Every week I am faced with a metaphorical conundrum - an oxymoron of such an astounding level of actuality it could only be American.

Orphans and abandoned foster kids named (wait for it) Miracle, Sir Chance, Precious, Famous, London...do you really want me to go on or can you continue the list yourself? Make it a stand-up routine. Except it's for real. I wonder about the day when the even sharper joke will hit their already hammered lives as their unplaceable anger rages: 'You called me THIS? And then left me?! In America? With an education system that means I'll be lucky if anyone ensures I can read, write or do my times tables before I'm ten, a diet of corn syrup and cancer-engendering garbage, no opportunities except these streets, a foster care system that does everything but foster care and a dream in a land where that dream cannot come true - only a synthetic perverted version?' But the name - that's the final mockery. You should have called me X.Y or Z ...or just issued me my prison or morgue number at birth.'

 Give me India, Monterey, Mexico or Rwanda before this hyprocrisy. Why's Angelina and Madonna adopting kids from every other nation apart from their own? This country is the worst of the lot! No poor American has the world's sympathy.

But the American Dream does not exist if it does not exist for every American.