so my divorce decree gave us joint managing conservatorship, then we added an addendum later that gives me "primary managing conservatorship" and he has "posessory managing conservatorship" the words "sole custody" are never mentioned. it lists things we each have the right/responsibility to... basically "posessory managing conservatorship" means that he can make decisions only while he has possession of them... which is never and he was granted supervised restricted court visitation only.. meaning he can only see his kids every other saturday for one hour with 2 police officers and a social worker present.... so as a posessory who doesnt even show up for his supervised visits, he basically retains the right to be notified in the event of a terminal illness, injury or death. but it doesn't say shit about passports or travel or blah. i do have a "can't move farther than 100 miles away" restriction though......

i was trying to explain this to the people on the phone and they said that unless my decree specifically spells something out, i have to have a notarized form from him in order to obtain their passports and take them out of the country.

but they don't give out "supervised restricted visitation" like that unless there is a serious and documented history of domestic violence, contacting him would be bad for him because of his fragile mental state, and bad for me and the kids because of his fragile mental state and history of psychotic violence. so apparently that may fall under things that give me an exemption.

fuck the state department. >> ^rasch187:

Unless you have sole legal custody both parents have to appear in person.
See this for further information: http://travel.state.gov/passport/get/minors/minors_834.html (especially step 7).

I don't care. The school yard fight was entertaining, but it's over now. Casey won the fight, The end. It's pointless for all of us outsiders to get involved more than we are. Let the parents, teachers and social workers take care of it and get these people out of the media. It may be a sad situation all way round, but exposing all of this in the media for our entertainment is not the way to go. Moving on.

going to the police station is basically being arrested. Especially since repeat infractions invoke fines and visits from state social workers. I am glad he finally says what the law actually is, an attempt and moral enforcement by the state. Just as for years, the state has had the last word on what marital status is, or what drugs you put in your body. There is no logical separation with this and fining parents who's children are found at fast food restaurant.

>> ^harry:


And I can't believe this is a Catholic exclusive problem. Or is it? You don't hear much about abuse from other religious social workers (whatever you call them.. priests, rabbis, vicars). Why's that?


Well, humans have not evolved to be celibate creatures. The Catholic Church, and most other major religions for that matter, are profoundly messed up in this matter. They regard sex as something to be tolerated for the purposes of procreation. A necessary evil. I don't know how or why they arrived at this ridiculous position, but at least most other religions allow their ministers to marry.

If you go looking for a group of people who are willing subjugate their normal human desires, it's not hard to believe that you will find some deeply disturbed psyches in that group. Apply it to a large enough group (over 400,000 priests according to wikipedia) and you're bound to find some individuals who will cross the line.

So apart from the odd resignation, why are these people never arrested and put on trial for what they do? Why are they immune to the law? Why have they been immune to the law for centuries?

And I can't believe this is a Catholic exclusive problem. Or is it? You don't hear much about abuse from other religious social workers (whatever you call them.. priests, rabbis, vicars). Why's that?

My take on it is that it's horrible and misguided that the right keeps reigniting old debates I thought civilized society put to bed a looooong time ago (like torture, collecting evidence without warrants, imprisoning people without trial, separation of church and state, Title 2 and 7 of the Civil Rights Act, etc.). This is just another in a long line.

For me, I keep wanting to ask people "why do you care?" I mean, isn't it a good thing if people from Ireland or Mexico want to come here? Why not let anyone who wants to be a citizen just do the paperwork and background checks and become a citizen? If they come here, and make a life here even without legal status, and have kids here, what's the big deal?

If it's a matter of them not obeying our normal (as opposed to immigration) laws, or not paying their taxes, then we should deal with them in the same way as a citizen who breaks the law or doesn't pay their taxes.

The goal of this movement is to give government the power to deport whole immigrant families, including children born to illegal immigrants, without the complication of having to come up with a legal justification for "deporting" their natural-born US citizen children or forcibly splitting up the family by deporting the parents only.

Why is that so important to people that they want to alter an Amendment that was passed largely to overrule the Dred Scott decision?

I just don't get what people are thinking.

In reply to this comment by Ryjkyj:
Hey dude, what's your take on this fourteenth amendment bullshit? My wife discussed it a little bit with her co-workers this morning and they brought up some new: people-come-here-from-Ireland-etc-for-better-birth-care-and-their-kids-incidentally-become-citizens thing. I don't think I can support removing the 14th amendment for any reason but my wife's co-workers all seems to think it's a good idea.

Now here's the disturbing part: it's not like my wife works for some right-wing think tank. She's a social worker for the state of Oregon DHS...

Happy anniversary BTW.

Hey dude, what's your take on this fourteenth amendment bullshit? My wife discussed it a little bit with her co-workers this morning and they brought up some new: people-come-here-from-Ireland-etc-for-better-birth-care-and-their-kids-incidentally-become-citizens thing. I don't think I can support removing the 14th amendment for any reason but my wife's co-workers all seems to think it's a good idea.

Now here's the disturbing part: it's not like my wife works for some right-wing think tank. She's a social worker for the state of Oregon DHS...

Happy anniversary BTW.

LordOderus is right - the problem that Winstonfield_Pennypacker doesn't seem to realize is that in an ER, they cannot refuse you care, but that doesn't mean it's free. YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR IT (or declare bankruptcy). Now, a social worker (either gov't employed or working for the hospital) will reduce certain fees and setup a payment plan, but it can be an astronomical debt.

My brother lives in a rural area, is a self-employed small business owner, and cannot afford health insurance. A few years ago, he had a cyst in his throat that required surgery, otherwise he would suffocate and die within a day. The local hospital did not have the facilities to do the surgery so he had to be taken to the city. 100-mile ambulance ride was > $10,000. (the helicopter ride would have been triple that, so he opted for ambulance). The surgery (not that complicated, probably took the actual surgeon 15 minutes, 2 hour total with setup/prep by the techs in the OR) was > $70,000. You can buy a house for that.

So, with some bad luck, you can get sick and get yourself into a lot of debt, or you can choose the republican plan - TO DIE QUICKLY.

If he had health insurance, he could have gone earlier (at the point where it wasn't an emergency situation), or if not preventable with earlier treatment, at least the insurance would cover most of that $80k of expense.

And people also seem to think that "the public option" would be free - it wouldn't. you still have to pay for it. It's simply cheaper than private insurance for the same coverage. I don't think it would ever be as efficient as a single-payer system (such as in Canada), but it would help millions of people financially.

