History of Adoption Language Research–”Adopt-a-Highway?”

From where and how did adoption language originate, develop, change, expand, increase, and become loan words and metaphors used in other domains?  Further, what connotations do adoption words carry and how do the connotations affect perceptions of adoption?    As an adoptee and an adoptive mom in Dr. Taylor’s Linguistic class, I found myself wondering why the hair stands up on the back of my neck when I hear or read “adopt the legislation,” “adopt-a-lot,” “orphan article,” and other such items.  Do the words themselves possess definitive power in their origin?  Or, does my personal experience with adoption cause me to hover and sometimes wince?  Where did the words surrounding adoption originate?

Following Dr. Taylor’s caveat to reach out to an expert, I sent Adam Pertman (Executive Director of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, the preeminent research, policy and education organization in its field) an email with “Adoption Language Research Inquiry.”  I heard back quickly from Mr. Pertman via email, and we scheduled a phone conversation for an upcoming date.  I knew about Pertman and his Adoption Institute (its focus on research) through my experience with the “American Adoption Congress” and having attended two of their conferences.  Further, throughout recent years, the institute’s name populates several bibliographies and research documents I encountered. 

While waiting for my phone interview with Mr. Pertman, I started academic research towards answers to my questions.  My initial probes into adoption language returned next to nothing; this led me to suspect my lack of research skills as the culprit.  I made an appointment with a librarian at Briggs Library on campus.  Miss Elizabeth Fox led me through some basics in “graduate level” research for scholarly articles; and, she took me to the Oxford English Dictionary.  I recognized then I would spend time there, in the Reference Section.

Soon, I spent thirty minutes on the phone with Adam Pertman.  I shared with him my trouble in finding research on this topic of the language of adoption.  I asked him, “Is that because I have just not found it yet, or . . .?”  He enthusiastically jumped in and shared with me that very little research currently exists on the matter.  Further, he informed me of his interest to write a book about such.  Following, please note the wide-range of concepts and topics we discussed that morning over the phone in a 30 minutes phone conversation:

• The term “put up for adoption” came from children coming off the Orphan Train and stepping up onto platforms waiting for a family to choose them. 
• Mormon’s and families in other countries still adopt to “grow the flock”—increase their numbers (genius genes, for labor); it probably sounds more crass than it is, as many of them probably do love their children.
• But, people develop biological families for strange reasons also—even for selfish reasons, too.
• We cannot develop a good language around secrets and cultural shame.  We haven’t done it well yet.  The language is convoluted. (Pertman)  Pertman quote:  “We pay a very steep price for our history.”

 

• “Positive Adoption Language” (PAL) aims admirably at “Let’s be positive about this.”  However, why can’t the language be “commonplace adoption language” or “normal adoption language?”  And, Pertman mentioned “was adopted” as part of PAL recommendations; however, current consensus shows that “adoption is a life long process,” so how can we use past-tense terminology?  Shouldn’t PAL be “is adopted?”
• We discussed those “touched by adoption” (as opposed to “affected by adoption”) might be likened to minorities in our culture.  American Indians, African Americans, and several other minority groups have achieved space for public conversation.  Adoption does not share similar public space or public awareness.    Minority groups often face the problem of recovering from past discrimination or an overall regretful history, and adoption’s history carries regrets.   Pertman says about the struggle to find acceptable adoption words:  “we are trying to clean up the mess from the past.”
• Because adoption has not made its way into a public conversation yet, many people a) do not think the language has consequences, and b) do not comprehend a problem with rhetoric exists.  Pertman echoes our Crystal textbook in his belief that culture affects language, and language affects culture. 
• Many people in our culture view adoption as a second-class decision, “Oh, they couldn’t have kids, so they adopted.”  Also, programs like “adopt-a-highway,” “adopt-a-school,” “adopt-a-parking lot” suggest an insensitivity to the word “adopt.”  Do we mean to parallel adopting a highway with adopting a human being with our language?  Pertman wisely drew a picture of a continuum for me—that some uses of the verb “adopt” seem reasonable:  such as “adopting legislation,” some uses might seem marginally reasonable:  “adopt a pet” as most of the time people love and care for their pets—with the exception of choosing to “put one’s dog down” and such.  However, the nonsensical use of the word, such as “adopt-a-star” and “adopt-a-highway” should change, according to Pertman. 
• What can we do?  Move forward to educate, inform, make public the discussion, change the culture, and change the language.  “Language affects the culture affects the language.” (Pertman)
• According to Pertman, the culture is changing.  “Many women today are not opposed to the language and not tied to shame and secrecy.” (Pertman)

            After speaking with Mr. Pertman, I recognized the valuable experience of speaking with a real person “in the field.”  I sent emails to department heads on the SDSU campus in the Psychology and Sociology Department with clear descriptions in my subject line, hoping to find another expert—or at least someone interested in this topic.  Instead, my requests all returned as politely declined due to lack of knowledge.  However, one brave psychology professor (who must remain unnamed) responded, assuring me her lack of expertise in the area of adoption; still, she expressed willingness to meet.  That meeting, while very different from what I expected and very different from my interview with Mr. Pertman, helped me progress also.  Apparently, she teaches about adoption in her undergraduate “Child Development” class.  The professor showed me a textbook published in 2009 and one published in 2012.  Please find the following quotes from the textbooks:

Studies of transracial adoptions, in which parents of one racial group adopt a child of a different race, have found no differences between transracial adoptees and children adopted by same-race parents in terms of their racial self-identity, general adjustment, or self-esteem (Baden, 2022; Feigelman, 2000; Silverman & Feigelman, 1990; Vroegh, 1997).  As with children of divorced or single parents, it seems that the majority children adjust well and function normally (Psychology Textbook 472).

Common sense and life experience could argue against these two sentences.  This textbook section also uses the TIME IS MONEY metaphor:  “Adolescents who spend a lot of time wondering about their birth parents may have strained relations with their adoptive parents (Kohler, Grotevant, & McRoy, 2002, italics mine).”  As an adoptee, I read this as a warning:  I best not “spend a lot” of my time that way if I want a good relationship with the parents I have; further, I would not want my daughter to believe this statement.  The textbook section (barely one page out of at least 472 pages) does a terrible job, really, of introducing anything true about adoptees.  The other textbook presents a section called, “Adoptive Families.”  This section (in total barely one page out of at least 589 pages) summarizes, “Despite these risks, most adopted children fare well;” and “Clearly, adoption is a satisfying family alternative for most parents and children who experience it.  Good outcomes can be promoted by careful pairing of children with parents and provision of guidance to adoptive families by well-trained social service professionals” (588-589, italics mine).  Both of these seem to come from a place of “I’m OK, you’re OK” philosophy, seemingly, based on the general “everyone turns out fine eventually, regardless of who parents them” tone of these textbook sections. 

