Posts Tagged ‘adopted’

Would You Like To Compare Our Genomes?

Wednesday, February 11th, 2015

Adoptee Laureen Pittman shares her notes and advice on corresponding with DNA relatives. 

I know I got lucky.

I hit the adoptee jackpot when I submitted my saliva sample to 23andMe and found my birth father a few weeks later. It was a total surprise. A little bit of a miracle, really. He wasn’t looking for me. He didn’t even know I existed. He got the surprise of his life when I wrote to him and told him he had a daughter.

Imagine writing that letter. What do you write to a man you’ve never met, but whose chromosomes you share? (The long story answer, including letters, is included in Genetic Testing: Miracles and Science). The short story is, it took some convincing that our match was not a mistake. My biological father, Jackson, never imagined he had a 50-year old daughter. When we initially exchanged information, he explained that he joined 23andMe hoping to learn more about his own biological father’s family. He’d been told that his father died when he was young, and so his mother raised him alone. As Jackson got older and asked more questions about his origins, she never gave him any meaningful details. So there he was, like me, trying to fill in holes in his family tree. So I helped him, and hope to help you too by sharing some advice on what I learned in the process.

Once your sample is processed with 23andMe, you’ll be notified that your results are available. First, you’ll want to check out your Ancestry Composition, which estimates what percentage of your DNA comes from populations around the world, broken down by geographic regions to show the origins of your ancestors going back many generations.

Then, if you’re interested in making connections with potential relatives, you’ll want to opt in to 23andMe’s DNA Relatives feature. This is where the correspondence begins.

Once you opt in, you will most likely receive requests from cousins and other distant relatives building their family trees (although, in some cases, like mine, you might find a father or mother immediately). Often times, cousins may have no idea there was an adoption in the family. They might ask you for surnames so that they can determine where you fit in their family tree. Your adoptive surname, however, will have no relevance to their tree, so you’ll need to be prepared to tell your story.

For example, I received this request from a 2nd to 3rd cousin match. He asked the typical questions, using a template provided by 23andMe:

Hi—Through our shared DNA, 23andMe has identified us as relatives. Our predicted relationship is a 2nd cousin. Would you like to compare our genomes? By sharing genomes we can compare our DNA using ancestry features and discover clues about how we are related. Surnames in my family: Mann, Bailey, Schmidt. I live in Northern California now, and I’m in my late 50’s. This is my first experience with 23andMe—interesting!  —Andy M.

As expected, none of those names meant anything to me. The only way to find out how we were related—and perhaps help my biological father solve his own mystery—was to share my story with this virtual stranger, so I wrote:

Hi Andy—23andMe is most definitely “interesting!” Here is the information I have about my biological family–maybe you can help me put some of the puzzle pieces together and see how we may be related.

Unfortunately, the surnames you provided don’t mean anything to me, but there is a reason for that. Perhaps they will mean something to me after we exchange information (I am hopeful!).

I was adopted as an infant. Hubachek is my adopted name, so it won’t help you with your relative search. But I do have some information that may be able to help you.

I was able to locate my biological mother 25 years ago. Her name is Margaret Michaels, born in Chicago in 1945. Her mother’s name is Eve (maiden name Beryl). I do not know her father’s first name, but I assume his last name was Michaels (I was born “Baby Girl Michaels”). Margaret never told me whom my biological father was (she has refused contact with me–it’s a complicated story), but I was able to find him through 23andMe. His name is Jackson Summer and he currently lives in Washington State. He was born in 1943–I’m not sure where, but he grew up in Santa Barbara, CA (as did Margaret).

Perhaps you are a match with Jackson?  If there is any other information I can give to you, I’d be happy to. Perhaps the surnames I’ve listed here mean something to you. Looking forward to hearing from you again. –Laureen

My advice to anyone pursuing a search for relatives through DNA testing is to respond to all types of contact requests. Someone out there knows your truth. They may not know they know, and you may not think that these distant relatives can provide useful information, but you never know when a scrap of information will help make random clues come together.

I didn’t hear from Andy for about six months. Then this:

Hi Laureen—Have you been in touch with Jackson Summer? My 88-year-old mom recently wrote to me. Can you forward this to him? Hope you’re doing well. – Andy M.

* * * * * *

From my mom to me [Andy]:

Jackson is the son of my Uncle Richard, your grandfather’s older brother who had come to this country before your grandfather.

Richard Schmidt was married to Katherine and had 2 children: Franz and Marybeth. Living in those days many miles apart, I believe I only saw him once when the family drove to Southern California when I was very young.

After WWII, I lost track of what Uncle Richard was doing. It wasn’t until I was married that I learned that Uncle Richard had had an affair while married to his first wife, Katherine. Of course, everything was very hush-hush. He and Katherine were divorced and the “other woman,” whose name was Mollie Summer, had a child. – Heide

Wow, Andy shared my information with his mother, who recognized the name “Summer.” Mystery solved! I had not only found my biological father, but I was able to help him find his biological father (my grandfather) and complete my family tree.

Sometimes adoptees searching for relatives through DNA testing spend months or even years waiting for a life-changing match, and sometimes it happens quickly, so send out those contact requests. Respond to requests sent to you. Share your story. Share it over and over again if you have to.

Soon I’ll be meeting Jackson for the first time, and his 88 year old cousin, Heide, too. The woman who shared her knowledge of the past and opened up the future for Jackson and me.

Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

“For Just a Day”—An Adoptee’s Wish for a Deeper Awareness of Adoption Pain

Sunday, October 19th, 2014

Adoptee, Daryn Watson was compelled to pen this poem after learning the news that a fellow adoptee had recently ended her own life. He movingly reveals some of the realities of many adoption reunions after the initial tears of joy have been swept away.

 

For Just A Day

 

For just a day

I wish my pain would go away

 

For just a day

I wish I could say

I knew what it felt like

To fit into a family

Without feeling like I had to earn my approval

 

For just a day

I wish I didn’t fear second rejections

From the woman who gave me away

And who gives me her rationalizations

 

For just a day

I wish I could say

The words “birth” or “bio” mother

Without them being such a bother

 

For just a day

My hopes of my siblings to say

“How are you doing?”

Let’s plan a visit in May

 

For just a day

I want to convey

The angst I feel in my life

That causes me much strife

Without being judged or condemned

Day after day, all over again

 

For just a day

I hope for the news

That we won’t hear of a blindside

Of another adoptee committing suicide

 

For just a day

I want to segway

Into our own truth

That was formed in our early youth

 

For just a day

I wish the adoption industry

Would stop trying to betray

Adoptees from finding their history

 

For just a day

We hope lawmakers would join the fray

By stop making us feel ignored

And give us our identity records

 

For just a day

I wish couples wouldn’t pay

Tons of money to fulfill their heart

While ripping other families forever apart

 

For just a day

I wish I truly fit in

With the people around me

Without losing connections again

 

For just a day

I desire inner peace to stay

Without the rumblings of emotional famine

Or feeling overwhelming grief at random

 

For just a day

I wish I wasn’t cast away

To live my life in a twister

Without my natural brother or sister

 

For just a day

We wouldn’t have to pray

That our feelings aren’t swept under the rug

Or that we don’t abuse alcohol or an antidepressant drug

 

For just a day

I want my birth mother to acknowledge and say

“I’m sorry I abandoned you” with her voice

“And I didn’t give YOU a choice.”

