If you follow this blog, you already know that my family has been forcibly separated for the past six months. If you’re not already familiar with the situation–or if you would like more information–I have published a couple articles that go over my personal story, as well as different problems that compound each other to create a system in which these types of gross miscarriages of justice are common.
“In 1956, author Philip K. Dick published a short story called “The Minority Report.” Set in a near-future U.S., the piece describes a felony prevention system called “Precrime,” which harnesses the psychic powers of three mutated humans, dubbed “precogs.” The precogs predict egregious crimes like rape and murder before they ever take place. Then, Precrime detectives arrest the future assailants before they have the chance to complete the act. The targeting of people who haven’t committed an offense is justified by an inspired faith in the precogs’ psychic abilities. “The precogs are never wrong,” is a narrative refrain.”
The ground feels unsteady, like there’s some dark ocean lurching beneath the wide flat floor tiles. I don’t want to be here. It’s early July, the second day of my dependency trial, when a single judge will decide whether or not I’m fit to parent my three- and four-year-old daughters.
Several people have also reached out asking how you can help my husband and I while we battle an unjust, stacked system to get our daughters back. It’s been difficult to answer that realistically because I don’t know anybody who can afford to retain a private attorney for us, nor do I know anyone with the ability to dismantle the incredibly broken and corrupt United States child welfare system. But now, I have an actionable answer to the question “how can we help you?”
Letting go is hard. When my mom was a young teenager, her family left Cuba in disgrace. In 1966, the Revolution was over, Fidel Castro was in power, and many of the changes that would prove him a ruthless dictator were already taking place. My grandparents were both teachers–intellectuals were reviled in communist Cuba because they were considered among the most outspoken against the new regime. Before she left, my mom saw signs posted around the campus where her father taught, declaring him a traitor. The government seized their house, and they were only able to bring two suitcases among the five of them. I’ve never seen a picture of my mom as baby for this reason. On the airplane, she had to surrender her Cuban passport for refugee admissions to the United States. To this day, she has never again set foot in Cuba.
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I’m proud to say that Betty’s Battleground has reached it’s half-year mark. I started ‘er at the end of January. The first post was about overcoming my PTSD symptoms to take my older daughter to the Womxn’s March against Trump. (Sadly, this anniversary also means Trump’s been our president just as long…but let’s focus on the positive).
This blog and I have been through a lot these past several months. I survived an onslaught of abusive litigation from the man who caused my PTSD, threats and abuse from his current girlfriend, a disappointing betrayal by my father, bumps in my marriage, craziness from the kids, and my own tumultuous mood swings. This blog and I have fared through good days and bad; high volume days and 50 view dips. I’ve found the footing to launch my freelance pursuits, and am now moving on to fellowship applications.
Today, to celebrate and give thanks to my readers and donors, I’m publishing a page filled with paying markets for mental health articles. I have been compiling these resources for the past month, and I’ll be updating it as I find more, so bookmark (pin, stumble, etc) the page!