            And, both textbooks, when introducing any deviation from these comforting phrases and passages point to the biology and original background of the child as the first culprit.  When this professor paraphrased to me what the textbooks said, she used the words, “and then of course, there’s bad genes” and giggled.  I raised my eyebrows, leaned forward, widened my eyes beyond their true capability, and asked incredulously, “Does it say that in there?”  When she realized via my reaction that she had perhaps chosen offensive words, she put her nose in one of the books to read one of the following passages “word-for-word:”

Many children are put up for adoption because their biological parents were too young, lived in poverty, were addicted to drugs or alcohol, or suffered from a mental illness or serious health problem.  Other children were abused or neglected before being adopted.  (472)

Similarly in the other textbook:  “The biological mother may have been unable to care for the child because of problems believed to be partly genetic, such as alcoholism or severe depression, and may have passed this tendency to her offspring” (588).  After about a half hour, we clearly recognized ourselves as on different playing fields regarding adoption.  We amicably agreed to part ways, I thanked her, and she made copies of her textbook.  Afterwards, I e-mailed her some scholarly research articles from Psychology journals with research pointing to different conclusions than those we discussed.

 

Next, I received an appreciated offer from Dr. Taylor to share links to the Oxford Online dictionary for a set of words, if I could provide for him such a list.  I reviewed my brainstorm of words  and submitted to him my top words in terms of relevance to my project.  As a subscriber to the Oxford Online dictionary, Dr. Taylor possesses the advantage to browse the dictionary from his own personal space rather than drag out the heavy brown leather-bound volumes in Briggs Library.  I simply printed each of the words on paper to begin increasing my awareness of the origins of these words and how to further study them.  I will reference the effect learning the origin of these words surrounding adoption influenced me shortly.

Once I compiled my group of Oxford dictionary definitions, I became curious about how the American Heritage Dictionary online (AHD online) might emit different results.  Looking for adoption words there led me to several revelations, as noted in my portfolio.  For the purpose of this narrative, I will mention only a few discoveries.  First, when I typed in “adoption,” “adopt” arrived on my screen.  The second definition brings up the matter of a pet:

1.  To take on the legal responsibilities as parent of (a child that is not one’s biological child). 
2. To become the owner or caretaker of (a pet, especially one from a shelter).  (AHD online, italics mine)

My entry of “birthmom” returned “birth mother and birthmother” and the definition stands alone as “One’s biological mother”  Lack of reference here to adoption seems odd to me, as I do not refer to myself as the birthmother of my biological children—only on rare occasions when people ask if we adopted all of our children.  I typed in “adoptee rights” and found no entries.  I did notice “American Indian” commands a much lengthier definition along with a “Usage Note” compared to the “African American” entry which merely states:  “A black American of African ancestry.”  The second definition of “stepchild” bothered me; “2.  Something that does not receive appropriate care, respect, or attention:  “For the longest time, children’s books … were considered the stepchild of publishing” (Robert Sabuda)” (AHD online).  I checked on this word for two reasons:  1) Adam Pertman mentioned the “accepted language” of stepfamilies, and 2) Kyle referred to his research obsession as the “forgotten stepchild” of Larson’s.  If I were a stepchild, I would not want to find this second entry as part of the definition or hear it used.  To my dismay and shock, when I began to type “orphan” into the AHD online, the search engine recommended “orphan disease” in the white box underneath.  I checked into it and found:   “A disease that is relatively rare, for which the development of drugs is considered to be commercially nonviable.”  “Orphan,” then, took me to a definition holding true two a child for only the first two entries, and then the definitions switched to “animal, “one,” a “technology or product,” and  “a very short line of type.”  I do shake my head at the freedom of the use of a word that originally and most popularly defines a child without parents to care for him or her.

            Speaking of shaking my head, my next research event—searching for journal articles through the Briggs library online site, I typed in “adoptee” and found articles the following titles (to name a few):  “Juvenile Delinquency and psychiatric contact among adoptees compared to non-adoptees,” “Counseling Adult Adoptees,” “ADHD in international adoptees,” “ Our Adoptee, Our Alien,” “Pre-Adoption Adversity and Self-Reported Behavior Problems in 7 Year-Old International Adoptees,” “Risk for schizophrenia in intercountry adoptees,” and “Suicidal behavior in national and international adult adoptees.”

At this point, I turned to Crystal’s book, The Cambridge Encyclopedia of THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE, to find answers.  Crystal speaks to my musings in his “Lexical Dimensions” chapter:

Some of the most loaded words in the language are those associated with the way society talks about itself, and especially about groups of people whom it perceive to be disadvantaged or oppressed.  The most sensitive domains are to do with race, gender, sexual affinity, ecology, and (physical or mental) personal development.  (177)

Crystal also refers to a period through which I lived—“the early 1990s . . . [when] people reacted strongly to what they saw as a trend towards terminological absurdity” (177).  My hopes to coin “new words” diminished as I considered even my own eyes rolling with seemingly “absurd” politically correct new words—all the way to “height-challenged” instead of “short.”  But Crystal’s text took me a step further:  “Critics of PC believe that the search for a ‘caring’ lexicon is pointless, as long as the inequalities which the language reflects do not change” (177).  Of course, proponents of PC language believe using incorrect terms can only “perpetuate these inequalities” (Crystal 177).  The following words in Crystal’s text makes me weary of setting out to make adoption language more politically correct:  “Dissatisfaction over one term tends to spread to its replacement, as has been seen with such sequences as negro to black to Afro-American to African-American” (177).  Additionally, “Those who adopt a PC line typically do so with an aggressiveness which creates antagonism” (Crystal 177).  This controversy over “language” shows up in the “Positive Adoption Language” movement and its predecessor:  “Respectful Adoption Language” (RAL) invented by the adoption industry in the mid70s, and not to remain unmentioned—“Honest Adoption Language” (HAL) and Inclusive Language.”  Reading this section in Crystal’s book deters me from forging on as “one of those” who creates a new list.  For now, I stand more on the side of Mr. Pertman and PC critics—that the words and usage of the words will not change until our culture understands adoption.

For a moment, I will present what I found on Wikipedia as a beginning to my research—not as an end.  The quotes I use here come directly from Wikipedia, and most of them relate to the history of adoption and view adoption through a social lens.  Thus, while not directly connected to my linguistic search, much of what I read spurred my further research.  I found phrases like “The Code of Hammurabi . . . details the rights of adopters and the responsibilities of adopted individuals at length;” and, “political and economic interest of the adopter  . . . a legal tool to strengthen political ties between wealthy families and created male heirs.”  I learned from Wiki that “many or Rome’s emperors were adopted sons.”  I read words like “slave supply,” “children as commodity,” “to ensure continuity of cultural and religious practices,” and “adoption of males to perform the duties of ancestor worship.” 

