Brassica napobrassica: Public Enemy Number One (rutabaga) wrote,
Brassica napobrassica: Public Enemy Number One
rutabaga

My choice?

I didn't choose to be conceived by a twenty-one year old U.S. citizen in 1981.

I didn't choose to be conceived by a woman who, despite her meager means by western standards, had access to adequate prenatal care.

I didn't choose a woman who knew breastfeeding was better than not.

I didn't choose to be raised by parents who were able to give their child clean water, nutritious food, clothing, and a house.

I didn't choose to be raised by a woman who didn't work full-time so that she could spend most of the day with her baby.

I didn't choose a mother who had the luxury of choice--to go without so that her child might have.

I didn't choose a mother whose family would offer their assistance when needed.


I could go on, but I think it goes without saying that I didn't choose a lot of important shit in my life, if only because I wasn't alive and/or sentient. I'm really, really sick of people thinking they're fucking special because of this or that. THEY'RE NOT. The American Dream is very nearly the least of my concern these days--American Exceptionalism seems to have assumed primacy in this sick, sad modern life. Why do Americans think they're better than someone else who was born in the same year, in the same month, on the same day, even, just not in the same place? What fucking choice was it of theirs, or yours?

I have more to say on the subject, but it's late. I just wanted to get a starting point down before I went to bed.
Tags: birth, choice, exceptionalism
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