Adoptees Share Their Articles

This is the article page where adoptees share their thoughts and experiences through articles.

To start it off I have included an article of mine.

To submit articles for consideration on posting on this page send the article in the body of a message to subart@voiceofadoptees.com

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10 Things Adoptees Want You to Know

As an adoptee myself, I read many things that other adoptees write. One of the aspects, in many pieces written by adoptees, that stands out is the cry for change in how the adopted child and/or adult adoptee is treated.

Here are 10 things adoptees would like non-adoptees to know:

1. Adoption is not a secret.
Don't hold the truth about our origins from us. Tell it to us as appropriate for our age, but please don't make it a secret.

2. Since adoption is no secret and when the adopted child grows up he or she will learn about the birds and the bees anyway, don't tell us, as chidren, that we were brought by the stork, or found in a cabbage patch, or even that we smiled at you so you knew we were yours.
As an adoptee and as a mother of three biological children I will say this once and only once - all babies smile, and they'll smile at any face they see. Our smile did not pick you, and in most cases you either chose us before ever seeing our smile or you met us when we were given to you to raise.

3. Not all grass is greener on the other side.
Our biological side might not have been ideal for raising a child, but not all adoptive sides are ideal either. I was lucky as many others are. I had wonderful adoptive parents. My birthmother's life wasn't easy. But look at the cases reported of abuse by adoptive parents or murder by adopted children. Situations happen and it's not because we're adoptees. Genetic mental issues can lead an 'adoptee' to murder, but can anyone say that the same person with the same predisposition would not have done the same had he been raised by his bilogical family? I don't think so unless you can claim to be some kind of prophet.

4. Don't give false information on our medical records.
First, this can be a dangerous practice, especially in an emergency situation. Second, it is a great effort and time demanding to clear one's record of false information, convincing the source we're telling the truth and have it all replaced with a big I DON'T KNOW.

5. Don't tell us to be grateful to our parents.
Since when has wanting to know one's history and where one came from become a hindrance affecting gratefulness? Are all genealogists adoptees? No. So why can they seek out their roots of past generations but when we do it it's interpreted as being ungrateful? We are grateful, in fact many times, very grateful but we also have and want the right to know who we really are, where we really came from. Our roots. Our heritage. Here's something to think about - our DNA knows it all - but we don't. Nice thought! So what's so harmful if we knew?

6. Don't tell us we're angry, we know it.
Wouldn't you be if all your rights to your history and heritage are not in your hands but in the hands of others who think they know better? Back in the 50s when I was adopted was it really "in the best interest of the child,"or "in the best interest of the biological mother" who most likely was a teen, a child herself.
Yes, adoptees are an angry bunch and our anger fuels our energy to press on for opening the gates to our history filed for so long in our sealed records. Are your records sealed? How would you feel if they were? You ask if we're angry, shouldn't we be?

7. Don't lie to us about our birthmothers.
When we ask about them tell us what you know. If you don't know, say so but don't make up something that will reveal itself one day as a lie. Even white lies are lies. We may be adopted, but we're not fragile and definitely not stupid. We can handle the truth, give it to us.

8. Don't tell us we're special.
We were children like every other child. We're adults like all other adults. What makes us special?
Why am I special? Is it because I have two families? Not so. Non-adopted children sometimes have two or more families, thanks to divorce and remarriage of one or both spouses. Is it because I may be multi-cultural? Isn't an immigrant family with children born in the U.S. post immigration, multi-cultural too?
Tell you what, find me a good, logical reason and I'll be glad to have you consider me special. Until then, Im just one of the crowd like everyone else.

9. Don't tell us that if our birthmothers loved us, they wouldn't have given us away.
My birthmother was only 17, and as a minor she had little say over the matter. She isn't the only one. My mother loved me very much and I lived in her heart nearly 41 years till we found the way back to each other. Most birthmothers never forget the child they gave away. They remember us on our birthdays, holidays, and day-to-day. Adoptees were loved and will always be loved by their biological mothers (birth fathers are a separate issue, I won't go into here). So remember they had other reasons for giving us up for adoption, and not loving us isn't one of them.

10. Don't tell us we don't look adopted.
Heck, what is an adoptee supposed to look like? Did Michael Reagan, Ronald Reagan's adopted son, look adopted? How about Babe Ruth? Or George Carver Washington? Charlie Chaplin? I could go on and on. The list is huge. Did all these as a group have a special look that called out "I'm adopted"? Don't think so. So why do you think adoptees should look adopted, whatever that look might be? Until you can answer these questions, think before you speak. Adoptees will see you in a different light.

