Following

  Ok. Let's just pretend for a second that my first follower is not just the cop upstairs. If you're not - then please let me extend an apology for the assumption. You'll understand why in a few sentences.

 Upon leaving Sitka, I knew the chances of them dropping such blanket unconstitutional violations of freedom and privacy were practically non-existent.

  Did you know you can tell if someone is following you by looking in the rearview mirror and not watching the first or even second car behind you? It's usually the third or fourth car. I had read that somewhere and dang if it wasn't true. I tried it in Del Rio, Texas, our next stop on the map. I would switch lanes and the third or fourth car would follow. Then I would switch back. And the third or fourth car would follow. You know what's really fun? Wait until the green light is getting old, then speed up to go through just as it turns yellow. Just to see if they'll run it to keep up with you. One time I got real inventive and just decided to go in a square - around the block - for no reason whatsoever. That only worked once until they caught on.

  In Del Rio we lived in the barrio. Besides testing to see how many people were following us, we spent a good deal of time taking walks up to the so-called park. Which was actually just a square of grass that neighborhood mommies strolled around to get fresh air. Two things could be counted on during our walk. The house on the far corner consistently featured a screaming mom. Always screaming. Every frigging day. The second thing I could count on was a white van with it's door open - yet it was so dark inside you couldn't tell who might be in there. That van seriously creeped me out. It could have been a mommy's van. But why would she leave it wide open for a stranger to then hide in for her return? Not likely. The other option was a potential kidnapper. Considering we lived in a poor neighborhood and we sported the fanciest stroller by miles, that was a real possibility. Especially since Del Rio is just across the Mexican border and we looked like a prime target. That van with it's dark interior and yawning door made me seriously nervous. The third possibility was we were being followed by the usual suspects yet again - the police.

  At home, I wondered where they had put the cameras since our new house wasn't fronted with glass like the one in Sitka had been. I didn't bother to try to find them. With technology the way it is now I knew they probably were everywhere, even the computer, tv screen, potentially all over. Laughing Head had already proved to me that I was being filmed. At that point I considered hiring a private detective to protect me and Isaac.

 

Dumb Ass Questions Not To Ask An Adoptive Parent

  'Does he speak Spanish?' - asked by a relative, and you know who you are girlfriend, the second we brought home Isaac from Guatemala. Why yes. He came out of the womb speaking Spanish and at one year of age he is now completely fluent.

  Winner of the most insensitive question - 'Did they have a sale on babies?' So my baby is reduced to merely dollars in your mind since I actually had to seek an adoptive agency out to help him come to our family. And yes. I always considered me and my husband a family. We were just much smaller without Isaac.

  Winner of the most ironic question, seeing as it came from an administration person with Arkansas Christian Academy in Bryant - 'Do you know how precious your son is?' .

  Well let's see. I cried myself to sleep for 23 years before he came into our life. We spent thousands of dollars we had no idea where they were going to come from when we started the process. We had to take pictures of our house and write half a book to provide beginning info for the adoption agency. We had to hire not one but two lawyers. We had to host a home visit to prove we would be fit parents. We took five plane trips, both ways, in God-awful weather, causing extreme turbulence and rough take-offs and landings the entire trip. We rode in a tiny, barely holding together car without seatbelts both from and back to the airport, weaving through Guatemala City traffic that apparently followed no safety rules whatsoever. I just closed my eyes a lot and prayed.

  Let me tell you how much my son is worth to me. I love my son more than anything else in the entire world. I told him that every time I laid him down for a nap. Isaac is worth more than all the riches in both heaven and earth.

Abused At School

  There is not one single relationship in my life that has not been destroyed by this unconstitutional invasion of privacy that started in Sitka.

  'Do not be afraid of them. God Himself goes before you." No more apt words could have come to mind. Since the day we left Sitka, God was not the only one going before us. It was obvious when interacting with someone new if they had been contacted first, been shown a picture of me, talked about me.

