by JeanWidner | Jul 18, 2022 | Adoptee Stories, Birth Parent
My story is the age-old tale of black and white, my mother being white, my father black. It goes back to the story of an older man with a younger woman. She was a teenager, got pregnant, and had me. She tried to keep me for a while, but for whatever reason, she couldn’t.
I always had this dream from when I was little, but now know it was not a dream. In it, I could hear my mom’s voice. I knew it was my mom, that she was coming to pick me up. I could never actually see her face, but I could always hear the voice, which was always the same.
In one of my only memories of her, I am sitting on a bench, she walks out, I see her back, and I call to her, but she never responds or turns around. That was the last day I ever saw my mother.
From what they say, I was just older than a toddler, probably about four or five, when my mother gave me up. I have learned I was in close to eleven different foster homes before I was adopted.
I don’t have a lot of memories of my childhood and think that it was probably very traumatic, which is why I was moved around a lot. There are reports that in one foster home, one of the children there was touching me inappropriately. There was another foster care where the daughter was jealous because I was mixed and had what they called ‘good hair.’ I don’t know exactly what that is.
But they couldn’t control me – nobody could handle me. I probably had an attachment disorder. I didn’t want anybody to hold me or even be near me. I kept calling for my brother, and kept telling everybody that I had a brother. He went to live with his father. I couldn’t understand why my father didn’t come and get me? Why didn’t my father want me? Not knowing at that time, my brother was all white, not understanding that back in the ’70s and the ’80s, you were either black or white. It was not okay to be in the middle. I never really fit in with the white kids. I didn’t fit in with my black friends either. So even having friends growing up was very difficult.
I got in trouble because they would ask us if we were black or white when we were in school, and I refused to pick one. I’m black, white, Hispanic – I’m just not going to choose. I got in trouble for that. When you get in trouble, they want to call your mom or your dad. Well, if you don’t have a mom or a dad, who do they call?
It’s not just the in and out of the foster homes that get you – it’s the parents that come and go. Because there’s always turnover, it’s hard to give your life to raising children that are not your own, that have emotional problems. You go back and forth with the foster home and have parents coming in and out. It’s a revolving door. But the only thing that’s constant, that stays, is you. That took its toll.
Back then, teachers didn’t keep stuff like that private, so everybody knew. I was a handful – I didn’t like affection, yet craved attention. You could get just arm’s length close to me, but that was it. I didn’t want you to be any closer.
As a kid, you can only be told that you’re not wanted or given back so many times before that’s what you believe. So, I developed the “I have to be the best at everything,” syndrome. I must be great in school. I was a gymnast and played basketball and volleyball. I did everything possible to be that perfect child so that somebody would want me.
In the third grade they told me they wanted to be my parents. “Sure, you can be my parents,” but I had a few requests of my own. “I want wicker furniture, and I want to take gymnastics. If you want me, these are the few things that I need in return, and my room needs to be purple.”
Here I was, haggling at a very young age. But even when you get that sense, “Okay, I have a family,” you’re different. They are white. My hair is different, my skin is different. Their kids are mostly grown and out of the house. Both older sisters are in college or married.
My new brother, David Russell, amazing human that he is, reading Bell and Grindle for a bedtime story is probably not the best idea for a kid. Hence my love of the medieval. I didn’t like bridges for the longest time because I was always worried that The Billy Goats Gruff would get me. Because those were the bedtime stories that I had. He introduced me to Star Trek because “What well-rounded child doesn’t know anything about Star Trek? We can’t have that.”
Those are the things that I hold on to because the other things are not pretty, and nobody wants to talk about them. Nobody wants to talk about going to the grocery store with my mom and somebody at the register ringing something up, her paying for it, and then, they ring up my stuff and her paying for it separately. You couldn’t tell them, “We’re all together” or “That’s my daughter”? Or when somebody says, “Oh, you’re such a pretty child. What did your mother do to get you?” And I respond, “Nothing more than your mom did to get you.” But I’m the one who had to apologize because that wasn’t ladylike behavior.
At what point do you step up and say, “That’s my daughter. I am proud to have her as my daughter.” Because if my behavior is good and my grades are good, “Oh, that’s great. That’s a reflection because she’s a teacher, and she’s done so well.” or “Y’all were so great to take this child in.”
I so often heard, “Well, maybe you would have been better off with a black family adopting you.” But my parents adopted me because if they didn’t, who was going to? What kind of life was I going to have? None of the other children at the home had been in and out as many times as I had. Back then, you could place a black child, or you could place a white child. But where were you going to place a mixed child?
Mom and I went rounds when it came to doing my hair, running through the house, her trying to get a comb through it, then me getting to a certain age and her just saying I had to do it however. Well, I didn’t know how to do my hair – didn’t know what I needed to do to take care of it. Being made fun of in school, my dad started taking me to get it braided. In my high school years, Salt-N-Pepa was popular. I went to the beauty shop and wanted the Salt-N-Pepa haircut because I thought it looked good. That’s what black kids were supposed to have. But when your dad allows you to do that, you come home, your mom freaks out, and then you go to a private school that’s predominantly white, and you’ve got that haircut, you get in trouble because then it’s a distraction.
I got put into another school with more black children and didn’t have as hard of a time. But through it all, my parents didn’t go to school when there were problems. Once again, they didn’t stick up for me.
Ultimately, they moved from that side of Tulsa to Broken Arrow, to a more up-and-coming area, and for a while there, everything was okay.
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When I was nineteen, I was raped. People asked, “Well, what did she do?” Why did I have to do anything?
I remember my dad had told me if you get pregnant, we’ll just pluck it out like a grape. I didn’t believe in abortion, so I didn’t say anything until it was too late. My sister came to visit her older friend I was staying with, and she ran back home and told them I was pregnant. She doesn’t discuss it with me. She didn’t ask me about it beforehand. What do they do? Shipped me off to a home to have the baby at. Then they announce it in church – let everybody know what happened. I’m getting letters and phone calls, saying our prayers are with you, but my parents didn’t visit.
I was devastated by the whole thing that happened. They didn’t believe me until the same thing happened to somebody else, then it was okay. Then it was, “We need to get you counseling,” or “we’re so sorry this happened.” When it happened, I was asked over and over what did I do? Did I provoke the person? I was so damaged physically that I was told I probably would never be able to have kids again. So not only am I told that but to give up the one child I had.
