by JeanWidner | Aug 16, 2024 | Birth Parent, Uncategorized
Demographics, Myths, Lies and the Real Truth
The paradoxical treatment of birth mothers is even more confusing than what adoptees experience. Adopted children are told that their mothers loved them so much they gave them away, selflessly, to be raised by someone else when they could not. This is sometimes true, although not always.
Birth mothers, however, receive much different messages. They are often told that they cannot possibly raise their child, or they are unworthy of the role. Consider this scenario: a young unmarried woman relinquishes her child due, in part or entirely, to these societal pressures. But what if in only a year or two after relinquishment she marries and begins a family. Isn’t it merely a trick of time and circumstance? What changed in terms of her ability to mother? To love and raise a child?
In one moment, she is worthless and unfit, then in the latter, celebrated as a “wonderful mom.” However, she is the same person. The line is drawn in the physical world—the house, the job, the financial stability that makes it less stressful to build a family. But these are not matters of the heart, yet the heart and soul are what is shamed.
Many birth mothers will say endlessly that if someone had supported them, just a little, they would have been able to keep their baby. Maybe that support can be physical, such as her partner or family rallying behind her, or emotional or financial help.
But once they have relinquished, they will hear from society and all around them that they were so brave and loving and noble for placing their child for adoption. They are also surrounded by the majority of women who say, “Oh, but I could never do that. Give away my newborn baby? Not me.” These contradictions cannot coexist, but they are the shoes that all birth parents are forced to wear.
Then they must watch all the world celebrate the adopting parents. There is joy and nothing but rainbows and sunshine for them.
These contradictions and myths deserve to be pulled into the light of day and seen clearly. It begs the question—who are modern birth parents?
Demographics
The average age of a woman who places a child for adoption is 26 (range 10 – 49). This is according to a survey completed in 2023 by the National Council For Adoption (NCFA). It was completed using both focus groups and a nationwide survey of 1,160 birth mothers and 239 birth fathers in the United States.[1]
Birth mothers are no longer teen-aged girls “in trouble.” The age statistic shows they are more mature adults who hold jobs and, while young, are out on their own living responsible lives.
From the NCFA poll respondents, the ethnicity of those birth parents are:
Mothers Fathers
- 70% White 40% White
- 12% Black 20% Black
- 5% Hispanic 18% Native American
- 5% Asian/Pacific Islander 12% Hispanic
- 4% Native American 7% Asian/Pacific Islander
- 4% Multiracial 3% Multiracial
These expectant parents are also educated. 83% of the mothers polled had an Associate degree or some college, with 20% of them having a Graduate degree. Fathers also are generally well educated, with 64% of them having some college attendance, 14% of whom also have a Graduate degree.[2]
When asked about their religious status, 20% of the women and 14% of the men say they have no formal affiliation, although clearly the majority have some faith background. Also, 43% of the men report having been members of the military at some point, (not defining when in relation to the pregnancy). Another interesting response is that 16% of the women and 31% of the men report struggling with some sort of mental or physical impairment or disability, according to standards set by the Americans with Disabilities Act.[3]
The organization Saving Our Sisters (SOS) supports all members of expectant families and provides information and education to expecting parents considering adoption. From their internal statistics when looking at where birth mothers are living at the time before relinquishment, 50% of the women are living in an apartment. 24% are living with family members, 9% are unhoused, and the balance are in some other temporary living situation.
What is more interesting is that nearly 25% of them are married, and 58% of them are already parenting one child.[4]
All of this combines to paint a picture that does not align with what many people think of when they hear the term “birth parent.” They are not “druggies,” nor criminals or derelicts. They are functional, blend into society, and most people will not recognize their circumstances. Yet, they are struggling for some support, otherwise they would not consider adoption. It is this fact that needs to be better understood and addressed.
Myths and Lies
Myth: Birth parents want to be hidden.