Honeestly, I don't think congress is doing enough. Just put in the public option, but don't make it mandatory to have health insurance, and all the naysayers (people like QM and WP) will have the FREEDOM to choose the plan they want. If they want to spend $500/month instead of $100, that's entirely up to them. Or they can spend $0, cross their fingers, and if there is a major problem go to the ER and get in debt.

(I just hope I never see a 1-800-SAFE-BODY commercial, starring Justin Case.)

Now, I am from Denmark, and this is a story that is not uncommon in Scandinavia. I can tell you that the translation roughly correspond to what is being said in the video. But I can also say that the angle of the headline, `Firemen and Police in Sweden attacked by Muslims´, is not corresponding to the newsstory.

This is a story about violent young second generation immigrants and refugees. Almost every major city in Scandinavia has a ghetto with these immigrants living in it. Here it's Hisingen, Göteborg, in Sweden, but this is not a rare story.

Now the problem is real, young people in the ghetto are getting involved in crime. But that is the same picture as you see in the black ghettos in South Africa and indeed in America. These youths might identify with islam, but they are not a product of islamism. There are imams and others working together with social workers and the community to prevent the crimes.
They are just a bunch of young kids with a common heritage and nothing to do with their lives. They do not, and i know this by fact, live by the sharia code of law. Most of them have never even attended friday prayer.

Only the most rightwing are claiming this to be a purely religious problem (we are litaraly talking about the nazis here). The opponents of islamism in Scandinavia do not claim that islam is the primary reason for the problems in the various ghettos, if they do, they do it in the more broader sense of islamic culture.
The discussion is much wider, you can not look at this story without looking at the other controversies surrounding this. How many refugees should be allowed to put up permanent residence, should they be allowed to work from the refugee camps.

Your sources are very onesided and do not support their primary claim, that it is muslim crime. They do not attempt to make distinctions between muslims and immigrants or people with arabic heritage. They are not backed by any proper sources themselves and are biased.
An example could be the article from healinguniverse.com starts out with a false claim, the rioting in Aarhus was broadly covered in all of the danish media.

I may be able to come up with some more credible sources from Sweden, as well as Denmark and Norway. Some newspapers do make an english version of their normal paper.

The story (moved from the summary): LiveLeak:
No one has any way of telling what lies behind Dani’s big brown eyes and vacant stare.

Part One: The Feral Child

PLANT CITY — The family had lived in the rundown rental house for almost three years when someone first saw a child's face in the window.

A little girl, pale, with dark eyes, lifted a dirty blanket above the broken glass and peered out, one neighbor remembered.

Every one knew a woman lived in the house with her boyfriend and two adult sons. But they had never seen a child there, had never noticed anyone playing in the overgrown yard.

The girl looked young, 5 or 6, and thin. Too thin. Her cheeks seemed sunken; her eyes were lost.

The child stared into the square of sunlight, then slipped away.

Months went by. The face never reappeared.

Just before noon on July 13, 2005, a Plant City police car pulled up outside that shattered window. Two officers went into the house — and one stumbled back out.

Clutching his stomach, the rookie retched in the weeds.

Plant City Detective Mark Holste had been on the force for 18 years when he and his young partner were sent to the house on Old Sydney Road to stand by during a child abuse investigation. Someone had finally called the police.

They found a car parked outside. The driver's door was open and a woman was slumped over in her seat, sobbing. She was an investigator for the Florida Department of Children and Families.

"Unbelievable," she told Holste. "The worst I've ever seen."

The police officers walked through the front door, into a cramped living room.

"I've been in rooms with bodies rotting there for a week and it never stunk that bad," Holste said later. "There's just no way to describe it. Urine and feces — dog, cat and human excrement — smeared on the walls, mashed into the carpet. Everything dank and rotting."

Tattered curtains, yellow with cigarette smoke, dangling from bent metal rods. Cardboard and old comforters stuffed into broken, grimy windows. Trash blanketing the stained couch, the sticky counters.

The floor, walls, even the ceiling seemed to sway beneath legions of scuttling roaches.

"It sounded like you were walking on eggshells. You couldn't take a step without crunching German cockroaches," the detective said. "They were in the lights, in the furniture. Even inside the freezer. The freezer!"

While Holste looked around, a stout woman in a faded housecoat demanded to know what was going on. Yes, she lived there. Yes, those were her two sons in the living room. Her daughter? Well, yes, she had a daughter . . .

The detective strode past her, down a narrow hall. He turned the handle on a door, which opened into a space the size of a walk-in closet. He squinted in the dark.

At his feet, something stirred.

• • •

First he saw the girl's eyes: dark and wide, unfocused, unblinking. She wasn't looking at him so much as through him.

She lay on a torn, moldy mattress on the floor. She was curled on her side, long legs tucked into her emaciated chest. Her ribs and collarbone jutted out; one skinny arm was slung over her face; her black hair was matted, crawling with lice. Insect bites, rashes and sores pocked her skin. Though she looked old enough to be in school, she was naked — except for a swollen diaper.

"The pile of dirty diapers in that room must have been 4 feet high," the detective said. "The glass in the window had been broken, and that child was just lying there, surrounded by her own excrement and bugs."

When he bent to lift her, she yelped like a lamb. "It felt like I was picking up a baby," Holste said. "I put her over my shoulder, and that diaper started leaking down my leg."

The girl didn't struggle. Holste asked, What's your name, honey? The girl didn't seem to hear.

He searched for clothes to dress her, but found only balled-up laundry, flecked with feces. He looked for a toy, a doll, a stuffed animal. "But the only ones I found were covered in maggots and roaches."

Choking back rage, he approached the mother. How could you let this happen?

"The mother's statement was: 'I'm doing the best I can,' " the detective said. "I told her, 'The best you can sucks!' "

He wanted to arrest the woman right then, but when he called his boss he was told to let DCF do its own investigation.

So the detective carried the girl down the dim hall, past her brothers, past her mother in the doorway, who was shrieking, "Don't take my baby!" He buckled the child into the state investigator's car. The investigator agreed: They had to get the girl out of there.

"Radio ahead to Tampa General," the detective remembers telling his partner. "If this child doesn't get to a hospital, she's not going to make it."

• • •

Her name, her mother had said, was Danielle. She was almost 7 years old.