 

For just a day

I wish my pain would go away

 

October 8, 2014

 

I wrote this poem soon after I heard the troubling news of a fellow adoptee taking her own life.  Although I did not know this person, I knew that she had been reunited with her birth family. Upon learning about her tragic decision to end her pain, the phrase— for just a day—kept running through my mind. I finally succumbed to that inner mantra and put my feelings and words to paper.

In the 19 years since I reunited with my own birth family, my emotions have run the entire gamut from feeling elated, to feeling completely rejected and abandoned again. Reunions and the adoption pain that follows them can be hard, complex, and confusing to say the least.

Society usually sees the happy reunion story during its initial honeymoon stage. Those moments are almost always filled with tears of joy, leaving the impression that the reunion and new relationship will lead to a “happily ever after” fairytale scenario. However, throughout the reunion process, the emotional undercurrents of grief, rage, shame, guilt, rejection and abandonment often lurk beneath the surface for both the birth family and the adoptee.

Thankfully today, adoptee rights organizations and social media outlets are creating a deeper awareness of the adoption pain the adult adoptee may face throughout the course of his or her life. Still, in light of the recent string of adoption-related suicides, adoptees are in need of far more resources, guidance and emotional supportive measures as they navigate the search and reunion roller coaster ride.

It is my hope that by sharing this poem, others will see another realistic side of adoption reunion and how that experience may really feel for many grown-up adoptees across the world.

Editor’s Notes:  Enjoy another of Daryn Watson’s poems here on Secret Sons & Daughters: Thanksgiving Reunion ’95

Pictured above is author, Daryn Watson and his paternal natural brother.

Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

Native Awakenings

Thursday, October 9th, 2014

An Indiana Adoptee Finds Her Alaskan tribe—

I have lived my whole life with skin that doesn’t burn in the sun, dark eyes and jet black hair. I’ve dreamt vivid, lucid, colorful dreams shaded with images of animals and earth’s elements. My night quests were often filled with salmon and streams, and I was carried away in a current. The water above and below me flowed in one direction, but my body was pulled along an opposite middle path.

For as long as I can remember, I felt as if I’d been severed from something. The forbidden questions I dared to ask about my adoption as a child were met with unsympathetic responses and nervous tapping fingers. The answers given: “We were told your birth father was one-quarter Aleutian Indian. You don’t want to open doors you cannot close. Your adoption records are sealed and that is the law.”

I was never introduced to Native American culture. My adoptee journey started in 1965, when I was born and adopted in the state of Indiana, one of more than thirty states that still have sealed adoption records. Non-identifying information is available in Indiana, but identifying information is only available if the first mother registers and signs a waiver of consent.

Those avenues were closed to me. Thankfully, today’s internet offered an alternate path to zip past prehistoric laws and unravel my ethnic mystery.

In the fall of 2013, I searched for DNA tests that determine ethnicity and found three companies: 23andMe, FTDNA and AncestryDNA. I had waited 47 years too long, dreamt too many dreams of being tugged away from something. I wanted real answers—to know if I was just a tan looking white-chick, or if I really had Native American ancestry.

While there were DNA tests that look solely for ancestral heritage, I began my search with 23andMe because at the time they provided genetic health information, such as whether I carried certain DNA mutations that lead to specific cancers or other diseases.

For an adoptee who has never had access to accurate family medical history, this was crucial information. (Unfortunately, the FDA has since stopped the company from offering this service.) I submitted my saliva sample and waited six weeks for the results.

When they arrived, I was shocked to find out I was in fact half Native American, my father full blooded. I mourned all the years I was denied my Native culture and never given the opportunity to know or celebrate my ethnicity with pride. My dreams, the strong spiritual connection I’d always felt to animals and the earth, the disinterest in the material world, all finally made sense to me in a way that made me feel rooted.

Thankfully, my medical history came out clean. Next thing I knew, I was accepting waivers stating that I’d read all they had to say about finding close relatives. I clicked away until I landed on a page that said there was a man with whom I shared 25% DNA. 23andMe suggested he was a nephew, but I knew in my heart he was my half brother.

We share the same birth date, one year apart. I messaged him right away and he responded promptly. He (Kevin) is 99.9% European. Since Kevin is nearly all European and I am half, it was clear we have the same mother. Kevin was born in Illinois, where adoption laws allowed him to access to our mother’s name. He agreed to share it. After that, I searched for her for months on end.

The excitement of finding him prompted me to submit samples to two more DNA testing companies. My ethnicity results returned the same. All three connected me to Native American distant cousins located along Alaska’s Yukon River.

I messaged everyone. Some replied, including Gail, a cousin who took me under her wing and offered to help me search for my Native birthfather.

In the meantime, I searched the internet daily for my mother. I drew family trees working them backward to forward. I searched every woman with the same name until “ruling out” was the only task left. Finally, in February 2014, I found her. She was on a public family tree. Also on that tree was a cousin from my European side, a photo of my mother, and her married last name.

I went on to find her on Facebook too and sent two messages that explained who I was (a nurse and mother) and what I longed to know, simple things like where I was born and the name of my father. I also told her that I was doing well and didn’t need to know the whys.

After those messages were met with silence, I sent a message to one of her siblings and received a note saying my birthmother would be willing to look at a letter again. The letter ended by wishing me peace and God’s love.

In my third letter to her, I confessed that I was petrified of hurting her and being rejected without answers. I promised to honor her private life, shared that Kevin and I were getting to know one another, and explained my DNA test result conundrum. And I asked again for my birth father’s name. I closed the letter by saying “I hope that you know you are loved.”

She responded a day later, asked for my address, and promised a letter. Six weeks later, it arrived. She confirmed that Kevin was my half brother, and gave me my father’s name.

Days earlier, my cousin Gail had posted my photo on her Facebook page, along with a brief note about my search for my father. I added his name in the comments and it flew like wildfire in the wind on a hot day. Within 90 minutes I had a gazillion relatives.

I was accepted without question, honored with phone calls, and welcomed with tears of joy. These new cousins shared stories about my father, how he’d been offered training with Chicago’s Job Corps in 1965 and spent 12 years in the lower 48 picking cotton in Georgia and oranges in Florida before returning home. They say I am much like him: tall, dark, and thin with a gentle and goofy nature. I wish I could have met him.

Artist (and Mary's cousin) Rose Albert's "Vision" reflects Alaska's various cultures

Artist (and Mary’s cousin) Rose Albert’s “Vision” reflects Alaska’s various cultures

My father, a full-blood Athabascan, walked on in 1992. My family assures me he would have loved me and done anything for me, had he known about my birth. I gaze at his photos and I see me, see white light reflected within dark brown eyes. I know his thoughts through these eyes. A history of memories carried through genetic markers that can never be washed away. My longing for connection to that history is so strong.

As for my mother’s family, Kevin and I are still secrets. However, I appreciate that she honored my request and signed the waiver to release my original birth certificate—the certificate that confirmed my father’s name, my Native American ethnicity, and had a checkbox marking me as “illegitimate.” My half brother and I grow closer as time progresses. We talk on the phone and email photos. I hope to meet him soon.

Mary and her cousin LaVem

Mary and her cousin LaVem

I recently met my first cousin LaVem. Our fathers are brothers. She flew to Las Vegas from Fairbanks, Alaska to celebrate her 50th birthday and I met her there. LaVern is the first biological relative I have ever met.

