INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
When a baby is removed from their families at birth for care proceedings, it causes "acute pain and stress" to everyone involved, from families to professionals, an evidence and case law review published by the Nuffield Family Justice Observatory has found. Notice that the term “from families to professionals” seemingly excludes the infant, whether intentionally or not. I profess to say it is intentional. No one gives any thought to the baby. In fact, less thought than breeders give to a pup or foal. Go and try to adopt a newborn pup; caring breeders will take a deposit, but you will not be able to bring the pup home until it has been weaned from its mom, not so with trafficked infants—no wonder we are screwed up. We are more concerned with the health and nutrition of our dairy cows than with those of our children. Who truly are the savages?
The review highlighted the psychological impact that state intervention has on birth mothers and babies, saying, "The separation of an infant at birth from his or her mother, father and indeed wider family, is an acutely distressing experience for all concerned." I found that statement on the website (Godspeed Internet) of an outfit called WillisPalmer over in the UK. WillisPalmer was established in 2004 by Mark Willis and Andre Palmer. They identified a need for a specialist service providing high-quality independent social work services primarily to local authorities and the courts. (Why is it the “courts” always seem to be included in screwing up a child’s life? Rhetorical question.) Initially, Mark and Andre undertook most of the assessments themselves, but gradually, other ISWs joined them. Launching from a small office in Colchester, Essex, they first recruited Sarah Stowe, now the Managing Director, in April 2005.
Humanity has neglected to consider the child in matters of adoption. Care is sometimes taken to vet the guardians, caretakers, foster mothers, foster fathers, and siblings. Sometimes, not all the time. And not, however, any extended family members who might play an essential role in the child's upbringing. I will use the term “adoption” for the reader's convenience and understanding. However, it is child trafficking, baby trafficking, in my opinion, not adoption. The term adoption is a concocted legal term for considering the child of another as yours for convenience. Such terminology should not be included in human dialogue because “care” is substituted for “love” with the blessing of man’s courts. Love is felt, not bestowed, which raises another thought for consideration. What was the scenery like before 2004? I will avoid expressing my thoughts about social workers. That is the topic for a treatise of its own.
You have just been given a brief description of why I believe so many do not recognize the trauma inherent in and experienced by every single trafficked child. It is a science in and of itself and a field only beginning to be recognized by the therapy community. A therapist cannot adequately treat conditions they neither recognize nor have experience in. Yet, such counselors have been practicing for decades, and patients have not been getting the care they require. Most, like me, none at all, just blindly proceeding through life like a bull in a china shop. More than once, I have been told it is all in my head—the only correct piece of advice I have ever been given. Now, at eighty, it all comes full circle, and I can finally see the light. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.
I have waited years to put these thoughts into words for others to read in the hopes that they are at a point in their lives where they might benefit. Benefit from learning they are not alone in their trauma, with a chance to find ears to listen and programs to aid. I had neither. If they were out there, I wasn’t even aware enough to look or search. I might have still waited to write all of this, but with heart procedures coming up, the time is now, or it might just pass me by. After all these years, I now genuinely feel like a child of the dawn.
Another reason I have not sat down to publish my thoughts is that I did not want to sound bitter, spiteful, or to blame others. If any of that comes across, I apologise in advance. I am merely recalling the truth as best as I can. Rather than blaming me for recalling the truth, how about considering those whose actions and deeds I am recounting? If they remember things differently, that is the reason I have not explained myself previously. People have a way of only hearing things from their perspective. This time, I feel the need because it might be now or never. I owe it to my descendants to tell them how I think about myself.
There is growing evidence that the number of babies being removed from their mothers at birth in the UK is increasing (Broadhurst et al, 2015) and that domestic violence, drug misuse, and mental ill-health are all contributory factors (Marsh et al, 2015). Following the removal of a baby, evidence indicates the risk of prolonged grief symptoms, leading to further mental health conditions and social exclusion (Lewis et al, 1995; Klee, 1998; Chapman, 2003). Furthermore, the compulsory removal of a baby, while viewed as being in the baby’s best interest, is associated with subsequent pregnancies to replace the loss (Broadhurst & Mason, 2013).
