Two people fall in love - have a baby and suddenly life changes
forever. They are now “mom and dad.” They dream of the
first day of kindergarten, the first high school dance, which
will also be her first “real date.” They may start saving
for a college fund, and dream about the day she gets married and
has children of her own. But for some people, these dreams are
shattered before they are ever given the chance to dream these
dreams, and instead of dreaming, they are grieving.
These are mothers who become pregnant too soon, unmarried, never
fell in love, don’t have enough money or they believe that
you don’t start saving, but you must have it all in place
before she’s born. This isn’t the warped mind of a young
girl, but rather the myth that society perpetuates. There are
too many couples who cannot have children of their own, there
are too many adoption agency owners that need to stop at the bank
on the way home and there is only one way to fulfill these needs.
As with many things in life, for each profit – there must
be a victim; in adoption there are two parties who profit, those
who get the baby and those who make the money – there are
also two victims. Those who leave the hospital empty handed and
empty hearted, and the child, who leaves the hospital – not
alone, but still just as empty hearted.
In the 50s, 60s and the 70s, little was known about how adoption
would affect the children. Without a voice of their own, society
assumed that children would fare well by simply being transferred
from one mother to another. Since we have no conscious memory
during that time, it must have seemed like a simple solution.
They can erase the fact that the “bad girl” became pregnant
at age 15, 16 or 17, and a couple who are married and financially
secure but unable to have their own children can finally have
the family they have always dreamed of.
However, this “perfect solution” failed miserably.
In time, the adopted began speaking out. Angry that their records
were sealed, furious that their families mistreated them, upset
that they didn’t know where their red, brown, blonde or black
hair came from, and devastated that they were “unwanted children.”
Thus in the 80s began the “Open adoption experiment.”
What a perfect solution to the problem! No longer will these
children grow up and not know their roots. They will know what
their biological parents liked to do, what they looked like, their
athletic ability or lack of. They will now know that they were
in fact loved and that the transfer from one mother to another
was an act of unselfish love.
I am a product of this experiment. I was born on December 24th,
1988 and I was soon transferred from one mother to another because
my first mother, known throughout my life as my birth mother,
wasn’t married to my birth father. She was 16 years old and
still in high school. There were dreams that her parents, my first
grandparents, expected her to fulfill and of course there was
a couple who were unable to fulfill their dreams of having a houseful
of children, known throughout my life as mom and dad.
I have been told that December 24th, 1988 was a cold and cloudy
day. The black clouds meant much more than a weather forecast
of rain to come; it was the day that the lives of four people
would be profoundly and forever altered; much more like a forecast
of doom, rather than rain. I went home with my new family, my
new name and a new life. A life of promises made from one mother
to another mother and my first mother went home to her old life;
one of high school parties, dates and the prom.
My second mother would begin to write letters to my first mother
during my second month of life, updating her on what I was wearing,
what I was doing, my sleep schedule or lack of one and to remind
her of how thankful she was for the gift she freely gave, ‘the
gift’ being me.
I would grow up never having to question who I looked liked,
where my strawberry blonde hair came from or where I got my green
eyes, because I had a picture of my first mother taped on my vanity
mirror. I would also have a photo album full of pictures. Photographs
of the time when I was still with her, while she was carried me
inside her body, photos of her holding me in the hospital and
photos of her handing me to my second mother. I would also have
photos of her high school graduation and some of her with college
friends holding each other with big smiles on their faces; I would
never have to wonder where my smile came from.
The first visit between my first mother and me took place when
I was 2 years old. I don’t remember it but I was told that
we met at a park and that I was a happy toddler who ran and played
carefree that day. After that day, the visits became an annual
event. I would soon learn that once a year, I would be able to
see my first mother while my second mother would continue writing
letters about my progress every 3 months.
By the time I was 6 years old, an increase in our visits were
mutually agreed between my two mothers, and my first mother and
I would begin a new type of relationship. My second mother would
hand me the phone to say “hello,” to brag about my teacher,
or what art project I may have made that day, or to tell her about
my new shoes, or my new pretty dress.