Meeting her was a special love at first sight. We laughed and joked and got along like we’ve known each other forever. We shared photos of ourselves on Facebook for our friends and Alaskan family to see.

Next summer my tribe will hold a memorial potlatch in Alaska. “Potlatch” is a native term for a tribal gathering that is celebrated with gift giving, traditional song and dance, and ceremonial practices for blessing. I hope to attend.

I’m immensely thankful to settle in to my heritage and share it with my children. And I’m thankful for programs now open to us that include healthcare benefits and college scholarship opportunities. If I had never known of my lineage, my children and I would have no access to these opportunities or our familial heritage.

It’s extremely healing for me as an Alaskan Native American to know where I came from. Knowing one’s history not only has the power to root someone in their past, it also opens doorways to the future, and our children’s future, too.

Image credit: “Iditarod” and “Vision” by artist Rose Albert.

Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

The Perpetual Child, An Adoptee’s Thoughts on Voice

Friday, September 26th, 2014

The Voice We’re Given

Adoptees sit at the bottom of the adoption power rankings. Maybe initially it’s economics, the adoptee purchased by the adoptive parents; or the players’ ages at the time of that transaction; or the historical context, that, at least transnationally, adoption is young and most adoptees are young. But the lingering truth is that adoptees remain subject to that power structure far into adulthood. The structure persists in how their (our) voice is valued. The adoptee voice seems always to be positioned either in contrast to or in agreement with the adoptive parent’s (or agency’s) voice—that is, perpetually in reference to those in power. It is an oft-overlooked danger of the Perpetual Child problem: the pretense of valuing the adoptee perspective while determining that value according to a disempowering context.

Let’s think of this in another way: a rhetoric scholar I know said recently that she didn’t like her African American literature course because it used different terms for things she knew by other names in other courses. She wanted everyone to use the same terms, to make it easier on her (as, it must be said, a white student) She mentioned that this was the only time she was ever going to take an African American literature course, because it didn’t intersect with her studies (of course), implying that the theories would be more relevant if they were part of the majority discussion. To his credit, the professor of record was quick to point out that African American literary scholars needed to create their own terms, at least at first, in order to break free from being seen only in relation to the majority, and from using terms that already belonged to someone else.

Or let’s get away from academia, and think about how this applies to real life.

The Voice We Give Ourselves

I would argue that the adoptee, or at least the transracial adoptee, is often bullied by other children as much for his similarities, or for daring to think there might be similarities, as for his differences. Probably he doesn’t even realize this. The adopted child is often feared, often becomes a sort of reflection of insecurities. The adoptee often becomes Jung’s Beast, the Other who needs to be accepted by the (accepted) Beauty in order for his own beauty to exist. 

When I was growing up­ in my white town in Connecticut, I was so focused on my own fears that I barely recognized the fears other people had of me. Maybe this was why I bought into one of the great lies of bullying, that it was I who caused the teasing and insults and fights—that something wrong with me, not something wrong with how people saw me, was the reason I was singled out. If someone fought with me, the other person might change but I remained the common variable.

I was just as ready as anyone to hate the side of me that wasn’t the white kid I wished so badly to project (and be)—so badly I even denied to myself that I was not him. And this isn’t to say I was an entirely unpopular kid; I was somewhere in the middle. I had my friends, but with those friends I didn’t always feel entirely comfortable. One of the differences was that I seemed to have enemies no one else in my friend group had. I was in the middle, but to some, because I was adopted, or because I wasn’t white, I would always be at the bottom.

I remember I had a friend who would constantly pick fights with me—I didn’t know why. We would end up trying to get each other in a headlock at someone’s birthday party, and then would laugh it off as having fun. I wasn’t having fun. I don’t think he was, either, but whenever I tried to avoid him I found him pushing at my wounds even more. When he fought with me, he got attention. He knew enough about me, as my supposed friend, to know exactly how to hurt me. I don’t think I knew as much about myself in many ways. Sometimes it is the people who most want to hurt you who dig the fastest and deepest to your buried truths.

This friend had a shrink for a father and the daddy issues that perhaps went along with that. He was often shooting things with his BB gun or otherwise going through a prolonged stage of torturing animals. These were things about him we thought were cool: his interesting father, his violent urges. I can see now how insecure he was, but at the time the mask with which he covered that insecurity seemed enviable. Masks often do. Or they do for me. Maybe some part of me was impressed by the way he could be someone else on the outside.

Once, we got into a wrestling match at another friend’s house—I was in high school by then, I think, and still having these fights—and I felt my anger come on more strongly than it ever had in previous encounters and with a determination I only had when I felt most wronged and justified, when I finally realized something was not my fault. Usually, I was happy to slip away as soon as possible, but this time, I tried harder and harder to hurt him. I wanted to do some lasting physical damage, to do something that would put an end to what I must have understood eventually, or on some level, as torment. In fact, I would dream of this friend doing crueler and crueler things to me—the scenarios we played out in real life were also stuck in my subconscious.

This time, this fight, I threw elbows and tried to lock his arms and legs and get my arm around his throat. I got angry on the level of desperation, as if this was some last chance I had. I had to show him that he couldn’t do this to me. And though I wasn’t able to do any real damage (he was always stronger than me, or more aggressive with his strength, or more efficient with it, which he knew, of course), I think that for the first time, I scared him a little. I could feel that he was struggling, and that I might have eventually gotten the upper hand, when he broke away.

What he said then, though, is what I remember most well, and my answer to him is what really continues to torment me. He complimented me, as if this was all a game to him and he was happy to see me rise to the challenge, or as if he was some Mr. Miyagi and I was his pupil finally earning his respect. And in one of my worst moments, I felt proud of myself for that compliment. I felt respected by him. I felt my utter inferiority and a ridiculous pride that I had even come close to him.

It’s difficult to write about how much I looked down on myself.

This wasn’t even the friend who hurt me the worst for my seeming inferiority, not the one who turned his back on our friendship and pretended it had never existed as he climbed the popularity ranks, or the friend with whom I thought I was extremely close but who I have realized over many years never believed the same. This friend, the BB gun friend, was a friend who seemed the entire time to believe that we were friends and that this was our (natural) dynamic.

Now, maybe obviously, we are not friends anymore. I’m sure he has realized that we were never friends. We were afraid of each other. It wasn’t just me, I see now. Or we had recognized in each other something about ourselves that we were afraid of. If I look at the parts of myself I’d rather not see, even now, I think I must have located in him a boy whose father could have understood him if he had only let him. I think he recognized in me a boy who had his same violent urges, that same deep-seeded rage, under the mask I was trying so hard to wear. Maybe he was trying to draw me out as a way of drawing himself out.

Or maybe I really was the only one with the issues. How can one ever be sure?

This friend eventually made a point of not inviting me to his wedding, though we were still supposedly on good terms then. I didn’t invite him to mine, though I didn’t invite most of my friends from childhood. I was still not over the way I saw myself in my relationships with them. I’m still not over that.

I don’t know what I would do if I saw this friend now. I hate being reminded of that time. I hate that I will still regress to who they thought I was, to the dynamics we had then. I hate that they can define me in their ways, without my having any input, from something they must see as inherent. I will probably never go to a high school reunion. I have only one good friend remaining from high school, and whenever she suggests we try to have a little get-together with other classmates, she seems to know ahead of time that I will turn her down. I know that to be around those classmates, I will feel as if I never grew up.