One of the biggest myths of modern adoption is that birth parents want confidentiality. That has rarely been true. There are instances where because a woman is afraid of an abusive partner, she wishes for an anonymous, closed adoption, but this is infrequent. Overall, less than five percent of adoptions today are closed. Most are open to some degree.[5]
The harsh truth is that keeping birth parents powerless and nameless ghosts is convenient. Even during the Baby Scoop Era when millions of young women were pushed into relinquishment, they were never promised confidentiality. Keeping these women sidelined was easier for case workers, adoption agencies, parents, and everyone managing the adoption system.
If one visits the Concerned United Birthparents (CUB) website, they declare this clearly for all to see.[6] They advocate for changing laws that deny adopted adults access to their original birth certificates. One important quote from their site states, “We often hear well-meaning people cite “protecting birth/first parent privacy” in opposition to restoring equality to adopted persons.We believe those people are confusing privacy with secrecy. Privacy refers to the ability to control information about oneself. Secrecy is the deliberate act of hiding something from others even if they have a legitimate reason to access it. Secrecy is literally what state policy keeps legalized by failing to restore rights to adult adopted persons. It is their birthright to know the truth.”
Renee: There are still so many things wrong with the adoption process of sealing birth certificates. I never knew my son’s birth certificate would be sealed. I never knew why they wouldn’t let his dad, who was sitting in the hospital room, be put on the birth certificate. Mind you, this is 2011.
I said, “He’s right there. Everybody knows who he is, why can’t he be put on the birth certificate?” Now I know it’s because they see a little way for that secret to be kept. In Florida, my son can’t get his birth certificate currently. He can’t get it whether he is eighteen or eighty. He must go to court.
First, he has to reunite with me. He needs to find me. Then, he has to get my permission. (His letter is already written for him, and I keep it in a file.) But then, he’s got to go to court, and a judge has to say, “Yes. This is okay for you to have.” Which is ridiculous.
If one doubts the sincerity that birth parents wish to have their “privacy” undone, one need look no further for evidence than the numbers who join adoptee voices to lobby states to open access to their original birth certificates. The number of men and women who are advocating for that speaks volumes. Some recent examples are:
- Connecticut Bill 6105 passed the state House in 2021, in part due to the Catholic Mothers for Truth and Transparency, CUB, and dozens of other support groups. In an article from the CT Mirror, “While we did not feel we had other options, we knowingly signed those papers. Most of us have never seen them. Our understanding, though, was that we were giving up all rights to our child. We did not know then, nor do we believe now, that we retained any kind of control over our sons’ and daughters’ right to get their original birth certificate as adults.” It goes on to say, “…House Bill 6105…is exactly the kind of legacy the Connecticut General Assembly should leave on our collective consciousness as a nation reckoning with its history of shaming women into the shadows of silence and secrecy. It starts with acknowledging truth and it ends with being on the right side of history. We promise.”[7]
- Bill 2006 in Texas is a current issue that has been submitted for passage annually, since 2015. Each year, hundreds lobby the state but, so far, in vain. In 2017, birth mother Ann Bingham testified in her statement to unseal birth certificates, “Some argue that this bill violates birth mother privacy. Far from it.I did not have a voice, and I did not have a choice in my adoption,” she said. “Even those of us who have not lived in secrecy prefer private direct contact to the public exposure that is currently happening with DNA testing and social media. This bill protects our privacy by making our wishes clear and simultaneously gives adult adoptees access to essential medical and identity information.”[8]
Myth: Birth parents forget what happened and move on with their lives.
Another lie is that these parents go on to forget the child they have placed for adoption. A multitude of studies have shown that to be absurdly false for both birth fathers and mothers. They never forget their child. In fact, they are permanently scarred and pay a high emotional, physical, and psychological price. It is important to understand that both men and women will say “my son” or “my daughter” when speaking of the children they have relinquished. They are parents forever.
One survey conducted in 1984 cited that ninety six percent (96%) of a sample of 334 birth parents responded that they had considered searching for their relinquished child, and sixty five percent (65%) of them had initiated a search.[9] Birth parents grieve for their child for extremely long times. One study in 2007 showed birth mothers who were twelve to twenty years post placement still experienced feelings of grief and loss.[10]
Jennifer: No one prepared me for the postpartum physical experience, for the milk to come in, for the bleeding. I don’t know if that is a typical experience of a woman having a child, but I had no clue. That was almost trauma in and of itself because I didn’t have my child to make it okay—to make it worth it.