She weighed 46 pounds. She was malnourished and anemic. In the pediatric intensive care unit they tried to feed the girl, but she couldn't chew or swallow solid food. So they put her on an IV and let her drink from a bottle.

Aides bathed her, scrubbed the sores on her face, trimmed her torn fingernails. They had to cut her tangled hair before they could comb out the lice.

Her caseworker determined that she had never been to school, never seen a doctor. She didn't know how to hold a doll, didn't understand peek-a-boo. "Due to the severe neglect," a doctor would write, "the child will be disabled for the rest of her life."

Hunched in an oversized crib, Danielle curled in on herself like a potato bug, then writhed angrily, kicking and thrashing. To calm herself, she batted at her toes and sucked her fists. "Like an infant," one doctor wrote.

She wouldn't make eye contact. She didn't react to heat or cold — or pain. The insertion of an IV needle elicited no reaction. She never cried. With a nurse holding her hands, she could stand and walk sideways on her toes, like a crab. She couldn't talk, didn't know how to nod yes or no. Once in a while she grunted.

She couldn't tell anyone what had happened, what was wrong, what hurt.

Dr. Kathleen Armstrong, director of pediatric psychology at the University of South Florida medical school, was the first psychologist to examine Danielle. She said medical tests, brain scans, and vision, hearing and genetics checks found nothing wrong with the child. She wasn't deaf, wasn't autistic, had no physical ailments such as cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy.

The doctors and social workers had no way of knowing all that had happened to Danielle. But the scene at the house, along with Danielle's almost comatose condition, led them to believe she had never been cared for beyond basic sustenance. Hard as it was to imagine, they doubted she had ever been taken out in the sun, sung to sleep, even hugged or held. She was fragile and beautiful, but whatever makes a person human seemed somehow missing.

Armstrong called the girl's condition "environmental autism." Danielle had been deprived of interaction for so long, the doctor believed, that she had withdrawn into herself.

The most extraordinary thing about Danielle, Armstrong said, was her lack of engagement with people, with anything. "There was no light in her eye, no response or recognition. . . . We saw a little girl who didn't even respond to hugs or affection. Even a child with the most severe autism responds to those."

Danielle's was "the most outrageous case of neglect I've ever seen."

• • •

The authorities had discovered the rarest and most pitiable of creatures: a feral child.

The term is not a diagnosis. It comes from historic accounts — some fictional, some true — of children raised by animals and therefore not exposed to human nurturing. Wolf boys and bird girls, Tarzan, Mowgli from The Jungle Book.

It's said that during the Holy Roman Empire, Frederick II gave a group of infants to some nuns. He told them to take care of the children but never to speak to them. He believed the babies would eventually reveal the true language of God. Instead, they died from the lack of interaction.

Then there was the Wild Boy of Aveyron, who wandered out of the woods near Paris in 1800, naked and grunting. He was about 12. A teacher took him in and named him Victor. He tried to socialize the child, teach him to talk. But after several years, he gave up on the teen and asked the housekeeper to care for him.

"In the first five years of life, 85 percent of the brain is developed," said Armstrong, the psychologist who examined Danielle. "Those early relationships, more than anything else, help wire the brain and provide children with the experience to trust, to develop language, to communicate. They need that system to relate to the world."

The importance of nurturing has been shown again and again. In the 1960s, psychologist Harry Harlow put groups of infant rhesus monkeys in a room with two artificial mothers. One, made of wire, dispensed food. The other, of terrycloth, extended cradled arms. Though they were starving, the baby monkeys all climbed into the warm cloth arms.

"Primates need comfort even more than they need food," Armstrong said.

The most recent case of a feral child was in 1970, in California. A girl whom therapists came to call Genie had been strapped to a potty chair until she was 13. Like the Wild Boy, Genie was studied in hospitals and laboratories. She was in her 20s when doctors realized she'd never talk, never be able to take care of herself. She ended up in foster care, closed off from the world, utterly dependent.

Danielle's case — which unfolded out of the public spotlight, without a word in the media — raised disturbing questions for everyone trying to help her. How could this have happened? What kind of mother would sit by year after year while her daughter languished in her own filth, starving and crawling with bugs?

And why hadn't someone intervened? The neighbors, the authorities — where had they been?

"It's mind-boggling that in the 21st century we can still have a child who's just left in a room like a gerbil," said Tracy Sheehan, Danielle's guardian in the legal system and now a circuit court judge. "No food. No one talking to her or reading her a story. She can't even use her hands. How could this child be so invisible?"

But the most pressing questions were about her future.

When Danielle was discovered, she was younger by six years than the Wild Boy or Genie, giving hope that she might yet be teachable. Many of her caregivers had high hopes they could make her whole.

Danielle had probably missed the chance to learn speech, but maybe she could come to understand language, to communicate in other ways.

Still, doctors had only the most modest ambitions for her.

"My hope was that she would be able to sleep through the night, to be out of diapers and to feed herself," Armstrong said. If things went really well, she said, Danielle would end up "in a nice nursing home."

• • •

Danielle spent six weeks at Tampa General before she was well enough to leave. But where could she go? Not home; Judge Martha Cook, who oversaw her dependency hearing, ordered that Danielle be placed in foster care and that her mother not be allowed to call or visit her. The mother was being investigated on criminal child abuse charges.

"That child, she broke my heart," Cook said later. "We were so distraught over her condition, we agonized over what to do."

Eventually, Danielle was placed in a group home in Land O'Lakes. She had a bed with sheets and a pillow, clothes and food, and someone at least to change her diapers.

In October 2005, a couple of weeks after she turned 7, Danielle started school for the first time. She was placed in a special ed class at Sanders Elementary.

"Her behavior was different than any child I'd ever seen," said Kevin O'Keefe, Danielle's first teacher. "If you put food anywhere near her, she'd grab it" and mouth it like a baby, he said. "She had a lot of episodes of great agitation, yelling, flailing her arms, rolling into a fetal position. She'd curl up in a closet, just to be away from everyone. She didn't know how to climb a slide or swing on a swing. She didn't want to be touched."

It took her a year just to become consolable, he said.

By Thanksgiving 2006 — a year and a half after Danielle had gone into foster care — her caseworker was thinking about finding her a permanent home.

A nursing home, group home or medical foster care facility could take care of Danielle. But she needed more.