The Voice We Take

The power structure with that friend, where I only felt on even ground, and where I congratulated myself for reaching that even ground, when he finally acknowledged me—I see this same power structure (this same beasting) played out in many adoption essays I read online.

Even in the current adoption climate, the adoptee is caught between, spoken for, treated as a purpose, or a context, as a way to improve the adoptive parent or agency, as something to be learned from or ignored, as less an individual with her own agency and more a contribution to the agency of someone else. Of course children may start out being (and providing) a purpose, in some ways. Adults decide to have children (sometimes). Adults decide to give children up (sometimes). Adults decide to adopt. But valuing adoptees means actually valuing adoptees’ voices, letting them talk for themselves and not interpreting what they say for one’s own purpose.

It’s like this: sometimes I read these articles by adoptive parents talking about their kids as blessings, as gifts, and saying what they have done for their kids, taking them back to their homeland and how good that’s been for them, for the kids and for themselves. So often, this is all second hand, all the parent’s account. Sometimes the parent talks about what she has learned about her child’s original culture, how having an adopted child has opened her eyes to Asia or so forth. It’s unbearably parent-centric—all aimed at what the parent can (or rather, has) learned. And when an article is actually about the adoptee and yet written as if the adoptive parent  knows what is going on in the adoptee’s head, how do I believe that? How does that parent believe that?

I can write an entire book about denial, and even if I knew exactly how I felt, I would not have wanted to make my parents pity me, or feel confused about me, or, worse, try to explain or to fix me. I suspect it’s like that for others, though of course I am loathe to do what I am arguing against: to put words in other adoptees’ mouths, no matter how I think I understand. My point is that the adoptive parent is not the one who should be judging whether the adoptee really understands or does not, is happy or is not, is adjusting or is not, is Beauty or is Beast.

It is a problem of its own that adoptees ourselves have trouble telling how we really feel. But how complicated that becomes when held up to the standard and scrutiny of the adoption power structure.

I was at a talk recently on education, where the speaker was discussing how people had been wrong to think an early education program had failed—at the time they hadn’t been able to study the long long-term results. They were measuring the results via testing. In the short-term, the tests seemed promising, and in the medium-term, the tests seemed to show nothing, or only temporary improvements, so researchers had thought the program was a failure. Yet years later, studying those children, it seems that early education had extremely deep-seeded effects, resulting in children being less likely to do something that ended them up in jail, less likely to become pregnant at a young age, and so on. Even when the test scores seemed to show that the effect of early schooling went away by the time they were teens. The education system wasn’t an effective way of measuring the education system.

Maybe it is a matter of what we are subject to. For it is not that I think these adoption articles, these evaluations, these studies, are a problem of empathy. I’m not saying adoptive parents are wrong to think about how their kids feel, or even to imagine those feelings. I believe these parents when they say they love and cherish their children. I believe they are trying and I can believe that they are trying to see things from the adoptee perspective. I believe they talk to their kids, that their kids say what appears in the articles. I even believe that writing about their kids could be helpful to empathy, could help them understand their sons and daughters through the mere act of trying to put themselves in those shoes. The problem is, it reinforces the idea that the adoptive parent has the authority over the adoptee, and even the adoptee’s feelings and thoughts and growth. It reinforces the idea that the adoptive parent is the one who tells the adoptee’s story.

What makes me saddest, though, is when I read adoptee essays in which the writers seem to assert the same. When they have to explain themselves in comparison or contrast to the adoptive parent. I have been there. Often this stance is by necessity, is important in thinking about one’s audience. Often the adoptee writer has to write an entire essay of, “That’s not how it is,” or even, “Don’t speak for us.” I may have even done so here. It takes so much space before the essay can make its own territory, until the adoptee writer can escape the (e)valuation of the power structure and wonder for herself. That is where the adoptee has a power and a context of her own, where she can say, this is a question outside of any (granted) authority.

This is a question I am asking myself, not for you to legitimize or strike down or make real, but because I have to ask it and it is mine to ask. And if I am asking it also for you, then consider what I don’t know on my terms, not as a plea for help or acceptance. The adoptee voice matters because the adoptee says so.

Editor’s Note:  This essay was originally written for the anthology Perpetual Child: Dismantling the Stereotype and is reprinted here with the author’s permission. Image Credit: Evan Forester.


Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

PACER of Northern CA: Helping Those Impacted by Adoption Since 1979

Monday, July 14th, 2014

PACER (Post-Adoption Center for Education and Research) was founded by Dirck Brown in 1979, well before most of society even recognized the need for support and education for adoption-affected individuals.

Brown, an adoptee and successful college dean, knew firsthand the lifelong impact of adoption, and after searching for and reuniting with his birth parents in 1976, began an adoption support group in his own living room. His trailblazing idea blossomed from there. The organization was unique in that it provided support for all members of the adoption triad: adoptees, birth/first parents, and adoptive parents.

PACER has been a leader in Northern California’s adoption support community now for over 35 years. It is a nonprofit, grassroots group led by volunteers. PACER’s offerings include support groups, referrals, mental health services, community events, and educational resources for anyone affected by adoption. The group advocates for open records and transparent policies, as well.

April Topfer, PhD, is PACER’s current president. She is an adoptee and pre-licensed Psychological Assistant who has been in reunion with her birth father since 2012. Recently, Dr. Topfer offered to answer some of our questions about PACER’s impressive history, accomplishments, and offerings for fellow adoptees.

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Secret Sons & Daughters: When PACER was founded in 1979, openly discussing adoption issues was still a bit taboo.  Some thought babies were blank slates who should blend in seamlessly with adoptive families with no desire to search for roots. What were PACER’s first years like and which triad members first embraced the group and its’ ideas?  

Dr. Topfer: You could say openly discussing adoption was a bit taboo, or a lot taboo, at the time! Mental health education, practice, and research about adoption issues was not familiarly known, studied, or talked about. 

For instance, we consider Sorosky, Baran, and Pannor’s seminal book The Adoption Triangle and BJ Lifton’s Lost and Found as being classics in the field but they were actually written the same year that PACER was founded. 

Also, adoption expert Dr. David Brodzinsky was just beginning his research about adoption loss. Before this, the only book written by an adoptee about her experience was The Search for Anna Fisher, a 1973 memoir by ALMA founder Florence Fisher, who blazed the way for open adoption records, search, and reunion. 

This gives us insight about the social atmosphere when Dirck Brown and his colleagues launched PACER. Basically, there were still a lot of unknowns and gross misperceptions about adoption triad/constellation members’ experiences. 

Surprisingly, however, the first and largest group of members who embraced PACER was adoptive parents. They were extremely influential in obtaining large funding, grants, and sponsorships. Dr. Joe Davis, a physician from Stanford University Medical Center – and not an adoption triad/constellation member – also embraced PACER and its mission early on. Others were therapists and first/birth mothers.          

Secret Sons & Daughters: Did you get any negative feedback from certain groups? 

Dr. Topfer: No, I have not heard or read any negative comments about PACER from organizations or individuals. In fact, I’ve only heard very positive feedback. 

There may have been negative feedback toward PACER members actively involved in the CA open records movement, though. PACER had not, until recently, committed itself to legislative and lobbying efforts for open records. 

