I'm not telling my story any more

Back when Slumdog Millionaire became a hit, a new phrase was coined, "poverty porn." It referred to the horror enjoyed when watching wretched conditions. It also tickled people's sense of superiority. They thought, "Oh, thank god we're not like that!"

The relentless requests from adoptive parents to hear adult adoptees' stories makes me feel like they're enjoying the same kind of voyeuristic perverse pleasure in hearing how terrible things were back in the bad old days, and how much better things are now. They will listen to adult adoptees and learn. They're not going to do what our adoptive parents did, naive and as well-intentioned as they were. Adoptive Parents3.0 are going to seek out advice from adult adoptees who will relay to them stories about being the only non-white kid in school and never learning to eat with chopsticks. Then they feel better, their consciouses soothed and warned about how NOT to raise their kids, and maybe even a 10 point bullet list of how to raise a well-adjusted rainbow-family kid.

Well, no more, APs. Not from me. You're not even going to get the stories about the great things that my adoptive parents did.

Nope. Now, if you want to hear from adult adoptees, you're going to hear a lot more.

You're also going to hear my opinion about your participation in a fundamentally corrupt market for children. You're going to have to take my criticism of the adoption market which is created by adopters. That market buys and sells children for profit. You're going to read about social injustices that exploit women, poor families, and national tragedies.

You're going to find out:
I live in a neighborhood you fear.
I speak a language you ridicule.
I eat food you cannot tolerate.
I reclaim a nationality you tried to erase.
I identify as an immigrant that you hate. 
I am not a white person.