When a mother breastfeeds, both the baby and mother’s brain dumps dopamine. That’s just how we’re wired as human beings. I didn’t have that.
I remember the first night home without her, [my daughter]. Grief hit me, and it just felt like she died.
Renee: There was very little support afterwards. I had a few counseling sessions. I had one counseling session prior to the adoption, it was one forty-five-minute session with a lady who had placed a child for adoption. She pretty much told me that I knew exactly why I was doing, what I was, and that I was a cognitive realist. It was really something. Of course, her door was right next to the adoption agency door in the office building, so a bit of a relationship there but it was really, really tough going through all of that.
The immediate effects after that were the old me died. I say that all the time. I sat on my living room floor just dying, making these screams and sounds I’d never heard myself make. It was bad. It was a very, very dark time. I didn’t parent. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I wasn’t doing anything but just dying.
Myth: Birth parents never wanted to keep their baby.
The final myth that needs to go by the wayside is the idea that these birth mothers never wanted to parent in the first place. While clearly unplanned, most of them feel bonded, quickly, with their newfound pregnancy. They want to mother. They also constantly worry about their ability to provide the best possible life for their child.
Interviews and studies all show a consistent story. The reason why an expectant couple, or woman, decides to place their baby for adoption is because they don’t feel they can give their child the life it deserves. How that looks to each of these people is different, but the theme is similar. Adoption was the last option when all other avenues had been exhausted.
[1] Birth parent research. National Council For Adoption. (2023, July 20). https://adoptioncouncil.org/pdfviewer/birth-parent-research/?auto_viewer=true#page=&zoom=auto&pagemode=none
[2] Birth parent research. National Council For Adoption. (2023, July 20). https://adoptioncouncil.org/pdfviewer/birth-parent-research/?auto_viewer=true#page=&zoom=auto&pagemode=none
[3] Birth parent research. National Council For Adoption. (2023, July 20). https://adoptioncouncil.org/pdfviewer/birth-parent-research/?auto_viewer=true#page=&zoom=auto&pagemode=none
[4]
[5] 6 open adoption facts that will surprise you. Adoption.com. (n.d.). https://adoption.com/6-open-adoption-facts-will-surpriseyou/
[6] https://concernedunitedbirthparents.org/adoptee-rights
[7] Eileen Woebse McQuade and Karen Galarneau Quesnel. (2022, March 5). Opinion: Catholic birthmothers to legislators: Help us heal. CT Mirror. https://ctmirror.org/2021/05/12/catholic-birthmothers-to-legislators-help-us-heal/
[8] The long fight for adoptees to gain access to their original birth certificates in Texas. Texas Standard. (2023, September 6). https://www.texasstandard.org/stories/texas-adoptee-original-birth-certificates-donna-campbell/
[9] American Psychological Association. (n.d.). Apa PsycNet. American Psychological Association. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2013-42267-008?doi=1
[10] Impact of adoption on birth parents: Responding to the adoptive placement. Impact of Adoption on Birth Parents: Responding to the Adoptive Placement – [[:Template:Adoption Wiki]]. (n.d.). https://adoption.com/wiki/Impact_of_Adoption_on_Birth_Parents:_Responding_to_the_Adoptive_Placement
by JeanWidner | Aug 15, 2024 | Adoptee Stories, Birth Parent
Mother’s Day is a triggering day on the calendar for many people. For those of us impacted by adoption, it can be ten times that on the Richter scale. As an adoptee who has sought more information about my first mother, I’ve now compiled a cluster of anniversaries that begin in late April and last until mid-May.
I was born April 21, 1965, and formally relinquished on April 30, just ten days later. After signing the papers in court that morning in Spokane, Washington, my understanding is my mother boarded a train that night headed back to the only home she had in North Dakota. I’ve often envisioned my bereft young mother running away from that terrible scene as fast as she could.
My adoptive mother died on May 6th, 2017, and my adoptive father on May 15th, 2004. I was the only child of my raising parents, and I believe also from my first mother. I can be grateful for my loving family and still be curious about where I come from. These two wishes can, or at least should, be able to peacefully coexist. Living as an adopted person is inherently paradoxical.
