Exploited Children and Powerful Children

My baby is sixteen, taller than I, with a deep bass voice.  His features are becoming more chiseled, his biceps are more defined, the adorable baby fat is gone entirely.  He is upstairs in his bedroom right now, probably watching a movie or talking on the phone.  He has been sheltered and protected all his life.  He has never known real hunger.  He went to school, played with friends, went to church and scouts, took trips with his family.  He is one of the lucky ones.

            Where is your baby?  How old is he?  Is he safe in your home?  Is he safe in your neighborhood, or in his local school?  Is he one of the lucky ones?

            Child sex slavery is a booming business in the United States.  Estimates say about 100,000 children are forced to work in the sex industry, which rakes in $32 billion a year.  These children, as young as 10 or even younger, have lived their short lives with abuse, molestation and fear.  Children run away from home to escape sexual abuse.  They have no sense of self and nowhere to go.  A pimp can swoop in, very charming, polite and attentive, flattering and fawning, making a child feel safe, liked, perhaps even loved.  Eleven-year-old girls, just beginning to look like the women they will become, are having sex for money, exploited by their pimps and their johns.

            This is not a horror story that happens only in third world countries.  It is not only in cultures so vastly different from ours we have little hope of understanding.  This happens here, in America, in our own backyards.  It happens in Utah, in Georgia, in Texas and New Jersey.  These children are arrested for prostitution while their pimps hide and the johns go free. 

            There is an organization, called Child Rescue, working to stop the child sex trade and human trafficking.  The founders of the organization pay all operating costs of the organization, so all donations go toward educating and supporting law enforcement agencies, providing support services to children escaping the sex trade, and increasing awareness of the tragedy.

            My baby and his high school choir learned about the scope and scale of child sex slavery, and got behind this organization.  This group of students, children themselves, organized fund raising efforts to donate to the cause.  Their theme song for the cause, the song they use to show the heartbreaking reality of exploited children, was written by Kurt Bestor. 

Prayer of the Children

Can you hear the prayer of the children on bended knee, in the shadow of an unknown room?

Empty eyes with no more tears to cry turning heavenward toward the light.

Crying," Jesus, help me to see the morning light of one more day,

but if I should die before I wake, I pray my soul to take."

Can you feel the hearts of the children aching for home, for something of their very own.

Reaching hands with nothing to hold onto but hope for a better day, a better day.

Crying," Jesus, help me to feel the love again in my own land,

but if unknown roads lead away from home, give me loving arms, away from harm."

Can you hear the voice of the children softly pleading for silence in their shattered world?

Angry guns preach a gospel full of hate, blood of the innocent on their hands.

Crying," Jesus, help me to feel the sun again upon my face?

For when darkness clears, I know you're near, bringing peace again."

Dali čujete sve dječje molitve? Can you hear the prayer of the children?

           

            The men’s choir sang this in four parts.  I watched my son’s young face, barely out of babyhood and still a child, singing about heartbreak and pain.  I cried to think of this child I carried under my heart bound to slavery by a heartless world.  If he had been less lucky, it could have been him.  I cried for the other children, once carried safely under their mothers’ hearts, who are not so lucky.  I cried for the thousands of children in our country and around the world who need to be rescued. 

            I am touched and awed by the power these students have.  They have the power to change the world.  They can band together for good, fighting for a cause they believe in.  They have strong hearts and willing hands to help anyone in need.  They can change the life of one child. 

            Your baby has the same power.  Your baby, no matter how young, can work with his peers to change hearts and lives, to improve the world, to save humanity.  Ask your baby to join the cause.  Donations can be made to childrescue.org or to the choir at my son’s high school.

            It is up to us, as adults, to help our babies realize their potential and their power.  Then it is our job to get out of their way while they save us all.

Angel Child

            My first son was born barely twelve months after his sister.  He was just shy of seven pounds, fair skinned and blue eyed, and cute as a button.  We knew we wanted to name him after his father and my father, Michael Jeremy, but that name seemed too big for him.  We called him Mikey, which suited him just fine.

He sat in his swing and observed the world contentedly as long as someone was in the room with him.  He loved to watch people move around, working or playing.  He happily cuddled when I held him, and grinned at me when I walked past him.  I clearly remember watching him look intently at a family friend, neither smiling nor scowling. But he showed a huge, toothless baby smile when I looked over our friend’s shoulder.  As tiny as he was, he clearly knew and loved Mom.

Mikey hated being left alone.  He screamed whenever we put him in his crib, so mostly he slept with us.  He lay on my abdomen until I was stiff from lying still enough not to wake him; then I poked my husband and he slept on Daddy’s chest for a while.  I was so tired, with a newborn and a one-year-old, that I didn’t care what parenting books advised and I did whatever it took to get some sleep. 

            My tiny boy had a habit of looking into eyes.  His grandfather commented that his eyes seemed much older and wiser, as if he knew more than he could tell us.  It seemed that he had not forgotten where he lived before he was born, and carried memories of God with him onto Earth. 