FINDING JENNY

by Amber Lea Starfire

I carefully smooth skin, remove blemishes, crop and correct colors in Photoshop, remembering the first time I saw her. My other children were born from me, slick with amniotic fluid and blood. But it wasn't like that with Jenny. I remember standing on the stoop with my husband, knocking on the door of the foster home, every nerve in my body on high alert. I wiped my perspiring palms on the cloth of my skirt, pretending I was smoothing the material around my hips.

My husband had gotten a vasectomy, without my approval, after our second son. However, I had always dreamed of having a little girl, especially since I already had two boys and grew up with five brothers. When my youngest son was seven, my husband finally agreed to adopt, and we applied with Social Services for a girl, six or seven years old. In addition to the idea that it is easier to adopt an older child than a baby, we thought it would be easier on all of us (my husband, my two sons, and myself) if she was old enough to be in school.

Instead, when the social worker finally called after months of waiting, she told me about a 20-month- old baby.

"I don't know," I said. "I wasn't planning on another baby." My boys were in their preteens, and I was just beginning to experience some freedom.

"She's beautiful," she said. "You'll love her."

So here we were, knocking on the door of the foster home. It opened and a woman led us into her living room. Jenny sat in the middle of the floor, playing with a small stuffed animal in her lap. She was so tiny – both of my sons had been that size by ten months. Her skin was pale. White-blonde curly hair sprouted from the top of her head in two pigtails. When she saw us, she hid behind a chair and peeked at us with large, frightened eyes.

I wanted to scoop her into my arms and comfort her. Standing, I edged nearer.

"She's shy with adults," the foster mother explained, "but good with other children."

"How long have you had her?"

"About ten months. Before that she was in three other homes."

Only 20 months old and in four different homes, poor thing. I watched her, careful not to invade her space, while she watched me. We were only there for about thirty minutes, but by the time we left, I had fallen in love. She was mine.

We visited the foster home again twice before we took her home with us. Handed to me with only the clothes on her back, clutching a bottle and a small, lumpy pillow with her tiny fingers, I wondered why she didn't have anything of her own. Foster parents, I assumed, had to reuse everything for the next child. My heart filled with pity. Abandoned by her mother and father and moved from foster home to foster home, it was apparent that she had no sense of security or love. I put her in her car seat, chattering cheerfully to fill the space and trying to put her at ease. She cried anyway.

At home, she clung to me like a baby monkey and cried whenever I put her down. For a month it was like this: I held her, and held her, and held her. I finally hired someone to help with the housework because I was unable to do it with a child in my arms. One day, she got down and started to play. After that, things became easier, but she always needed more affection and holding than most children. Given how much change and abandonment she had experienced, I thought that was only natural.

Now, it is twenty years later. In Photoshop, I zoom in, viewing her portrait at 200%. I see a beautiful young woman. I am shocked. It is as if, by some sleight of hand, someone removed my baby and replaced her with this grown child. She has perfectly shaped, pink lips, large green-grey eyes, naturally arched eyebrows, and thick, unruly hair that graces the middle of her back and frustrates her daily.

We are lucky, she and I, to have each other. Yet we have had a difficult time of it. I have learned from each of my children that parenting, in addition to traditional responsibilities, is a journey in self-discovery. However, I think my relationship with my daughter has revealed more of me to myself, than any other relationship—rivaled only by my relationship with my mother.

I discovered that I felt smothered by emotional neediness. I had to make a special effort to open my arms to her daily and not push her away from me.

I discovered that in adopting a daughter, what I really wanted was a playmate. I had a daughter who loved pink purses, soft toys, and frilly things. Later, it would be celebrity gossip and shopping. I expected a daughter who was like me—someone who loves to read and confidently explores her world—who would climb trees and not cry over a skinned knee. But she is not me. She is always herself: often frightened and insecure, tentative and uncomfortable with change, artistic, musical, sensitive, and distinctly feminine.

In many ways, we have grown up together through our conflict. During the "Difficult Year" after she turned eighteen and ran away from home, I was afraid that the police would find her on the streets, emaciated, drug addicted, or worse, dead. I kept a light burning in the window of my heart, hoping she'd see it and come home.

Nine months later, two days after Thanksgiving, she sent a text message to my cell phone. "Do you still love me?"

My heart broke. "Of course," I replied. "Come home."

That story has a good ending. She recently married and moved to Utah, but I hear from her several times a week. She calls if she has a question, needs help with anything, or just wants to talk. She has her independence, and I have mine.

We are learning how to let each other be who we are and to appreciate each other. Our defenses are down. We are getting to know each other as mother and daughter, as women, and perhaps in the future, as friends.

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