A Message on Adoption from an Adoptee

Happy Tuesday, Tiddly winks!

Someone has gotten me sick.  When I find said person, I'm going to use every bit of Dayquil-fueled energy I can muster to pummel them with dirty tissues and clots of Vix Vapor Rub.

I did manage to venture out to the grocery store today (try as I might to arrive at different times, I don't believe I've ever gotten groceries without that damn Christina Aguilera on the speakers trying to convince me I'm beautiful, no matter what they say) and go to Starbucks.

In the food-beverage department I am an old fart who sticks to what I know, and am immediately hesitant when something that clearly belongs in one food category tries to sneak into another.  So last fall, I was definitely suspicious of the salted caramel mocha frappucinno, but in a rare moment of food adventure, decided to try one.

I was an instant convert.  It was.. a mystical experience.  Transcendent.  Made my whole non-salt having life seem like a sham. It's like going your whole life thinking you were a white Irish woman only to find out that you are indeed a black man.

It is... delightful.  It's like fall in a cup.

After it disappeared off the menu in January, I have since put many exhausting hours trying to get Starbucks employees to recreate it for me even though they were out of the salt.  Today it was back on the menu.  As I picked up my drink, several employees who know me from the many saltless tears I've shed congratulated me on having made it through the full year.

So while it has the flimsiest of connections to today's "school" prompt, since I am no longer in school this is my one damn sign that fall is back in session.  Sharpen my bouquet of number two pencils and bust out the back to school clothes, I am ready for autumn.

As I've mentioned in passing a couple of times here, I am adopted.  I am an adopted infertile.

This is a teeny tiny strange little subculture within the Infertility community.  Had I managed to get pregnant my first time at the rodeo, even without needles and wands and drugs that enhance the eggs' performance (I am the Lance Armstrong of fertility), sharing a genetic connection with a family member to me, is science fiction.

It also makes, I think, the sting of someone saying "why don't you just adopt" hurt a little bit more, because basically with my history they're saying "you should know better".

It also adds a few weird questions about what to do when I have kids.  Not that kids come out demanding to know about they're genetics, but it's going to be a strange conversation should they want to know.

I'm a firm believer that when you adopt, you tell the adoptee they're adopted from the get-go (we'll get to that in a minute). But I don't know how necessary it is to tell my kid that they're grandmother isn't genetically related to them right away, or how to explain that they have an Aunt who they'll see all the time that looks nothing like them, but an Uncle who lives in Chicago that looks a lot like them that they'll only see every few years.  I have yet to find a book that explains how to handle explaining culture to the child of an adoptee.

For example, I was raised in a large, Mexican family.  I eat tamales at Christmas.  There will never be a wedding where people don't dance to La Bamba, when the dogs do something gross I yell "caca!" and I can't wait for Bub to get old enough for me to call him viejo as my grandmother does my grandpa.  I even lived in Mexico City a couple of years (which makes NYC look like a charming, 1950s suburb).

Genetically, however, I'm French & Native American on one side, and Welsh on the other.  I look Welsh.  I do not look like I have a drop of Mexican blood in me (with the exception of dark hair) because I don't believe I do.

So should I have a child that is genetically mine, nevermind the twists & turns I would be adding on top of this discussion should I adopt a child, at some point the conversation will go "you are Mexican, but not really.  You are Welsh, but not really.  You are white, but not really".

(And speaking of white, this was yesterday's prompt which I am taking as an opportunity to ask if anyone knows what to do with white asparagus...)

Anyhoo.

Just by looking at infertility through the lens of an adoptee, I have some weird opinions.  As far as adoption goes, there are things I have strong opinions about and there are things where much like my views on the death penalty, are totally waffly and I can't really seem to commit to one.

For example - I have (and I want to make this super clear) no real concrete opinions in regards to dealing with a child that comes from a sperm donor, an egg donor, or an embryo donor.  That's a whole different ballgame that I'm just learning about existing - I therefor have no experience in that department.  So what I'm talking about is situations similar to mine.

My situation: I was literally the product of a 14 year old and a 16 year old getting it on in a tent and not realizing I was coming until she was a few months into her pregnancy.  (Which makes being infertile now... mind boggling). I was then given to the awesome parents I was always intended to have.