I pressed on further through Ancient times, to the Middle Ages to the Modern Era on Wikipedia and found the Germanic, Slavic, and Celtic nobility “denounced adoption” as “bloodlines were paramount” because “a ruling dynasty lacking a natural-born-heir was replaced.”  Napoleonic code “made adoption difficult” and soon after monasteries began raising children who needed parents.  Wikipedia notes this as the “beginning of institutionalization.”  Then, then moving into modern times, I find “the first modern adoption law occurred in 1851.”  I found stories of Sister Irene, the first “foundling asylum” located at 17^th East 12^th St in NYC.  The details of the address fascinate me as my own search details, addresses, phone number, license plate numbers of my birth family did.  Had I discovered that I spent part of my life in the “foundling asylum,” I would have wanted to know the exact address; and, I would have visited that space.

Finally, I discovered “Charles Loring Brace” and essay entitled The Best Method of Disposing of Our Pauper and Vagrant Children (1859).  Charles Loring Brace carries the notoriety as the author of the “Orphan Train” movement, and the “father of foster care.”  Along with Brace’s rough-edged title, I found Henry H. Goddard’s book (1911) titled, Wanted:  A Child to Adopt, and the following excerpt: 

How short-sighted it is then for such a family to take into its midst a child whose pedigree is absolutely unknown; or, where, if it were partially known, the probabilities are strong that it would show poor and diseased stock, and that if a marriage should take place between that individual and any member of the family the offspring would be degenerates. 

Then, in 1945-974, I see the term “baby scoop era” defining a term of rapid increase in the number of adoption.  Eventually, science began to emphasize nurture over genetics, and the “eugenic stigma” of Brace and Goddard’s movement lessened.  By 1945, the trend of sealing adoption records began; Charles Loring Brace “introduced it to prevent children from the Orphan Trains from returning to or being reclaimed by their parents.”

            In sum of my Wikipedia findings, I made some discoveries regarding why the hairs raise on the back of my neck when I google “adoptee grief” and find articles and pictures of animals.  Built into the eugenics movement, I found Goddard’s use of the word “pedigree.”  And, built into the history of adoption, I find “slave supply,” “economic interest of the adopter,” and “children as commodity.”  Mr. Pertman spoke directly to this during our interview on the phone:  “We pay a very steep price for our history.”  Words carry both denotations and connotations, and the connotations steeped in this type of history bother me at a gut level. 

            Crystal speaks of “The Loaded Lexicon” in CEEL, stating that “connotation refers the personal aspect of lexical meaning—often, the emotional associations which a lexeme incidentally brings to mind.”  And, “connotations vary according to the experience of individuals, and . . . are to some degree unpredictable” (171).  I find the excerpt from S.I. Hayakawa in which he distinguishes between “snarl words” and “purr words” an interesting concept; I applied these concepts to an “Adoption Glossary” I found on a widely accessed site—Adoption.com.  I included this glossary with an “S” for “snarl” and a “p” for “purr” next to it, based on my own experience and the connotations the words carry for me.  I offer this as an attempt to not create a completely new glossary of terms, but to begin a discussion (even if with myself) of positive, negative, and neutral adoption language words. 

At this point of my research, I find my engagement with the OED quite helpful; it even brought to a place of more peace. 

            On the other side of this I-Search project, mostly I feel “not done.”  I cracked open the door, but I want to learn more.  Personally, my research awakened a new awareness in me regarding adoption language.  So often, I find myself accepting life and its issues as complicated.  The longer I live, the more sides to every story.  

 

. . . don’t tell secrets

I was conceived in secret, born in secret, and kept a secret.  Shhhh . . .  

We teach our children, “don’t tell secrets.” 

What do we mean when we say that?  What I mean with my own children is don’t tell secrets about other people.  Don’t hurt other people by telling secrets about them.  Don’t make up secrets about others.  Don’t put your hands up over your mouth, around someone else’s ear, and whisper something about someone else–something that might be hurtful.  Don’t tell secrets.

Why?  Well, would you like it if someone were whispering behind your back about something you said, something you did, something you wore to school, something about your hair or your shoes?  No.  We don’t like discovering others have been telling secrets about us–whether the stories are true or untrue.

You know what else, children?  Don’t keep secrets.  Why? 

Most people have said or done things they regret and wish they could hide or undo–myself included.  But keeping secrets can hurt you; they hurt and change you–inside and out.  This little nugget is maybe more for your own benefit little ones.  The very important secrets you try to keep–the ones you think No One can handle (a bad grade, a lost ipod, a misplaced phone, money thrown away, property you stole, a chore you didn’t complete)–turn into imaginary monsters that control your life.  Before you even realize it, you are spending an exorbitant amount of energy, thoughts, and concentration on keeping your secrets in the dark.  You might bury your secret successfully for a while, and then “Ahhh!”–something happens in your day that reminds you of what you must vigilantly hide.   Secrets keep you in fear of anyone ever finding out about . . . ?.

While I was in the womb, a decision was made–a decision to keep me a secret.  I can only imagine the feelings my birth parents experienced as they watched my birth mom’s tummy growing, struggled to keep life at status quo, explained why my birth mom was dropping out of college in her senior year, talked of returning to “normal” plans to marry once I was born and placed for adoption, tried to hide my presence in her body.  The stress of it.  I cannot imagine.  And then, once I was born and gone from their lives (so to speak), they were the only two (supposedly) who knew what had just happened.

I had happened.  The baby in me wants to say, “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry for the trouble and pain I caused.”  The adult in me knows . . . I have no ownership in my conception, my birth, nor the effect my birth had on my birth parents.

Today, like them, I make my own decisions regarding my life.  I make some good ones, and I make some bad ones.
I make some decisions that seem like good ones at the time, . . . and then sadly hurt others around me.

One decision I have made is to not be a secret.  My adoption search and reunion journey kind of goes like this:  being a secret, choosing not to be a secret, being asked/threatened to retreat again as a secret (like a monster–no less).  This has damaged my heart and my soul.

As a child, my parents didn’t keep my story as a secret from me.  Thank God–they told me my story every day, whispering it into my ear; therefore, there was never a big scary secret monster revealed to me.  I simply assimilated the truth day by day.

My life and existence is well-known by my Creator, my extended family, and my friends.  My story, which began with my conception–not my adoption–is not a secret I keep, nor does anyone else in my family (including birth relatives who share their lives with me as just that–a birth/biological relative).

I am not a secret.  I am me–alive and well.  I went on  . . . to live . . . my life.

 

 

 

 

Unexpected Experiences and Emotions Pt. 3

I drove.  I drove and I drove and I drove.  I drove laboriously from SD to IL, thru IN, to TN, to MS, back to IL, and then back to SD–all in about 6 days.  Part of the time, I labored alone.  Other parts of the trip, my oldest son joined me in the journey.

We headed together to orientation at Ole Miss.  For an incoming freshman, orientation is mandatory, and it proved to be well worth the trip/cost/investment of time.  Part of the experience, I expected–the feelings of newness, excitement, the energy on a college campus, some frustration at not knowing our way.  Upon arriving, we struggled to find our exact destination due to construction and renovations happening at Ole Miss.  However, once we found the Welcoming area, we received smiles and welcomes from the orientation leaders, Ole Miss gear, handbooks to guide us further through the next 36ish hours, and we settled into our hotel room.