Now I must make the same decision for my child that was made for me. Knowing how I felt and grew up, I chose an adoption that was open, or as much as one could be at that time.
I wanted to pick his parents because I wanted them to understand that the baby I’m giving you, you must love as your own, treat as your own – if you can’t do that, you can’t have him. The family I chose had two older children at the time, and they already had a mixed child. So, I knew that there wouldn’t be as many questions.
She [the adopting mother] showed me what it was to be a mother because she would call and check on me. She told me, “It doesn’t matter if you choose us or somebody else. Right now, you need a mom. You need to be loved.” She did that every day until I gave them my son. They allowed me to name him. Of course, they renamed him.
But they allowed me to name him so he would have a birth certificate from me, a letter that I wrote him, and a quilt that I made him. Shortly after that, I went into the military. They tried to keep up with my parents, but my parents didn’t even want to see him. There’s a picture of my mom holding him, but that’s the only one.
His mom was a wonderful woman. She always kept up with me to know where I was because of the deal that I made her that I wish somebody would’ve done for me – was that he was to know about me. But he was not allowed to meet me until he was eighteen because I wanted him to understand that that’s your mom and dad. I loved him more than myself – that is why I gave him to a family that could love him.
When he graduated high school, I got a message on Facebook, “Hey, this is Shaw. Is your name such and such? I’m your son.”
He said, “I am in Lubbock, and I would like you to see me graduate because I want you to know that everything you did was worth it and that I thank you for what you did.” So, my two younger boys and I went down there. They met their brother, Shaw, and we watched him graduate. His mom gave me the biggest hug – that whole family embraced me, thanked me for giving them Shaw.
I say that because that is how an adopted child is supposed to feel. Parents adopt us, and they don’t think about the thing that’s in us that is broken. That part of us needs to know we belong and are loved.
By all standards, looking from the outside, it appeared this was the perfect childhood – private schools, gymnastics, a car at the age of sixteen, parents that came to every game, and family dinners. But nobody ever once stopped to ask me did I feel loved? Did I feel wanted? Not once.
I don’t think it matters if you’re adopted as a baby or as an older child. That one feeling of why I was not good enough that my mom kept me resonates with almost all of us.
The day my parents took me to MEPS [Military Entrance Processing Station], that was it for me. I was done. I wasn’t going to college or staying with my parents, and refused to return to that house. I was not going to be a dirty little secret. I was going to be seen as a person, not the color of my skin or the situation for my being on this earth.
Twenty-eight years later, with my dad just passing, I would say that’s the one regret I have, that I didn’t get to tell him thank you for what he did. Whether his motivation was good and pure or whether it was out of what he felt was a Christian obligation, I owe him that thank you. I wouldn’t be the parent I am today without the structure I had.
I told my mom, and I hope that she relayed to my father, that I got the pick of the parents. I won the lotto when it came to my parents.
I have a lot of bad memories, but there are good ones. It’s not just a sad story of a kid that nobody wanted. I have the memory of having a beautiful white dress with ruffles and frills and a bow in the back, and my hair was picked out, and I was clean. Many people won’t understand what that feeling is. I had a bath and my hair done, and have a picture of that. Every time I see that picture, I can still remember just feeling clean.
People will never understand laying down in a bed for the first time, and you know it’s yours. Nobody else had it or is going to sleep in that bed. I don’t have to hide my toys because nobody will take them. I don’t have to eat all the food at once because I can go to the refrigerator, open the door, and there’s food. I was told I was a picky eater as a child. It wasn’t that. As a child, what I put in my mouth was the only thing I could control. I couldn’t control my living situation or whether I was accepted or not accepted. If you think about it, that was the only thing I could control.
by JeanWidner | Jul 13, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
My Mother Didn’t Want Me.
My Mother Couldn’t Keep Me.
Sit with those two sentences. Feel the differences implied by their words. In one, you are rejected and abandoned. Discarded. Given away, never to be thought of again.
The other gives a different view. Being unable to keep something means it wasn’t your choice. That you were an innocent in a set of circumstances that were beyond your mother’s control.
When adoptees, either children or adults, utter the first line above to describe their situation, “My mother didn’t want me,” I always silently cringe. Because the truth is that unless you have met your birth mother and heard her story, you cannot possibly know that. Maybe it is true. Maybe she never wanted children, never had them, and already knew at a young age she did not want ever to be a mom or parent a child. In that case, her relinquishment is not only a blessing, but it would have been a curse for you to be trapped with her.
What we want as human beings, and as women, changes during the course of our lives – this is true for all of us. Parenting is a challenge no matter what your level of maturity or financial stability. What your partner wants for their life, and the strength of that bond all influence the timing of when is the right time to become a parent. To want to be a mother. A young woman may not want to be a parent when she cannot support that child, but then want to mother later in life when her circumstances have changed.
But here’s the thing – that’s on her. It may not seem fair to an adoptee feeling the effects of that primal separation, but the point is that we don’t need to take in those words of ‘not being wanted’ and make them our identity.
This is not a judgment of birth mothers. Their circumstances and reasons for relinquishing their children are varied and complex. In my experience with the birth mothers I know, they are at least, if not more, fearful of the rejection of their adult adopted children as adoptees are of feeling the same from them.
Another hard truth with this is that no one should be forced to become a parent who does not wish to be. The job is too hard.
If you remember Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Eat, Pray Love, she leaves her husband because she realizes that even with their many years of marriage and plans to start a family – she does not want to be a parent. Famously in one chapter of her story, she discusses these doubts with her sister, who wisely says to her, that “having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it’s what you want before you commit.”
Elizabeth is not a devil for her admission. She is honest enough to recognize this should not be her path and harm another while she complies with those prior ideals and commitments. Because a parent who does not want to be one will most likely harm their child emotionally, at least in some way.
I identify with the author because I have also chosen not to become a mother. My husband of over thirty years feels the same. And while I have moments where the now-grown children of my friends make me wistful for a different path, for the overwhelming majority of the time, I’m happy with ours.