There is one adoptee-opinion that is strong above all the others and I'd like to put out there.  You may consider this kind of pushy if you're considering adoption or are in the adoption process, and I'm sorry, but I'm going to put it out there anyways, because hopefully in the process of internally cursing me you will be forced to at least consider what I'm saying for a moment.

Tell your child they're adopted.  Tell them they're adopted before they are even able to say the word themselves.

As an adult, I've met a lot of other adoptees.  Most of whom always knew they were adopted - some of whom were told... later.

Later - from all the people that I've known who have had to go through that - never feels good and rarely works out well.

By keeping it a secret, on the day that you have to reveal said secret (and it will come - for a medical reason, for resemblance reasons - please know that the day will come) you will inadvertently reveal the following:

• You are adopted, which we kept from you because we think it's terrible.
• Not only are we not your genetic parents, but we are liars.
• We didn't think of it as your story at all - we thought it was just ours.

I can't even imagine how that last part is difficult to grasp for an adopting parent - that the story that has been yours for so long is in fact your child's.  But I promise, it's your child's story.

Even though this is over simplifying it, try to imagine if your whole life you had thought your birthday was in June, only to find out that it was in January. Your parents just told you it was in June because they thought it sounded prettier.  Even though they were the adults in charge when they did that, it still wasn't theirs to do (and it would of course make you go.. 'what the fuck is wrong with January?!'). 

If you have any thoughts associated with adoption that mean 'unwanted' or 'abandoned', you may be tempted to not let them know that they were adopted because you want to save them from feeling unwanted or abandoned.... but by keeping that a secret for so long, one day you will essentially be saying to them "you were unwanted and abandoned, and we knew that, so that's why we kept it from you" which isn't easy to take at any age.

By delaying an uncomfortable conversation, you are in fact simply revealing that you are uncomfortable with it because there is something to be uncomfortable about.

For me, I don't ever remember being told.  I always knew.  I was read books about it, we discussed what adoption meant - which was basically "you are special, and of all the babies in the world, I wanted you. You weren't a random circumstance - I picked you." Because I was told from such an early age and it was made normal - the 'abandonment' feelings were at a bare minimum - I always looked at it like I was particularly wanted.

The only moment that even remotely felt odd in terms of being adopted was finding out that my Mother was not.  It was made so normal, that when I found out she wasn't, I felt bad for her. That is my only vivid, sad adoptee moment.  Sitting in a bathtub and finding out my poor mother wasn't adopted. No drama, no pining. Just an accidental product of two people getting it on.  Barely a story at all, the poor thing.

When you adopt, other people will know your child is adopted.  Relatives, friends, etc.  By keeping the adoptee in the dark, you are allowing strangers and bystanders to trample around in a story the adoptee doesn't even know he/she has - and to discover that kind of betrayal as an adult isn't even something I can put words to.

I had an awesome friend in High School.  Her and her brother weren't that far apart in age - and they were Italian.  Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin - and they looked exactly alike, spitting images of their parents.  I went to her house one day, and she had a much younger sister, around 10 years old, who had very pale skin, white-blond hair and light blue eyes.  I met this younger sister, and after she left the room I kind of said "what happened there?" and my friend said "oh she's adopted, but she doesn't know yet".

It was like someone punched me in the gut.  I have always understood that there are some people who aren't adopted who don't understand it - but for me, I felt so gross.  I was a complete stranger, and I understood something about this little girl who I met for 10 seconds that she hadn't been let in on yet.

And I knew that one day that long delayed conversation that was supposed to protect her was going to hurt. like. hell.  Because secrets are shameful.  Instead of dealing with the perfectly natural feelings of abandonment that you get in tiny doses as a well-informed adoptee, she was going to get it all in one day.  Because it was kept so long, she was going to 'know' that it was something awful, and instead of having long ago understood that this was her family, genetics or no, she was going to instantly feel isolated.

It was her story to have - definitely not mine, and not even her parents.  It was hers, and she was being robbed of it without even knowing.


So my deeeepest storkiest apologies for getting preachy - but I just read a story about someone who found out at the age of 42, and it inspired me to just friggin say this whether you like it or not.. Because this is the one thing, as an adoptee, that I know... that I know.


What I do not know is what to do with white asparagus.