In the past, PACER was afraid they would alienate adoptive parents if they took a public stand against closed records. That has changed, however, since my time as president.  

Secret Sons & Daughters: Are PACER members and participants mostly adoptees or do you have interest from birth and adoptive parents, as well? 

Dr. Topfer:  The majority of our board members are adopted persons. One first/birth mother is a board member. However, we have a large first/birth mother member population, especially in Sacramento. 

Unfortunately, we don’t currently have adoptive parents on the board or any active adoptive parent groups. PACER is interested in changing this and has consulted with NACAC (North American Council on Adoptable Children) about how to reach out to adoptive parents. 

Also, I’ve been soliciting interest from several therapists who are also adoptive parents. Therapist and adoptive parent Nancy Verrier (author of The Primal Wound) is one of them. 

I think the biggest reason adoptive parents have not been involved with PACER is the disparity in experiences between adopted persons, first/birth mothers, and adoptive parents. Adoptive parents have always been the leading force in the adoption industry, as agencies, policy makers, and the media give their experiences more precedence than adopted persons and first/birth mothers. Adopted individuals’ and first/birth mothers’ voices have not been front and center. 

Pacer-Birth Mother stories

PACER has shifted this power dynamic, giving adopted persons and first/birth mothers the support and a forum to express their experiences of loss, anger, guilt, shame, bewilderment, etc. 

Secret Sons & Daughters: What are typical reasons adoptees first contact PACER? Do these reasons vary greatly between men and women? 

Dr. Topfer: The main reasons adoptees first contact PACER are for issues around search and reunion, and a desire to be supported by others who understand their experience. 

I haven’t noticed or heard that these reasons vary greatly between men and women. However, there are more women than men regularly attending our peer-led support groups. 

Secret Sons & Daughters: Can you describe some examples of “breakthrough” or “a-ha” moments for new members seeking support? 

Dr. Topfer: Good question. I don’t know the “breakthrough” moments for other members but I will speak about my own first experience as a PACER member. 

I had attended a PACER adoptee group several times over a two-year span before my breakthrough moment. It took that long because, admittedly, in those first meetings I was intimidated by others who openly shared their search and reunion experiences. 

I was still deep “in the closet” in terms of my search and reunion and exploring my adoptee identity. It wasn’t because I hadn’t searched before; it was because 15 years earlier when I had contacted my first/birth mother, there was not a welcoming response. So, in those first meetings, I didn’t feel I could contribute significantly to the group. 

Now I wonder if other adoptee newcomers have felt similarly? After finally mustering the courage to talk about my adoption – which felt necessary for my own mental health and wellness – at this same time, I attempted to make contact with my first/birth mother again. As I opened up more, the PACER adoptee group felt less intimidating and more helpful. 

As time progressed, I participated in other PACER events and even went to my first American Adoption Congress conference. At that point, I clearly saw the benefits of being with others who had similar feelings and experiences.

Secret Sons & Daughters: What sort of advice or support do you offer for someone who has had an unsuccessful search or rejection from found relatives? 

Dr. Topfer: This has been my experience with my first/birth mother and her family. The best advice and support I can offer is to practice patience and letting go. 

This doesn’t mean giving up – quite the opposite. It means continuing to hope that a connection will develop but not holding on so tightly that other family member opportunities are missed.  

I see this pattern with adoptees: Their first, and usually only, primary focus is on their birth mother. It’s natural to have this sort of tunnel vision because as adoptees we didn’t receive the genetic bond and love from our first/birth mothers, and we desperately needed it! 

Despite the importance of a mother’s bond, however, an adopted person must realize that he/she has two whole entire families with separate members who may be welcoming, warm, and accepting. In fact, it is other family members who are more likely to extend open arms because they don’t have the loss, shame, guilt, and grief of first/birth mothers. 

As I stated, my personal experience included a restricted “birthmom tunnel vision” for years. 

At the first contact attempt, my first/birth mother screamed and yelled at me. She was in hysterics. This scared me off for another 15 years but I still thought about her often. 

Then, during a therapy session one day, it struck me that I have not only a mother but a father, as well. This felt revolutionary! My therapist was very supportive of my search for him. 

Less than six months after I shifted my attention away from my birth mother, my birth father found me! It’s been two years since we connected and we have a great relationship.

Secret Sons & Daughters: Your site has an excellent, comprehensive list of articles and suggestions for finding an adoption-sensitive therapist. Have you found an increase in the number of mental health professionals that have joined in the belief that adoption has a significant, lifelong, evolving impact on an individual? What type of training is sought by adoption-savvy professionals? 

Dr. Topfer: Thank you. I worked hard on gathering useful articles, videos, and other helpful resources for the website. Many articles are borrowed from C.A.S.E. [Center for Adoption Support and Education, which generously offers free use of information] and other sources. 

In regards to adoption-savvy professionals, I haven’t found a noteworthy increase in mental health professionals and organizations embracing adoption’s significant, lifelong impact. Most therapists recommended on our site have been exploring adoption issues for a while. 

I will add, though, there is increased discussion in the adoption community about adoption competency for professionals. It’s slowly trickling into mainstream mental health. The Donaldson Institute recently released a report about the “Need to Know – Competency in Adoption Therapists” and the APA has an Adoption Practice and Counseling Special Interest Group (SIG). 

A recent California bill proposed that mental health professionals must be certified in adoption competency before obtaining adoption agency referrals. Unfortunately, the bill was gutted and now only states the need for training. Overall, these factors indicate the need for adoption competency is on the minds of professionals aware of adoption’s complexities. 

Regarding training for adoption-savvy professionals; what I do know is that trauma-informed therapy is becoming the standard focus of treatment for not just adults but for children. 

Adoption-sensitive professionals understand the aspects of trauma in adopted and foster children. They acknowledge long-term trauma caused by closed records in adopted adults, too. This opens up different modalities that a practitioner can use to help achieve levels of healing and development—neurological and neurobiological, attachment-focused, somatic, mindfulness, transpersonal, etc. 

In this sense, adoption-savvy professionals perhaps will seek trainings that are trauma-informed, empirical, and experiential. 

Secret Sons & Daughters: Do you have unique support options for individuals affected by various types of adoptions – infant, older/foster child, international, open vs. closed? 

Dr. Topfer: No, not specifically, although we know our group members do have a wide range of adoption experiences. 

We do see the need for more specialized groups, including “professionally-led” meetings, which we hope to start in fall of 2014. They will be facilitated by a professional, be fee-based, closed, and scheduled for a specific amount of time. 

Our current groups are peer-led, drop-in, open, and not fee-based. During professionally-led groups, members will be able to explore their adoption experiences more intimately in a small group.  

Secret Sons & Daughters: What do you think the future holds for open records laws within states and perhaps on a national level?

Dr. Topfer: The trend has been for states to finally open records but with conditions – a waiting period in which a first/birth mother can opt out of contact. Ohio, Illinois, and New Jersey have unconditional vetoes in place. Maine, Oregon, and Alabama do not have vetoes. 

PACER does not have an official stance yet on conditional or unconditional records but we lean toward no compromises and no vetoes. 

A representative from CalOpen, the leading open access organization in California, recently stated: “States that have passed conditional bills are ruining other states’ chances of passing unconditional open access bills. They are unfortunately sending a message that it’s fine for some adoptees to have access but not all; ultimately, that is not okay!”