"In my entire career with the child welfare system, I don't ever remember a child like Danielle," said Luanne Panacek, executive director of the Children's Board of Hillsborough County. "It makes you think about what does quality of life mean? What's the best we can hope for her? After all she's been through, is it just being safe?"

That fall, Panacek decided to include Danielle in the Heart Gallery — a set of portraits depicting children available for adoption. The Children's Board displays the pictures in malls and on the Internet in hopes that people will fall in love with the children and take them home.

In Hillsborough alone, 600 kids are available for adoption. Who, Panacek wondered, would choose an 8-year-old who was still in diapers, who didn't know her own name and might not ever speak or let you hug her?

• • •

The day Danielle was supposed to have her picture taken for the Heart Gallery, she showed up with red Kool-Aid dribbled down her new blouse. She hadn't yet mastered a sippy cup.

Garet White, Danielle's care manager, scrubbed the girl's shirt and washed her face. She brushed Danielle's bangs from her forehead and begged the photographer to please be patient.

White stepped behind the photographer and waved at Danielle. She put her thumbs in her ears and wiggled her hands, stuck out her tongue and rolled her eyes. Danielle didn't even blink.

White was about to give up when she heard a sound she'd never heard from Danielle. The child's eyes were still dull, apparently unseeing. But her mouth was open. She looked like she was trying to laugh.

Click.


Part Two: Becoming Dani

Teenagers tore through the arcade, firing fake rifles. Sweaty boys hunched over air hockey tables. Girls squealed as they stomped on blinking squares.

Bernie and Diane Lierow remember standing silently inside GameWorks in Tampa, overwhelmed. They had driven three hours from their home in Fort Myers Beach, hoping to meet a child at this foster care event.

But all these kids seemed too wild, too big and, well, too worldly.

Bernie, 48, remodels houses. Diane, 45, cleans homes. They have four grown sons from previous marriages and one together. Diane couldn't have any more children, and Bernie had always wanted a daughter. So last year, when William was 9, they decided to adopt.

Their new daughter would have to be younger than William, they told foster workers. But she would have to be potty-trained and able to feed herself. They didn't want a child who might hurt their son, or who was profoundly disabled and unable to take care of herself.

On the Internet they had found a girl in Texas, another in Georgia. Each time they were told, "That one is dangerous. She can't be with other children."

That's why they were at this Heart Gallery gathering, scanning the crowd.

Bernie's head ached from all the jangling games; Diane's stomach hurt, seeing all the abandoned kids; and William was tired of shooting aliens.

Diane stepped out of the chaos, into an alcove beneath the stairs. That was when she saw it. A little girl's face on a flier, pale with sunken cheeks and dark hair chopped too short. Her brown eyes seemed to be searching for something.

Diane called Bernie over. He saw the same thing she did. "She just looked like she needed us."

• • •

Bernie and Diane are humble, unpretentious people who would rather picnic on their deck than eat out. They go to work, go to church, visit with their neighbors, walk their dogs. They don't travel or pursue exotic interests; a vacation for them is hanging out at home with the family. Shy and soft-spoken, they're both slow to anger and, they say, seldom argue.

They had everything they ever wanted, they said. Except for a daughter.

But the more they asked about Danielle, the more they didn't want to know.

She was 8, but functioned as a 2-year-old. She had been left alone in a dank room, ignored for most of her life.

No, she wasn't there at the video arcade; she was in a group home. She wore diapers, couldn't feed herself, couldn't talk. After more than a year in school, she still wouldn't make eye contact or play with other kids.

No one knew, really, what was wrong with her, or what she might be capable of.

"She was everything we didn't want," Bernie said.

But they couldn't forget those aching eyes.

• • •

When they met Danielle at her school, she was drooling. Her tongue hung from her mouth. Her head, which seemed too big for her thin neck, lolled side to side.

She looked at them for an instant, then loped away across the special ed classroom. She rolled onto her back, rocked for a while, then batted at her toes.

Diane walked over and spoke to her softly. Danielle didn't seem to notice. But when Bernie bent down, Danielle turned toward him and her eyes seemed to focus.

He held out his hand. She let him pull her to her feet. Danielle's teacher, Kevin O'Keefe, was amazed; he hadn't seen her warm up to anyone so quickly.

Bernie led Danielle to the playground, she pulling sideways and prancing on her tiptoes. She squinted in the sunlight but let him push her gently on the swing. When it was time for them to part, Bernie swore he saw Danielle wave.

That night, he had a dream. Two giant hands slid through his bedroom ceiling, the fingers laced together. Danielle was swinging on those hands, her dark eyes wide, thin arms reaching for him.

• • •

Everyone told them not to do it, neighbors, co-workers, friends. Everyone said they didn't know what they were getting into.

So what if Danielle is not everything we hoped for? Bernie and Diane answered. You can't pre-order your own kids. You take what God gives you.

They brought her home on Easter weekend 2007. It was supposed to be a rebirth, of sorts — a baptism into their family.

"It was a disaster," Bernie said.

They gave her a doll; she bit off its hands. They took her to the beach; she screamed and wouldn't put her feet in the sand. Back at her new home, she tore from room to room, her swim diaper spewing streams across the carpet.

She couldn't peel the wrapper from a chocolate egg, so she ate the shiny paper too. She couldn't sit still to watch TV or look at a book. She couldn't hold a crayon. When they tried to brush her teeth or comb her hair, she kicked and thrashed. She wouldn't lie in a bed, wouldn't go to sleep, just rolled on her back, side to side, for hours.

All night she kept popping up, creeping sideways on her toes into the kitchen. She would pull out the frozen food drawer and stand on the bags of vegetables so she could see into the refrigerator.

"She wouldn't take anything," Bernie said. "I guess she wanted to make sure the food was still there."

When Bernie tried to guide her back to bed, Danielle railed against him and bit her own hands.

In time, Danielle's new family learned what worked and what didn't. Her foster family had been giving her anti-psychotic drugs to mitigate her temper tantrums and help her sleep. When Bernie and Diane weaned her off the medication, she stopped drooling and started holding up her head. She let Bernie brush her teeth.

• • •

Bernie and Diane already thought of Danielle as their daughter, but legally she wasn't. Danielle's birth mother did not want to give her up even though she had been charged with child abuse and faced 20 years in prison. So prosecutors offered a deal: If she waived her parental rights, they wouldn't send her to jail.