For the purpose of this study, removal of a baby at birth is defined as: the removal of a newborn baby from the mother directly at birth or in the postpartum period, on the grounds that the baby is at risk of, or likely to be at risk of, significant harm. This statutory intervention can be an emotive and intrusive event for mothers and their families (Broadhurst et al, 2015; Masson & Dickens, 2015). Midwives, as primary care givers, witness this intervention and describe it as one of the most draconian actions the state can take. They also report that it is distressing and one of the most challenging aspects of contemporary clinical practice (Powell 2007). Midwives recognise the juxtaposition and paradox of seeking to balance the needs of the mother/midwife relationship while upholding their safeguarding responsibilities. There is a recognised need for further education and training for midwives, before and throughout their professional careers, that includes acknowledgement and strategies to address the emotional impact from all perspectives when a baby is removed at birth (Everitt 2013).
Little research has been undertaken into the experiences of mothers who have their baby removed at birth, or those of the midwives who provide their care. This study explores mothers’ experiences of having their babies compulsorily removed at birth and elements of midwifery care that may or may not have been helpful to them during this time. It also explores midwives’ experiences of providing care to mothers at this time.
Just one final observation. Humans give more care to laboratory animals than they do to the children of others, whom they view as just another commodity. There is converging evidence from numerous laboratory models that experiences occurring early in development can have long-term influences on behavioral and neuroendocrine development. In particular, studies in rodents suggest that variations in the quality of interactions between mother and infant during the postpartum period can induce site-specific changes in gene expression in the brain, leading to differences in stress reactivity, social and reproductive behavior, cognition, and reward-mediated behavior [Lehmann and Feldon, 2000; Lippmann et al., 2007; Meaney, 2001]. In these experimental protocols, the quality of the early environment has typically been manipulated through daily separation of mothers from pups for prolonged periods (maternal separation) or brief periods (handling). These manipulations are conducted during the first and second weeks of postnatal development, a critical period for environmentally induced changes in neurobiology. These effects can also be studied in the context of natural variations in care, as both rats and mice display considerable individual differences in maternal behavior during the postpartum period [Champagne et al., 2003, 2007], and these variations are associated with persistent changes in gene expression, physiology, and behavior [Meaney, 2001].
However, few studies have examined the influence of maternal care and the quality of the social environment during later postnatal development. Patterns of maternal care undergo dramatic changes during the postpartum period, and mother-infant interactions extend beyond the immediate postnatal period and have been demonstrated in rodents to continue for up to four weeks, leading to the phase known as ‘weaning’ [Konig and Markl, 1987]. This process is marked by a cascade of behavioral and physiological changes in dam and offspring, including a sharp decline in maternal investment and of offspring suckling, the commencement of offspring eating solid food, changes in offspring gut enzyme activity, and an increase in offspring socialization and exploration [Martin, 1984]. Thus, weaning should not be viewed simply as an abrupt event, as is often the case in laboratory settings, but rather as a gradual process occurring over several days with significant behavioral and physiological consequences for offspring [Counsilman and Lim, 1985; Martin, 1984]. Just saying.
I
Not believing in religion does not mean being against religion.
Isn't chastising someone for asking for “mercy” the most unChristlike gesture imaginable? If not for “mercy,” would there have been a Christ? Can you believe I am asking these questions?
The tragedy exists in the black hearts and minds of the disbelievers. Those who consider newborn infants to be a blank canvas, a lump of clay, waiting to be defined by the brush strokes of their purchaser, molded by their owners’ hands. Not a being unto itself.
There should be mandatory counseling, education, and training for those who desire to raise someone else’s child as their own. They must accept that someone else’s child will always remain someone else’s child and never be the same as their own. If this is not a concept that can be accepted, they have no right to be near the child of another. Any such relationship is criminal at best and disgusting at least.
I attempt to be honest, even at the risk of being attacked like now. I can feel the daggers being looked at me. Ungrateful. Spoiled. Ungracious. Thankless. Unworthy. Unappreciative.
Really!?! Which one of your children can I take? Not the same? Says who? You? What experience do you have for the basis of your opinion? Conclusion?
My experience? Yeah, I know your kind. You think you are clever, avoiding answering a question by substituting one of your own. Sorry, that's old-school, overused, and unimaginative. Merely desperation for no logical reason exists behind your thoughts—just pure, unadulterated emotions.
I am not here to argue, so let me explain briefly. “I was conceived on a September morn
They danced until the night became a brand new day
Two lovers playing scenes from some romantic play
September morning, still can make me feel that way
Look at what they’ve done.”
