How do you feel about gay couples adopting babies?

Most people in the United States have no idea the numbers of children in foster care much less the even larger numbers of children currently freed for adoption.  Nor do people understand the child protective services, foster care and county adoption process.  Unless you are a part of the system, you simply have no clue.

I worked for the Department of Social Services in a unit called "Homefinding".  While I wasn't a caseworker for very long, it was enough for me to understand how much is hidden in plain sight, and how much is wrong with society that the average person doesn't understand.  For example, the prime goal of a children's services caseworker is to keep children with their families.  These people work very hard to assess situations and provide whatever support necessary to get those families the help they need so moms, dads, brothers and sisters can stay together.  The most tragic action you can take is to pull children from their mothers and fathers.  And yet.  And yet there were caseworkers who, upon visiting a home, had to take children without warning, bring those kids in their car back to the social services building, sit those crying/stunned/angry/terrified children in a waiting room and call Homefinding.

In Homefinding, we had a list of all the families in the area who could take in foster children.  It was updated minimally once a day.  There were pitifully few families on the list.  Most homes were already full, and many available couldn't take the kind of children who came so suddenly into care.  The crack-addicted baby with a heart condition, the fourteen year old boy, the family of ten brothers and sisters.  It just wasn't possible.

Halfway through my tenure in Homefinding, they gave me the one and only position in "Adoptive Homefinding".  It was here that I saw the even greater disconnect between reality and what is known.  We have a vague idea that there are children available for adoption.  Have you ever seen the Blue Books?  The Blue Books are thick three-ring binders filled with pictures and descriptions of children emancipated from their birth families, waiting for a new family who will raise them and love them and help them become adults.  Binder after binder after binder, each filled with page after page after page of children.

Here is the most terrifying disconnect:
Family wants to adopt a child.  A baby.  No crack babies, please.  Possible spina bifida?  No.  No disease.  No genetic problems.  Can you guarantee this baby is okay?  Twin toddlers?  So adorable!  But... was the mother a drinker?  Were these kids abused?  Are they damaged?  This child has bathroom problems.  This child poops in my closet.  This child hides food.  This child is damaged.  I need a promise this child will be like my own: perfect.

A child is put into foster care.  A child is only put into foster care when there has been abuse or neglect, meaning keeping the child with his or her family is too dangerous, no matter how hard the caseworker has tried.  This child is damaged.  This child is pulled away and put in a stranger's house.  Caseworkers work very hard to help the birth family become better.  Services are put into place.  Visits are made.  The foster family works with the birth family so the child can go home.  But... the birth family is too dangerous and it cannot be.  No other family member can take the child, so the child stays with strangers.  Perhaps for years.  Perhaps many strangers in different houses in different towns.  Perhaps in a group home.  This child was abused, neglected, torn from home, shuffled around, and, finally, "freed".  Free for adoption.

Is this child damaged?  Yes.
Can you guarantee this baby is okay?  No.
Can you promise this child will grow up and be okay?  No.

But...

But the damage can be mitigated.  These children are humans, and they learn and they live and they love.  There is no baby or child that comes with a guarantee--not even one born to you.  These children were freed from their birth families because it was too horrible to return.  Of course they need help; you would need help, too.

We need to know.  We need to understand.  We need to get a clue.  We are needed.

If you were a Disney princess, which one would you be and why?

Elmore's stepfather pulled him out of high school the second he turned sixteen, forcing the boy to stay at the farm and work on the equipment and help with the cows.  He had loved school; it was one of the only ways he had to escape his stepfather and his two stepbrothers, older and bigger and dumber than he was.  Adam and Drew were bullies and learned how to beat their new brother from their father.  Elmore's mother seemed to be running out of apologies for the man she married.  She whispered her sorrow over and over as she cleaned Elmore's cuts and put ice on his black eye.  Elmore whispered back that they should leave, but his mother's excuses would come pouring out again, and they stayed another week, another month, another year.  The year he would have gone to prom.  The year he would have graduated.  The year he could have left.  But not without his mother, no matter her excuses.

Pageant Question: What is the best advice you could give a younger sibling?

Doug, are you okay?

It was probably high school when Mom started warning me not to "be a Bahre", but did she ever warn you?  You know what I mean, right, about Grandma Bahre?  About Grandma's sisters.  About how that side of the family seemed to be "pleasers" and let themselves be doormats?  It's not exclusive to girls, you know.

Don't think I haven't thought that it could be my fault.  Did I boss you around?  Was it because we could never play together for long without me getting frustrated and walking away that you found that crazy wife of yours?  Was it because Mom praised me for things you weren't doing?  Though I know it's self-centered of me to even think this way, I can't help but feel guilty.  That's a Bahre trait, too.

