The Cries of Children

This post is for those saying that I am heartless and hate children because I oppose wantan illegal immigration, especially by abusive parents who drag their innocent children through hell so that they can break the law in a country that is not theirs and does not want them. This post is also for all you “protesters” who believe that screeching and cosplay is doing anything to help. It’s especially for those who are JUST NOW upset about an issue that has been raging for decades. Your comments have been noted and filed under, “Virtue signaling out of your ass.”

I think a large part of your distress is that you have it so cushy. You do not know what it’s like to literally fear starvation or freezing to death. You see a well-dressed, middle-class woman who just paid $6,000 to have a thug deliver her to a foreign border for the sole purpose of breaking the law, and because her kid is crying for five seconds, you honestly believe that she’s “in distress” and needs our help. (Seriously, have you never been to a Walmart? Kids cry all the time over nothing.)

But you do not believe it enough to actually DO anything real…such as learn the facts, run for office, or give her your guest room…

I not only saw poverty, I lived it. I have a tremendous heart for the needy, especially children. I have put my money and my time where my mouth is. I did not wait until a president I am told not to like by rapey, rich autocrats is in office. No, I help others and speak out about injustice even when it’s not fashionable.

I did not come from a privileged background where college was an option for me. I worked through my senior year of high school, and then worked two, sometimes three, jobs to survive. I hoped to save up to go to college or obtain a running vehicle, but who can save when they can barely afford to eat? As an unskilled laborer, I did everything from shovelling horse shit (not too far off from what I do on Facebook now) to lifting heavy things on the graveyard shift in a warehouse.

For several years, I served on the front lines. I did my best to help in an institutionalized, sterile environment where far too many babies were kept like so many stray dogs. I comforted tiny, wailing children who were separated from their parents. I watched, dumbstruck, as they were put into literal cages. I tidied communal rooms with their rows of matching child-sized beds, tables, chairs, and plastic utensils. I did my best to ensure that they were fed proper meals, even though many of them could barely choke down the limited foods available. I made sure they were clean and dry as much as possible, even as many arrived ill or with full diapers or soiled clothing. I watched each child closely for those short times they were allowed to play outside, per the schedule. Day after day I would coo, rock, and hold children who cried incessantly for their mommies.

I fought the rage I felt when a parent would unapologetically return to retrieve their child that they chose to put into such horrific conditions. I rallied against the despair I felt toward a society that not only forced, but glorified, such conditions thrust upon innocent children. I left the profession because you can only have your heart broken so many times before you go insane.

These children did not choose their circumstance, their parents did. Sadly, their parents paid dearly — some up to 2/3 of their income — to abandon their distraught children on a daily basis. Just like those parents at the border … oh, wait… THOSE parents don’t ever have to pay a dime to receive LITERALLY the same care as every American child receives in daycare…