            Mikey died in his sleep when he was 3 ½ months old.  Officially, he died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, of SIDS.  I believe he died because he had work to do for his Heavenly Father that couldn’t wait.  He did remember more than most of us, because he knew he was going right back.  I am humbled and awed to have been his mother, and proud of my angel son.

Celebrating Death?

May 2, 2011   

The image of the plane hitting the second tower, and the tower crumbling, is replaying in my head.  I was at home the morning of September 11, 2001, getting ready for work, when my husband called and said, “Turn on the TV.  You need to see this.”  I watched in horrified fascination as thousands of people died.  I listened to the news of the Pentagon being hit, then the flight that crashed in Pennsylvania.  That day is burned into my memory and the memories of all Americans who saw the destruction.

            Since that day we have been at war in the Middle East, fighting against terrorism.  Osama Bin Laden approved the attack; his organization took credit for the disaster.  Al Qaeda claimed a victory against the United States and continued to spread terror and violence in what they called a Holy War. 

            Yesterday, a US military operation killed Bin Laden.  His house was ransacked, many of his associates and family died, and his body was taken into US custody.  I heard President Obama announce the success of the operation, and the image of those towers falling immediately came to the foreground of my mind.  This man led the group responsible for the massive loss of life.  As horrific as the attack on the United States was, I cannot rejoice in his death.

            Killing Bin Laden may have been justified.  Perhaps his death will lead to the eventual disbanding of Al Qaeda (but don’t hold your breath).  But his death will not restore the lives or the towers lost that day so long ago.  It will not restore the security and safety we felt as American citizens.  It will not end war or terrorism.

            No matter how justified, I cannot celebrate the loss of any human life.  Human life is precious and unique.  Respect for human life means respect for all life, even if the life in question is evil.  If I could celebrate and rejoice in death, I would be no better than the terrorists I profess to despise.  Bin Laden may have deserved to die, but his loss is felt by his children and his wives who loved him and looked to him for safety in a scary world. 

            Never-the-less, I feel a profound relief and hope for the world I live in.  I am relieved at the end of Bin Laden’s reign of terror.  I am hopeful that the world may become a little more peaceful, that American citizens can regain the sense of brotherhood we felt so keenly in 2001, that terrorism may decrease throughout the world.

            I am under no delusions that this operation is the end of all wars or the end of terrorism.  Our military will not be home tomorrow, or this week, or even this year.  Soldiers and civilians will continue to die in acts of war throughout the world.  Mankind’s capacity for inhumanity was not eradicated by this one death. 

            But maybe someone will see the error of terrorist thinking.   Maybe a few teenage boys will escape the clutches of Al Qaeda.  Maybe a father will go home to his family instead of continuing the war on humanity.  Maybe an American who lost a loved one in the World Trade Tower collapse will finally feel a sense of closure.  Maybe healing can begin for America, and for the world.

            So, I am hopeful for a better world, a brighter future, a more peaceful world community. 

Confessions

o   I doodle in class when I should be taking notes

o   Sometimes I’m really bored in lectures, and I need to stay awake

o   Doodling looks just like note-taking to a professor.

o   I’m addicted to caffeine

o   I need diet cola to function.

o   My cat is more spoiled than my children

o   My dog is more spoiled than my cat

o   I try to ignore the family dog whenever possible.

o   My house has no electronic noise

o   Everyone is required to use headphones for music, TV, etc.

o   But we all use our cell phones to call the person in the next room

o   I guess we’re just too lazy to walk across the house.

o   Remember that icky thing that happened on orchestra tour? I know what really happened.

o   It wasn’t what they accused us of.

o   No one was being malicious or vindictive

o   I will carry the secret to the grave.

o   I lie about my weight on my drivers’ license

o   It still says what I weighed when I first got it—117 pounds

o   I haven’t weighed that little since high school.

o   I sometimes think I want another baby

o   But then I remember that I like sleeping through the night

o   And I have grandchildren

o   Grandchildren are more fun.

o   I tried Friday confessions because some of my friends do it

o   Basically, I stole their idea

o   If you steal ideas from lots of people it’s called research, right?

Happy Friday, everyone!

Crazy Is as Crazy Does

            I don’t feel crazy.  I feel a lot of things, but none of it feels like crazy.  I feel scared, angry, hurt, sad, worried—but not crazy.  My parents brought me here because they think I’m depressed and at risk.  Am I at risk?  At risk of what?  My roommate is afraid of the dark, and she leaves the door open at night.  I hate having total strangers walk past my open door.  Everyone here is so much older than me.  They have children my age.  I don’t feel crazy, and I don’t feel like an adult, so what am I doing in a psychiatric ward for adults?

            I check in on a weekend.  Not much happens in psych hospitals on weekends.  The therapists are all home with their families.  It’s just the aides, responsible for keeping a bunch of crazy people safe for two days.  It’s Christmas time, and there are poinsettias decorating the day room.  Aren’t they poisonous?  Aren’t they afraid someone will eat too many and die?  The plants are gone the next morning.

