would have been thrilled, if I was a kid, to have six poodles! How was I supposed to know she would turn out to be the type who didn’t like dogs? And she says even if she did like dogs, she only likes mixed breeds!

“You should keep a list of everything I’ve done to you,” I have often suggested, “That way, later, you can read it to your therapist. Otherwise you might forget.”

Sometimes I think, Well, maybe I should be more of a disciplinarian. But what am I going to do, lock her in her room? She has an ensuite bath, a computer, cell phone and a Game Boy and if I say, I will take those away she says, “So what, who cares?”

Same with TV privileges. “Go watch TV!” I tell her.

“No, I don’t want to.”

“You will watch TV, young lady.” It’s no use.

I know that there are some women who have given birth who believe that the type of love they have for their child is more intense, more real, than the love I have for my kid, because they hatched it themselves. This argument makes no sense to me. After all, the fathers (until recently) never could be sure that it was their sperm that made them the dad.

You might as well say, “Listen, Daddy-O, you had ten minutes max of involvement in the creation biz, and you didn’t even get to pre-approve the winning sperm, And if your kid is the product of the fastest sperm in the bunch, that is just plain pitiful. How could you care about the child?”

However I would no more say this than ask someone with a baby if they were certain the father was human.

I also know women who never really bonded with their kid – biological, or adopted.

I figure, Willow, she’s my kid, she just got here differently. I don’t remember floating around in my mother’s womb, or coming out of the vaginal canal – but I still know that person is my mother, even if she is a little off.

And my kid knows I’m her real mother.

Not biological, but real. It doesn’t get any realer than this.

Have at it folks.

It’s National Adoption Awareness Month!

Or what the fuck ever they call it.

I call it a load of crap.   All month long I’m going to be assaulted with stories  how wonderful adoption is.  I won’t be able to watch the news without be subjected to some not-so-hot-shot reporter bringing me a human interest story about some sainted adoptive parents who offered a whole new life to some little waif.  Great.  Go after the hard story there scoop.  Here’s a hint, puppies are cuter, do a story about puppies next time.

I’m so looking forward to it.

It gets even better when one of my co-workers or any member of the general rabble that comes into the store, sees one of these tear jerker stories.  They are going to want to tell me all about it.  I can’t fucking wait.  I haven’t had this much fun since the 90’s when everybody who had three drinks in them thought it was their duty to tell me the latest blond joke.

They recall the feel good news story in great detail, expecting me to hang on every word.  They will invariably end up with a “Isn’t that just wonderful?” and give a sigh.   they will be very confused when I just look at them for a moment and walk away.  I just don’t have the strength this year.

So in order to just get all out of the way, for the whole bloody month, if you are one of the dolts that wants to relate their beautiful vicarious just-saw-a-thing-on-the-news extremely intimate adoption experience to me:

Screw off

Eat Me

Are you really that simple minded?

Get a clue.

Go away.

Fuck you.

Find another victim.

Get a life.

Think before you speak.

Lick me.

and finally,

imagine being made into an orphan and being expected to be grateful for it.

National Adoption Awareness Month has been sucessful in making me very aware thatI am adopted.   I’ll give whoever the evil organization that came up with this travesty that.

To the Best of My Knowledge…

my Mother is alive.

I say this because I can find no evidence to the contrary.  I could be wrong, but if I am, my evil b-sis has pulled off a conspiracy that I just don’t think she is capable of.

Evil, scared, and desperate, doesn’t usually equal smart.  Especially if you aren’t too bright in the first place.  I can only come to the conclusion that she lied to me.

The fact that she didn’t take into consideration that a person that could find her, after almost forty years, certainly could find out if one old lady died in the last couple of weeks, both disappoints and angers me.  Doesn’t she think that I’m smarter than that?

Guess not.  Oh well.

You what the real kicker has been in all of this bloody saga?  It’s brought me closer to my a-mom, yes, my a-mom.  I told her the whole disgusting tale last weekend, she was as pissed about it as I am.

Quote a-mom. “you’d think that honesty would be the best way for everyone involved”.


Curiouser and Curiouser

Hold up on the wake, folks.

When you die your your identity ceases to exist, in more than the obvious ways.   The fact of your death becomes a matter of public notice.  Your social security number is no longer a not really so closely held secret to be hidden from all but those who would extend you credit.  Your name no longer belongs to anyone, it’s published in the newspaper, no matter if anyone cares enough about you to have a service, or even pay to have an obituary written.  In short, you are immediately outed as a non-person.

No matter if your remains end up in a great marble tomb in one of the better cemeteries, or in an unmarked hole surrounded by the bones of hobos, your name ends up on a list that anyone can see.  There really is no way to hide this.  It’s all very democratic.

If you don’t make the list, you are not dead.

I’m not on the list.  Neither is my mother.

It’s a great day to be alive.

The Big Sleep

Much has been made of faking one’s own death in fiction and film. It seems to be a subject that fascinates. Something about being able to start over with a completely clean slate, being able to leave past transgressions behind.

As an adoptee I’ve never found the concept that appealing. Maybe because something very much like this was done to me. I was innocent, I didn’t have anything I wanted to leave behind. My death was faked, in a way, in order to allow others to leave things behind.

On some level I can see where this could be satisfying. With one action, the problem just disappears. I can even see how this could become addictive.

The thing is, like everything that seems to solve all problems, you have to be very careful with it. If you use it too much, it will come back to bite you. The use of this clings to you, like the smell of bourbon, like the acrid woodsy smell of weed. Somebody is eventually going to know your using.

They say an addict can always spot an addict. I think that those who have had death, even in this guise, forced upon them can also always spot an addict. A little bit of that smell always clings to them too. It’s familiar.

How many times can someone expect to be able to get away with something like this, killing people for convenience? Once, twice, even three times?

I think that just once. With every use this power becomes weaker, the high less satisfying, the risk for exposure greater.

Yep, it will turn around on you, but fast.