She took the plea. She was given two years of house arrest, plus probation. And 100 hours of community service.

In October 2007, Bernie and Diane officially adopted Danielle. They call her Dani.

• • •

"Okay, let's put your shoes on. Do you need to go potty again?" Diane asks.

It's an overcast Monday morning in spring 2008 and Dani is late for school. Again. She keeps flitting around the living room, ducking behind chairs and sofas, pulling at her shorts.

After a year with her new family, Dani scarcely resembles the girl in the Heart Gallery photo. She has grown a foot and her weight has doubled.

All those years she was kept inside, her hair was as dark as the dirty room she lived in. But since she started going to the beach and swimming in their backyard pool, Dani's shoulder-length hair has turned a golden blond. She still shrieks when anyone tries to brush it.

The changes in her behavior are subtle, but Bernie and Diane see progress. They give an example: When Dani feels overwhelmed she retreats to her room, rolls onto her back, pulls one sock toward the end of her toes and bats it. For hours. Bernie and Diane tell her to stop.

Now, when Dani hears them coming, she peels off her sock and throws it into the closet to hide it.

She's learning right from wrong, they say. And she seems upset when she knows she has disappointed them. As if she cares how they feel.

Bernie and Diane were told to put Dani in school with profoundly disabled children, but they insisted on different classes because they believe she can do more. They take her to occupational and physical therapy, to church and the mall and the grocery store. They have her in speech classes and horseback riding lessons.

Once, when Dani was trying to climb onto her horse, the mother of a boy in the therapeutic class turned to Diane.

"You're so lucky," Diane remembers the woman saying.

"Lucky?" Diane asked.

The woman nodded. "I know my son will never stand on his own, will never be able to climb onto a horse. You have no idea what your daughter might be able to do."

Diane finds hope in that idea. She counts small steps to convince herself things are slowly improving. So what if Dani steals food off other people's trays at McDonald's? At least she can feed herself chicken nuggets now. So what if she already has been to the bathroom four times this morning? She's finally out of diapers.

It took months, but they taught her to hold a stuffed teddy on the toilet so she wouldn't be scared to be alone in the bathroom. They bribed her with M&M's.

"Dani, sit down and try to use the potty," Diane coaxes. "Pull down your shorts. That's a good girl."

• • •

Every weekday, for half an hour, speech therapist Leslie Goldenberg tries to teach Dani to talk. She sits her in front of a mirror at a Bonita Springs elementary school and shows her how to purse her lips to make puffing sounds.

"Puh-puh-puh," says the teacher. "Here, feel my mouth." She brings Dani's fingers to her lips, so she can feel the air.

Dani nods. She knows how to nod now. Goldenberg puffs again.

Leaning close to the mirror, Dani purses her lips, opens and closes them. No sound comes out. She can imitate the movement, but doesn't know she has to blow out air to make the noise.

She bends closer, scowls at her reflection. Her lips open and close again, then she leaps up and runs across the room. She grabs a Koosh ball and bounces it rapidly.

She's lost inside herself. Again.

But in many ways, Dani already has surpassed the teacher's expectations, and not just in terms of speech. She seems to be learning to listen, and she understands simple commands. She pulls at her pants to show she needs to go to the bathroom, taps a juice box when she wants more. She can sit at a table for five-minute stretches, and she's starting to scoop applesauce with a spoon. She's down to just a few temper tantrums a month. She is learning to push buttons on a speaking board, to use symbols to show when she wants a book or when she's angry. She's learning it's okay to be angry: You can deal with those feelings without biting your own hands.

"I'd like her to at least be able to master a sound board, so she can communicate her choices even if she never finds her voice," Goldenberg says. "I think she understands most of what we say. It's just that she doesn't always know how to — or want to — react."

Dani's teacher and family have heard her say only a few words, and all of them seemed accidental. Once she blurted "baaa," startling Goldenberg to tears. It was the first letter sound she had ever made.

She seems to talk most often when William is tickling her, as if something from her subconscious seeps out when she's too distracted to shut it off. Her brother has heard her say, "Stop!" and "No!" He thought he even heard her say his name.

Having a brother just one year older is invaluable for Dani's development, her teacher says. She has someone to practice language with, someone who will listen. "Even deaf infants will coo," Goldenberg said. "But if no one responds, they stop."

• • •

William says Dani frightened him at first. "She did weird things." But he always wanted someone to play with. He doesn't care that she can't ride bikes with him or play Monopoly. "I drive her around in my Jeep and she honks the horn," he says. "She's learning to match up cards and stuff."

He couldn't believe she had never walked a dog or licked an ice cream cone. He taught her how to play peek-a-boo, helped her squish Play-Doh through her fingers. He showed her it was safe to walk on sand and fun to blow bubbles and okay to cry; when you hurt, someone comes. He taught her how to open a present. How to pick up tater tots and dunk them into a mountain of ketchup.

William was used to living like an only child, but since Dani has moved in, she gets most of their parents' attention. "She needs them more than me," he says simply.

He gave her his old toys, his "kid movies," his board books. He even moved out of his bedroom so she could sleep upstairs. His parents painted his old walls pink and filled the closet with cotton-candy dresses.

They moved a daybed into the laundry room for William, squeezed it between the washing machine and Dani's rocking horse. Each night, the 10-year-old boy cuddles up with a walkie-talkie because "it's scary down here, all alone."

After a few minutes, while his parents are trying to get Dani to bed, William always sneaks into the living room and folds himself into the love seat.

He trades his walkie-talkie for a small stuffed Dalmatian and calls down the hall, "Good night, Mom and Dad. Good night, Dani."

Some day, he's sure, she will answer.

• • •

Even now, Dani won't sleep in a bed.

Bernie bought her a new trundle so she can slide out the bottom bunk and be at floor level. Diane found pink Hello Kitty sheets and a stuffed glow worm so Dani will never again be alone in the dark.

"You got your wormie? You ready to go to sleep?" Bernie asks, bending to pick up his daughter. She's turning slow circles beneath the window, holding her worm by his tail. Bernie lifts her to the glass and shows her the sun, slipping behind the neighbor's house.

He hopes, one day, she might be able to call him "Daddy," to get married or at least live on her own. But if that doesn't happen, he says, "That's okay too. For me, it's all about getting the kisses and the hugs."

For now, Bernie and Diane are content to give Dani what she never had before: comfort and stability, attention and affection. A trundle, a glow worm.

