Jessica Ridgeway, Child Abuse, and Abortion

If you were able to go back to the language of the original abortion debate circa 1973, you might be surprised at the language people used. One key term stands out–child. Another is baby. Baby and child were the terms used in the 1960s and 70s to describe the victims of abortion. They were not called fetuses (which is a Latin word for “little one”)

They were, to people on both sides of the argument–human babies.

Now, 30 years later, the dismal, dehumanizing effects of abortion have begun to be evident in the crimes against children our society sees now.

I say sees now, but I mean looks the other way.

I know this because it has happened to my children as well as precious children like Toryn Buckman or Jessica Ridgeway. When children are the victims of crime people do not want to read, see, or feel the agony that comes with abuse. As a child advocate I have been told by pediatricians and social workers to shut up.. Talking about this makes people uncomfortable.
The fundamental issue in abortion is only wanted children have value
That means the unwanted ones….(still have value, we just refuse to acknowledge it). A baby conceived by rape is still a valuable human being. Same with girls in general. Same with Down’s babies. All of us have the same priceless measure in the eyes of God.

But for 30 years we have been convincing ourselves that millions of beautiful children aren’t valuable.

Not true.

It has created a deadly lapse in our collective thinking. We would rather blame the parents of crime victims for what has been done to them. We would rather believe it could not happen to us. They made a fatal mistake we will avoid– we will make more money, live in the right place, our kids will be smarter than theirs.

None of this is logical nor does it keep our children safe.

If we are ever to make our country safe again for our children we must see all children as precious– more precious than our jobs, cellphones, free time. And most of all–more precious than our lethal complacency.

Ooh!! Old dogs and new tricks

So I have the world’s best wakeboard instructor. I say this for two reasons–both will be posted on my blog’s blog

The process of learning to wakeboard mirrors another learning curve. I practiced gliding on water today.

I also practiced editing my story. Practiced leaving out the ugly details…

To be polite…
To spare my listener…
To give strangers the option to not know the whole story…

I am not congratulating myself for any of this.

I am simply learning to not say everything people do not want to hear.

The borrowed child

I once borrowed
A child/you could say
Lent.
She was lent to me
Because
her mother was a drug addict…I believed in the system…believed a caseworker…needed infinite
Light

This is not a poem.

She held the world in her eyes
And all the treasure I could have
Begged, borrowed, stolen
I would have traded for her

My in-between child

The little boy whose mother is a chalk angel
Lying beneath
The chaos of war

The little girl who believes the old man in the white car
Who does not really ever
Need her help to find a puppy

The baby glued to a wall
Broken like a vase on the hard stones
Another woman
Laid down on the floor

she would have been a good mother…

Monster.
It is the thing we call
A person who could do that to a child

My baby

He pulls the crystal bowl
Out as I am turned askew
Aside
Asunder

His father viewed this as s trinket
And did not hide it away
High where it could not be reached

Shatters in an instant
And we both
Stand amidst the shards

I say
It is not fair

And scoop him into arms
His siblings distract him from the wreckage

And I sweep up the mess.
Put poultices on the ground

Pretending for a moment
That there is a magic word
For love
Stronger than
Caustic
Glue

Girl
I would reach you
With my arms if I could
With my words if I must
Like walking on water
If I have to…

Resort to prayer.

Happy Birthday to Me

Last year I had not yet written an obscure self-published memoir called Just: a story of the lost and found.

I was not on Facebook. I was a private citizen wading through the havoc and grief caused by our decision to adopt a boy who would rob us all of our innocence.

My birthday is a watermark. Three years ago I did not know my children were being abused. We found out the weekend of Columbus Day 2009.

Rough memory
It stalks through family
Pictures, movies
Dates and times
No one is safe from it
The dark ominous
Scowl of truth

I have given myself some birthday gifts:
The gift of freedom from what people think
The gift of mobility
The gift of prayer (to the God Who Indeed Lives)
The gift of preservation and strength for my children
I have walked away from people I wanted to trust because they did not fight for my children
I fought instead

So it will be strange for me today, my birthday because I do celebrate these years–this gift of a broken life redeemed.

And I bless my God, my Friend for this new community He has given me

In place of the years
The locusts have eaten

The Hell of Words

Once
When you were still a boy
I walked with you
Into cool water in a dying light
No deeper than your waist
Although the gulf itself
Stretched for miles
Out forever

When I draw words for hell
I get them from Sartre
Not Jesus
Or Dante
Like lighting a match
To draw fire

This room is airless enough
The faces of it’s inhabitants
Never vary/a rictus of pain

I wonder…
Are you as afraid as I am
Of the little things
That last
Forever?
And the possibility
That there will be
No way out.

Keyon Dooling

http://www.latimes.com/sports/sportsnow/la-sp-sn-keyon-dooling-retirement-abuse-20120928,0,5441679.story?track=rss

I am interested in the language of this article. Dooling admitted? How about revealed or detailed or spoke of? The Times writer’s use of the wordadmit reveals the strong (and erroneous) stigma attached to the victims of sexual abuse.

Dooling is telling us in no uncertain terms that the strongest, fastest, tallest members of our society are the routine and silent victims of sexual abuse.

We need to admit that we are failing to protect children. We need to admit that the silence and the stigma hurts us all.

Eclipse of Light

It was a solar eclipse
Splashing darkness
Across half the earth
Like a child stretching his blanket
Across the bare
Wood staircase–
Upstairs young man!
His mother admonishes

Never realizing
His life is the smallest
Gossamer thread

From her life to mine

They say
if you try
To look
Directly into the sun
During an eclipse
Seek professional help

Do they mean scientists or
Psychology?

I won’t know.

I just
Know
That staring
Straight into the
Face of God himself
Is impossible hubris
Unless…
The shadow of the Cross
Shields the mortal
Eye

The Rain Dance

I see the light
Pouring out
Over the lawn at night
The girls in their pretty
Dresses fan out in the lines
Demarcating light and darkness
Can you hear the haunting
Music?
I can
The strings of slow lament
The partygoers
Lurching toward the wrought
Iron gates
Boozy and fatigued
Wondering
who will show us the way home?