My son soon headed out for the evening to meet up with some other Ole Miss orientation attendees.  “Good for him,” I thought.  Facebook rocks, really.  Through Facebok/Twitter and probably other stuff I don’t even know about, he has already met several incoming freshman.  He went out in Oxford/on campus while I stayed back in the room.  Hmmm . . .

I am not an overly hovering mom.  I don’t think it’s my nature.  God gave me 5 kids to keep me from micro-managing them.  Partly because of the sheer numbers, our kids have to be pretty responsible for themselves and their belongings.  I just can’t keep track of it all.  So, aside from an emotional high school graduation week a little less than a month ago, I really have been doing just fine.  I am excited for my oldest son.  He has made a great choice, and I trust him as a young man.

“Have fun!” I’m sure I said as he headed out for the evening.

The next morning, as we waited for orientation to start, I felt something overwhelm me I’ve never before experienced.

I wanted to stop time.

I can still feel it.  I can close my eyes and feel that deep need to make it all stop.  I had a moment of dread, of panic, of fear.  I experienced the reality of my inability to control these moments–to control the progression of time.

“Nick,” I said.  “What if I want to opt out right now?  What if I just don’t want to go through with this . . . this whole you going to college thing?  I have this feeling of wanting to go backwards somehow, and we can’t.  You are going.  It’s time, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”  He smiled.  Exhale.

Once I said it, I was OK.  But my thoughts turned immediately to my birth mom for a few moments.  How must she have felt as my due date was approaching?  The time was nearing . . . .  I would be born and we would part.  She would leave me somewhere.  She would not be there to care for me anymore.  I would not be in her tummy.  I would be gone.

Did she want it all to stop?  Did she want to opt out of the moment . . . find a way to detour around it?

As labor began, I don’t know, but I have to believe an overwhelming feeling similar to my feelings about Nick must have come up in her.  The end of “us” was approaching, and there was nothing she could do.  We would have to part. Sadness must have come over her; we had been as one for almost 9 months.

In the moment, I allowed myself to feel the feeling about Nick, share it, breathe, and re-engage in what I know is best for him.  It is best for him to go to college.  OK.  I won’t try to keep him.    And for that, I know he is glad.

All went “as expected” again for quite a while.  In fact, in one of the parent sessions I won a gas card for having driven the furthest miles for orientation!  Wahoo!  Then later, another scheduled separation occurred.  I found myself walking down the hallway back into my room without my son.  That’s how it was supposed to go.  The orientation leaders had a fun evening planned for the students, and the parents could “take a break.”  So, I walked back to my room, alone.

The words of one of the speakers rang in my ears, “We understand here, at Ole Miss, that trusting your son or daughter with another family is not an easy thing to do.”  Yes, sir, you are right.  I am trusting my son with the Ole Miss family and the Ole Miss experience.  My thoughts turned unexpectedly again to my birth mother as I walked and turned the corner into my room.  She carried me, felt me grow stretch and hiccup in her tummy, labored to deliver me, and then  . . . left me “as scheduled,” and walked back to her life, without me.  Anymore.

I wonder if she could even allow her brain to think about who would raise me and care for me.  It might have been too scary.  Because I know my son, and have known him for 18 years and more, I have some trust not only in the Ole Miss family he has chosen, but also in Nick.  He has proven to be a good decision maker–a fun kid with a good head on his shoulders.

But my birth mom . . . she was trusting her newborn baby, first to a foster mom/home (I don’t know anything about this home still today.  The information and details about my 3 days there are sealed and hidden from me.), and then to a set of parents about whom she knew so little–who would raise me from day 7 through this very moment.  As a mom, thinking of my newborn babies, I picture that infant (me) as completely helpless.

How?  How do you turn over a little one who knows nothing at all about life, . . . ?  So much could happen and will happen in life.  I have had the privilege of parenting my son Nick for 18 years and putting my own fingerprints all over his heart, soul, and mind (the good, the bad, and the ugly ones–ish).  But my birth mom . . . that was it.  She would offer me no parenting, no life skills, no “be careful of . . . ” from her own life experiences and beliefs.

I recognized as I was separating from my son, a little at a time, worries of “did I teach him enough about . . . ,” and “should I remind him of . . . ” crept into my heart and mind.  I wonder what my birth mom was thinking as we were separated.  She would have no opportunity to teach me anything of her own.

I know from some of her words spoken only through a confidential intermediary she believed God was with her during that time.  My birth dad allegedly was with her during labor.  Surely she leaned on those sources as she handed me over . . . and I thank God for the family and life He planned for me before I was even in her womb and for the Scriptures assuring me of this truth and of His hand.

Psalm 139: 13,16

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. . . .

Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

I’m growing older (mom of a college student . . . !).  Am I growing wiser?

Unexpected Experiences, Pt. 2

Interview for Graduate Assistantship within the University Studies College, 1 p.m., check.

I’m on time!  It’s a miracle prompted by my best friend sharing with me that my interviewer happens to be military breed.

Interview going well, check.  We discuss my journey to this point in life (ha!), what his department seeks in a graduate assistant, and more.

Interviewer mentions, “actually, you are sitting in the delivery room of the once upon a time Brookings Hospital right now.  Do you know how many people, I wish I had kept track, have come into my office because they want to see–as adults–the room in which they were born.”

Unexpected reaction.  The floor moves under my feet.  My eyes dart around the room and the walls, and I sense birthing.  I sense delivering moms, nurses, babies, . . . .  He can’t know what’s going through my mind.  I don’t even know what’s going through my mind, but this is part of it:

I was in a delivery room once.  Oh how I want to visit my actual delivery room.  Does it still exist?  Would they (who is “they?”) let me in to see?  Would I be restricted yet again from access to my own history?  What would I feel if I went there?  Would I feel her presence?  Did my parents know I was being born, or did they find about me a few days after delivery?  When did my birth parents leave the hospital?  Where did I go after I was delivered?  Can I seeeeeeeeeeeeeee?

They were all there in the delivery room, I’m told:  the mom, the dad, the nurses, the doctor, and then me.  And then,  . . . I was alone.  I am thinking and feeling that alone feeling while sitting 12 hours away from my actual delivery room of 1970.

Can he tell?  I know he can’t, but my insecure piece inside of me surfaces shame–shame that my delivery room experience wasn’t “normal,” and isn’t exactly the story he might expect from one of his many visitors.  For example, the prestigious and wealthy community man/bank owner of our town was delivered in this room and came to visit.  His birth parents kept him.

Thankfully, I am far enough in my emotional, intellectual, spiritual journey now, that I know God’s plan for my life is perfect and good.  Still, my story is so different.  I was given away–two sides to every story, right?  The delivery room was an end of family ties for me with one family, and a beginning of finding new family ties by day 7 of my little life.  Does that blow anyone’s mind?  It does mine.

I don’t necessarily feel good in this office, this delivery room.  It doesn’t give me warm fuzzies, sir.

