It seems that people can’t be involved with adoption, or have an adoption in their family, or be adopted, or raise an adoptee, or relinquish a child, or mediate, or run an agency, or write about adoption. Nope.
Instead, we all got…touched by it. No really, check it out: Authors in an anthology? Touched. Counselors for APs and PAPs? Touched. Foster parents posting on a forum? Touched. Adoptees who want DNA tests? Touched. A blogging search angel? Touched. Non-profit FB group? Touched. Oprah’s relinquished sister? Got Oprah touched.
(“About 133,000 results.” Yeesh!)
Not only is this creepy as Hell, it’s a filthy lie. If I had to characterize how adoption has made me feel with such a metaphor, it would be more along the lines of “wedgied by adoption” or “upsydaisied-but-not-caught by adoption” or “started to sit down while it held the chair which it then yanked away so I fell on my ass by adoption.” I’m pretty sure many first mothers, adoptees, and adoptive parents feel this way.
It’s also very deceptive in its use of the passive voice. There’s zero agency here! People don’t adopt children, relinquish children, move children from home to home. Nobody corrupts adoption, or steals and sell babies. No, adoption just goes around quite on its own, touching random people like a blind pervert hoping his hand will eventually light on Kim Kardashian’s ass.
It does work for me in one context, however. Remember “Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire”?
That’s what being touched by adoption feels like to me. People poke me in that raw place all the time. Unlike in the cartoon, many of them don’t mean to do it, or don’t know any better, but it still smarts.
So, Adoption, I’ve obtained a restraining order. Your inappropriate touching will no longer be tolerated.
PS–Oh! I know! “Blindfolded and spun in circles and told to pin the tail on my own ass by adoption.” That’s not very catchy, though. Who’s got better?