But sit with this again – why should any adopted child take on those feelings of rejection from their birth mother? Do we understand how backward that is? Especially so, if it isn’t even the truth.
When an adopted person says, their mother didn’t want them, at whatever their age they say it – they are taking on those emotions that their mother may, or may not, have about being a parent, and internalizing them as an indictment of their being born and placed for adoption.
Words matter and they have power. To my fellow adoptees, I say – keep your power. Own your words and choose them carefully – you deserve that.
by JeanWidner | Jul 12, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
My father was black. My biological mother was white. My adoptive family is all white. So, it wasn’t like they could pretend I had been born from them.
My earliest memories of being adopted are my parents talking about it and explaining that they went someplace, and they picked me out and brought me home, and now I was their daughter, and I lived with them. I don’t have any memories before that. And then we adopted my brother when I was about five, and he’s also transracially adopted. So that cemented things for me – you can go get the baby, and the baby doesn’t have to look like you.
It was something other people commented on a lot, as it was 1971. My mom would have to explain, “is she with you?” Or people would be confused because my sister would be with us. My sister’s just 13 months younger than me, and she’s my parent’s biological daughter. So, people would be confused. “Why is this brown girl with all these white people? What’s happening?” My parents would often have to explain this is our daughter too.
My parents had tried to conceive many times. After they adopted me, my mom got pregnant almost immediately. And then they kept trying and trying and trying, and they couldn’t conceive again. That’s why they adopted my brother. They wanted a boy. So, this is one way to ensure we get one, and they just did it that way.
I grew up first in Phoenix, although I’d been born in Michigan. Growing up bi-racially in the 1970s was very awkward. I had some bad situations happen to me when I was younger because my parents, I think, really didn’t understand how the world would view that situation. My parents had on rose-colored glasses. We’ve adopted this baby – things are great. And her life’s going to be great. And she’s not going to experience any of these things because we never experienced these things growing up. We never dealt with discrimination, racial slurs, or stuff like that. We’re white. We didn’t have any of that. And so, they didn’t prepare me for any of that.
I remember vividly the first time I was called the N-word, and I had no idea what it meant. I was only five, but I knew it was something terrible because of the way people reacted. And I had a friend with me, and my friend yelled at the kid. But I remember being frozen and stunned. I didn’t know what to say. And it’s only been in the last maybe ten years that I’ve even been able to tell my parents about that situation.
There weren’t a lot of black kids at my school, and it was kind of weird. You’re an outsider, but not. I don’t know how to explain it. You feel like you want to fit in, but you know that you don’t fit in. You always wonder are they being nice to me because they want to be, or are they making fun of me behind my back? There’s some insecurity there.
Things got a little bit better when my brother joined the family and shared some of the same experiences. Then they were able to see, oh, well, I guess things are different for brown people.
I remember one time we went to Disneyland and ate breakfast at a McDonald’s before we went there, and it was in Compton. It was mostly black people in the restaurant. My parents and my sister were the only white people, and my brother and I, of course, noticed that. My parents didn’t put two and two together, but when we left McDonald’s, I remember my brother saying, “That’s the first time I’ve ever been someplace where it was all black people, and you guys were the ones that were different.”
He was probably six at the time or seven. And my parents were like, Hmm, interesting. Because that was, for us, we were always in white spaces. And even when you try not to feel like you’re standing out, you’re standing out.
I think once he joined the family, my parents were a little more cognizant of these issues, and I felt like I could talk to them a little bit more about them and explain some of the things that I was feeling or struggling with, but I’m not sure that they completely understood. They tried, but I don’t think they completely understood how the world is different for people.
One of the weird things I felt – I was always concerned that if you could get a baby, you could also maybe take a baby back. If something didn’t work out, I needed to be on my best behavior because I didn’t want to be “Return to Sender.” You’re irrational when you’re a kid. I think about all the Disney movies I saw with the orphan kid and the evil stepmother, trying to get the kid out of the picture, and all these things revolve around in your head, and you start thinking, maybe that could happen to me. If I’m not good enough, then they won’t want me anymore.
For the most part, I felt loved like my sister, especially by my dad. I was a daddy’s girl until my brother came along, and he took over—my dad gravitated towards him because of sports and all that stuff. But up until then, I was a daddy’s girl.
My mom and I had a problematic relationship throughout my childhood. I never didn’t feel loved by her, but she was closer to my sister. They’re both middle children. My mom understood the whole having a big sister who kind of outshined you or out does you type of thing. And she was sympathetic towards my sister. So there were things she would allow my sister to do that I couldn’t do or something of that nature that I felt was unfair.
Now, of course, you always have that sibling rivalry. And I think it didn’t help that my sister and I were so close in age that my parents treated us as though we were the same age. So, if I got my ears pierced, then my sister got her ears pierced, and I had to wait until I was 12—stupid things like that.
But I did feel loved. It was hard for me, and it still is, to maybe reciprocate that. I am very guarded about things like that. I don’t like being vulnerable. I love my parents. They know that I love them. I tell them that I love them. I mean it when I say it. But it’s tough for me to get close to people and be able to tell them that. That’s not something I do. People can walk out of your life. They do it all the time, and I don’t want to have that, or I don’t want to be able to react to that.
Then, when I was in junior high, we moved to San Diego in the early ’80s. We kids were excited because you immediately thought of California; we’ll be at Disneyland every weekend or the beach! And that doesn’t happen. But we were excited about moving there.
It was hard, but I am glad we moved there only because it diversified the types of people we were around. California is very multicultural. So that was a benefit. There were more black people at my school. I had actual black teachers sometimes. That made a difference to me, looking back now. While it was hard on our family because we were comfortable in Phoenix, I think the move was good. We needed to go to a new place.
At this time, I started this very rebellious stage of my life. I must have been in seventh grade, I think. Every year they have you fill out these little forms with your name and your sex and your race and your date of birth and stuff like that. Well, you can only check one box for race, and that just irritated the hell out of me. Every year – I don’t want to check one box because I’m not one box.