Now Bernie tips Dani into bed, smooths her golden hair across the pillow. "Night-night," he says, kissing her forehead.

"Good night, honey," Diane calls from the doorway.

Bernie lowers the shade. As he walks past Dani, she reaches out and grabs his ankles.


Part Three: The Mother

She's out there somewhere, looming over Danielle's story like a ghost. To Bernie and Diane, Danielle's birth mother is a cipher, almost never spoken of. The less said, the better. As far as they are concerned Danielle was born the day they found her. And yet this unimaginable woman is out there somewhere, most likely still on probation, permanently unburdened of her daughter, and thinking — what? What can she possibly say? Nothing. Not a thing. But none of this makes any sense without her.

Michelle Crockett lives in a mobile home in Plant City with her two 20-something sons, three cats and a closet full of kittens. The trailer is just down the road from the little house where she lived with Danielle.

On a steamy afternoon a few weeks ago, Michelle opens the door wearing a long T-shirt. When she sees two strangers, she ducks inside and pulls on a housecoat. She's tall and stout, with broad shoulders and the sallow skin of a smoker. She looks tired, older than her 51 years.

"My daughter?" she asks. "You want to talk about my daughter?" Her voice catches. Tears pool in her glasses.

The inside of the trailer is modest but clean: dishes drying on the counter, silk flowers on the table. Sitting in her kitchen, chain-smoking 305s, she starts at the end: the day the detective took Danielle.

"Part of me died that day," she says.

• • •

Michelle says she was a student at the University of Tampa when she met a man named Bernie at a bar. It was 1976. He was a Vietnam vet, 10 years her senior. They got married and moved to Las Vegas, where he drove a taxi.

Right away they had two sons, Bernard and Grant. The younger boy wasn't potty-trained until he was 4, didn't talk until he was 5. "He was sort of slow," Michelle says. In school, they put him in special ed.

Her sons were teenagers when her husband got sick. Agent Orange, the doctors said. When he died in August 1997, Michelle filed for bankruptcy.

Six months later, she met a man in a casino. He was in Vegas on business. She went back to his hotel room with him.

"His name was Ron," she says. She shakes her head. "No, it was Bob. I think it was Bob."

• • •

For hours Michelle Crockett spins out her story, tapping ashes into a plastic ashtray. Everything she says sounds like a plea, but for what? Understanding? Sympathy? She doesn't apologize. Far from it. She feels wronged.

Danielle, she says, was born in a hospital in Las Vegas, a healthy baby who weighed 7 pounds, 6 ounces. Her Apgar score measuring her health was a 9, nearly perfect.

"She screamed a lot," Michelle says. "I just thought she was spoiled."

When Danielle was 18 months old, Michelle's mobile home burned down, so she loaded her two sons and baby daughter onto a Greyhound bus and headed to Florida, to bunk with a cousin.

They lost their suitcases along the way, she says. The cousin couldn't take the kids. After a week, Michelle moved into a Brandon apartment with no furniture, no clothes, no dishes. She got hired as a cashier at Publix. But it was okay: “The boys were with her,” she says. She says she has the paperwork to prove it.

• • •

She goes to the boys’ bathroom, returns with a box full of documents and hands it over.

The earliest documents are from Feb. 11, 2002. That was when someone called the child abuse hotline on her. The caller reported that a child, about 3, was “left unattended for days with a retarded older brother, never seen wearing anything but a diaper.”

This is Michelle’s proof that her sons were watching Danielle.

The caller continued:

“The home is filthy. There are clothes everywhere. There are feces on the child’s seat and the counter is covered with trash.”

It’s not clear what investigators found at the house, but they left Danielle with her mother that day.

Nine months later, another call to authorities. A person who knew Michelle from the Moose Lodge said she was always there playing bingo with her new boyfriend, leaving her children alone overnight.

“Not fit to be a mother,” the caller said.

The hotline operator took these notes: The 4-year-old girl “is still wearing a diaper and drinking from a baby bottle. On-going situation, worse since last August. Mom leaves Grant and Danielle at home for several days in a row while she goes to work and spends the night with a new paramour. Danielle . . . is never seen outside the home.”

Again the child abuse investigators went out. They offered Michelle free day care for Danielle. She refused. And they left Danielle there.

Why? Didn’t they worry about two separate calls to the hotline, months apart, citing the same concerns?

“It’s not automatic that because the home is dirty we’d remove the child,” said Nick Cox, regional director of the Florida Department of Children and Families. “And what they found in 2002 was not like the scene they walked into in 2005.”

The aim, he said, is to keep the child with the parent, and try to help the parent get whatever services he or she might need. But Michelle refused help. And investigators might have felt they didn’t have enough evidence to take Danielle, Cox said.

“I’m concerned, though, that no effort was made to interview the child,” he said.

“If you have a 4-year-old who is unable to speak, that would raise a red flag to me. “I’m not going to tell you this was okay. I don’t know how it could have happened.”

• • •

Michelle insists Danielle was fine.

“I tried to potty-train her, she wouldn’t train. I tried to get her into schools, no one would take her,” she says in the kitchen of her trailer. The only thing she ever noticed was wrong, she says, “was that she didn’t speak much. She talked in a soft tone. She’d say, ‘Let’s go eat.’ But no one could hear her except me.”

She says she took Danielle to the library and the park. “I took her out for pizza. Once.” But she can’t remember which library, which park or where they went for pizza.

“She liked this song I’d sing her,” Michelle says. “Miss Polly had a dolly, she was sick, sick, sick . . .”

Michelle’s older son, Bernard, told a judge that he once asked his mom why she never took Danielle to the doctor. Something’s wrong with her, he remembered telling her. He said she answered, “If they see her, they might take her away.”

• • •

A few months after the second abuse call, Michelle and her kids moved in with her boyfriend in the rundown rental house in Plant City. The day the cops came, Michelle says, she didn’t know what was wrong.

The detective found Danielle in the back, sleeping. The only window in the small space was broken. Michelle had tacked a blanket across the shattered glass, but flies and beetles and roaches had crept in anyway.

“My house was a mess,” she says. “I’d been sick and it got away from me. But I never knew a dirty house was against the law.”

The cop walked past her, carrying Danielle.

“He said she was starving. I told him me and my sisters were all skinny till we were 13.

