When Rose Colored Glasses Aren't Enough

Before I decided to create a blog and try my hand at the 31 for 21 Challenge in 2008, I didn’t really get blogs.  I thought they were the equivalent of those update letters people type out and fold up inside their Christmas cards.  The “here’s what our family has been up to” letter sent by people a) organized and energetic enough to get out Christmas cards every year and b) interesting enough to be able to fill an 8 ½ x 11 sheet with their family’s antics.

When I started writing the blog, I thought maybe 12 people in the world would ever look at it.  I figured I would, by default, get the grandparents and some siblings and really devoted friends to check it out.  My hope at the time was that hearing us talk about daily life with Lincoln would help ease some of the fear and sadness we all felt about his diagnosis.  I thought it would probably help me process some things, too, like writing in a journal and talking to a friend at the same time.  The point is that I didn’t know anything about blogs, I didn’t read any blogs myself, and I didn’t really think anyone spent much time paying attention to blogs in general, much less mine in particular.

Four years later, I am a bit obsessed with blogs.  I check my favorite blogs daily, just like I check my email and Facebook, like I assume more informed and socially responsible people check news outlets.  There are about 12 cooking blogs I haunt for recipe ideas.  I read fitness and body acceptance blogs.  I love honest, moving personal blogs that do what we strive to do with our little site: tell the truth, connect people, and put good things out in the world.  Sometimes those sweet family blogs will rip your heart out, though.  I talked last year about mourning the loss of a woman I had never met after reading her story in a blog.  This year, I read a blog post so gut wrenching I had to think and cry about it for three days before even mentioning it to Sam, which is unheard of because I tell Sam everything (much to his chagrin at times, especially when I am in the midst of a redecoration frenzy and can’t stop sharing about throw pillows or something equally mundane).

When I read the “I Left My Heart There” post on a blog called No Greater Joy Mom, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.  If you are anything like me, this post will make you do the “ugly cry.”  And although I believe in the cathartic power of a good cry, making you splatter mascara all over your keyboard is really not my intent in sharing this.

I am sharing this post because it shattered my innocence about the way children with DS are treated in other parts of the world.  When I read about children almost five years old who have never been taken out of their cribs, who are sedated day and night so they require no care, who are starved and neglected and basically encouraged to waste away and die as soon as possible, I could not believe it was true.  Not in 2011, not in the world my son will grow up in.

I complain about the use of the word retard in casual conversation because it will one day hurt Lincoln’s feelings, and meanwhile there are five year old children who can’t even stand up, who weigh less than 15 pounds and are being drugged and starved to death.  But how can I complain about anything when I see the comparison of how my child looked at three….

And how this orphan looked at three…

The size of a six month old, forced to stay in his crib day and night, this innocent child was being fed heavy sedatives to keep him from requiring any attention from the orphanage staff.  On my son's fourth birthday, the worst thing he experienced was that there was no live music at the restaurant we chose.  On this boy's fourth birthday, he was slated to be transferred to a mental institution that would make his life in the orphanage seem cheery in comparison.  I pray he was adopted before then, but most are not.

I was on the fence about blogging this year.  I keep thinking I have nothing new to add.  I’ve said it all before in previous years, in overly verbose post after overly verbose post.  I was on the fence until I read about that room of orphans being slowly, quietly murdered because they are not like you and me.  And then I realized I do have more to say because there is more work to be done.

As imperfect as this country is, at least we have moved beyond that kind of inhumane treatment, at least we value life more than that. Lincoln will never be president, but he will never face that kind of hell on earth.  When I stop to think why that is, why he is so lucky to have rights and basic human protections those children do not, I realize it is because of thousands of people throughout our history have stood up and fought for human rights, many being persecuted or alienated or tortured and killed.  I will never give an “I Have a Dream” speech.  I will never be a suffragette.  I will probably never march on Washington holding a sign and chanting along with a crowd of passionate agitators.  But I will, I must, speak out in the ways I am able.

I must tell people not to use the *R* word.  I must continue, with my voice and my vote, to press for equality, fairness, care for the downtrodden and needy, and the protection of those who cannot protect themselves.  I can't fix the whole planet myself, but there is a chance, if I keep speaking, that I may create a small ripple of change in my own circle of influence.  Maybe one day I will be able to adopt one of these forgotten children.  Maybe one day you will.  But until that day, may we all continue to agitate for the important truths every day, wherever we are with whatever voice we have been given.