So, I would be checking multiple boxes, and then they would have a fit. And sure enough, this lady in the office called me up there. She said, “Okay. You have white and black hair. What are you?” I said, “I’m white and black.” She says, “No, you have to be one or the other.” I say, “How’s that? Because I’m not one or the other. I’m both.” And she says, “Well, because this is how we do things here. You have to choose one.” And I said, “Well, I’m not choosing because I’m not just one thing.” And she eventually chose for me. She decided I was black. I was okay with that. But I was annoyed that I couldn’t represent my true self. I had to be one or the other. And I know she picked black because at the time, they got more money or whatever for students of color, and so it helped the school if I was black. Whatever.
So that’s when I decided, you know what? I feel like a black person now. I don’t want to say I don’t identify with white people. I do. They raised me. My mom’s white. My biological mom’s white. But my lived experience has been that of a woman of color, a child of color.
For the next several years, I don’t want to say I was militant, but I was, “I am not going to be pigeonholed. I am not going to be forced into what your perception is of me. You look at me, and I look brown. So, you assume things about me, but you know nothing about my situation, my family, how I was brought up, or anything like that.” I don’t appreciate people trying to decide what I am. I will decide what I am. I started doing a lot of soul-searching on my part, which created a lot of angst in my family. At that point, I wanted to search for my biological family.
And my adoptive family was not cool with that. They thought I was too young. They also felt I was probably not in the right mental mindset to search. I think they were concerned about what would happen if I did find my biological family. Would I want to go live with them? I think there was some concern there. They didn’t know anything about my birth family other than what they had been told. So, they didn’t know, like was my mom stable? She wasn’t. Was my dad still in the picture? He was, but he had his own family. I don’t want to say they sabotaged it. They didn’t do that, but they didn’t encourage me to seek out my birth family. I did everything I could at that age of being a minor.
You could file some paperwork saying if your biological family comes looking, here’s how to contact me. I did all those things you could do, but there was no internet back then, so it was much more limited.
Then I got pregnant at 17, which created a whole other set of problems. I didn’t get pregnant intentionally. But once I realized I was pregnant, almost instantly, I thought, “This will be the first biological relative I will know.” And my family was very much, “You’re putting this child up for adoption, and you’re not keeping it,” and blah, blah, blah. And I said, “Yeah, that’s not happening.” I don’t care if I have to live in a tunnel; I will do that. But I am not giving my child up for adoption.
I stayed in California, and my dad, who had another job opportunity in Nevada, moved there with the rest of the family. But I think almost in the back of my mind, I believed, “This is going to be good, and I’m going to make it work.” My biological mother couldn’t make it work. I’m going to show her that it can be done. I didn’t dislike my birth mother, but at the same time, as a woman – how do you have a baby and then just walk away. I don’t understand. She never communicated with the adoption agency or anything. She never followed up.
I found out later that she did try to make some attempts, but the agency doesn’t tell you that when you inquire because they don’t want problems. I just remember at the time that I was having my son. I was thinking, “This is just super cool. I’m going to be looking at this baby’s face, and it will be a face that’s connected to me.”
Those junior high and high school years were tough in dealing with my adoption. I felt very different from my peers because I only knew a few other adopted people, and most of them were not transracial. So that is just like another added, I don’t want to say it’s a burden, but it’s just an added layer that makes it difficult. I mean, it’s hard enough to be an adopted person and know that you aren’t really part of the family. You are part of the family, but you know in your mind that you’re not related to them biologically, but it’s another layer when you don’t look like anybody either. My junior high and high school years were a mess.
My mom never learned how to do my hair because Black hair is different. And while my hair isn’t wholly Black because it is mixed, she never learned. She never learned how to do my brother’s hair. My brother always had the little afro going on – when it wasn’t cool to have an afro. My mom thought it was great. I’d say, “No, it’s not. It’s not great at all.”
Nowadays, I know that they have more training for trans-racial adoptive parents. You take them to this kind of barber shop, not that kind of barbershop. You braid their hair because their hair is fragile, and it breaks easily. And you wrap it at night or do these kinds of things. When I was young, teaching me or learning about how to care for black hair wasn’t important.
Thank goodness there was a friend of my mom’s finally when I was in junior high, who took me aside and showed me these were the products that I needed to get. She taught me I should be putting this stuff on my hair and not that stuff, and I shouldn’t be washing it every day because it dries it out, and I shouldn’t be just sleeping on it with no wrap around it or anything.
And I was so grateful somebody did something because I didn’t know what to do either. I went to school every day looking awful and feeling even worse. I looked like buckwheat.
My mom never took me to the Black section of the haircare products. These are all things you learn as you go. But my hair was already so broken and damaged and falling out because she tried to treat it like my sister’s white hair. It took years before it was healthy the way black hair should be.
That experience made my son’s life different because I was more conscious of that. I took them to the Black barbershops so that they get the right haircut and don’t get the little poof afro thing going. I made sure that they felt comfortable in the clothes that they were wearing. That represents them better than maybe some little polo shirt and Dockers or whatever. For me, I was more culturally conscious because my parents weren’t.
When you have trans-racial adoptions, there’s just an extra layer of sensitivity that gets lost in the mix. People assume you will assimilate into the group that is adopting you.
What’s funny is my dad has never given that up talking about those years in high school when I rebelled. I’m fifty now, and he still brings it up. He’s like, “I don’t know what happened to you there in high school, but you went sideways.” I say, “Okay. But my son’s thirty-two now, so we can move on.” But he likes to bring it up and always asks, “What made you do that? Or what made you act like this?” And I’ll say, “Dad, I was a teenager who was confused, who was hurt, who was crying out.” Who knows what I was thinking at that age? I mean, you’re a mess. And I was even more of a mess because I was adopted, and even more, because I was checking one box.
by JeanWidner | Jun 20, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
The Salvation Army had made two attempts to reach my birth mother. They sent two letters, three months apart, one in April, not long after we had located my mother Barbara, and then another one in July. They, like myself, had also left two voice mails at the phone number we found for her online.
Nothing. No one had received any response. It was time for me to take matters into my own hands. Now in late October, we had waited long enough. To not draw attention, the letters were sent without any tracking – so there was no way to guarantee their delivery, and no way to be sure they hadn’t just been dumped, assuming they were junk mail or solicitations from the Salvation Army itself.