“I begged him, ‘Please, don’t take my baby! Please!’ ”

She says she put socks on her daughter before he took her to the car, but couldn’t find any shoes.

• • •

A judge ordered Michelle to have a psychological evaluation. That’s among the documents, too.

Danielle’s IQ, the report says, is below 50, indicating “severe mental retardation.” Michelle’s is 77, “borderline range of intellectual ability.”

“She tended to blame her difficulties on circumstances while rationalizing her own actions,” wrote psychologist Richard Enrico Spana. She “is more concerned with herself than most other adults, and this could lead her to neglect paying adequate attention to people around her.”

She wanted to fight for her daughter, she says, but didn’t want to go to jail and didn’t have enough money for a lawyer.

“I tried to get people to help me,” Michelle says. “They say I made her autistic. But how do you make a kid autistic? They say I didn’t put clothes on her — but she just tore them off.”

After Danielle was taken away, Michelle says, she tripped over a box at Wal-Mart and got in a car accident and couldn’t work anymore. In February, she went back to court and a judge waived her community service hours.

She’s on probation until 2012.

She spends her days with her sons, doing crossword puzzles and watching movies. Sometimes they talk about Danielle.

• • •

When Danielle was in the hospital, Michelle says, she and her sons sneaked in to see her. Michelle took a picture from the file: Danielle, drowning in a hospital gown, slumped in a bed that folded into a wheelchair.

“That’s the last picture I have of her,” Michelle says. In her kitchen, she snubs out her cigarette. She crosses to the living room, where Danielle’s image looks down from the wall.

She reaches up and, with her finger, traces her daughter’s face. “When I moved here,” she says, “that was the first thing I hung.”

She says she misses Danielle.

“Have you seen her?” Michelle asks. “Is she okay?”

• • •

Is she okay?

Danielle is better than anyone dared hope. She has learned to look at people and let herself be held. She can chew ham. She can swim. She’s tall and blond and has a little belly. She knows her name is Dani.

In her new room, she has a window she can look out of. When she wants to see outside, all she has to do is raise her arms and her dad is right behind her, waiting to pick her up.

That's all we need to know pims, all we need to know

Issy, my god I think we're on the umm... fourth episode of season 3 and it's AMAZING! Lost is just surpassing itself in every way too, woohoo bout frickin time.

Ok i'll start you off then if I must.

This was one of the weirdest things to happen. I was young and reckless and completely rebellious and decided one day to jump the train with my friend to London. She knew some fellas up there who would put us up and I briefly knew who they were and had met them so wasn't particularly concerned. We spent the hour and a half there wedged in the loos smoking out of the window and drinking a bottle each of white cider, bleeeech. By the time we got there I was pretty wasted already, and it was a hot day etc. Wandering through London taking buses to get to this mobile phone shop they all worked in together. Eventually they finished up for the day and we went home to her friends place, by this point I had been given a few spliffs on top of the cider and was really not myself at all. Anyway, when we walked into this apartment there was this guy who was all dressed up in overalls painting the place.

Kelly's friend introduced him just as Steve and that he was doin him a favour decorating his place out for him as he'd not long moved there. He was a total hottie and I was drunk and stoned so had clearly lost any inhibitions and was flirting outrageously. As the evening went on he finished up and came in and sat down to eat with us and get drunk. Of course I was being a total slapper, and he seemingly didn't mind at all. Basically we got a bit frisky and all that jazz but when it came down to it (literally) there was no way I was going there his penis was abnormal and by that I mean gigantic! Scared the living shit out of me. Luckily he wasn't a bad guy and just laughed and we fell asleep all being well.

Next day I got made a complete twat of. Somehow the staff at the home I was living in had gotten hold of Kelly's number and rang her Mum who had done a 1471 when Kel phoned her the night before and gave the number to my social worker. So the next morning this guy who's flat we're in gets a very shitty phone call telling him that he had two underage girls who have run away, one in local authority care and that if he didn't take us to a police station so we could get home they would ring the cops and get them arrested. So yeah that was horrible, especially seeing as i'd lied about my age haha. Fucking embarrassing, but I was glad to get out of there after that. We had to wait in the police station until they could get a taxi driver who was willing to drive all the way to London from Bournemouth and then back again. Some stupid red tape funding issues stopped us just getting a taxi from London as it was going to be Social Services paying it, not us outright. Eventually some guy got there, and we fell asleep in the back of the car.

Woke up to find ourselves off road somewhere in the New Forest!! We absolutely shit ourselves, neither of us had a phone. All the lights were off and the driver was passed out in his seat, it was about 2am. We demanded he wake up not trusting him or the situation, it all felt very weird. He tried to tell us he was just needing a nap or he couldn't drive but we both started crying and panicking, so the poor bastard was left with little choice. Finally got home, acted like the little twat I was when they started questioning me about where I had been and what i'd been doing, as if they had no right to worry about me, god I was such a prick sometimes haha.

So I got lumped with paying that whole bill off, took me nearly a year to finish. As far as I was concerned though, it had been a little adventure and something in me when I was young craved independence so much I didn't think twice about doing stupuid stuff. The end of this story was the weirdest part...

This Steve had through his friend told Kelly a few times he wanted to meet up with me again and blah blah. I was never interested, mostly cos unless I was drunk the male species pretty much perplexed me even up until I was about 17! Turned out it was a good job I never went there. About 6 months later I get a phone call from Kelly telling me to turn the fucking tv on NOW. The Cook Report was on, some investigative journo Roger Cook used to go around doing exposes on stuff, he was one of the first people to do a show such as that. And there he was, this Steve. Turned out he wasn't a painter and decorator, he was the owner of a chain of phone shops and he had fraudulently made hundreds and thousands of pounds in stolen and contract phones. Jesus Christ

I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, but I can safely say I've never been as reckless since!

I'm not sure if you're speculating whether i'm buying into the tabloid sensationalism Irish, but just to clarify, that isn't the case I never even watch the news, and I detest how they report it. Nonetheless, this did happen and more is going on as we speak, and as somebody who has been a part of the system and worked with Social Services closely, I absolutely know that a better service is only possible with more social workers and more funding. It won't happen though and that's what's shitty.

And yeah, the CGI pictures are way over the top, just listing the injuries is enough to make me sob

Like all Big Government liberals, Barry O is against citizens owning firearms. For many that alone is a key indicator of whether we're dealing with a potential tyrant.