***
In my late fifties with my parents gone, I’ve reached out to my first mother. I’d like to see her, know her if she will let me. Or at least, understand more of my heritage, parentage, and birth right.
Born as I was in Washington State, it is one of only fourteen that allows adopted adults to have access to their original birth certificates. This is how we find her. From what I can see, she married later in life and has no other children. My birth father is unnamed. Even with DNA testing there is no clear path to learn who he might be. It is still a mystery, and she is the only one who can unlock that information.
I’ve sought advice, therapy, and talked with other birth mothers. Two years ago, I made my first attempt to reach her. I sent a carefully worded letter. Full of grace, love and understanding. I told her that whatever happened she had done her best. That good people had raised me, and I’d had a good life. That I loved her no matter what, never resented her, and would always hold space for her in my heart. I opened the door if she wanted to communicate in any way and included a few photos.
No response.
The wondering never ends. Did she receive my letter? Tracking says that yes, someone at the home did. Maybe they travel and are gone a lot? Maybe her husband is controlling or cruel and hid my letter from her. What if she has dementia? What if something else happened to her and she is ashamed for me to see her? These useless but never-ending thoughts whirl. I want to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. What if she really doesn’t care and never did? My conversations with other mothers who have relinquished children to adoption say otherwise. But really, what if the blessing is that she did not raise me?
I cling tightly to the only photo I have of her – the black and white senior yearbook picture that mirrors me so closely I can barely stand it. She is frozen in time at that moment and only she can come to me and breathe her essence into the scene in my head. Without that I know this is only one piece of her story.
***
Two years have gone by, and there is a conference I’m attending in the same city she lives in. So again, with much thought and care I write to let her know I am coming and when. I say I will meet her anywhere, that I understand her husband may not know her past. Three more weeks pass by with no reply, and I head to the event.
***
One day after leaving, a letter from her arrives at my home. She says she loves me, does not wish to hurt or reject me, but she does not want to meet. Her family around her do not know and while she says she loves me, she asks that I respect her wishes.
I was devastated and so was my husband back at home having to share this letter from afar. I also knew I needed to protect my heart, be kind to the wounded little child inside of me. And, to know I would be Okay. I never needed her affirmation and see clearly this has only to do with her grief, shame, and limitations. Not my baggage to carry.
This is adoption’s greatest toll – to have people unable to reach across the divide created by stigma, fear, and guilt. I’ve spoken to many adoptees and their first mothers who have reunited. These wounds caused by their separation are never fully healed, even by coming together again.
***
Two days later, a friend in tow, we drive to the address I have for my mother. We had planned this day for weeks in advance, well ahead of her letter waving me off. But we’re here, so why not go and at least see where she lives. It’s a lovely townhome in a nice suburb. I’m glad to see her stable and doing well for herself in her later years.
The house appears to be buttoned up tight, shades drawn, no sign of anyone home. A few doors down, my comrade in the lead, we find a nice elderly lady who chats and lets us know why yes, she knows my mother and her husband. Time-shares she says. We ask a few questions, and she tells us they booked a last-minute trip to Washington – left a few days ago and coming back later next week.
She ran away. While unknowable for certain, it is the most probable explanation. It is the one that feels true. Just like that night on the train fifty-nine years ago. Unable to face my presence or explain her true past she could not risk exposure. She has hidden my existence from her husband for decades.
Her secret will remain safe, and I will push her no further.
***
I head home to my life and plan to move forward as I always do. I speak with my good friends and know I did everything right. I was respectful. I will honor her wishes and set this aside for now. It just didn’t work out. There was no luck in the stars this time. However, other forces have worked against us.
Adoption is a lie. We believe we are saving one family from the judgement and immoral indignities of an unplanned-for child. That a more deserving and financially sound family will better provide for the baby. We also believe we are taking greater care of society by creating a superior family. But the aftermath is one of destruction.
As I try to see this all with a clear lens there are no answers. She cannot undo what was done to her, and right now may still be shielding herself from the pain of those realizations. What was clear in the non-identifying information from the Salvation Army (they so graciously allowed me to have) is that she was in love with my father and wanted to marry him and keep me.