For the next nine months, my mother and I were one. She breathed for me and her heart beat for me, rhythms I will always feel and remember the moment they were stolen from me. A trauma is engraved in my subconscious forever.
“When I was born,
I did not cry
‘I am’…I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
‘I am’…I cried
“I am’…said I
And I am lost, and I can't even say why
Leavin' me lonely still
I got an emptiness deep inside
I've tried, but it won't let me go
And I'm not a man who likes to swear
But I've never cared for the sound of being alone
Young child with dreams
Dream ev'ry dream on your own
When children play
Seems like you end up alone
Papa says he'd love to be with you
If he had the time
So you turn on the only friend you can find
There in your mind
When I was young
I used to call your name
When no one else would come
You always came
And we'd play”
Who told me this? No one. They are lyrics by Neil Diamond. Like most historians and archeologists, you search for pieces when all else fails, put them together, and come to the most educated conclusions possible. If others believe they have better conclusions, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.
The only people alive back then and still alive today were too young to remember those times. If interested, read “Butterbox Babies” by Bette Cahill as a companion piece.
“It takes a village” is an idiom I am familiar with. I read about it while researching the village where I was born. It referred to the fact that there were no orphans or foster children in that village. When parents could not care for their child, no matter the reason, the town stepped in and raised the child(ren) as their own. However, if the child was born outside the village and stolen from the mother at birth, and neither parent notified the town, then the story ends there. Such was my case.
The going rate on the black market in the United States at the time for an unblemished white child was $10,000, according to Ms. Cahill in her book. Yes, babies were trafficked across international borders while countries seemingly kept their eyes wide shut. Add to the purchase price the alleged associated bribes involved in the kidnapping and sale of the baby.
No one exists to explain all this to the child. In most cases, the child remained oblivious to the actual story. They either believed their adoptive parents were their biological parents or their only parents, as was also portrayed to the public. Or, they were told they were adopted but too young to fully comprehend the meaning of the term.
I do not remember ever not knowing that I was adopted. I was also brainwashed into never bringing up that fact or discussing it with any living being. To do so would bring the ultimate hurt to my adoptive parents. Imagine burdening a child with such guilt! What sort of person does that?
My earliest memories were twofold. I remember amusing myself alone many times. Other children did not come to play at my house, nor did I visit theirs. I remember my parents’ friends commenting on how polite and quiet I was when we visited or when they visited. They thought it commendable that I did not throw tantrums but played quietly. No one seemed to notice how lonely I was. Instead, they rationalized it to be a favorable quality.
Looking back, I remember my adoptive parents telling me and others that they would buy me anything I desired or asked for, hence the spoiled moniker. In truth, they bought me what they decided I should want and not what I asked for. I came to detest Santa as a fat person in a costume and not believe in him at all. My adoptive father never went shopping with us. I would go downtown with my mother to the various department stores. The stores were decorated during Christmas, carols were blasted, and everyone smiled. Some stores had children’s rides during the holiday season. My favorite was a monorail hanging from the ceiling of one of the stores.
Almost every store had a Santa Claus that you would wait in line to see and divulge what you yearned for Santa to bring you for Christmas. I don’t know when I first visited Santa Claus. Nor do I remember the time I finally concluded he was a fraud. Children have short memories, so the following year, instead of asking why Santa had forgotten what I asked him for the prior year(s), I foolishly recited a new list of what not to bring.
You are probably wondering why I called Santa a fraud. What child does that? How about a child who does not remember how many years he visited Santa with a twinkle in his eye and hope in his heart, only to wake up every Christmas morning with nary a present in sight? Neither a Christmas tree, for that matter. Fortunately, I do not remember when I went outside, and the other children were showing off what Santa brought them, and what excuse I gave. Did I admit to not receiving anything, or did I make something up, claiming Santa had brought something I already had? Either way, I must have felt humiliated, but truthfully, I no longer remember. Over 75 years is a long time for the best of memories. The only thought I now have is, didn’t my adoptive mother realize how cruel it was to bring me to see Santa each year? I wondered what went through my head, knowing I would receive nothing I asked for. Or was she so narcissistic that the faux joy and pride she felt from getting a child to see Santa Claus in front of her community blocked her from the disappointment felt by that child, me? Yes, that is a retrospective conclusion.