            My mother comes to visit.  She noticed the piano in the dayroom, and brought duet music so we could play together.  We haven’t spoken civilly to each other in a long time.  Playing with her feels comfortable, easy, like I felt when I was little.  We forget to be mad at each other for a while.  My brothers play pool behind us, and the clicking balls are a counter-rhythm to the music. 

            On Monday, my parents come to meet with a counselor for family therapy.  I am too angry to speak.  My parents are too angry to look at me.  The therapist struggles to make us understand each other.  I am glad when the hour is up and my parents go home.  Then I can go back to staring out the window.

            I am angry that the doors are locked.  I want to go home.  I don’t like the eerie sound of the quiet here.  I don’t like being locked in.  It feels weird to have people I don’t know asking me to talk about my feelings.  I don’t want to stay, so on Wednesday I check out, barely five days after I checked in.

            I am glad to be home, even though I still won’t talk civilly to my mother.  I vow never to show I need help ever again.  I hide the monster in my head for years, pretending it doesn’t exist.  I think I can ignore it forever, but one day it tries to kill me, and I know I can’t hide it anymore.

Epilogue: The monster in my head is severe clinical depression.  I recognized the need for help decades ago.  Thank goodness for modern psychiatric medication.  I am no longer angry or scared, and I’m trying not to feel guilty about being depressed and showing symptoms (although I treated my parents abominably, it was the disease, not me).  The memory of the psychiatric hospital is pretty fuzzy in my head—I don’t remember many details of what happened.  But I sure remember how I felt.

Birth of the Mother-Self

            I was born the same day my daughter was.  My self-as-mother didn’t exist before Amy entered the world, but “mother” suddenly became the most important part of who I am.  In 22 years I’ve learned a few things, lost a few things, gained a few things, and made a few mistakes.  I have been changed forever by the experience.

            She came into the world screaming at the top of her little lungs, fists clenched in indignation and blue eyes wide open.  She had a full head of dark hair, round pinch-able cheeks, and skinny little arms and legs.  The nursery was down the hall, around the corner, and down another hall—a long way from my hospital room.  I could hear her wake up, hungry and not afraid to let the world know.  When the nurses brought her to me, she had a little pink bow stuck in her hair and a killer appetite.  I learned what it feels like to have my heart moving around outside my body, in the palm of this tiny girl.

            Amy and Alisha (who lived across the street) were inseparable.  They thought they looked exactly alike, and used to tease me about which one would live at my house and which one would go across the street.  They wanted to be together all the time.  I lost my spot as Amy’s best friend when she was still in preschool.

            I once said to Amy’s dad, “Amy and I get along so well.  We won’t have any trouble getting through her adolescence.”  And then adolescence hit, like a brick wall falling on our heads.  The first time she screamed, “I hate you,” as she slammed the bedroom door, I cried.  I wanted my sweet little girl back, not this monster teenager.  Before a girl can become herself, she needs to become not-mom.  She needs to rebel, to test boundaries, to try on other personas and ethics to see what works for her.  Luckily, adolescence doesn’t last forever, and I gained a good friend and respected hero in the woman she is becoming.

            If I had the chance to do it over, I would be more nosy, ask more questions, set stricter rules, and follow her around more.  I would laugh more, play more, and talk more.  I would be kinder, more patient, less punitive, and more spiritual.  In spite of my mistakes, Amy has become a woman I am proud to know.  My mother-self is only 22 years old, and we’ve both come a long way.

Religion and Science

            In doing my class evaluations for spring semester, I discovered my science professor also holds a degree in religion.  It made me think about how I merge my faith with scientific knowledge.  Do these two disciplines work together, or are they widely disparate?

            I am a devout Christian.  I believe in God, creationism, and Grace.  I also possess an analytical mind.  I value critical thinking and logical processes to reach conclusions.  I am comfortable in both areas.  In fact, I don’t see much difference between them.

            Religion tells us why things happen.  God had a reason, a purpose for creating the universe.  We are here to learn and do certain things, to be tested and to learn to be ethical, moral, faithful people.  God the Father loves his children, and wants them to be happy, hence the beauty of nature and variety of landscapes on earth.

            Science tells us how things happen.  It is illogical to believe that a God who created an ordered universe, one that follows its own laws of physics and chemistry, could have created without careful logic and scientific thought.  Evolution and creationism can both happen in the same world.  Divinely directed formation of the universe and everything in it makes perfect sense to me.

            In some part of my mind, I believe the power of God lies in one perfect, beautiful, mathematical formula.  The Grand Unified Formula of Everything allows for the creation of the entire world.  In fact, when I die, I fully expect Heaven to be a room with a large white board and a little man who looks very much like Einstein.  He will explain the GUFE to me, and I will understand it.

            Of course, since my husband is an English teacher, that same vision is his idea of Hell.  My own personal Hell will be sharing the room with a bunch of mathematical idiots who keep asking dumb questions.