PACER California access

Personally, I lean toward an unconditional access bill. I used to agree it was okay if some adoptees’ OBCs were sacrificed if the majority got theirs. The compromise seemed acceptable – until I realized my own first/birth mother could redact my OBC, despite Ohio’s recently passed open access bill. 

I was born in Ohio and supportive of the bill (am still partially supportive), but when I read that my birth mother could take away what is truly mine, my heart sank. Those who act too quickly to put conditions on open access bills have not looked deeply enough into this dilemma.

Secret Sons & Daughters:  If you would like to learn more about PACER, visit their comprehensive site: pacer-adoption.org

Thank you for visiting Secret Sons & Daughters. In addition to stories, you can find valuable resourcesdiscover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page. Comments are always welcome. And we’d love to hear your story. Please subscribe and join our growing community.

The Dreaded Question: What Is Your Family Medical History?

Friday, June 20th, 2014

My interest in finding my roots started early. In fact, I have been trying to find information about my biological parents since I was in middle school.

I had adopted friends who’d found their birth parents and I was happy for them, but I was upset about my own missing information at the same time. When I turned 18, I called the adoption agency that I had been adopted from to ask for information on my birth parents, but I was told that they could only send me the non-identifying facts. It took 11 long years of my persistent emails and calls to receive it.

To finally know something as simple as what time of day I was born was amazing! The information also included my parent’s height and weight measurements, and the fact that my bio-mom was 16 years old when she had had me. That helped me understand why she did not keep me. Both of my parents were from religious families, but different denominations. My mom’s biological father was unknown to her, which makes me wonder if she ever felt or feels the way that I do.

Agency workers claimed they had no accompanying family medical history for me, but that they would let me know when my biological mom contacted them with any updates. I let them know that I was not going to give up.

When I asked if there was anything else that I could do to uncover my family medical history—they told me they would notify me when my biological mother died. What a cold response. I hung up the phone and cried. This felt like a personal attack and reminded me of the awful remarks people used to make to me while I was growing up. Some called me “adopted trash.” It sucks knowing that some people just don’t care. I had reached another dead end—back to square one. Still, I took in a deep breath and decided to keep trying.

I wondered why someone from the agency couldn’t just ask my mother if she wanted to meet me, or say, “Hey, the child you gave up is going through a lot of health issues right now. Any information you could give us would greatly help her. It could also potentially help her children.” After adoptions were made final, did the agency really no longer care about those babies and moms who were in their care?

I made the decision to contact some people who had stayed at the same maternity home as my mother. They described it as a horrible place—the agency had lost many records and the state of Texas had even closed it for awhile. It later reopened, but it was said to have never really improved. I hope the agency and home is better now.

The family that raised me since I was a baby had always told me I was adopted. As soon as I wanted to find out about my biological family, though — like who I might look and act like, and where I had come from — it was game over. I was told that they were probably dead. And now the only parents I’d ever known didn’t want me around; they were very hurt and mad at me.

It meant nothing to them when I explained that they were the only family I had ever considered to be my family. Eventually, they started to push me away, only to officially kick me out of the house when I was 17.

I have had some hard times since then, including two abusive marriages, being sexually assaulted, and abducted by a trucker for months. I was young, vulnerable, and had no idea who to trust in the world—I found myself in terrible situations.

I do not talk to my adoptive family anymore, though I have tried to get back in touch to offer an apology. It seems I am not good enough for them, so I have moved on. Today, God has blessed me with an amazing and extremely patient husband, and I have beautiful kids.

I now wish to give my children as much information as I can about our side of the family and me, including our medical history.

I have ongoing health issues. I see doctor after doctor trying to sort them out, and each time, I am asked the same thing: “What is your family medical history?” I answer, “I was adopted and I don’t know anything.” They look at me as though they don’t know where to start with the medical testing. Sometimes they even ask: “Is there is any way you can find your family history?” And I always reply, “I desperately want to know and hope to some day.”

Now, as I wait to have dangerous medical procedures performed, I wonder why my petition did not make it through the court system to open my adoption records and provide me with the medical answers I need. Isn’t my life and the health of my kids important and valued? Many of my conditions are genetic. I believe that the mystery illness I am struggling with now, which doctors are stumped over, is genetic as well.

Every year, I write to the congressmen and governor of Texas asking them to help the adoptees with sealed records get the answers they need. Knowing if your biological family has a history of cancer or other medical issues can save your life. Also, knowing who you are and where you come from, I believe, is everyone’s right.

Even if a biological parent never wants to meet his or her relinquished child, I think agencies should have mediators who work with families and adopted people to provide more answers for them. For those parents who do want to meet, let them. There are ways to help everyone and heal the hurt. Many agencies and states provide this basic human right – why not Texas? Why not every state?

For some of us, our lives depend on it.

Thanks for visiting our online community. In addition to stories like this one, you can find valuable resources, discover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page.

Subscribe to our blog to receive more adoptee tales, and consider adding your voice to our Secret Sons & Daughters collection. 

Secrets in Review 4

Monday, June 9th, 2014

Erma Bombeck once said: “There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt.” One recent Secret Sons & Daughters’ adoptee tale did a brilliant job of showing just that.

Writer Mary Sisco’s sense of humor (and love for all things retro TV) had us laughing out loud about things we know are tragic, and a little in awe of the ways she used satire to endure not only secrets and lies, but truth too. Her story, An Adoptee Turns to Humor to Endure Secrets and Lies, wasn’t the only new take on the adoption experience.

New Hampshire writer Larry Clow’s piece left us pondering the blessings and challenges of Facebook. When it comes to adoption, social media’s big dog is a source of support, a place to connect (like our page!), a stealthy search resource for familial info and photos, and a potential source of pain. And yet, for all of the stories we’ve read thus far, even the most painful ones, there hasn’t been one person who said that the truth was not worth knowing.

In case you missed them, three new stories elicited several comments on the website: Taylor Perry’s reflection on shattered fantasies post reunion, Australian late-discovery adoptee, Di Dunning’s story, which showed that the pain of secrets long kept have no geographic boundaries, and Karen Goldner’s tale of struggling to find a sense of belonging in either of her families.

And speaking of comments, a fascinating discussion and debate is taking place in the comments section of 10 Questions to Ask When Searching for an Adoption Competent Therapist. Leslie Pate Mackinnon (whom I originally spoke with for the piece) recently responded to a question about her “bias,” and in doing so eloquently addressed the recommended standard of care in adoption today, why it’s important to stay a step ahead of pre-teens finding birth relatives on Facebook, and also included her thoughts on connection to one’s personal story vs. amputation from it. If the stories from our generation of adoptees have shown anything, it’s the high price many have paid for that amputation.

With that said, we let connection be our Mother’s Day inspiration this year and ran two stories in May that include what we like to think of as love letters—those initial correspondences that are often filled with hope and longing for connection.

Jason Clawson, in California Adoptee Finds his First Mother, shares the letter he wrote after he found his birth mother, and I shared a letter that came from the opposite direction, the letter my birth mother sent after she found me, in this post to ALL mothers.

While our “Adoptee Tales” are exclusively written by adult adoptees, between now and July 4th, we’d love to share more letters, especially those that speak to relationships with fathers of all stripes. If you’d like to submit a letter, click our Submit Tale form and put “Letter” in the title box.