Happy news–I got the job/assistantship . . . 

 

Unexpected Experiences

I told her.  “Put me at the top of your list, girl.  I wanna be the first one you call if you go into labor and need a ride to the hospital.”  I love babies, and I love her (my sweet friend).

Sure enough.  I got “the” phone call at 2:30ish a.m. a few nights later.  Her water broke.  ??  I hopped out of bed, pulled myself together (kind of) and picked her up.  She, herself, had only that very night packed her own hospital stay bag–just in case she went early.  And she did–two weeks early even.

So, I’ve given birth to four sweet babies prior and pursued and waited for our daughter from Haiti over a ten month period of time; and, I’m not unnerved by this situation.  Interestingly, she doesn’t seem to be either (too much, at least).  I have my own reasons why I believe she is taking this in stride.  My friend’s childhood into adulthood process, barring any strange or unexpected happenings during delivery, really was probably more difficult to handle than what she is about to face now.  And that’s a whole separate story; in fact, that’s her story to tell.  I”ll just tell mine.

We arrive at the emergency room close to 3:30 a.m.  I feel fatigue throughout my body.  She is focused and excited.  I’m wondering how she is feeling/if she is feeling pain due to contractions, as she shows no signs of such.

I think back to my first pregnancy.  The contractions woke me up.  My husband and I played cards until I was uncomfortable enough to know this was the real deal.  24 hoursish later–with a terribly painful and dreadful labor and two hours of pushing–our first boy was born via c-section.  Yes.  These thoughts go through my mind for this sweet young new mom friend of mine.  But, I keep them to myself.    She and her man have their own journey, and it is unfolding now for them.

We move from the emergency room to a kind of “testing?” room; the nurses there check her over–make sure that her water has truly broken (duh ) and that she shows sign of labor.  As I sit alongside her–very Not pregnant, I recognize my role.  I am standing alongside her while her body and her baby do their thing.  This is my first time to stand alongside a pregnant woman about to deliver.

I think back to my birth parents.  How in the world did that all go down??  How in the world did she go into labor?  Where did she live?  Did she live with him?  Did she live with a friend or by herself?  Did her water break?  Or did she have contractions first like me?  Is the story of him being with her when I was born true?  Was he by her side as I am by my friend’s side right now?  I don’t know.  I don’t really have time to think about it much, and if I do think about it too much I will no longer be of much use to my dear friend who needs me.  Hmmm . . . .  What thoughts/feelings did my birthdad have to shut down and refuse to think about in order to be supportive to my birth mom and her baby as they did their thing?  Was he supportive?  How?

We move to the “Family Suite” where her baby will be born.  The place?  The same portion of the hospital where I visited (only a few years ago) my dear friends and their newly adopted little baby boy M.  My eyes and heart are flooded with images.

I wasn’t expecting to be ushered into that same place now.  I wasn’t expecting a phone call tonight.  I’m Not Expecting.  But we are now walking through hallways I once walked through with my dear friends (adoptive parents), a birth grandma, a sweet new baby in intensive care, extended family members and visitors, and a tucked away and hidden birth mom somewhere . . .  I wasn’t expecting to go there that night physically or emotionally.

I think back, in fact I can’t help from thinking back because the memories are flashing through my eyes, of my friend (little baby boy M’s adoptive mom) with red patches of stress on her neck.  Of her restrained (?) excitement over this precious new boy to add to their family as their first.  Of her feelings that she must dance (in front of others who are watching!) so carefully between loving on her boy and being thankful/respectful of his birth mom.  Of never having done this before–how to do it?  How to do it well?  Is there a manual for any of them?

Whoosh.  Focus.  I am here to help my pregnant and soon-to-deliver friend.

We get settled in the “Family Suite.”  She is in a much more comfortable bed according to her, and I am lying on the couch–hoping to catch a few zzzz’s before her man arrives and I exit the scene.  Interestingly, as the not Expecting one in the room, I can see signs of what is to come all around her bed–things she need not see.  All manner of contraptions exist under that comfy bed to assist in labor and delivery–things I did not know existed until just NOW even after delivering four babies.  That’s OK.  She is happy, her giggly self yet subdued, mostly unaware of her contractions, hungry, and tired.  I do not know what the next hours hold for her.  And again, I keep my mouth shut.  No need to share any stories of mine or anyone else’s labor and delivery experiences at this point; she is about to have her own.

Tests done.  Gown on.  Strap around the belly strapped.  Monitor on baby and on mama’s finger.  We are tired.  We both agree we would like to close our eyes and rest.  I try to and so does she.

I close my eyes, and now I have flashes of my birth dad (especially) and my birth mom in this very similar layout. My birth dad alongside my birth mom–perhaps tired, trying not to be selfish and talk about feeling tired, anticipating the birth of the baby, and nervous about how it will all happen.  I can’t really sleep yet.  My mind is whirring around what it must have been like to go through each step, knowing, at the end,  . . .

  the baby must stay.  The baby must stay.  The baby must stay here . . . .  We must move on . . .  The baby must . . .

“M . . . ” I mutter to my friend my lingering thoughts–about my birth parents, my parents, my friends who have three precious children through adoption . . . and my unexpected feelings surrounding this experience.  She understands.    She suggests I go if it is too much for me–making me too sad.  Sweet of her.  I’m fine.

I am not Expecting in the expecting room for the first time.  I watch the Expecting through different eyes.  Ghosts of my unknown labor and delivery and unknown feelings and voices of my birth parents keep me from resting; sharing my thoughts with my friend out loud, however, chases my ghosts away, and we both rest for a while. 

Happy news–easy delivery, sweet baby, challenges ahead (as with any earth-bound soul),  . . .

 

 

To be Known

Recently, sitting down to work through a project (specifically a Bible study), I faced this assignment–and opened a whole can of worms:

“Fill in the diagrams below describing both the positive and negative influences from your grandparents and parents.  If you never knew your parents or grandparents, substitute the caregivers you have experienced.” (italics mine)

Trouble.  The directions kindly make room for someone who “never knew” their parents or grandparents, which would be a sad burden to carry throughout one’s life.  I started to think about kids who lost their parents to death, divorce . . . foster kids.  And how about adoptees?  We fit into this category of never knowing . . . I am an adopted person who “never knew” my parents or grandparents (my biological ones); and, the directions suggest I “substitute the caregivers” I experienced.

Ick.  “Substitute”  “Caregivers”  The words do not taste good in my mouth.  My biological parents are definitely in the category of parents who I “never knew.”  But, my parents who actually raised me are NOT in the category of “caregivers,” and I am not filling in this diagram with “substitute” parents.   I am filling in this diagram with my Family.

Ponderings.  Did I need/have “substitute parents?”  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t keep my first set?  And how do kids treat and view their “substitutes?”  A teacher cannot/chooses not to be in class one day, so the students all get a “substitute?”  All these words/thoughts mingle around in my head together . . . .