  So just before the dead of winter in what I call the 'real' Alaska - Delta Junction - when I contacted the local school about a preschool program I had heard about on the radio - it came as no surprise when they started acting weird with us.

  So weird that even the base commander commented on it.

  Isaac up until that time had happily been spending time at home with quite a few jaunts to the outside world with daddy to the headquarters building on base. Isaac's favorite person to visit was the base commander who always took time out for who I'm sure was his favorite visitor also. When the commander had to get back to work, Isaac would charm the rest of the building with his sweet, outgoing personality.

  So when the local school came back with an assessment of how they felt Isaac had interacted with the other children during the hour or so time I had left him there, as 'shy' - the commander immediately exclaimed - 'Have they met him?'.

  Kent wasn't hip about the idea of preschool, especially one that seemed to be centered around special needs kids. Before contacting the school I had not been aware that this was their focus. However, I had nothing against it and felt actually that exposing Isaac to children with challenges would help develop an empathy in him. But I also agreed with Kent that he would not receive the sort of undivided attention I could give him at home, especially since the caregivers obviously had children with severe issues to take care of.

  So we decided to back out of the idea of the preschool. It was when I had to go back to the school for the paperwork that I knew once again that I was being treated like a lab rat - a psychological experiment - to see how I reacted to something.

  I entered the office and on a computer screen facing the counter where I had to stand was the most horrendous picture on the screen of an abused child I had ever seen. I immediately grimaced and turned my eyes. The office worker smiled and said they send those all the time. Seriously? I don't want to see that. She made no attempt to get rid of the offending sight and actually seemed to take pleasure in my discomfort. The poor child had been burned from head to toe. And I left the school office feeling just as abused as that innocent child.

 



 

 

Gun To My Head - Constitution 201

  A message to the cop upstairs who doesn't think I know about him - you could come downstairs right now, put a gun to my head - and I would simply turn to my son, tell him I love him and continue writing.

  I will not let you intimidate me. I can see you right now trying to grab screen views as I write. Blogger doesn't have auto-save. So when my save button depresses on its own - I know what you are doing. I also know that you are very likely blocking my feed. Ever hear of the Constitution? The First Amendment? That's right. You don't care about them. Well I do.

  I care even more about my son. That's why I will never quit. I will never stop. I will find a way to get this book published. Despite everything you are trying to do to stop me.

  I'm smart enough to have figured out this goes way beyond my son - you have a program in schools nationwide that is damaging children. They and their parents have a Constitutional right to know what you are doing. I didn't seek out this story. You literally dropped it in my lap.

  My son deserved far better than what you did to him. I will not stop until the world knows exactly how law enforcement and the school system destroyed my son's life. So that he can get his life back.

Better Mom Than Your Own Momma

  It's a common misconception that people who grew up in abusive situations can't make good parents. Rubbish.

  That's a lie and don't you let anyone fill your head with that trash if for some reason your childhood in any manner mirrors mine. And if it does, let me just pause right now and say to you the words the wisest woman who ever walked this planet said to me - "I'm so sorry this happened to you." It's okay if you stop right now and cry a little. I get it.

  But after you are done with the tears, there is something that is so critical to your future that you need to get if you haven't done so already. What they did is not your fault. What they did doesn't define you. Ever. It defines them. Period.

  And whether you believe in God, Heaven or Hell or not  - I can assure you, they will go to Hell for eternity. God said, "Revenge is mine."  So from there you can go on. I sleep easy every night knowing that those who hurt me burn in Hell for eternity. I don't think of them except to write the truth on these pages.

  All I think about is taking care of my son and his future. A job which has been made inexorably harder by people filling his head with their lies. Their lies based upon a common misconception that is a lie. And I refuse to leave this earth until my son knows the truth.

 



 

Destroying a Life from the Inside Out

  You would think that sending your child to a private Christian school where half the administration is packing guns would be safe. That depends on if you know who the enemy is.