She has tamped down that pain so far into her inner self she cannot face it. And while the situation of what she endured was horrendous, it was also not my fault.
***
Two more dates have been added to the calendar now in this landmine of a season. Spring is supposed to be the time of renewal and growth. I wish my mother would grow forth to know that there truly is love awaiting her on the other side of the abyss.
Her letter was mailed on April 23rd, two days after my birth. Surely, even with her shaky penmanship, she noted the timing? It arrives at my home on Friday the 26th. And I knock on the door of an empty house on April 29th, the day before she released me to God and the powers swirling around her all those decades ago. Demanding she relinquish me.
This isn’t over. She may still find her way. But only she can claim what is also still her right – to show up for Mother’s Day. To allow herself to own that title. And I’ll be here with an open door if she does.
** This story initially appeared in CUB Communicator in the May, 2024 Spring Edition.
by JeanWidner | Jun 9, 2023 | Adoptee Stories, Birth Parent
From deep inside the womb, I know both love and sadness. They ripple through my blood, my bones, and intertwine to create the essence of me.
This invisible truth sits inside, certain, a spark that will not die. Like the campfire that no matter how much dirt or water you douse it with, an unseen whiff of breeze keeps the embers glowing. I tend it closely.
***
My mother lives in the bungalow. The house that is not a home where she has been sent to have me and give me up to God and the powers that swirl around her. Other girls are with her. They mirror her story. At the age of eighteen and unwed, she has been sent halfway across the country from the only place she has ever lived.
Beyond the shame of her circumstances, are other pains. Her stepfather of the past five years is not only the Chief of Police, but abusive to both her and her mother. Nothing will happen to him in that small North Dakota town. He can do as he pleases with his women.
***
I come kicking and squealing onto this earth at 11:30 in the morning on April 21st, 1965. With this first breath I already feel my mother’s love. She has spoken without words her hopes and fears of the last nine months. I have drunk from her soul, fed on the unseeable parts of her, grown and thrived despite the desperation of her world. I know only her.
My father, a young, enlisted soldier met her at a dance two years prior. They dated, broke up, but reunite. He is then transferred from the nearby air base all the way to Alaska. He says he will not marry her. Not only because he sees no way he can support them, but also because of their religious differences.
My mother is Catholic and he a serious Methodist. Organized religion has thoroughly indoctrinated these two young people into believing they are too different to build a life together.
More has been done with less, but the constraints of their society show no respite from its pressures.
***
In the bungalow, letters come and go. Phone calls provide no answers. No peace. She recovers from her labors and prays. And curses. And weeps. She holds me and feeds me, maybe even from her breast.
Social workers give advice. “Oh honey, it will all work out. You’ll see, this will all be for the best.” There is only one story allowed in this house, and it is that she must do this, give me away for both her well being and mine. No other options are considered.
***
They bring me to her daily. I know her voice from the womb, know her smell. Within my bundle I feel her fear, her sadness, and her anger. I wonder how many times she cries.
Fifty years later in her darkest nights, does she think of me?
She gives me no formal name, but many of these young women have a ‘crib name’ for their babies. I do not know mine.
***
In the bungalow, there are more words from the experts who guide her, “If you name her, it will be harder on you to let her go.” For days she continues to recover. Her youth feels heavy on her shoulders as she prays to her omnipotent God that provides no new answers.
Eventually the letters and the calls and the unfairness of it all wring her out. She is left with only her shed tears and dying hopes and finds she has no choice.
***
Nine days after I was born, she walks into a courtroom and signs the papers that leave her bereft. I am no longer hers, and she is no longer mine. By the act of a pen and the closed minds that surround her, a woman she will never see again carries me away to be raised by another mother.
But before she goes, I dream, that the last moment she sees me, she reaches out one more time. Within the blanket wrapped tightly around me, her hand brushes the air by my puffy cheeks and barely touches my hair. And that speck of flame comes to life with the tiniest breeze that no one else can feel but me.
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.