I was there, Doug.  I found myself in the exact same situation, but I got out.  Nobody helped me, though.  I had to realize it myself.  People whispered, that's for sure.  Mom and Dad yelled at me, but only when I did something wrong.  They never looked behind it to wonder why I had turned away.  It was because I was "being a Bahre".  Abused.  Doug, you're in an abusive relationship.

She's crazy Doug.  Mother of your children or not, it's not good for any of you.  It's not too late to get out.  Leave her.  Take the kids.  You can get Services for yourself--you don't need her for that.  You're not alone, man.  Those people who whispered behind my back were whispering what it took me years to come to terms with: I needed to go.  So do you.

Does she still steal?  Does she still lie?  Does she still threaten you?  Does she still try to get you to hit her so she can have you arrested?

I haven't seen you in a long time.  Have you lost yourself in her abuse?  I lost myself.  I didn't know who I was anymore.  I hated the real me and tried to be what he wanted.  What are you trying to be, Doug?  What do you want to be?

Pageant Question: If you knew that a friend was being abused by a boyfriend, would you report the abuse, even if she asked you not to?

"I can help you."

The voice was soft, genderless.  I kept trying to pinpoint whether it was a man or a woman, but I couldn't decide.  It was insistent.  It wouldn't let me ignore the real issue.

"Get up.  Let me help you."

I couldn't see; my eyes were swollen shut from crying and my nose was closed for business.  I hurt from laying on the floor.  All my muscles seemed sore.

"Tell yourself the truth.  I will help you."

I was sure the people in the other apartments had heard this time.  The walls were so thin, I could hear when the girl in 3 got a kitten.  It mewed constantly when she left for work.  I never saw any of the other tenants.  I knew there was a guy in 2 whose toilet ran every thirty-five seconds.  When I was in the shower, I counted down to when I had to back away from the stream or risk getting burned.  Was the voice one of them?  Did he leave the front door open when he stormed out and somebody came in and saw me on the kitchen floor?

"Now is your chance.  Trust in me to help you."

Pageant Question: When do you feel the most like yourself?

It was the look he gave her that she didn't see.  She wore clothes that he must have chosen because she was uncomfortable in them.  She kept pulling on the skirt and forcing herself to stand up straight.  The purse slid off her shoulder until she finally growled and threw the strap over her head to wear it crosswise.  He stopped her from walking to straighten her shirt and set the purse at a better angle.  She smiled at him, so willing to please and clueless of his disdain that it hurt.  In the mall's food court, a man from the Asian eatery was giving away free samples.  She squeaked with excitement and pointed, her feet wobbling in the heels he had chosen for her.  He gripped her wrist and pulled her back to heel.  She apologized with increasing volume until he hissed at her to be silent.  When she went into her purse for a tissue, he gave her the look.  Disdain.  Disgust.  I wondered what she was like without him.  What had she been?  What would she be without him?

Pageant Question: How do you overcome adversity?

"Talia!"  Her mother's tone meant she was not to be ignored and Talia scrambled from the kitchen so fast she knocked over another box of empty bottles and garbage.

"I'll pick it up, Momma," Talia promised even before she was close enough for her mother to hear.  A fist flew out of nowhere and caught Talia on the mouth.

"Don't sass!"  Stars shone in Talia's eyes, but the protest that she hadn't been sassing was locked behind her bleeding lips.  Her mother stood, thin and dark, frayed around the edges, and wound around her addictions.  "Watch your brothers and sister."  Then she was gone.  Talia didn't know it, but it was the last time she'd ever feel her mother's touch or hear her voice.

Pageant Question 38: The late Andy Warhol once said that everyone is famous for fifteen minutes. In your opinion, whose fifteen minutes are up?

Most people blamed the internet, but it was more than that.  It was desperation.  Making a viral video became a version of playing the Lottery.  The Lottery was always a tax on the poor who wished for a better life.  Casinos were the same, which is why cities that added casino gambling as a way to boost their economies stayed slums.

I had worked at the Hauden County SPCA since I was a teenager volunteering for a church school credit.  I loved the animals and the work so much, when they offered me a job, I stayed.  I stayed all the way through college and I stayed when I graduated.  I was known as The Cat Girl because I seemed to have a way with the felines.  It was two years ago that I noticed a trend in the people who came looking for cats.  They didn't choose them the way people used to choose their cats, and they didn't "test them out" the way people used to.  I tried to describe it to my coworkers, but it was such a subtle change, and people were adopting, so all was good, right?

