Yesterday, while on a Holiday House Tour, I saw a poem entitled “Gotcha Day“.
On inquiry, it was explained that this marked the day the homeowners adopted a child.
In fact, “The Daughter” had introduced herself to me only a few minutes earlier, using that precise third person description, as if, indeed, she were another adornment or object, like an antique desk or an overstuffed chair.
After some internet research, I found that “Gotcha Day” is yet another commercial occasion for gift shops, restaurants, greeting card manufacturers and even online retailers.
“Gotcha”, however, implies something more sinister than just an excuse to spend money: theft, stealth, trickery and an unpleasant, even frightening, capture, trapping something or someone against their will.
Indeed, this unfortunate name is particularly appropriate because it refers to the date on which an innocent human being becomes the chattel of strangers.
It’s a day on which a family loses a member of its next generation. It’s a day on which children, if they were “imports” from Third World countries and sometimes even if they were not, lose their language, history, cultural identity, and their potential for nature/nurture coherence.
“Gotcha Day” marks the date on which an adopted child is “awarded” to people more affluent than his or her own mother and/or father. It is the date on which grandparents lose grandchildren, siblings become lost to each other, hearts are broken and families are disrupted, sometimes for multiple generations.
“Gotcha Day” is a celebration of the 1.4 BILLION DOLLAR A YEAR adoption industry, which feeds attorneys, medical providers and social workers on the tears and suffering of adoptees, birth parents and even adoptive parents.
And some people think that adoption is all about frilly layettes and teddy bears.
Gotcha.