———————————
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 10, 2022 | Birth Parent
I had left college in 1967, which turned out to be one of those things where I realized this is not where I’m supposed to be. I’m busy finding a place, finding work, paying bills, and living where the University of Vermont is. Which is much more appealing to some young individuals like me than the smaller hometown where mom and dad wanted me to be, especially dad. All the more reason to get away.
One evening I went to a local restaurant, and some friends from my hometown were there at school, and Candace (Candy) was with them. They asked me to stay. We had dinner, and then they drove me home. They had a full car, so she sat on my lap, and that was the beginning of the friendship.
She was a delightful, wonderful person. We did not date long. I don’t know even if dating works because she was a college freshman, so she hadn’t a lot of time. The times that we did meet were few.
I think it was in December – we met at the campus and sat down outside. I can see it exactly right where it was, on the stone bench. I explained that it was time to end it. She wasn’t prepared for that. I saw this look on her face – there was a sadness I didn’t expect. It was the first time I’d ever broken up with someone. I was just trying to be gentle.
It wasn’t until probably the following January or February that I happened to be back in my hometown. Going to a grocery store, I saw one of the folks who had been at that dinner. Knowing that she knew Candy, I said, “So, how’s Candy doing?” I got this rather unfriendly look. She says, “Haven’t you heard?” I said, “No, what?” She says, “She dropped out of school. She’s pregnant.”
The unfriendliness connected the dots for me that apparently, I was the father. I had not heard anything and had no idea. So, right away, I reached out to Candy. She was living with her single mother on the other side of the State. She confirmed that, yes, she was pregnant. I didn’t have any doubt that it must have been mine.
I drove over to see her and didn’t tell anybody. Certainly, I didn’t tell my parents. We met at her house and had a conversation. All I can remember was being nervous as hell and worried because I didn’t know what this all meant. To her credit, she was sober and straightforward. She wasn’t accusatory or angry. After that, the idea was that we would be in contact again.
That night after dinner at my parents’ home, like always, we sat in the TV room. I walked in and just stood there. I said to my father, “I’ve got something to tell you.” Long after, he admitted he knew exactly what it was. But he didn’t let on – 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?”
Then Candy and I had one other visit. On that second visit, her mom answered the door, and she was not terribly happy. She did most of the talking with me. When I did talk to Candy that time, I was asking, “what can I do? What can we do?” Because I couldn’t do much.
My folks could, and they were willing. They somehow got the matter into the hands of an attorney. I didn’t really know much about what was happening at that point. They took over, and they just did their thing. I said, “Whatever you need, we’ll help you any way we can.”
It was financial aid in some way, shape, or form that I had no reference to. No idea other than knowing that she was going to be having the child at the home for unwed mothers, as it was called back then – the Landon Home.
That was the last time we had a conversation. In the agreement that had been reached, I was told not to reach out to her. I don’t know if that was the attorneys talking or if that was Candy saying she didn’t want to hear from me. But she and her mother had decided they wanted to have the baby and give it up for adoption.
I knew nothing about the birth, how things had gone, or if she had a son or a daughter.
Eventually, I got married and didn’t really think about this until my wife and I gave birth to our first child. I am holding that baby was like…there. Somewhere out there, there’s another. I don’t know where and I know nothing about him or her.
I remember this when we had our second child, it’s the same thing because I was in the birthing room, and I’m seeing two children being born in my mind. It was, okay, here comes Nikki, but what about that first one? Then again with Sarah, our third. But you don’t linger on it. It’s just some triggers that bring you back to that question, that unanswered question. I had not told my first wife what had happened.
Years passed. I got divorced and often made business trips. Now I was working in Southern Vermont again and would go to that area for overnight business trips. As I was lying in the hotel room, there was a phone beside the bed, and I’d look over, and say, “Landon Home, should I call the Landon Home?” But I turned away from it and just moved on. But I’d go back for another visit.
After doing that a few times, I finally said, what’s the worst?
I told Pat, my second wife, “Here’s the story.” I understand the laws have changed a little bit. This is now the early ’90s, and people had more access to information. “I want to give the home a call because that’s the only thing I know. I know the birth mother, her name, plus I know the approximate date.” Pat was so supportive – do it right now. No question, no judgment, no anything. She was behind me one hundred percent.