I remember the day that I found out my first mom was having a
baby. I was barely nine years old, and confused because she wasn’t
married. I worried that my little brother or sister would have
to be given up for adoption and I asked my mom if we would get
him or her. When she explained to me that my first mom would be
raising the baby, more confusion set in.
When I was still 9 years old, my biological sibling was born.
My little sister. It was just before Thanksgiving vacation. I
went to bed knowing that by morning, she would probably be born.
I would be woken up in the morning to the news, but what they
didn’t know; I was awake until almost morning crying into
my pillow and praying that she would arrive safely and unharmed.
I think I cried myself to sleep. The next day, I fell asleep at
my desk and was sent home by the school nurse.
I was unable to see my little sister until she was 10 days old.
My second mother took me shopping to buy her a present and I picked
out a small, brown stuffed hippopotamus. My second mom was less
than thrilled with my choice and wanted me to choose something
else, something cuter. After begging, pleading and pouting, she
decided on a pink bunny for the baby, and agreed that I could
have the hippo for myself. Today that hippo is my favorite possession
and he is kept on my bed, maybe someday I will give him to his
rightful owner.
Throughout my life, there have always been separate family vacations,
and separate birthday parties. We would celebrate my birthday
at home with my adoptive family and then get together the weekend
after with my first mother and my sister. Family vacations were
confusing for me because either I wasn’t invited or allowed,
to go with camping with my first family, something they did on
a regular basis. I can recall the feelings of jealousy vividly.
At about the age of 12, I started becoming an out of control
pre-teenager. I would test my both my first mother and my adoptive
parents constantly. Because I was given so many things, there
were so many things for my adoptive parents to take away due to
bad behavior. I would lose my video games, my cds, and my phone
privileges. Eventually I would start losing my visits with my
sister and because by nature I am a fighter, I would lash out
and make things worse. I was unable to see first family from the
age of 13 until the winter of 2004, age 16. But every year, like
clockwork, a basket on Easter, a present on both Christmas and
my birthday would arrive.
Last year I finally learned that if I truly wanted something,
I would have to keep my emotions tucked inside and play by the
rules. It’s still working.
I look at the photographs of my childhood and I can see the big
smiles, and all the gifts under the Christmas tree. I can see
how most people would look at me and see a happy adopted 16.5
year old girl. Most people would think I am lucky to have two
families, other adopted people may think I am fortunate to know
my genetic history, my heritage and where I came from. But what
I see is different from what other people see; I can plainly see
the pain behind the smile.
My memories are more than just visits with my first mother and
my sister. My memories are of a constant battle between happy
appearances with an inner turmoil.
My memories take me back to that cloudy and dreary December evening.
The day that my life would drastically change and the person I
was meant to be would never be.
My memories take me back to the day that I was a ‘happy’
toddler running around the park, laying my eyes upon my first
mother for the first time in two years. I must have learned very
early. My memories take me back to that horrible night, etched
into my brain is the memory of pure terror that my little sister
would die, or I would never see her, or she would be given away.
I will never forget those tears in my pillow and all the prayers
said that night in fear.
My memories take me back to being a little girl who fell in love
with an ugly hippo and wanted desperately to give it to her 10
day old sister, but was unable to.
My memories take me back to the feelings of jealousy and inner
rage, each time my first mother would pull out of the driveway
with my sister in the truck. We would stand on the porch and wave.
Damn that hurt.
My memories are of missing my sister’s Kindergarten and
first grade graduation.
My memories are built around being what some refer to as a chosen
child, but I call it being broken at birth.
My memories are of fighting feelings of being unloved and unwanted,
even though I was constantly told how much they loved me.
My memories are of sitting on the same fluffy pink vanity chair
and staring at her picture, the picture that was still there,
throughout all those years, while trying not to allow the tears
to smear the makeup I was putting on.
My life is not a solution to a problem or the fix for another
problem. I am angered that I was a part of a failed experiment
and that my life was devalued by trying to prove that it could
work.
On Friday June 10th 2005 at 11:15 am, my little sister will graduate
from the second grade. Of course I won’t be there.
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