  When you turn a corner and someone is pointing a gun straight at you, the enemy is easy to determine. When the same person holsters their gun, reaches out to shake your hand with a hearty 'We are so glad you came' - you may not recognize who exactly you are meeting.

  Which is not to say I just out and out trusted them from the beginning anyway. With my childhood, you shake hands and trust after you've known the person awhile. A good long while. It took the faith of God himself to send my child to a school, any school, as it was. At least the signs at the entrance to the church telling everyone half the place was packing heat gave me some comfort. What I didn't know is that the administration themselves were the enemy to my child.

  And no - they didn't point a gun at him. What they did was actually worse. They tried to act like they were our friends, to act like Isaac's friend, then day by day by day, hours on end, they attacked his life from the inside out.

  Until the life we had built up together over a ten year period no longer existed. What did they use? Words.

  God said I Am the Word. My journalism school said the pen is mightier than the sword. Words have power. To use words to destroy my son's mind is evil. And yet again - Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas can't sue me for these statements. Because it's the truth. I dare you to - just try it.

 

Real Life Math

  Cops across the nation have had unprecedented access to the life Isaac and I have led since day one. A simple mathematical calculation of 24 hours per day times 365 days per year times 10 years equals 87,600 hours of video of our life.

  During that time we have lived our daily lives. Took our daily walks. Isaac had his daily nap right up until five years old. We mulled the decision on when to allow technology into our lives - knowing that when it did invade it would be impossible to retreat from its' use. And in the meantime, I relished every single moment of our daily-ness. Letting the puppy out with us to run over to the pile of dirt that construction workers had left on the lot next door - to let Isaac play king of the mountain and laugh at Tink trying to join in. It was just days and days of nothingness and everythingness all mushed up into the most wonderful oneness. I wouldn't trade anything for the memory of our days of nothingness-wonderfulness.

  For I remember them. Every single one of them. All ten years. The hugs. The multiple kisses I gave my cupped hands, then blowing them real hard for dramatic effect, sending Isaac into giggles just before his nap. To show him that just one kiss was not enough. To leave the living room curtains open just a bit as he slept on the sofa, even though I was certain there were cameras somewhere in the house, just to be sure everyone could see us. To prove to them I am a good mom. To prove to them I am not like those who raised me. After all, why else would they have watched since day one? If they had not already decided in their minds what they thought our future held.

  But I didn't need the cameras. To me it is a point of honor. My child's birth mother lives half a world away in Guatemala. But she can rest her heart in the knowledge I treat Isaac with all the love I'm sure she feels. Every single day.

  And they were there every single day too. Forgetting to turn off their cellphones and probably almost dropping it when it rang right over our heads in the living room. Tripping over a beam in the attic and falling. Loudly. Twice. You ok dude? Eating fast food egg sandwiches even Isaac could smell, despite the fact I hadn't cooked eggs in two weeks at the time. Following me down the hallway over my head, which yeah, I can hear. Smashing into the side of the house countless times to gain entry - making my dog freak out and run in that direction barking.

  So they were there too. Constantly. Obviously an invasion of privacy of historic proportion. But I didn't stop them. I didn't limit their access. Because really - how do you stop anyone from watching you? So I knew without a doubt our every move was monitored. The number of endless hours, weeks, days, months, years can easily be calculated.

  What I can't calculate is why they then decided to take my healthy, happy, obviously thriving son and destroy his life.

How Much is a Life Worth?

  My preacher father raping me didn't stop me from believing in God. However, the actions of Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, made me stop believing in church.

  And that's a shame. I had planned to raise my child in the church. I wanted him to feel so at home at church that he could feel free to do what I used to do - run the aisles after church waiting for Mom to be done talking - play hide-n-go-seek in the baptismal during a weeknight church meeting that kids weren't invited to and try to squeeze past the door greeter to avoid his bear hug and fail - getting the hug whether you wanted it or not.

