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The Child Machine

The Child Machine

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Published by Brandon Sergent
Individual chapter from "The Book" in commentable form.
Individual chapter from "The Book" in commentable form.

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Published by: Brandon Sergent on Dec 02, 2007
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/16/2009

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The Child Machine
I see a child and I feel sadness. Not for jealousy or mourning of the lost, butfor the savagery laid upon their tiny heads in the name of “their own good”. It hurtsbecause when I see a child, I often see the prisoner of idiots. I see a person cut off from the rest of its people, a person denied the wonders and fruits of the world at atime when it is best equipped to make use of and enjoy them. A child could learn adozen languages if you’d but free it from your inadequacies and fear. What valuemight the adult produced from such a child be to the world? The majority of birth in this country comes on the heels of nearlymeaningless, almost commercial, passion. The union of the brute-slave’s quest for atrophy doll to slake the lust of his cells upon. His desire to mark as his own for thebetterment of himself in the eyes of his tribe the product of a trillion dollaradvertising expenditure, and the doll who’s lack of skill for all but cloth and coyglance demanding the attentions, affections, and resources of a human beast of burden. Which results in the helpless being birthed at the mercy of both, whomneither are capable of rearing with deftness, or thought. All at the request of thecell, the church, the government, and the television.
Tradition
is the name of thishorror.I see them and feel pity, I want to grant them the freedom to become thatwhich all others decry and condemn,
different 
. Perhaps even
superior 
. But for nowit’s a child, and the world can be an overwhelming and frightening place. It needscomfort. Yet, I fear to hug her lest the mother cry molestation. I fear to play withhim lest the father cry attack. I fear to speak with them lest the teachers crysedition. I, if I have love for my own flesh, must fear to even acknowledge it’s veryexistence lest I be crushed by one or all of these forces.I cry for the children I see forced into a mold they would reject had they but aconcept of the alternatives. Perhaps the infant daughter would not choose pink andfrilly swaddling clothes. Perhaps the toddler son would not choose Bob the Builder.And I shudder with rage at the punishments and manipulations leveled upon themfor the purpose only of saving them the apparent horror of independent rationalthought, lest they grow differently from their makers and their makers’ intentions.As if that's a crime.No, a child in the great land of America by and large is not a happy creature.It is substandard fed, mind and body alike. It is at the front stretch of a felon’s termit did not earn. It will be tagged and numbered, lined and stacked, inspected andquestioned. It will have its media censored and its actions censured. It will havenone of the petty freedoms any adult would fall to violence to defend. It cannotchoose it’s shirt or it’s word or it’s meal, all because of the neuroses of it’s forbears

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