In a deep emotional place somewhere inside of me is the feeling that my birth parents left me because I was too much, too much to handle, too much trouble, too embarrassing, too . . . , and substitutes were then called.  If that pill is too hard to swallow, consider my daughter Naika instead of me.  We brought her home from Haiti (which is her first home) when she was 2 1/2; we brought her here because her birth mom (birth dad unknown) had to leave her/couldn’t provide basic nourishment for her.  It was “too much.”  So, my husband and I are substitutes.  Caregivers.  And not only are we substitutes, but we are obviously the “wrong” color, so everyone can tell she has a substitute.  Ugh.  Kind of raw, I know.  But also a fact.  The first ones couldn’t, so now we fill in.  Hmmm . . .

So back to the assigned work.  Here is the diagram . . .

“Maternal Grandparents

Grandfather                                                                          Grandmother

Positive Influence                                                                Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence

 

Paternal Grandparents

Grandfather                                                                         Grandmother

Positive Influence                                                               Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence

 

Mother                                                                                 Father

Positive Influence                                                                Positive Influence

 

Negative Influence                                                              Negative Influence”

I set out to fill in the diagram with the knowledge of my family and the limited knowledge I have gained of my biological family over the recent past 4 1/2 years.  As I do so, I recognize that perception skews reality.  However, I also recognize my perception is my reality.  So, I set out to “fill in the diagram” from my own memory, reality, and perception.

Here goes:

I have hard workers in my family (adoptive), people who remained in one field of work for their entire adult lives, remained in one home/town for their entire lives, a grandma who preferred order over chaos in her home–and one who preferred just the opposite it seems.  I have a grandpa who I’ve only heard stories about because he passed away when I was a baby, people who are good savers, who try to do “the right thing,” who are loyal, and people with a sense of humor–just to give a brief overview.

On my biological side, I find dancers, a grandma who “loved babies” I’ve been told, a grandpa who had a tender spot for “little girls,” military people, people who are emotionally frail (so I’ve been told), people who sever relationships, some very welcoming family members, and people who keep secrets.

My pervasive response to this exercise?  As I look back over my diagram, I see on my biological half several family members who never knew me, don’t know that I exist, maybe suspect that I exist, or refuse to know me.  And this is where I am stuck emotionally–in a place of not wanting to be known.

Over the past three years or so, I have been fighting the feeling of not wanting to be known.  A ha.  I have been jumping through hoops and crossing all sorts of boundaries to be known.  Strangers, family members, long lost friends, all sorts of people–I reach and I reach and I reach.  This is my reaction to being told by people I wanted to know and love (my birth family)–”We don’t wish to know you.” 

Now that I recognize this, I know what I am supposed to do; and, it’s not easy . . . .  I must sit with the realization/feeling that some people just don’t want to know me.  I am NOT comfortable with that.  Can I face not being known potentially for the rest of my life by people I biologically care about?  Given no choice right now, I have to (?) accept this.  And, can I recognize that the people who do want to know me are the ones worth spending time with and chasing . . . ?  What a switch.

My security blanket? . . . Remembering that God was present through “every single day” of my heritage.  “He was there . . . .  He knows every detail.  He knows exactly how you’ve been affected, and His expertise is reconstruction.”  He does not and cannot make mistakes.

 

 

 

 

 

October Baby Ponderings . . .

October Baby.  Have you seen it?

My best friend and I were so looking forward to seeing the movie!  We heard it was coming within driving distance and we made plans to go.  That night passed.  So, we made plans to go another evening.  That night passed too.

Subconsciously avoiding the movie . . . avoiding dragging ourselves through the emotions we both know all too well surrounding adoption?  Maybe.

However, at some point, I put October Baby in the “pro-life” box, and detached myself from the surrounding adoption issues we might view on the screen.  We purposed to go, again, and this time it was playing right in our home town!  No excuses . . . just a 5 minute drive.

Another dear friend of mine, Ruth, is a mom of two through adoption.  The three of us went to the pro-life movie . . . on the last day it played in our town.  Subconsciously procrastinating again?

“Please bring Kleenex,” Ruth texted to me.  I did.

I braced myself a little.  At a much different time during my search/reunion/lack of reunion experience for my birthmom and birthdad, I “accidentally” sat down with my husband for a “date nite movie.”  Juno was our choice.  I don’t watch commercials.  I didn’t know anything about the movie, and neither did he.  I think he thought it was a “chick flick.”  I was not prepared for this movie at all, and tears started flowing from my eyes . . . uncontrollable sobs within the first ten minutes.  Hubby asked if I wanted to leave.  No.  I wanted to stay, to imagine, to wonder what things might have been like for my birthparents.  I wanted to stay and cry.  I loveJuno; I have the DVD, and I have the soundtrack on my ipod.  Go figure.

So, expecting to get pummeled with raw adoption language from an uneducated (in adoptee stuff) film maker mixed with a solid pro-life message, I sat braced.

As an adoptee watching . . . here is what I Gained from this movie>>>

Validation.  At the very beginning of the movie, the adoptee experiences debilitating anxiety on stage.  Her body was frightened by its circumstances, and her brain drew upon past experiences that were frightening–her birth/attempted abortion.  From what I understand, parts of the brain override logical thinking when we start to panic.  So, even though the situation (being on stage) was not life-threatening, her brain interpreted the input of her experience as life-threatening.  I had my first panic attack in a Sam’s Club.  ??  Even though an adoptee cannot retell with words the experience of being separated (or in this character’s case–aborted) from his/her birthmom, the body remembers.  Validation of my own experiences as I watched hers.

Throughout the movie, I was validated by her anger.  She was sometimes alone and angry–not comfortable in her own skin. Other times, she was angry towards people she loved.  Her quirky and insecure ways of responding to even mild occasions of rejection from a best friend rang true to me as an adoptee.  Many adoptees are just that–angry at times, sensitive to even the appearance of being turned down/rejected/ignored, and insecure in relationships.

I giggled when she tried to share a hotel room with a “normal” and beautiful girl; the girl was rude, blunt, and judgmental.  And my little adoptee in the movie sat there listening to her hurtful comments, surrounded by her meds.  Yep.  Three or so little bottles of pills around her while she was being told by the “normal” girl how weird she was, how difficult she was, . . . what a pain she was to have around. I recognized myself in her–having my little bottles of meds around me.  She looked cute, and I understood.  Validation.

Validation came to me as she packed her stuff and took off on her own.  “No one,” at times, seems to get it.  Some of the journey is ours alone.  In fact, most of it is, I would say.  I have been blessed with a dear friend who is not an adoptee but can finish most of my sentences when I’m talking through my “stuff.”  She does get it, and I do not feel alone.  But she has painstakingly listened to me for Years, and she has never shut me off or out.  That is a rare friend, wouldn’t you agree?

I was wanted.  I was always told that my birthparents loved me soooo much, . . . and then when I went back to find them, be reunited with them, my experience spoke a much different message to me.  I was their secret.  They had buried me.