Even if you don’t have a letter to share, please subscribe (here on our sidebar) to receive the latest stories, and updates. And “Like” us on good ‘ol Facebook and share your thoughts. Last week’s question: “Instead of searching, were you found by a birth parent? And if so, what was that like?” generated a variety of interesting responses. Also on Facebook, you’ll find a photo of Heather’s BIG news. She gave birth to a not-so-secret daughter, Kyra, on May 21st. Kyra will be our assistant story reader in no time.

One Adoptee Tale writer recently described Secret Sons & Daughters as a “beautiful island of thoughtfulness, respect, and camaraderie.” We aspire to live up to those words, and thank you for reading, commenting, and sharing these stories—we hope to hear your story soon.

Best wishes,

Christine & Heather
P.S. It’s not all about Facebook, you can follow us on Twitter too @adopteetales

Never Will I Know

Thursday, May 29th, 2014

A woman born and raised in England discovers her Northern Irish roots and longs to know the father she was too late to find.

Father – “unknown,” his name is John.
He has blue eyes, just like me, I am told.
To my 5-year-old-self, the mystery of my origins began.

The earliest search started within my heart,
In my imagination,
Searching the faces of strangers,
In the street, in pictures, on television,
Anywhere that I might find the connection,
A deep sense of loss, a yearning, emptiness,
A marrow-deep need to know, and to belong.
There were no words to describe the longing,
Only an intangible feeling, etched in my soul.

His name is John…

And here I stand, not alone, for my brother holds me strong,
Your firstborn son, sharing my grief, bringing me to you,
I am too late, my journey’s end, no more searching, no more hope, just the cold, hard truth.
As frigid as the tombstone before me, you are gone, the dream is over.

Never will I know —
The warmth of your hugs,
Hold my hand in yours,
Hear the sound of your voice, your laughter,
Feel your kisses planted on my head,
The tousle of my hair beneath your fingers,
Your acceptance of me,
Your love for me.

His name is John…

Your headstone majestic, yet humble, in death, as you were in life,
The grief threatens to overwhelm me—my knees buckle beneath me,
You will never be there to catch me when I fall.
Silent tears for all that is lost overwhelm me.

I light four candles at your graveside– beacons of light, of hope,
For the grandchildren you never knew,
Who bear your ancestry, and who live because you did.
My existence denied in death, as in life.
No acknowledgement of me, the relinquished one.
Silently I scream, I am here, I am yours.
No acknowledgement of the loss I feel,
I was your firstborn, the first wain you held in your arms.

His name is John…

I still grieve for you every day.
I live a life full of love and gratitude in deference to you.
Your grandchildren will always be proud of the man you were—
They will respect all that you achieved and acknowledge their heritage,
Even though we are denied and eradicated from your life.

I often wonder…
Did you ever think of me? Did you ever question what became of me?
Did you ever grieve the loss of me?
Would you have protected me from the hurt and shame?
Would you have loved me and accepted me for all that I am?
Will you forgive me for not finding you in time?
Would I have been enough?

His name is John. He is my father. And he is gone…

Thanks for visiting our online community. In addition to stories like this one, you can find valuable resources, discover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page.

Subscribe to our blog to receive more adoptee tales, and consider adding your voice to the Secret Sons & Daughters collection.

Shattered Fantasies and a New Journey: A Young Woman Meets Her Birth Parents

Thursday, May 8th, 2014

[dropcap size=dropcap]M[/dropcap]y incredible parents adopted me in East Tennessee, when I was just two days old. They named me Taylor Rebekka Perry— though they told my birth parents my name was Rebekka in order to protect my identity until I might wish to find them on my own. That wish became a strong desire shortly before my 18th birthday.

My parents gave me their full support, and they understood my reasons for wanting to search. I had always been curious about my family history, where I had come from, and most importantly, why my birth parents had put me up for adoption—which I believe most adoptees can easily relate to.

My uncle (my mom’s brother) had been the attorney who handled my adoption, so I was able to obtain my birth parent’s contact information quickly.

A fresh blanket of snow laid across the ground on the December morning of my long anticipated reunion day.

My boyfriend at the time, accompanied me in an attempt to calm my nerves, but that did little good. My heart raced a mile a minute. I worried if I looked okay, if my hair was okay, and was my breath fresh enough? So many silly thoughts sped through my mind.

We arrived on time to the arranged meeting place: A Cracker Barrel that marked the halfway point between my hometown and my birth parent’s home. I called my uncle. He was already inside the restaurant with my birth parents, letting them know that I was in the parking lot. My uncle came out to greet my boyfriend and me, and he gave me a few moments to catch my breath.

This was it. My boyfriend handed me a Kleenex so that I could wipe the sweat off my hands. I felt out of control, my legs shook, and my voice was small and hoarse.

My uncle took me by the arm and escorted me inside. We slowly walked to a table in the back of the restaurant where my birth parents were already seated.

As we approached them, they immediately stood with their arms stretched out, ready to embrace me. My birth mother hugged me first. I could not believe I was finally in the arms of the woman who had given birth to me.

She was nothing like I pictured her—her hair was much darker than mine, and her body was larger as well. My birth father hugged me next. He towered over me, and with the exception of our matching dark brown eyes, we shared little resemblance.

My uncle quietly slipped away.

My birth parents talked most of the time, filling me in on the past twenty-plus years. I learned that I had a full-blooded sister. A little sister—a full sister—I was shocked!

When they showed me her picture, it was as though I was looking at a younger version of myself. We look almost identical.

Sadly, I also discovered that my younger sister was never told of my existence—I was the “secret daughter”.

After I was born, my parents had stopped seeing each other, and my birth mother believed she had no means to care for me. Eventually, they got back together and married several years later. I was thrilled they had had another child. Even though my boyfriend and my parents did not understand, I was neither angered nor hurt that I was the secret daughter. I felt for my birth parents and I understood their situation at the time.

Still, building a relationship with my birth parents and little sister was a rocky one from the very start, especially with my birth mother. She attempted to control me— always wanting to know where I was, whom I was with, and why it was that I would not answer her calls and texts immediately.

She talked to me about things no mother would ever talk to their daughter about, things like her love life and her dramatic one-night stands. It was disturbing to hear these kinds of things, and unsettling that so many of our conversations had become one-sided.

At one point, I had become so overwhelmed, that my mother stepped in and took over. She told my birth mother that she needed to give me more breathing room.

Two-and-half-years into our relationship, and on the eve of my 21st birthday, my birth mother called to tell me that she and my birth father had separated and would eventually divorce.

After they finalized their divorce, I experienced even more of my birth mother’s deceit and lies. She had falsely claimed both cancer and pregnancy, and she had stolen money from my sister. She told my sister that she regretted knowing me and tried to turn her against me. My birth mother proved to burn me time and time again.

Naturally, I started to distance myself from her, and in January of this year, I finally sent her an email that outlined my true feelings. I never heard back from her.

For almost four years, I allowed myself to be sucked into an unhealthy relationship with her. It took much soul-searching, but I finally realized that having this woman in my life was bringing me down and keeping me from growing in an emotionally positive way. My birth mother has hurt others so much more than she has ever helped anyone.

I never imagined my reunion would end up like this. It brings on tears of deep pain.

Maybe I was too immature when I made the decision to reunite with my birth family, or maybe I set my expectations too high. Either way, I fell for the fantasy—a fantasy that I had come from a wonderful woman who had given me life, was perfect, beautiful, smart, strong and independent. The tarnished reality and finding out that she was not who I had hoped her to be, has broken my heart.

