Oh Gross

Nebraska 'Safe-Haven' Law Allows Abandonment of Teens
The Christian Post ^ | Aug. 24 2008 | Jean Ortiz

Posted on Monday, August 25, 2008 11:41:10 AM by Between the Lines

OMAHA, Neb. - Nebraska's new "safe-haven" law allowing parents to abandon unwanted children at hospitals with no questions asked is unique in a significant way: It goes beyond babies and potentially permits the abandonment of anyone under 19.

While lawmakers may not have intended it, the month-old law raises the possibility that frustrated parents could drop off misbehaving teens or even severely disabled older children with impunity.

"Whether the kid is disabled or unruly or just being a hormonal teenager, the state is saying: 'Hey, we have a really easy option for you,'" said Adam Pertman, executive director of a New York adoption institute and a frequent critic of safe-haven laws.

Nebraska's approach is surprising because it is the last state in the nation to adopt a safe-haven law.

But instead of following the lead of other states, which focus on the abandonment of newborns, lawmakers here wanted to extend the protection to all minors. And in Nebraska, that goes all the way up to age 19.

"All children deserve our protection," said Sen. Tom White, who helped broaden the measure. "If we save one child from being abused, it's well, well worth it."

White said it doesn't matter if that child is an infant or three years old or in the care of a parent or baby sitter. As for what constitutes a minor, he refers to common law, which interprets it to be anyone under age 14.

State Sen. Arnie Stuthman, who introduced the original bill dealing only with infants, agreed to the compromise after the bill became stalled in debate.

"The main interest I have is that it gives the mother or a parent another option of what to do with a child before they do something drastic," he said.

The measure, which took effect July 18, does not absolve people of possible criminal charges — for example, if a child had been beaten.

And since the law does not specify, it technically allows anyone, not just a parent, to legally surrender custody. Most other states narrowly define the role of the person surrendering the child.

Some hospitals have fielded questions from the public about the law, but no children have been dropped off.

"I hope there never is one," Stuthman said.

Pertman, who directs the New York-based Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, said his research going back several years shows safe-haven laws are not accomplishing what they intended. Women who are distressed enough to want to abandon their children are not the ones reading billboards or getting the message about these laws, he said.

Pertman finds Nebraska's law particularly alarming because it is not focused on infants and parents.

Casting such a wide net "circumvents every rational practice in child welfare that I'm aware of," he said. "That's as nicely as I can put it."

California, for example, allows parents to legally abandon a child at a hospital or other designated safe zones within 72 hours of birth.

The brevity of the law could trigger litigation over its meaning, said Jonathan Turley, a George Washington University law professor.

"This law is obviously written in almost skeletal form," he said. "Drafters will sometimes try to say as little as possible so they don't create ambiguity, but drafters here succeeded in writing the law in such a limited fashion that the entire provision is ambiguous."

Nebraska lawmakers acknowledge the courts will have to sort out the details, and they have said they are open to revisiting the legislation if necessary.

The Nebraska Hospital Association has been working to help its 85 member hospitals statewide establish procedures for dealing with abandonment cases.

Sen. Ernie Chambers, who voted against the law, said he would prefer to address the reasons that parents abandon their children rather than offer them safe haven.

"I don't think such laws are wise," he said.

Kathy Bigsby Moore, executive director of the child advocacy group Voices for Children in Nebraska, said she also worries how the law might affect adoption rates.

"The sad thing is we have plenty of other mechanisms for people to use," she said. "I'm not sure the safe-haven law is really going to help in a majority of cases."

Unlikely to be Mr. Louisiana anytime soon

Just a hunch. In other news, my new place is gorgeous, coney island is lovely and there is curry all around.

53 men and a path of self destruction

So it only took four years or so, but I finally met Desiree Burch in person. We first spoke on the Onion, which has succeeded in demolishing the line between truth and parody. Since then, I have been busy being 12000 or so miles away (although recently only 1425 miles off base- an improvement) which gave me, "Not Dave", a chance to be close enough to see her show 52 man pickup down on Hudson street. It was one of those small audience gathering and when she walked up on stage between rows of chairs I thought to myself "behave...." And I actually did.

Good thing too, as 52 man pickup mixes that age old card game with stories of dating in NYC. I won't spoil it for anyone but while listening I marveled that she has not become a lesbian. After the play we hung out at a bar where I resisted alcohol and the lusty misadventures alcohol shall bring. I don't want to wind up in her monologue one day, even if I am an ace.

NY is much easier the second time around

I first moved to New York City in 1999, having decided that I was going to live in a place where I was no more of a weirdo than anyone else. It was hard. I spent nearly two months in the Flushing YMCA while the (now mercifully defunct) New York City Board of Education tried to send me to various warzones around the city on a temporary basis.