At the end of October Baby, the adoptee turns back to her father and says, “Thank you.”  He seems bewildered, and asks her, “for what?”  First, let me stop for a minutes to mention, his bewilderment at being “thanked” was touching.  As a parent now, I read all over his face that he did not understand being thanked for doing what he felt was his job/his responsibility/his calling in life.  As a daughter now, I saw my parents’ faces in his.  How can I explain this?  Well, sometimes people try to make an adoptee feel “grateful” for their parents–even more so than children who are biologically related to their parents.  I shake my head.  I already am thankful for my parents, just as any child would be/will be eventually aside from being raised in abusive surroundings.  Likewise, my parents aren’t necessarily “more grateful” for me than parents who have biological kids.  Do you understand?  We are family.  My parents are my parents, and I am their daughter.  It’s awkward to thank each other for being family, . . . like somehow one of us did the other a favor . . . :/

Anyway, my favorite part of the movie happened now:  She says, “Thank you.”  He asks, “For what?”  She says, “for wanting me.”

Kleenex, please.  It hit me.  I was wanted . . . by my parents.  THEY wanted me.  They WANTED me.  They wanted ME.  !!  And they still do.  They take my calls, they call me, they talk to me, they lavish me and our family in the ways they best know how, they support me, they visit us, they have loved me unconditionally my whole life.  Who knew? 

That was a layer of healing for me.  Being unwanted the second time around by my birth parents, six half-siblings, and a couple more devastated me.  I couldn’t see past it for a long time.  It still hurts.  I still hope they will come around some day.

But, this little October Baby girl reminded me that actually I was/am wanted.    And not only by my parents, but I have a whole list of people who have wanted me.  I want to name them, and I’m afraid I’ll leave some out . . . but let me try.

My Grandpa and Grandma Stirrett, My Grandpa and Grandma Inyart, Uncle Dick and Aunt Donna, cousin Lori and her husband and kids, Uncle Charlie, Aunt Carolyn, Elizabeth England, Uncle Tom and Aunt Betty and their kids and their kids’s kids, Uncle Charlie and his kids and his kids’ kids, Uncle Roger and Aunt Yvonne and their kids and their kids’s kids, Uncle Roy and Aunt Marlene and their kids and their kids’ kids, Uncle Richard and Aunt Rosemary and their kids and their kids’ kids,  . . .

And then on my birthfamily side. . . Uncle Vic and Aunt Eleanor, Diane (still to meet) Aunt Frances , Uncle Jim and his kids–Vicky, Chris, Judy, Aunt Martha and her kids–Paula and Phil, . . .

My husband, my kids, . . .

and my Mom and Dad.    Thank you ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^for wanting me. 

Ignorance is Bliss? The Truth Will Set You Free?

Ignorance is Bliss.  Is it?  It can be, I suppose . . . for a time.

My Ignorance.
Growing up, my ignorance regarding the identity of my birthparents seemed okay.  It left me room to imagine.  I used to imagine that maybe I would just see her on the street one day, we would cross paths, and I would know she was my birthmom.  I imagined her as pretty, but faceless.  I can’t remember any particular features I had in my mind when I tried to imagine her.  I just thought she was probably sweet and pretty.  The non-identifying information reported my mother as being interested in dance as a hobby.  I felt connected to her because I loved to dance, too.  I even imagined that she went to the University of Illinois (because I was born in Champaign, IL), and I imagined that she might have even been an Illinette.  Turns out I was right about where she attended college.

My thoughts rarely wandered to my birthdad in those early days.  The non-identifying information told me he was interested in aviation.  I was afraid to fly.  Maybe I didn’t feel connected to him because of that–not to mention that fact that he didn’t carry me in his tummy for nine months.  His outside features (height, weight, hair color, eye color) were listed in my non-identifying information, but the only detail that described his personality was aviation as a hobby.  I was ignorant about the kind of man he was.  I was told that they were not financially ready to get married when they had me, so I kind of pictured him as a young, loving, scared boy.  I was Ignorant.  Admittedly, when I did start flying more regularly as an adult, I looked carefully at the pilots each time–searching their faces to see . . . ?  I don’t know what I thought I would see.  That I would see myself in his face?

Another layer of my ignorance surrounds my mother carrying me in her tummy, the circumstances surrounding my conception, my gestation, my delivery, my foster care (for three days–I think), and more.  My ignorance ends to some degree once my parents got me (when I was 7 days old).  Then, they have memories and stories to tell of their own about the three of us; we started making memories together as a family.  But in those days, they were taught that ignorance was bliss for them too.  They knew little to nothing about nine months plus seven days of my life.

No.  That’s not bliss, I argue.  That’s ignorance.

It’s medically ignorant.  Genetics play a part in a person’s lifetime health.  It’s not bliss to be ignorant about what you may face as you age.  You yourself want to know what family genes you carry that predispose you to heart conditions, immune system compromises, cancer, or even just where you will tend to gain weight as you age, don’t you?

Well-meaning individuals have said to me–the adoptee, “I could never adopt . . . how do you know what you’re getting?  I don’t think I’d like that”  I always feel like I’m out of a grab bag when people say that.  Actually, I’ve only had two people say that to me.  But, it didn’t give me a good feeling; it made me feel like a mutt, and it made me want to defend Naika.

It’s emotionally ignorant.  Spending my life separated from and ignorant of my birth family and then trying to reunite without any shared experiences was not bliss.  We lived ignorant of each other for almost four decades; how to blend experiences, lives, forge relationships now, . . . how?  I have six half-siblings who cannot (or will not) integrate their lives into mine.  Ignorance of each other put us here.  Had I known they only lived 45 minutes away, or 2.5 hours away . . . things could have been different.  The adoption community handles this so differently now; truth so often reigns.

My Birthparents’ Ignorance.
Oh, what they must have gone through.  Can you imagine the pits in their stomachs?  It was the fall of 1969 when I was conceived.  They were both seniors at the University of Illinois–on track to graduate.  In those days, having a baby before marriage carried such a different weight than it does now.  They hid it.  They hid everything.  They hid it all very well–as far as they knew.  And, probably, based on the history of how birthparents and adoptive parents were educated in those days–they believed and were told ignorance would be bliss for them.

But, has it been bliss?  Has it been best for them to not have any knowledge of me since shortly after I was born?  I can’t answer for them.  I can read what other birthparents say and write.  I find that a majority of them agonize over not knowing what ever happened to their baby.  Others talk and write about burying their pain of not knowing so deeply–just to emotionally and physically survive the loss.

And, to add to it, my birthparents’ did not allow their family members to help them carry their weight.  They kept them ignorant of me, also.  What a big scary secret to keep for a lifetime.

Which leads me to . . . The Truth Will Set You Free

Every one has secrets–things they would prefer others did not know or find out–including me.  But at some point, we face our Maker, and He knows what is true already–right down to our core; giving over our secrets to Him brings healing and peace.  So, I ache alongside those who carry secrets for so long–for too long.  Secrets are scary and heavy, and they chase us around.

