The Child Machine

I see a child and I feel sadness. Not for jealousy or mourning of the lost, but for the savagery laid upon their tiny heads in the name of “their own good”. It hurts because 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 a time when it is best equipped to make use of and enjoy them. A child could learn a dozen languages if you’d but free it from your inadequacies and fear. What value might the adult produced from such a child be to the world? The majority of birth in this country comes on the heels of nearly meaningless, almost commercial, passion. The union of the brute-slave’s quest for a trophy doll to slake the lust of his cells upon. His desire to mark as his own for the betterment of himself in the eyes of his tribe the product of a trillion dollar advertising expenditure, and the doll who’s lack of skill for all but cloth and coy glance demanding the attentions, affections, and resources of a human beast of burden. Which results in the helpless being birthed at the mercy of both, whom neither are capable of rearing with deftness, or thought. All at the request of the cell, the church, the government, and the television. Tradition is the name of this horror. I see them and feel pity, I want to grant them the freedom to become that which all others decry and condemn, different. Perhaps even superior. But for now it’s a child, and the world can be an overwhelming and frightening place. It needs comfort. Yet, I fear to hug her lest the mother cry molestation. I fear to play with him lest the father cry attack. I fear to speak with them lest the teachers cry sedition. I, if I have love for my own flesh, must fear to even acknowledge it’s very existence 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 a concept of the alternatives. Perhaps the infant daughter would not choose pink and frilly swaddling clothes. Perhaps the toddler son would not choose Bob the Builder. And I shudder with rage at the punishments and manipulations leveled upon them for the purpose only of saving them the apparent horror of independent rational thought, 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 term it did not earn. It will be tagged and numbered, lined and stacked, inspected and questioned. It will have its media censored and its actions censured. It will have none of the petty freedoms any adult would fall to violence to defend. It cannot choose it’s shirt or it’s word or it’s meal, all because of the neuroses of it’s forbears

and the hypocrisy of the state and the greed of the corporation. All because, should the prom queen feel fat, the children will have no frosting, should the brute feel small, they shall toss, chase, or kick the ball. Or worse take up the riot shield or rifle. And through the slaves efforts the master shall reap the glory. No, by and large a child is not a happy thing in these times, because it has been reduced to just that, a thing. A thing you can beat when it upsets you, a thing to be traded and fought for, trained and sculpted. That is why I see a child and feel sadness. I hope if they thaw me, things will be different.

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