I made the call that week. The staff person who talked to me was wonderful. I told her who I was, who the birth mother was, and when the date was. She said, “Let me check and get back to you.” And she did! She didn’t take long to look it up in the records.
When she called back, she first said, “I think you’ll be glad you called.” There was so much messaging going on in those few words that were all positive. She tells me, “You have a daughter. Her name is Kate, and she lives in Massachusetts.” Of course, we were living eight miles from Massachusetts! She says, “I can’t tell you where she works or what she does. That’s all I can tell you.”
“She [Kate] has also reached out and sent a letter saying that if my birth parents come forward, you pass my name along.” She explains, “Here’s how it works. You write her a letter, but send it to me.” What’s funny is that I didn’t realize that she would be vetting the language. So, I just wrote this letter, giving too much information. I learned later that you couldn’t have your last name, or where you live, as they’re editing that information. Because the process is, she looks at it, takes the identification out, and sends it off to Kate.
Kate writes back, and then I get it from them. After about three letters back and forth, the woman at the Landon, our case worker, says, “You two were something meant for each other.” Her name is Kate [last name], and here’s where she lives.
I finally got to begin my own correspondence with my daughter. It turned out she was near Boston, about two and a half hours away. It didn’t take long for us to say, “where do you want to meet?”
We met at a park, and she had her two kids there as well. It was just a wonderful introduction! The kids were wonderful, and they were still young. One sat on my lap, and we were sitting on the grass, just talking away. Kate explained who raised her.
It didn’t take long to set up a gathering where we met her adoptive parents, and they were both wonderful. Initially, her adoptive mother didn’t take lightly this idea of me coming into the scene. Kate admitted that “Mom is not happy about this.”
But she relented. Once we had that meeting, it was fine. Pat and she were both travelers and activists back in the day, et cetera, and they bonded. I got the story from their perspective, a little bit of what it was like for them.
But again, you couldn’t have probably asked for better parents, adoptive or birth, because they were just loving and did the right things.
All this culminated in filling in this gap. I think the only thing left is I tried to find Candace. I found her stepbrother, who lived in New England. I wrote to him, and we spoke on the phone.
He explained that Candace had subsequently gotten married, a very short marriage, which broke up. In Vermont, she apparently didn’t have the support of her family. So, it was just her, a single mom at that point. He indicated that she was having a rough time of it. She didn’t finish college. But he didn’t know where she was other than she had dropped out from the family in terms of communications. He told me she does have a brother who lives in Denver and gave me his name.
I wrote him explaining very briefly, “I’d love to find her if you know.” He never answered. I think I sent one more letter just in case and got no response.
Kate has also tried to reach her and received no reply. It’s that same lingering notion that I’d love to know that she’s okay, more than anything. I mean, just to tell her about Kate, obviously, but part of me wants to know if she’s okay. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, but that would be the one thing I’d love to do.
Going back to that day we broke up. I take onus for it because it was me saying, “I need to see somebody more”, basically, that was what I was saying. It needed to be more voluminous in terms of our time together.
But there was something else that day – this speaks to who she is and blows me away. That day we met – it was that cold day in December, and she was just sitting beside me with a sad look on her face. She hands me these two things saying, “They’re for your fog lights.” Now you have to imagine something. I’m driving a 1960 Dodge Dart. Back in those days, I wanted to put fog lights on. Back then, fog lights were lights that you drill a hole in your bumper and you mount them. For some reason, that caught her attention, unbeknownst to me, while she was studying.
Now, what female freshman has foam padding, Naugahyde fabric, a sewing machine, or whatever? She hand-made these covers, black Naugahyde covers that had inside foam padding. So that if a stone hit, it would not break the light. They were round, sewn beautifully, slid over, and you’d tie them in place. I’m thinking to myself, the time, the wherewithal, the skill, the incentive, that one thing was such a gesture. It was so special.
And, if I felt terrible before because it was me breaking it up, the guilt was – I don’t know. These memories just stay. They’re glued; they’re riveted to your body and your mind. That’s an indication of the kind of person she was.