Truth for the Adoptees.
Today, so many adoptees grow up with more knowledge of their beginnings in life–who their birthparents are, knowledge of and communication with their birth siblings, their ongoing medical information; and some even spend time blending their lives with their birth family little by little.  The adoption community is shifting from “ignorance is bliss” to “the truth will set you free.”  While none of this goes along seamlessly, there is freedom from ignorance.  Blanks are filled in for these adoptees.  No more imagining or wondering is needed for the adoptee when he/she has pictures of his beginnings.  Pictures of the hospital where he was born.  Pictures of extended birth family members (grandmas, grandpas, siblings).  Letters from birth parents expressing themselves to the child they are placing for adoption.  Life is not without heartache; therefore, embracing the truth of a birth family is much like embracing the truth of any family.  Know them as they are–the good, the bad, and the ugly.  But know them; they are real people.

Truth for the Birthparents.
Do you know today women who are facing an unexpected pregnancy report they cannot fathom placing their baby for adoption unless they can have some contact with the child over time?  The truth will set you free, dear mother.  Running to hide from the situation puts us in a place of captivity.  Freedom asks us to embrace the truth of the pregnancy, the baby, and the biological relationships included.

Captivity.  That’s an interesting word.  Those who will not acknowledge me as a person in their lives have placed me in captivity; they would prefer that I remain locked up in their closet.  Who is free?  Neither of us.  They have a closet door they are trying desperately to keep shut, and I just want to open the door–because it turns out, I am alive.

This doesn’t seem like bliss.

Full circle.  Some of my birth family members choose to remain in ignorance about me and my family despite my requests to be known and to know them.  So, much like I did as a young person, they have now developed their own stories about me.  They have described me as “sinister,” and “setting out to do as much damage as I can,” and “batting my teary eyes as I tell my tantalizing story . . . ” (some words might not be exactly the ones they used in their communication–but their meaning is in tact.)  For now, they are captive to their imaginations of what I must be like.

Oh, how I wish the truth would set us all free.

Why I Run

Well, there are plenty of reasons that I run.  I run so that I can eat.  I run because I can listen to music when I run, and I do love music.  I run because I love talking with my best friend while we run.

Why did I start running?  That’s a little different.  I started running because I needed to feel my feet hit the pavement.  Several years ago when my birth family told me to stay away, I felt . . . emotionally aborted.  There was something really strange about being told by the two people (and my newly found siblings) who saw me come into the world to “stay away” that made me feel as if I didn’t exist–that I had no affect on people.  Perhaps because I had put so much energy into finding them and friending them only to bounce off of a wall, I felt as if my life just bounced off of people.  I began to wonder if I actually got through to anyone and made an impact, or if my efforts, my love, my care, my life just bounced.

Oh, it was a strange stretch.  I just remember two times waking up in the morning and not being sure if I were really there.  Since they were trying to blot me out of existence . . . maybe it was working? . . . I know I know.  It doesn’t make any logical sense.  But my posts typically aren’t logical.

My posts are my attempts to share my feelings.  Feelings aren’t right or wrong, remember?  They just are.  It’s what you do with your feeling that could be right or wrong.

That’s kind of the “common rule” about feelings, isn’t it?  I’m not sure yet if really applies to me, to adoptees who say what they feel.  It’s an interesting phenomenon that if an adoptee expresses feelings that are seemingly negative, angry, sad, or anything that is short of being thankful and happy, people abandon the “common rule.”  An adoptee, if he/she is not careful, could get labeled as a “good adoptee” or a “bad adoptee” based on what he/she shares.  Side note . . . I digress.

As I was running, the right things started happening.  I could feel my feet on the ground, and I knew I was not blotted out–but alive and physically well.  Running increases serotonin which I was low on because of the depression I was experiencing.  I took Naika running with me a few times because her brain is also low in serotonin levels.  I figured she probably needed the “pounding it out” as much as me, if not more.  And, I started to develop a vision for a goal.

If I couldn’t meet my birth mom, at least I could go to Philadelphia where she lives and run a 1/2 marathon there . . . for her, and for me.  I set a goal, I learned how to train for a 1/2, and I started looking into travel plans.

I have yet to fully understand exactly why I was supposed to go, but I know that I was supposed to go.  All of the details fell into place Divinely.

Thanks to Facebook, I was in contact with a high school friend who lives in a suburb of Philadelphia and is married to a lovely man who knows the streets of Philadelphia like the back of his hand. She offered her home, her upstairs office lined with books on all walls (as she is an English professor), picked me up from the airport with one of her adorable boys and her twin sister–who just happened to not be out of the country at the time like she usually is.

So–even before I ran, the connections of these two high school friends made my first-ever trip to Philadelphia so comforting because of the common connections we share of our home town, our high school, shared experiences growing up, etc.  Wait!  There’s more!  They both run! AND, they are adopted!  They both understand running and understand adoption “stuff” in their own evolving ways.  They understood that I was not there to site see in Philly, but to run a 1/2 marathon (my first) in honor of my birthmom and in honor of my long journey of searching, finding, and encountering pain.

They were amazing.  They both cared for me in ways that matched the personalities that I remembered from high school–a touch of familiarity for me in the city of brotherly love.  Without them, I could have felt “out there” in my birth mom’s current place of living–could have felt kind of “raw” and “exposed.”  Instead, I felt cared for–safe and loved by friends who knew me well.  #Blessing

Since then, I have run in two more 1/2 marathons, and I have a few more places that matter to me where I shall run, God willing.

Apparently, the running is in my genetic make up somewhere.  That’s nice to know.

Kind of starting to Lose It!!

So, . . . these things I know . . .

two of my birth family members (a brother on one side, and a sister on the other as far as I can tell) are involved in running/walking half/whole marathons . . . .

That’s it.  That is enough to make me crazy(ier!)

Why can’t I talk to them?  Why can’t I tell them “Wow!!!  Good Job!”

That is exactly what I would do.  Having completed three half-marathons on my own–fueled by the pain I felt of “no contact,” it absolutely blows my mind that my birth relatives would land where I land–pursuing running . . . .

I have a birth cousin who is married to a runner, even.   She is lovely.

I’m sorry.  But it’s riDiculous that I am Genetically related to a WHOLE group of people who match me in several ways; yet, I am not welcomed or allowed to converse with them

PAIN.  ANGER.   SADNESS.  Yes, Thankfulness for the friends and family all around me who invest in me daily.

I am both–I am my parents’ child and I am biologically their (my birthparents’) child.  Why can’t they recognize that I am both?

For example, I am the mother who cares for Naika, but I did not birth her!!!  I get this.  She is mine through adoption, and God formed her in her mother’s womb.  She carries the genes of her birth mom and birth dad (who we may never know).  It is truth.  I embrace it.  I can be her mom in all ways possible, except in a birth mom sort of way.

It just makes me crazy that I can see the similarities in tastes, conversation styles, looks, interests, etc., and yet I’m supposed to pretend that we are not related.

#that’snuts #to me.  ((
Love, me