My birth parents have been divorced for over a year now. My birth father is grappling with many of the same things I am, and he and I are working on building a strong and healthy relationship.

My younger sister and I have fallen on patchy times. It’s hard to know what lies she was told, and she is too young for me to sort that out for her. She will have to make her own decisions in time about me and about our mother.

My birth father tries to point my sister’s thoughts in the right direction and only time will tell where all this will lead.

I am flooded with regret and sorrow for no longer having the woman I had fantasized about for 18 years in my life. Sometimes I think my life would’ve been easier if I had made the choice to leave well enough alone, but when I dig deeper, I am glad that I searched.

I’m glad I know where I came from. I’m glad I know my history, I’m glad to have a beautiful little sister, and I’m glad to have a relationship with my birth father.

I’ve also learned that I’m a much stronger person than I ever thought I could be. I hope and pray that down the road my relationship with my birth mother will mend, but I have come to terms with the knowledge that it may not, and I am okay with that. My sister is still young, and I feel that with time and work, our bond as sisters will grow stronger.

Thanks for visiting our online community. In addition to stories like this one, you can find valuable resources, discover your rights to your original birth certificate, meet other adoptees, and join the discussion by commenting (below) or on our Facebook page.

Subscribe to our blog to receive more adoptee tales, and consider adding your voice to the Secret Sons & Daughters collection. 

A Michigan Adoptee Reflects on the Concept of Choice

Tuesday, April 29th, 2014

[dropcap size=dropcap]T[/dropcap]en years ago this month, the phone rang at 7 a.m. That was my first indication that it was bad news—nobody ever calls that early with good news.

“Are you sitting down? You better sit down,” said Jenifer, my sister-in-law. “There’s been an accident. Cristi is dead.”

My predominant reaction to the news was confusion. Cristi was my 36-year-old full biological sister, 14 months younger than me, and a sister I’d only known for 15 years.

I was adopted in 1966 as an infant, in a closed adoption. I met Cristi when I reunited with my birth family in 1988. A year-and-a-half after we had met, we were both surprised to learn that we were full sisters.

Apparently, my birth mother met my birth father secretly six months after my birth, and as a result of that encounter, Cristi was born. Our birth mother went on to marry another man, one her family approved of, and he raised Cristi as his own. She grew up believing he was her father, that is, until I came into the picture.

I should be really sad about losing Cristi, I thought when the news of her passing settled in. I pretended that I was. Don’t get me wrong, on one level I was sad. Christi was young, she had two small children, and this was a tragedy. I had had little history in common with her—no shared memories of growing up together—only our genes. We were not close.

Like many adoptees, I spent my life denying, repressing, and stuffing my feelings, and even medicating them when all else failed. Expressing my feelings, I thought, might destroy me.

I had received society’s message to be grateful because I was special and chosen. I was supposed to feel lucky that my parents had adopted me. Other children, in an attempt to be sympathetic, would remark that their parents were “stuck” with them. Being adopted made me special and chosen? Who wouldn’t be grateful for that?

But in my heart and in my gut, I knew that something terrible had happened to me, even though no one spoke of it. No one ever said: “I am sorry you couldn’t stay with your mother.”

If I had allowed myself to grieve that loss, it would have overwhelmed me. I believed that had I protested or expressed my feelings openly, then my adoptive parents might’ve rejected me and left too. That would have destroyed me.

In time, however, my denial mechanism became a hindrance. From the beginning, the setup was for me to fit what others needed, not for me to discover what fit me.

Therefore, I had developed no internal radar, and very little clarity on who I was or how I truly felt. When I was younger, I accepted jobs that I didn’t care for only because they were offered, and I ended up in too many relationships with men that were not right for me, simply because they had expressed an interest in me.

So there I was with a dead biological sister and great uncertainty about how to grieve.

I went to the funeral home, along with my birth family and pretended to be devastated. I cried. I hugged my family as they grieved my sister’s death. I tried to be one of them just like I had since my reunion.

I sat around a table at the funeral home with my birth mother, my brother, and Cristi’s husband, and helped with the obituary wording.

What the hell am I doing here? Why did they include me? I dont belongI hardly even knew her.

I kept those thoughts inside, ignored my feelings and tried, as always, to fit in. And part of me felt grateful to be included. I felt privileged to finally be in this family that I had been banished from decades earlier.

Three days later, after I had returned home from Cristi’s funeral, my then-husband met me at the door. “You better sit down. Your brother just called. Your father died.”

My adoptive father, whom I had been to Arizona to visit two weeks prior, had dropped dead from a stroke at the age of 79.

The feelings came fast and hard. I felt clear—no ambiguity this time, and it tore right through me. I dropped to the floor and sobbed.

The truth is though; I was not close to my adoptive father, either. He was a good person, well liked, but not a very good father. He was aloof, distant, unengaged, and often, he didn’t seem to care much about me, yet the pain I felt was real and genuine.

Ironically, one of the things I remember most about his funeral was when my adoptive mother told me not to cry.

I was about to board a plane back to Michigan and I was worried about leaving her alone, without my father. My tears would not stop. She patted me on the shoulder and said, “Oh now, don’t cry.”

I thought Jesus Christ, if Im not even allowed to cry now, when my father has died, will there ever be a time when it is okay for me to cry? But, good little adoptee that I was—I denied my feelings and I stopped crying.

That was a pivotal time in my life, and a very complicated one. Many things were changing, most of all me. I had two young daughters, my marriage was falling apart, and I was transitioning from an agency job to begin a private practice as a clinical social worker. It was a time I learned about choices.

A year later, I ended contact with my birth family. I was tired of pretending. I had already spent a lifetime doing that with my adoptive family, and that added stress had become too much to bear. The realization that I could never be privy to the memories that they shared was excruciating.

I had always felt sad after being with them for holidays and birthdays. After one visit in particular, my husband asked, “If you were not biologically related to these people, would you have anything to do with them?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied with certainty.

“Then don’t,” he said.

“That’s really an option?”  I asked.

“Of course it is.”

In my mind, choosing my family relationships was never an option. Being adopted had meant that others decide whom I call family.

I had an epiphany last year when I read someone’s post in an online adoptee support group that I participate in. It said: “I did not ask to be adopted, nor did I want to be adopted. The whole thing did not work out very well for me at all. I do not owe anybody anything.”

Wow.

It was as though my blinders had been removed. I realized that I no longer had to try to navigate my very complicated relationship with my adoptive mother. I have always felt like I owed her something because she had taken me in and raised me.

All of my life, I had desperately struggled to fit with her, despite her callousness and emotional abuse, and I beat the hell out of myself when I did not. I would’ve never chosen to have a casual friendship with a person like my adoptive mother— much less have chosen her as a parent. Given the choice, I would have remained with my birth family—my clan.

I once read a quote by the Reverend Keith C. Griffith, MBE that said: “Adoption is the only trauma in the world where the victim is expected by the whole of society to be grateful.”

Today, after years of grappling with that trauma, I carefully choose who is part of my family—they are a select and exclusive few. The requirements for membership are simple: you must truly love, appreciate and unconditionally accept me for exactly who I am— and not who you need me to be; authenticity and genuineness are required; and trust is a must.

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