Rolling through my head were the endless unknowns – she was married, her husband also alive and presumably living with her. Had she told him what had happened all those years ago? Is she still of sound mind? She could have dementia. Her husband might be a jerk and she is afraid to tell him. Maybe he opened the letters and hid them from her. She could be dealing with another sick family member or friend and hasn’t been home in several months. Maybe they have a vacation home we didn’t find and they haven’t been at their home in Colorado? The options are endless.
The only public records we have located on my mother after my original birth certificate, was her marriage certificate to Larry C. when she wed him in 1985 when she was thirty-nine. A big gap of twenty years between me and him. But not only that, by then I was a junior in college and marry my husband in 1989. It’s ironic to me that my mother and I were only four years apart on the calendar at the time we each first married.
She gave me up in 1965, and then tragically only two years later is the death of her mother Marie, in 1967. Whatever their relationship was like that had to have been unbearable – first she has the unacknowledged loss of surrendering me. Unable to grieve that in public she would have tried to cope no doubt the best she could. But then to pile on the loss of her own mother seems cosmically cruel.
It’s also one of the reasons that I want to give my mother so much space in this process. While feeling at times now almost desperate for a connection, I know that this is a very big ask. Not only is she likely to revisit the emotional trauma surrounding my relinquishment, close to that must also be her mother’s death.
I had decided to write my own letter. As I spoke to my case manager, Diana at the Salvation Army she says something unexpected. She was reading through my case file and then almost mumbling to herself says, “Oh dear, and I see here it looks like after your mother had signed the papers, there is a letter received from her mother saying she should keep you.” WHAT!?! My heart lurches and I immediately ask what she means by this.
Diana says that Annette, one of her colleagues who for a while was the key handler of my case, and who sent both of the first two letters to my mother, had sent me additional information from the Salvation Army back in April.
Seated in our family room overlooking our sunny backyard I feel completely adrift. I explain to Diana in a shaky voice that no – no other information has come my way. WE found my mother, remember? Provided YOU at the Salvation Army her information and then you reached out to her.
I can hear Diana’s now hesitant voice ask me that she sees a letter sent by Annette to me on April 9th, but I’ve never received that? “No, no letter has come from you. Was this by email, snail mail – how was it sent?”. “Regular mail”, she says. Now this makes me doubt everything. Were the letters they say they sent, actually sent? Wobbly of mind and spirit I feel deflated by all of this. Even the people who I believe are trying to help me still don’t seem to understand the emotional triggers involved in this process.
My mind awhirl I ask if I can see this information NOW. RIGHT NOW. Sheepishly the case worker agrees she will absolutely send over the letter to me by email. “Give me a few minutes please and I’ll have it to you within the half-hour. I want to be sure what is sent is accurate and complete.”, but of course reminds me that it will not contain any identifying information, most especially about my father, as he is still un-named to us as of now. Without my mother’s permission they cannot release it, and without her returning contact, they and me, are stuck.
It’s a Friday afternoon, now nearly three o’clock. I wander back into my office grateful for the thousandth time in my life of my self-employed, work from home status. I can make appointments for personal calls such as these and control my own daily flow. I wait. Unable to concentrate on anything else I look through the last of my work-related emails, send a few replies, summarize and shut down my current open projects, and nervously await what comes.
Having no expectations or ideas of what I will see or learn I try to just remain calm. I think about the fact that Kyle isn’t home – he’s been away for the past three weeks taking a course in Los Angeles, about two hours away, which means 3-plus hours with traffic from our home-base in Temecula. I’ll have to face what comes with only the two dogs and two cats for comfort.
Sure enough, the letter attached is formally written and correctly addressed to me, dated April 9th, on Salvation Army letterhead. As I read, I see some of what is known to me, some of which I already also know to be potentially untrue. Pain, relief and a staggering sadness as to my mother’s life circumstances is revealed.
I knew she was the youngest by far of three older siblings and that by the time she was in high school they were all gone and out of the home. I knew her father had died when she was very young (or maybe before she was born…) and that her mother Marie had remarried.
Taken from my mother’s original application in 1965 I read: I can confirm that your birth mother gave birth to you at The Salvation Army Booth Memorial Hospital in Spokane, Washington. Per the record, she had applied for admission on January 20, 1965 and was later admitted to the Maternity Home on March 5th….
The record indicates her mother [Marie] had remarried five (5) years prior. Her stepfather was a chief of police and she [Barbara] did not get along with him because he had a violent temper. At first, he was not informed of the pregnancy because your birth mother thought he would take his fury out on her mother. She stated he had beat her and her mother at various times.
Regarding your biological father, the record states he was from West Virginia, and was 21 years old. His nationality was Sweden/German, and his religious affiliation was Methodist. He was a high school graduate and was an airman second class stationed in North Dakota. He was an only child and his parents were separated.
Per the record, your birth mother and birth father had met at a dance about two years prior and went together for about a year, but he was a Methodist and your birth mother was a Catholic. They loved each other very much but could not come to an agreement about religion so they stopped seeing each other. A few months later, they started seeing each other again and your birth mother became pregnant. They wanted to get married, but still felt their religious affiliations were a barrier. Months later, he was transferred to Alaska, yet he continued calling and writing. She hoped he would become a Catholic and marry her. At some point she had said she “would not mind being a Lutheran (which seemed a good compromise between Catholicism and Methodism),” however, her siblings kept telling her that “once a Catholic, one should never be anything else.”
My parents loved each other, wanted to be with each other. I was conceived in love. The relief in that showers over me and through me like salve for my soul. In all these months of staring at her photo I’d worried – what might have happened to you? She had an innocence and brightness to her high school senior photo. In her yearbook beneath each of the senior photos were the students’ favorite sayings – the sorts of things you think are cool way back when, but now strike you for the youthful ego-driven idiocy they are. Next to her photo are these nice looking young boys with the phrases, ‘I sat back and let it happen’, ‘Devil in Disguise’ and ‘Shake a Tail Feather’. Hers says, ‘That’s O.K.’. But was it?
Now I know that in fact she was dating a young man out of high school a few years older than her, by then an Airman at Minot AFB. As a ‘steady’ to an older guy she would have been somewhat above those boys and treated differently by them. My concerns for her on that front alleviated, there were instead new ones.