In discussions with others, I have been told that my adoptive parents were probably confused because they did not know what to get me since they believed they had already given me everything I asked for all year. This is where confusion and memory collide. I have always thought my adoptive parents were intelligent people—brighter than other parents, a conclusion devoid of reasoning. What I honestly knew about other parents never entered my thoughts.
There are four instances worth mentioning in my childhood memories. The first is a truck. A telephone repair truck, to be precise, with a trailer that carried a wooden telephone pole. They had friends who had a son my age. We visited them only a few times during my childhood for reasons I will explain later if there is later. Our visits were so infrequent that I only remember playing with it once. When we were leaving, I distinctly remember telling my parents I wished I had a truck like that. No, I didn't get one for my next birthday or the following Christmas, although I did ask Santa. I remember eating at a Chinese restaurant, and as we left the restaurant and walked to our car, we passed a store with a truck in its window. I remember the price being around $9 and change. I pointed it out to my parents. They acknowledged it, and we walked on.
One summer, my mother took me to visit her brother. He had two sons, one a year older and the other a year younger. While our parents were inside, I played with them (my mother called them cousins) in their driveway, where they had a table and a Gilbert’s Chemistry Set. I was mesmerized by it. It was the coolest thing since sliced bread. I told my mother I would love to have one and could not wait to ask Santa for one. I did this since I did not receive one during the last five or six months. I also yearned for a Gilbert’s Erector Set. No, Santa did not bring me one. As an adult, one of my favorite Christmas movies is the 2002 film, “The Man Who Saved Christmas.”
The third event I decided to include involved a puppy. When I was first adopted, my parents had a dog and lived in a rented apartment. They told stories of how protective that dog was of me. It was about the size of a cocker spaniel. I don’t remember a home or a dog living with us.
My adoptive father’s parents owned their own home and business. They lived in a three-family building in the city and owned a Fruit and Vegetable store on “the shopping avenue.” They lived on the second floor, we lived on the first, and my adoptive father’s younger sister and her husband lived on the third floor, which was more of a loft.
For whatever reason, the dog lived outside in the fenced-in part of the backyard of the three-family home. My uncle built a dog house, and the dog lived there year-round. I remember her having puppies, which were given away. I have no memory of playing with the dog or the puppies. The point is that my adoptive parents had a dog before and after I came along.
My adoptive parents’ friends were mostly older people with children much older than me; some were even married. We would occasionally visit them, and again, I entertained myself. One such couple had a cocker spaniel that had puppies. They offered us one, and finally, my adoptive parents agreed to something I wanted. I could not wait to get home from school to play with that puppy each day. Then it happened. I came home, and my adoptive mother was crying. She had opened the front door to retrieve the milk the milkman had dropped off, and the puppy ran out into the street and was run over. I cried until my adoptive father came home, and they promised we would go out on the weekend and look for another puppy. I must have been about six or seven at the time. That weekend, we drove to a kennel out in the country, as we did on numerous occasions. It was as if they thought the mere trip would appease me because we never came home with a dog, and I never forgave them for lying to me.
The fourth and final event occurred over the years. I wanted toy soldiers like the green ones in the movie “Toy Story.” Friends had them. I would improvise. When we were on holiday, I would collect the little soap bars from the motels and hotels. I would also collect toothpicks from the restaurants we went to. Using my adoptive mother’s nail polish, I would paint a ring around half the toothpicks in the middle. This differentiated the two different armies. It is the same with the soap wrappers, or the soap would represent tanks, ships, and vehicles. Other times, I would use various colored marbles. These were my substitute toy soldiers, and my adopted parents never took a hint. I never received the Green Soldiers.
This is how oblivious they were to their children’s desires, interests, abilities, and talents. Reading was never encouraged, as there were no books in the home. Homework was not something I was encouraged to do or made to do, because they never knew whether I had any. They were not interested. They did care how I was dressed when we went visiting. Looking back, I diagnosed my adopted father as a norcopath. I can’t think of a single promise they ever made to me that they kept. It seemed to them that life was a con job. They believed they could convince anyone of anything, and it pissed them off that I learned not to fall for their bullshit. They had the outside world believing they were wonderful parents, and I was an ungrateful adoptee. I know that now. I wish I had realized that then, to prevent undeserved ridicule.
© 2008-2025 ResearchGate GmbH. All rights reserved.
Comments
Post a Comment