Obama believes in an all-powerful centrist government. There's nothing government can't fix, if only they have the money...

He uses accusations of "racism" whenever he loses an argument (tho not exclusively a Marxist principle). I safely predict Orwellian hate crimes and hate speech laws will strengthen under his rule, the closest to outright banning free speech we'll have.

He uses class warfare. A question for Obama supporters: let's say he gets his way and increases taxes on only "the wealthy". Do the middle and lower classes really think they won't suffer any adverse effects by having their employers' earnings slammed?

Obama is nearly a lifelong member of a "church" that promotes Black Liberation Theology. Few things lie closer to believers' hearts than their faith, whatever it may be. How is it Barry has to disavow his church? Could it be because it's backwards and against not only basic Xtian principles but American principles?


Wiki: Stanley Kurtz of the National Review criticizes black liberation theology, saying, "A scarcely concealed, Marxist-inspired indictment of American capitalism pervades contemporary 'black-liberation theology'...The black intellectual's goal, says Cone, is to "aid in the destruction of America as he knows it." Such destruction requires both black anger and white guilt. The black-power theologian's goal is to tell the story of American oppression so powerfully and precisely that white men will "tremble, curse, and go mad, because they will be drenched with the filth of their evil."


And there's this:

"Barack Obama was a founding member of the board of Public Allies in 1992, resigning before his wife became executive director of the Chicago chapter of Public Allies in 1993. Obama plans to use the nonprofit group, which he features on his campaign Web site, as the model for a national service corps. He calls his Orwellian program, "Universal Voluntary Public Service." . . .

The pitch Public Allies makes on its Web site doesn't seem all that radical. It promises to place young adults (18-30) in paid one-year "community leadership" positions with nonprofit or government agencies. They'll also be required to attend weekly training workshops and three retreats. . .

But its real mission is to radicalize American youth and use them to bring about "social change" through threats, pressure, tension and confrontation — the tactics used by the father of community organizing, Saul "The Red" Alinsky. . .

Public Allies promotes "diversity and inclusion," a program paper says. More than 70% of its recruits are "people of color." . . .

The Obamas discourage work in the private sector. "Don't go into corporate America," Michelle has exhorted youth. "Work for the community. Be social workers." Shun the "money culture," Barack added. "Individual salvation depends on collective salvation." . . .

It's a lot of talk about race, a lot of talk about sexism, a lot of talk about homophobia, talk about -isms and phobias."

One of those -isms is "heterosexism," which a Public Allies training seminar in Chicago describes as a negative byproduct of "capitalism, white supremacy, patriarchy and male-dominated privilege."

The government now funds about half of Public Allies' expenses through Clinton's AmeriCorps. Obama wants to fully fund it and expand it into a national program that some see costing $500 billion."


What I'm addressing here has nothing to do with why people support Obama. Facts and logic are out the window, Obamites are electrified by these vague messages of "hope" and "change" or still part of the "Anybody but Bush" mindset. Still more sifters are from countries that are already socialist, so there's no conflict of interest there. And lastly, there are the deluded peaceniks who FEEL that the USA is morally no greater than Red China, and that despots can be 'reasoned with' if only we bring them a bouquet of their favorite flowers.

The 'Obamic equation' is symptomatic of a larger malaise gripping America that will likely culminate in a second civil war, which so far has remained only a cultural war of values. His election or defeat will merely hasten or delay the inevitable.

Should Obama win, I happily vow to be here to remind you all every day, as things worsen with his repetition of past economic and policy blunders, that they didn't have to be this way.

Neoconservatism versus Paleoconservatism:
Conservative Splits at the turn of the Century

In the 1970s a number of leading American intellectuals, many of them longtime liberals, bacame openly critical of the drift of contemporary liberalism; thus began the ideology labeled neoconservatism in the popular press. Neocons feel that liberals have overestimated the ability of government to solve social problems such as industrial pollution, economic inequality, and racial discrimination. They argue that liberals have gone beyond the initial New Deal concept that government need only provide a "safety net" for the subsistence needs for society's victims-the unemployed, the disabled Americans, and the elderly. Contemporary liberalism, the neocons claim, transformed the New Deal's modest welfare state into a more intrusive paternalistic state. Neocons disagree with such liberal ideas as the use of racial or gender quotas as a means of assuring fairness in hiring, promotion, or acceptance to professional schools. They also reject the idea of forced school busing as a means of achieving racial balance in enrollment. The consider these ideas elitist liberal schemes not supported by the vast majority of Americans.
Neocons feel that liberals no longer speak for the "average person" but rather for a "new class" of relatively affluent reformers-lawyers, social workers, educators, city planners-with careers in the expanding public sector. This liberal new class intends "to propel the nation from that modified version of capitalism we call 'the welfare state' towards an economic system so regulated in detail as to fulfill many of the traditional anticapitalist aspirations of the left.
Neocons also argue that liberals emphasize policies (such as higher taxes on the upper middle class) that were aimed not at creating wealth but only at redistributing it. Skeptical about the government's ability to erase economic inequalities, neocons stress policies such as lower taxes on large incomes and less regulation of business to promote economic growth. Such growth, they feel, would more likely broaden economic opportunity and create gender social stability. Likewise, they are suspicious of policies that polarize one class or group against another: racial busing that pits the white working-class communities in the large cities against the poor African American community, and gender and racial quotas that place interests of women and minorities against those of white males.
In short, neocons feel that modern liberals have promised too much to too many groups, and that a government that promises too much cannot deliver and becomes "overloaded." As a result, they argue, government loses its authority and cannot govern effectively. But neocons differ from traditional conservatives in that neocons support, in principle and practice, a modest welfare state (Social Security, unemployment insurance, and Medicare). In fact, neocons argue that a properly constructed welfare state strengthens citizens' loyalty to the existing capitalistic system and is thus a stabilizing force.
Introduction to American Government 2nd edition
Stephenson,Jr.-Bresler-Friedrich-Karlesky-Turner

^ Choggie
If you watched the vid, it's doesn't necessarily illicit sympathy. "We come from a christian home. No way..." Mom is allowed to dig a big, deep denial hole.

But you didn't watch the vid.

So we aren't allowed to question where the line should be drawn? It's unfortunate that people with mental health problems are a big wild card for law enforcement, especially since a good cop is more social worker than enforcer.
Your kneejerk reaction has no bearing on the debate. Sorry you've been tasered.