Her stepfather was violent – and not only that as the local Chief of Police in a small rural town in the 1960’s, he was also untouchable. She and her mother were trapped by that tragic choice Marie had made in marrying a bad man. Had she known before she married him? Was he good at hiding his violent craft as most predators are? It is crystal clear now why Barbara had to be far away to have me – beyond the family shame of her circumstance, it wasn’t safe.
Organized religion kept them apart. To my modern eyes this seems baffling – a Catholic and a Methodist. They are both Christian – really? But reflecting that the time in 1964, these differences mattered. I wonder now if also this becomes a reason for her reluctance to reply to our attempts to contact her. Does she feel foolish for those reasons now – fear that I won’t understand? A religious difference most people would barely register as a conflict – does that make her choices seem more shameful when viewed through this modern lens? I wonder, does she still pray to her God? Believe in Him after all of these losses?
I read on:
Since your mother was living in an apartment, her mother helped pay for rent and food, and your birth father helped pay for medical bills. She began coming to the Booth Home around February to attend pre-natal classes, and it was in one of these visits the doctor discovered she was malnourished and anemic. She admitted she had been living off milk and cereal as she had very little money left for food. She was told she didn’t have to struggle that she could be admitted into the Home for inpatient care. Once admitted, she adjusted well to the group living situation and was assigned kitchen duty. On Sundays she would attend chapel and then go to Catholic services.
Per the record, you were born on April 21, 1965 at 11:30 a.m. You weighed 6 lbs. 13 oz. and were 20 inches long at birth. After your birth, the record indicates she received word from her mother that she had told her stepfather, he had gone into a rage, but had asked that your mother keep you and force your birth father to marry her. After discussion, your birth mother finally agreed to release you because your birth father had stated he could not marry her until their religious differences were resolved and until he could be discharged from the Air Force and had a steady job. You were relinquished to the State Department of Public Assistance on April 30th and your birth mother went back to North Dakota.
Malnourished and living on cereal. My heart breaks open and I weep and cannot stop. That poor girl – she was trying so hard to make this work. She was strong, a survivor and just trying to fulfill what she wanted so badly, but the world just kept stacking up against her. The unfairness of it all overwhelms me. She wanted me. She wanted my father. To make a family of us. Finally, without resources, safety, or an able and willing husband to support her she relinquishes me and drags herself back to the only home she has ever known, returning to what awaited her there. I pray she stayed well.
I close my office door and head for the couch. Breaking all our house rules I allow both dogs up on the seat with me and give myself over to the vast sea of emotion.
by JeanWidner | Jun 12, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
That’s what I just might have said to you when I was about the age of three or four and just been introduced to you, “Hi, I’m abopted!”. With my smile on my skinny little frame and pixie-cut brown hair I proudly announced what I believed to be a badge of honor. And it was! My new friends if they were fellow children would look somewhat confused, or if an adult, would appear surprised at what at the time was an admission of something kept private rather than a public declaration, because of course we know back in the late 60’s we American’s didn’t talk about – well – anything deeply personal, even within our own families. And we certainly didn’t admit any ‘abnormalities’ like being adopted.
But I didn’t know those norms and didn’t care. My parents raised me with that healthy and loving indoctrination that I was special, was wanted by them, and that being adopted was something to feel good about. I don’t remember being ‘told’ I was adopted, I only remember ‘knowing’ I was. But that’s actually a funny story I’ll get to in a minute. Let me first introduce myself.
My name then was Jean Elizabeth Kelly, and I’m writing this story to share my own and encourage others to do the same. Adoption has many facets and those who are part of this experience share both similarities and differences in their emotional, physical and formative experiences with their adoptive families. The institution of adoption is hardly perfect – there are flaws – because we ourselves are all flawed. But for the most part, I believe in the goodness of its intent, and the practice of adoption when ethically done can be an amazing experience. In no way am I going to gloss over the hard stuff – my family wasn’t perfect (as if there is such a thing, which I think is a fallacy our collective cultural psyche should give up), but I think there is at least the attempt to do right by all of the parties involved: the adopted children, the parents who raise them, and the birth mothers (and fathers) who give them up.
Going back to my story now…apparently there was a day when my mother had me curled in her lap reading to me, and the book mentioned how babies are born and that they come from their mother’s tummies. I was very young here and have no memory of this at all. But apparently when I asked the very natural question of, (you all know what’s coming now…), “Mommy, did I come from your tummy?”, and my mother said in that moment of heartache, “Yes.”.
That night when my father got home from work, my mother completely fell apart in his arms crying and admitting what she had said to me, completely hysterical from the guilt of it. This was the moment my parents sat down and told me that I was in fact adopted. They gave me the full info in a simple way, and the story goes I said ‘OK’ and moved on like nothing of any consequence had occurred. Never mind my mother’s practically having PTSD on the incident, I really wasn’t concerned. After this point apparently my parents spoke often and openly about my status, reinforcing to me how much they loved and wanted me, and that was all I remembered.
I guess the lesson here for all of us is that things brought out into the open are easier to deal with than things left in the dark. Even bad news, while sometimes awful and tragic, is better when shared. Which means talking about it, whatever it is, and is frankly talking, and actually listening, is something our American culture is really not good at.
Sadly, I know of several adoptees whose parents were not open about their status, and that can be devastating when the full truth comes out. Back in 1965 when I was born, adoption was often a secretive thing, and even a source of shame among grown married adults who could not conceive. This was still considered to be deeply personal and at the time, adoption agencies were even matching hair and eye color and other heritage where they could so that the adoption would not be obvious. That seems strange to our modern-era eyes when international adoptions are in fact more common than adoptions between families in the US.
Biases were also strong in our culture at that time for many other reasons. I remember vividly in the early 2000’s an aunt on my husband’s extended family who knew I was adopted, stated clearly she would never consider adopting any child from the US or anywhere else because, “you would never know what you’re going to get.” Mind, I adore this woman and she is incredibly sweet, but this was her view and she was completely unapologetic for it. She was roughly my parents age and in her seventy’s at the time, and I simply stated that I was glad my parents didn’t share her biases. She didn’t apologize or acknowledge her comment in any way, and we moved on. So much indeed, has changed.