  Know every corner of that building and every person in it because you had entered those doors every single time they opened. To know that your bestie at church was always safe to be around because they came from a good family. You could tell because you spent so much time with them at church suppers - watching how the parents treated them.

  You know, I was always one of those back row Baptists. To me, it was just more comfortable. I didn't like sitting up front where I felt I was being stared at. But just because I was in the back didn't mean I wasn't listening.

  I was listening intently because at church I was at home. At home with my true father. My father God who protects me and never hurts me. To have that is priceless. To have it taken away by people who claim to know God is a travesty.

Child Abuse

  What they did to my child at Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, constitutes criminal child abuse. Period.

  So why would I, a military-trained journalist, publish that sentence? Because it's true and I can prove it.

  You see, when the military trains a journalist they don't mess around. They take a typical four-year training period, condense it down to eleven weeks and turn out real writers. With a wash-out rate exceeding 50 percent, students better pay attention during training or they will find themselves serving lunch specials in the chow hall instead.

  I learned early not to listen to other people when it comes to my writing. On an assignment worth almost half our final grade they provided a story source with a last name a mile long. Most of us got it wrong after the group interview because we were too timid to go up one by one and verify the person's last name. So we were like - yeah - how was his last name spelled? That one story almost turned me into a washout.

  So when I write something - I make sure I get it right. And yes. I know of two previous posts where something appears to be wrong. Both times I did it on purpose. For example: I know that technically Fort Greely is a post, not a base. And I don't care. I'm Air Force. Every military installation is a base to me and I'm not changing it. Also - I know that technically what I referred to earlier as Sitka National Forest Park is actually Sitka National Historical Park. But if I had used the real name and you had never been here what would you automatically picture in your mind? Probably a park in a city square with some historical markers like you see on the highways in the lower 48, or a restored local building, surrounded by picnic tables and swing-sets. But if I used a more descriptive name such as Forest Park - you immediately picture us walking through a forest. A place of beauty. A place where once you move into it more than 10 feet you are enveloped with air so fresh it restores your very soul. Technically the wrong name - in reality the true name. To have used the actual technically correct name would have bogged down and distracted from the whole original point of that particular post. So I used what described it best.

  And it's my blog. What are you going to do? Sue me? I think not. Just like Arkansas Christian Academy won't sue me. Look. Let's test it. Make it even more noticeable.

  What they did to my child at Arkansas Christian Academy, Bryant, Arkansas, constitutes criminal child abuse.

  Wait. Wait for it. What is that I hear? Is that a knock on the door from a lawyer? Nope all quiet. And they never will because they know I'm telling the truth. I will crucify them in a court of law if they even attempt to do so.

 

 

It Was His Eyes

  It was his eyes that told me he loves me. And he wasn't my husband. Who was standing right beside me.

 Those eyes, that look,  really took me aback. I was having trouble focusing on what they were saying - they kept droning on while my mind was examining all the facts: I've never met this person in my entire life. My husband is next to me. That didn't stop the look. My son was exploring the room. The presence of a complete family didn't stop the look. And although my hair can look nice on a good day, even when I was 20-something with hair that bounced and behaved all the way down to a much cuter, slimmer butt - even I wasn't that much in love with my hair.

  No one falls in love to that extent at first sight. This - this was someone who knew me intimately and loved me deeply.

  I tried to bring my focus back to what they were talking about. Something about security. Perimeters. I glanced up at the wall over a work station. A map of the base and a large photo of a security fence.

  That's when it clicked. Even though he wasn't in a police uniform, none of them were - he had to have seen the videos. The black square in laughing head's hand had been a camera. I knew that for certain now. Those eyes had seen me laughing, playing, twirling Isaac around to music, my long hair spinning up in the air behind us.

  His days were spent mostly underground at Fort Greely, Delta Junction, Alaska, protecting the missile defense of our country. But at some point, he had come back to the surface, to a meeting with the military police. To watch videos of me before we arrived.

  It was his eyes that told me so.