Since Mark Steyn parted ways with National Review, I am less drawn to that site.
A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a ribeye, extra rare, and the chef or the waiter or somebody messed it up. I sent it back to the kitchen. A lesbian couple near Uniontown, Ohio, ordered a baby, extra white, and their order got messed up — the sperm bank mistakenly gave them the product of a black man, with the result that their daughter, Payton, is half black. And that’s the problem with treating children as consumer products: You cannot send them back to the kitchen.
Good thing fertility doctors don’t work for tips.
Naturally, there is a lawsuit — for breach of warranty, among other things. The couple say that they are suffering stress from raising their mixed-race daughter in an overwhelmingly white community. I can picture the scene: A mob of angry Ohioans, torches and pitchforks at the ready, menacingly reads a declaration: “We, the town fathers of Obscurity, Ohio, were perfectly ready to be accepting, supportive, and welcoming of this lesbian couple’s test-tube baby. But when that lesbian couple’s test-tube baby turns out to be half black — well, that’s a bridge too far for the decent people of Ohio.” I suppose they might then burn half a cross — Ohio’s pretty weird.
While one must pity the poor little girl who is being treated like a defective Honda Civic, it’s a delicious clash of progressive pieties. The mother — and somehow I suspect that I’ll be informed five minutes from now that it is wicked to call the half of the couple who carried the child and gave birth the “mother” — Jennifer Cramblett, among other things complains that it is difficult to find a place to get her daughter a decent haircut. It should be a hoot watching her make that case in court. I’m a white, conservative guy from Texas, and even I know better than to go skipping merrily into the cultural minefield that is black women’s hair, a subject that calls to mind my favorite cowboy proverb: “Never miss a good chance to shut up.”
Cowboy or blogger, them’s words to live by.
Of course the couple have a legal case: the product they were delivered was not what they ordered. And indeed they can’t send it back. Everything after that is abhorrent.
Contrast these women with the lummoxes who host the sports talk show I listen to every morning. Imagine being in the delivery room with your wife, they proposed, maybe hoping for a son, and a girl is born. There is not one second—not one instant—of disappointment. That’s your daughter! She’s your baby girl. Maybe you return the catcher’s glove, maybe you keep it, but the last thing you concern yourself with is who will be her barber.
I know several gay couples with children. If anything, they are better parents than many straight couples I know, though the sample size is small. I put that down to self-selection: it takes a little more thought and effort to have a baby if you’re gay. If you’re straight, it may take little more than a bottle of zinfandel.
But narcissism cares not about race, gender, or sexual preference. Regardless of where it came from, these women have another life in their hands. The “mother” carried it to term in her womb. Give them their money back, absolutely; come to a settlement over the “mistake”. But I hold these women to a higher standard. They are accepted in their community, even if they are different in at least one respect. And they can’t reciprocate? To an innocent baby?
Last word to Williamson:
A strange thing: Nothing in the modern world has contributed to the devaluation of women as pitilessly as has the reduction of motherhood to the status of a take-out order of ovum foo young, and yet nothing is held so sacred by feminists. I cannot imagine that when the early feminists wrote about the “commodification of women” that they ever imagined it would get so literal, with product warranties and all.