I’m a product of the times I was born in and thus do share many physical similarities to my parents, and most people would never know I was not biologically their offspring on a glance. However, I’m so grateful to have been adopted by good people who did their best to love me, teach me, care for me and raise me with a positive identity for who I am and where I came from. I know that others were not so lucky, and you’ll see these stories told as well. However, from my chair, I’m also still proud to be, ‘abopted’.
by JeanWidner | Jun 10, 2022 | Adoptee Stories
A paradox means that you have seemingly opposite and dual realities. Adoptees are rescued, repaired, loved, rejected, celebrated, abandoned, made to feel special, made to feel less than. We are both grateful and angry. We are different from everyone else, and yet we are the same. Regardless of the backstory or the upbringing, we usually know a reality that contradicts itself.
To understand the paradox, it is best to understand the history. Over the centuries, adoptee children have been stolen, sold, loved, wanted, abused, made into indentured servants, used as farm hands, and graced with wealth, education, and opportunities their native birth families could never have afforded them.
In the modern era, most love their families very much and feel wanted, safe, cared for, and a part of the family that raises them. But what no one who is not adopted can understand is this: no matter who raises you, you will never see your features in the people around you. And depending upon the circumstances of your specific situation, you will not know or have access to medical information and many other vital and identifying facts about yourself. Your heritage is theirs, not yours.
I know this because I’ve lived it. I was adopted from birth, born in 1965 at a Salvation Army Hospital for unwed mothers. My parents applied with an adoption agency in Yakima, Washington, and within a few months, were approved. When I was two months of age, they took me home, raised me, and loved me as their own. It may sound charming, and for the most part, it was, but there is always a gap. There is a silent undertone of living with the weight of the unknown, or what if, or how come – sometimes all of the above.
Adoption has consequences. It has joy. It can complete a family, create one from scratch or fulfill through some mystical unknown the way things are supposed to be, without the conscious knowledge of how. It can rescue, heal, and harm.
I am a fan of the practice – but it must be done ethically. Historically adoption had nothing to do with the welfare of a child. It was created to protect wealth and manage the labor of children. Throughout history, adoption has been done well and, at times, horribly.
My intentions with my upcoming book are to tell the tales of those who have lived any three sides of the triad: adoptees, parents, and birth parents. This is not sugar-coated rainbows and unicorns. It is an honest, hard look at the joys and tragedies that unfold for everyone involved. This is the baseline for the paradox of adoption.
Adoptees
“I just feel so incredibly lucky. My parents gave me so many opportunities that I would have never had from my biological mother. I used to think she didn’t want me, and that hurt. But later I learned that she hadn’t had a very stable or happy childhood, and so for that reason when she knew she was pregnant and my father wasn’t going to be in the picture, she did what she thought was best.” ~Kate
“I don’t want to say my parents are reluctant to discuss adoption, but they feel that once the adoption took place, that pretty much ended that whole chapter. Once I became adopted by them, everything was fine. There’s no need to go digging into the past. There’s no need to find out health-related things. You know you’re going to die anyway, so who cares. I remember this vividly when I told my parents that I was reunited and found by my biological sister. My dad said, “Well, it sounds like you had a better life with us.” And I think, “Okay, but we don’t know that things wouldn’t have been different had I stayed with them. Maybe my mom wouldn’t have gone down a certain path.” It didn’t hurt, but you don’t know that that was better for anybody. I remember him saying, “It sounds like your mom was messed up.” Yeah, I would be messed up too if I had to give my baby up, and my mom was considered a minor at the time; she was only 18. And I guess 21 was the age of consent in Michigan then. So, my grandmother was the one who placed me for adoption.” ~Tina
“I never really felt out of place or anything like that. Nothing like that. My mom told me I was adopted. I knew my whole life, you can just kind of see. I never really questioned it. I was like, they love me. I love them. When you’re loved, it really doesn’t matter by who.” ~Jacob
As an adoptee talking to others, it’s a common theme that there is a lingering sense of abandonment or rejection. That their birth mothers did not want them. That they are discarded, set aside, and unworthy of love. Here, you’ll not only read many personal stories from adoptees, but the book we examine the psychological impacts that adoption and its processes have on the emotional and mental health of adopted persons.
I have my own wounds. Being raised in a home with addiction colors my perspectives in ways that are so intertwined that they cannot be undone. As an adult now, I do not and cannot blame the mother who raised me for her flaws. Likewise, I never blame my birth mother for my circumstances.
Many do blame their birth mothers and are unable to move beyond what they have internalized as a physical rejection of them as human beings.
A question that needs to be asked is, ‘what is the difference between us?’. Why do some feel that profound abandonment while others do not? What forces create that? Biology, environment, or something else?
Adopting Parents
I once heard in an interview, “parents come to adoption on their knees.” Couples who cannot conceive because of biology, be they heterosexual or same-sex couples, are often in pain. They have tried multiple times to get pregnant or keep a pregnancy and have often experienced multiple losses and endless heartache. Gay and lesbian couples have faced open discrimination for centuries, which continues today. That has often been reflected in state laws on their ability to adopt and has changed over time, even though gay marriage has been legal in the U.S. since 2015.
People wishing to adopt have more options than in the past. Some contact state agencies or other non-profit organizations to help them. Others use the services of a lawyer or other for-profit organizations for private adoptions. Some try to find birth mothers via social media or other outlets.
National adoption statistics for 2021 report that approximately 1 million willing couples are actively seeking to adopt a baby. This contrasts with only eighteen thousand domestically born babies who will become available in any given year within the U.S. That level of disparity has never existed at any time since adoption records have been kept.
What is interesting in talking to adoptive parents in the modern era is that many report that when they contact an agency to apply, they are told to consider foster care first. The application and approval process is quicker for foster care than for becoming adoptive parents. Given the ongoing problems of the foster care system in the United States, that should give us all pause. Foster kids, adrift without their biological families for whatever reason, have an even higher need for specialized care both physically, emotionally, and mentally.
“I called everyone. The state was more interested in you fostering and then getting your home study for the adoption process. I wasn’t interested in adopting a seven-year-old, as we already had two children naturally, but a pregnancy was too much for me physically, and we wanted a third child.