I finally wound up in Harlem, teaching at a school where students majored in metal detectors and living in a neighborhood which was not yet "gentrified" [a fancy term which translates to "safe for middle class white people from Omaha".] I got on fine in Harlem, perhaps due to a combination of relentless politeness where I called everyone Sir or Miss, like a good European and the mere novelty of a white guy in a suit and headgear who actually lived there. My eventual landlord named me his "shwartze grandson" and all was well on the home front. Before finding that studio however, I had to endure about 4 months in an SRO or single room occupancy. An SRO, which is New York's answer to the cardboard box, is a room the size of a casket. Perched unsteadily on the second floor of a brownstone, mine was connected to a bathroom shared by myself, a dull witted german lad and a guy who called himself a doctor but something must have gone wrong in his medical career to have lived there at the age of fiftysomething. I caught a glimpse of what that something may have been when he attempted, several times, to hop in the shower with me, dissuaded only by my razor blade.

The school was the sort where there were no textbooks or parents. The principal had vague notions that I should teach reading, though how this was to be without books was a mystery. Not having a classroom didn't help either.

Contrast all that with my return. After a few days of being hosted by the participants of Couch Surfing, I landed on the third floor of a beautiful town house in Queens for only twenty dollars more than the Harlem spot. And yes, interviews are coming.

You mean they got laws here?

I know, I know. I'm shocked too. I mean this is the state where Edwin Edwards was once elected on the slogan "Vote for the crook. It's important." But appearances aside, they do have laws, including the Louisiana Public Records Act. Which I will be putting to good use shortly.

That means you, Jack Da.

Uh, no

In the course of the spring, I got to chatting with a woman in northern Louisiana. She didn't do much in terms of practical help but did hook me up with the school's first [and likely last] Black football coach, who, in turn, is now [probably] trying to hook me up with his attorney. And, in the meantime, I am preparing for my northern migration. The lady, whose interest in me is sustained I think by the hope that I will soon join her church, has advised me to remain in my favorite southern town and wait to see what the litigation will bring. And what, pray, tell, will this 30 year old with a Masters in Education do in the meantime?
"Well you could be a waiter downtown."
Uh, no.

I always enjoy that look

Sometime before Independence Day, a lad and I got to chatting. He tells me that due to my "ethnicity", it was pre determined by my professor [who shall go nameless] that I will fail his course. It seems that Jack [I did not say how long he shall go nameless- consider this a warning] decides, in consult with the dean of the graduate school, who passes and who doesn't, well before the student shows up for class. The deciding factor, according to Jack's colleague, is whether the student has the right ethnic makeup to earn a doctorate. An interesting methodology and one I did not learn about when doing my Masters in Education.

Not being totally bereft of brains, I put the "ethnicity" thing and the failing mark together and came to the conclusion that Jack D. [seriously, pay attention] doesn't like my schnoz. And so, for the second time in my life, I'm going to harp on the yid thing.

The first time was in the tenth grade, when I took a class- temporarily- from a lad named Chuck Yeager. Chuck bore a smile that seemed fixed to his face with nails and an attitude that conveyed the sort of insincere hospitality many down here are famous for. When not mocking my accent, he would call on me every chance he could. Surprisingly, my grades went from D's and F's to B's when I finally put my foot down and changed classes.

Putting my foot down with Jack D. was not an option, hailing as he does, from an old line Sicilian family around New Orleans and thinking that he owns the department by birthright. Also, he had the neat setup where only he taught the course required to graduate. I went in, knowing before I ever did, that I would fail. I knew this because his very first [electronic] words to me inquired about where I am from and he called me "son". I was sorely tempted to let him know that unless he hung out at the socialist housing blocks of Budapest in the late 1970s', it was highly unlikely that we were filial relations. I had also considered telling him that I was not his boy, kid, little fella, fella, or any such endearments but I held my tongue. [Yes, even I can hold my tongue.]

I also knew this because I decided to take his temperature in advance and send him a bit of research which got me an A in my masters program. Not surprisingly, he called it unpublishable drivel. So I bucked up for an F.

Ten weeks go by. No grades. At all. Then, one day before the end of the semester, I get a D. Not cool in grad school. I get a dismissal letter 3 days later. Then I find out that the department chair is no longer the chair. Then the phone call. With names.

So now, I use brutally honest shorthand:

"Are you in school?"
"No."
"How come?"
"I got kicked out because a prof failed me since I'm Jewish."

And that, is when I get the look.
There are actually two looks. The first look is sympathetic. The second is astounded. It's the second one that I enjoy. Where their heads whip around, their eyes widen and they just...look.

"No way."

"Nah."

"Really?"

"Wow."

"Yup."

Some kids are more worldly than others. Not surprisingly in the deep south, the worldly kids tend to be black.

"Aha."

"I can believe it."

"Yeah I totally see that happening."

I enjoy the look. Maybe because I'm a cruel bastard who enjoys disillusioning the youth of today. Or maybe because being disillusioned is a necessity at times.