The economy, which had been on the upswing, had the floor yanked out from under it by gridlock and anti-regulation, "freedom" lovers.  There was nothing free about what they did for the majority of the world.  It was like a roller-coaster drop and the riders were deeply shaken.  Those running the ride took our money and grinned.  The Lottery and casino revenues were higher than ever.  That's when the first couple came into the SPCA and asked for a, and I quote, "a retarded cat."

"You want what?"

The girl snapped her gum and said, "A retarded cat."  She read the descriptions on the cat cages, but kept her distance.  I looked at the guy she was with, but he was peering intently into the cage with Heifer, a huge black and white shorthair, four years old and rescued after his just as overweight owner died.

"What about this one?" he poked his fingers into the cage.  "It's super fat."

"Fat's okay, but retarded would be better," she crossed her arms and looked at me, waiting.

"May I ask... why?"

She chewed and blinked at me.  "No.  Come on, Shawn.  They don't have any here."

As she dragged him out of the cat room, I heard him whine, "I still say a really stupid dog would work!"

It was a week after that we received a cat from Animal Control that had been exposed to spray paint fumes on purpose.

Pageant Question 20: What is one thing you wish you had learned in high school?

How to Recognize a Sociopath

My name is Sara, and though I am not a psychologist, I am qualified to tell you the secret to identifying the sociopath in your life.  I consider myself fully qualified because I dated a sociopath in the prime of my socially formative years: from tenth grade through the start of college. Hopefully, you don't have a sociopath in your life, much less as your boyfriend or girlfriend, but if you do, the tell-tale signs will be there.  For ease of readability and because of my personal experience, I have used male pronouns, but the same signs apply to female sociopaths.

1) First glance: he is super-charming.  He is "the life of the party".  He is hilarious.  Others pay attention when he speaks because he's interesting and confident.  Being super-charming does not automatically qualify someone as a sociopath, but it is best if you are aware that these people do not appear as monsters.  This quality will allow you to be drawn in, but here's the important part: do not be blinded!  First impressions stick, but make sure you stay aware when the other signs start to appear.

2) He is self-absorbed.  You can see if he basks in the attention his charm brings him.  Does he allow others to be charming around him?  Does he listen to others' stories and laugh with them?  Does he constantly clamor for attention when it wanes?  These are closer observations you can make during the super-charming faze.  The self-absorption will be revealed in more dramatic ways if you allow yourself to be sucked in, so don't.  Further self-absorption includes: ignoring you, believing others are against him, laughing at other people, making others feel bad for what he does, forcing others to always do what he wants...or else.  The "or else" is frightening, but it is often very subtle at first and, therefore, often dismissed.  It is a true sign of a sociopath, and it is...

3) He has anger management problems.  He lashes out.  He yells.  He pouts.  He is passively aggressive.  He blames others for his problems and will tell them so.  He may throw things, punch walls, and destroy property.  He gets into fights.  The clearest sign is that he hits you, but many sociopaths are smarter than that and the hurts aren't as clear as you might think.  He is emotionally manipulative and he uses guilt to make you do what he wants.  He experiences "road rage", and doesn't even have to be the one driving to have it.  BEWARE: he will apologize.  He will explain it away as his cultural heritage's temperament or his family's temperament.  He will exude his charm like you haven't seen it since you first met, and you will want to fall for it.  This is also insidious because he may seem extremely caring and thoughtful, but if he experiences these uncontrollable outbursts of anger, no matter how justified they seem, you are with a sociopath.

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It was firmly set in Jessa's mind that men who behaved badly in cars were not meant to be permanent partners.  The first boyfriend she had when she could drive was clearly a psychopath to everyone but her.  She was with him from high school and into college, standing by him through a series of last straws.  One of the final last straws happened while she was driving, nearing his small house with his mother and stepfather.  Little kids were on a walkway overpass, dropping snowballs on cars.

"When they hit your car, stop and let me out; I'll get them."

"No, it's okay, they're just dumb kids.  I can..."

"Let me out!"

"It's all right, watch..."  Jessa slowed just before the overpass, and after the kid dropped his snowball harmlessly on the road, she sped up and prepared to make the turn to her boyfriend's road.

"I said STOP!"  He grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the side of the road.  She had never felt so mad at him.  She was so mad she yelled, and he punched her in the leg.  She let him out and drove away.  Jessa wished she had never gone back with him after, but she did.  It wasn't quite the last, last straw, but it was the first realization that men who behaved badly in cars were not meant to be permanent.