It was extremely expensive. The first route we tried was the Mormons because they’re less expensive, but we’re not Mormon, so they wouldn’t help us. Then we went to Jewish Social Services. We are not Jewish. They did our home study, but they wouldn’t help us find a baby because we’re not Jewish, but they did all the stuff that’s required by the state for probably $20,000, which is less than Catholic Charities, the state, or anybody else. But we had to find our own baby.
Then we get a call from Jewish Social Services. Their attorney who deals with adoption has this baby that’s coming quickly, and she needs someone to adopt that doesn’t care about race, color, or whatever.
It was January. The baby was due on February 14th. The birth mom had a woman who was going to adopt the baby, but she never did the home study and approval process. If you wait, then it’s even more expensive. You’re talking $30-$40,000.00 easy because they have to rush all the paperwork. Now here’s the mother with a baby, and she has nowhere for the baby to go.
We met at an Olive Garden in town and talked to her for about four hours. She asked us, “Are you equipped and able to raise a chocolate child?” And yes, she actually used that word.
They induced her on February 12th. She called, and she had him at a local hospital. We walked into the room, and she said, “Here’s your chocolate boy!” I said, “Thank you.” That’s why he’s been Chocolate Boy ever since because his birth mom called him that. I even call him that.
My breast milk came in. I nursed him. So, I nursed him for two weeks. From the minute I held him, I loved him. He completed our family.
I would say this to anyone thinking about adopting a baby or a child – love it like it’s your own because it is. You have to go into adoption knowing that that’s yours until you die. No matter what they do, no matter their medical issues, no matter what. He is mine until I die. I never questioned that or would re-think that ever.” ~Gayle
Birth Parents
I say birth parents rather than simply birth mothers because you have birth fathers as part of this experience too. Before a family is built, one is broken and dissolved. There are coercion and pressures brought to bear on birth mothers in particular, and a staggering load of personal judgment heaped upon them by others.
Inseparable from the issues faced by birth parents is the discussion of sexual oppression, access to birth control and education, and the sexual revolution as it has evolved and continues to evolve in American culture.
Whenever and however an unplanned pregnancy comes into being, there will be consequences from that. Before the modern sexual revolution in the 1960s and ‘70s, an unmarried woman could not be a single mother – our culture would not readily allow it. The increasing sexual activities of young people between WWII and Roe v. Wade created what is known as the ‘baby scoop era.’
During this phase, at least one and a half million young American women were trapped into giving up their babies by their parents and the constraints of our society. At no time in history were there more adoptions in the U.S., before or since. These women were pushed into relinquishing their children even if they had the financial means to have raised them. Young men were either not held accountable or were equally set aside by their parents. It was tragic for all involved, and yet it was normal at the time. One wonders now if the men were not pushed aside, if the women were allowed to socially keep the baby, what our current culture might look like.
In the modern era, women do and can raise children without a husband or partner. Some unmarried women without a partner will even adopt a child independently. We have progressed, but our shaded history still has living and breathing suffering from its impact.
Currently, birth parents who relinquish a child usually do so because they, together or singly, cannot feasibly support it. Some will give up their baby, knowing that because of addiction or criminal behavior, they are unfit to parent at that time. Women who become victims of a sexual attack will sometimes carry the baby to term and place it for adoption because of their religious beliefs.
There are now open adoptions to minimize the emotional pain of relinquishing a child. In these legal arrangements, the birth parent(s) will remain present in the child’s life even though the adoptive parents are the unquestionable caregivers and are solely legally responsible for the child’s welfare. These arrangements are often complex for all involved and create their own set of unique emotional and mental health challenges. But many birth parents and adoptive parents appear to make this work.
Regardless of the circumstances, I have never spoken to a birth parent who didn’t in some way think about the child they gave up. Even if they come not to regret their decision, and most do believe it was ultimately the right choice, they remember what happened.
“You have to remember, it was 1973. Our world was changing and there was a lot of the old guard who still believed that unwed mothers were garbage. And I was treated like garbage by the women I worked with, by the nurses at the hospital, and by the doctors. I was left in the hallway screaming in pain. And when the nurse came out, she unceremoniously spread my knees, looked in, and said, “You’re not ready. We’ll come back when you are.” And I remember screaming. And she said, “This is what you get for being an unwed tramp. I’m going back in there with this proper married woman and take care of her.” That was burned into my brain. So, when that baby girl was taken from my arms, I don’t remember anything. I just remember being numb. I was numb for months.” ~ Ellen
“It was like closing the book, but the memories are still there. You don’t forget the birthdays and the “this year he would be in kindergarten, and then first grade.” You don’t forget about those, but I felt like I have to go on with life. I always knew I did the right thing because I gave somebody else life that couldn’t have life. So, I didn’t sit back and beat myself. But the thoughts of those birthdays, or I wonder what he got for Christmas. Those thoughts always came up.” ~Ann
That night after dinner at my parents’ home, like always, we sat in the TV room, and I walked in and just stood there. I said to my father, “I’ve got something to tell you.” He let me tell him the story of Candace and that she was pregnant. They were just the kind of parents you’d want because they simply said, “is there anything we can do?” We had only dated a few months and had broken up several months before I learned she was pregnant. But she and her mother had decided they wanted to have the baby and give it up for adoption.
A lawyer was hired, and they took over. After that agreement had been reached, I was told not to reach out to her. And I don’t know if that was the attorneys talking or Candy saying she didn’t want to hear from me. I didn’t even know if I’d had a boy or a girl. ~Mel
The Challenges of our Time
As our country now dismantles Roe v. Wade and nationwide access to abortion, one thing stands out. How we as a society will treat our unplanned for children will say a lot about us. All of us. We are embarking on a gigantic social experiment now in the United States, and we are all watching to see how these changes will impact our society. Rescuing at-risk children will be needed indefinitely. Sadly, there will always be parents who cannot, or should not, raise children – anyone’s children.
What is clear to me, and maybe some of you, is that all regulations and laws on adoption need to be evaluated with the greatest care. Lives are at stake. And we should be asking ourselves – are we ready? Are our safety networks, social services, and the state of our modern adoption practices up for the task ahead?
Listening to and validating the voices of this often unheard-from triad is the mission behind this work – to tell stories from each of their inspirational, hard, sad, triumphant, troubled, and grateful voices – in their words. I hope you’ll hear them.
