Chapter One - The Girl is Alright
I don't remember finding out that I was adopted. I just always knew. As far back as I can remember, my parents told me that someone (my birth mother) loved me enough to give me a better life. They knew very little about her, but told what little they knew when I asked. I never had a burning desire to find my birth mother. I had a mom. She loved me and I loved her and that was enough. As a child, I never really gave it a whole lot of thought.
Occasionally, a friend would ask about it. Once, when I was about 7, a friend came over and we were sitting at the kitchen table coloring and having a snack. My mom was making dinner. My friend asked what it was like being adopted. I shrugged and said that it was fine. She asked where I was born. I asked my mom, because I couldn't remember the name of the town or hospital. Then my friend asked one of those questions. The ones that can pierce the heart of an adoptive mother. She asked, "Don't you ever miss your real mother? Do you wonder where she is?" Now, I was 7, so I didn't know that this conversation was tearing at my mom, as she kept her back to us and made dinner. She didn't say a word.
Again, I shrugged it off. "Not really", I answered. "I have a mom."
Later, after my friend went home, my mom asked me how those questions made me feel. Mom was clearly hurt that I did not correct my friend as describing my birth mother as my real mother. I knew this was bothering her, because she told me. I was 7 after all. Not all that perceptive yet at that age. My mom cried, and told me I hurt her. I didn't understand why she was so hurt because of course she is my real mom. That other lady, the one who gave me up, she was just someone who loved me enough to give me a better life. I was confused, but I knew that I never again wanted to hurt my mom.
A couple things happened in sixth grade that changed my perspective on being adopted. Not some life changing, cloud parting, angels singing kind of thing. Just a couple of events that deepened my feelings and made me feel different.
First, I met someone else who was adopted. We talked about it. He too, was okay with it. He too wasn't driven to find out about his birth mother. He was the first person I talked to about it who said, “Really? You're adopted? Cool! So am I.” For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn't want to know more about her. It's funny, how all the people who questioned me and made me feel bad weren't adopted. They had no idea what it was like, yet they all somehow knew that I should want to find my birth mother. But, now I had a friend who understood. I didn't have to explain to him.
Then she came. She was the teacher who came to take over the job as our sixth grade teacher, as Mr. Shaw had to leave. We all loved Mr. Shaw and therefore automatically, she was the enemy. As I write this I can't even remember her name. One afternoon, as I sat in detention, I asked her for help on an assignment I was working on. Until then, she was still the enemy. It was her fault that Mr. Shaw left. But, as she helped me with my assignment, I noticed that she looked a lot like me. She was short, like me. She had a bumpy nose, like me. Her smile was a lot like mine. She smelled good. I liked her laugh. Then it happened. For the first time ever, I wondered if she could be my birth mother. Or, at the very least, I wondered if my birth mother was a lot like her. I don't remember if I told anyone about this, as I wasn't suddenly wanting to know once and for all. But, I was curious, for the first time.
Fast forward to 11th grade when I was given an assignment to write a persuasive essay on a social issue. We had a long list of issues and ideas to choose from and we were advised to choose something that would mean something to us. One immediately jumped out at me. Adoption. I decided to write about open adoption. It fascinated me, as my adoption had been typical of the era. It was a closed, government handled adoption. The files were locked. I knew someone at school who was pregnant and was choosing open adoption. She wanted to meet and choose the parent herself, then keep in touch through the years to receive pictures and hear how the child was doing. All I could think was that would create a lot emotional stress for her and the parents. I wasn't sure if I was going to write from a pro or con viewpoint yet. I had to learn more about this. I starting my research right away.
I gathered magazine and newspaper articles. I sent away for some brochures from adoption agencies. They were sent to the school. I didn't tell my parents.
My mom had a habit of looking over my homework when I left it on my desk, as I rarely showed her what I was working on unless I needed editing. She was doing just that when she saw all the brochures. Now, you should know that I wasn't trying to be deceitful, or anything. I was just avoiding having uncomfortable conversations with my parents, which I knew would inevitably come up if I told them. Turns out, it was much worse. Mom kind of freaked out. But, she didn't want to talk to me from an emotional place, so she had my dad talk to me. I always hated when he sat me down and started our talk with, "Your mom is very upset because....". Those were always very long talks. We had a few of those through the years.
Once Dad explained that Mom had found my brochures and was hurt because she thought I was searching out my birth mother behind their backs, I got my turn to explain. I told my dad that I was researching open adoption for an essay assignment and that I still have no interest in finding my birth mother. He told me again, as he and Mom had told me many times before, that if I ever feel like I want to find her, that they would like to know, and offer whatever help they can.
I would never take them up on that offer. I would never choose to actively search out my birth mother. However, I would wonder if I looked like her, if we had the same eyes, nose, smile. But, I would never really want to find her. I mostly just wanted to see a picture.
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