Because of Poor Statue's wonderful diary about being a birthmother I am offering a perspective from one adopted child's viewpoint. I hope it might be of some value to those who have interest in the topic. Make no mistake, it is just one story and there are millions of stories out there, none of them the same.
I have lots of opinions about a lot of things but I really have very strong opinions about adoption. Especially about adoption for children beyond the "cute baby" stage because that was me. . .
The background of my story is this: My birthmother was married to my birth father. They had two children born 4 years apart. My older brother was her 9th child and I was the 10th. From what I know my parents were working class with minimal education. In addition, living within this family unit was a 6 year old son our mother had from a previous marriage. Our father was her 4th husband. It is difficult to imagine what slings and arrows of judgment and social pressures she experienced in the 1936 to 1945 era of this society. No doubt she was shunned by most if not all for no other reason than her multiple marriages. She had no marketable skills for other than menial work and in that time frame there were very few things an uneducated woman was even allowed to do in the spectrum of employment, but she seemed to have an incredible ability to find men that wanted to marry her. I've looked at her picture many times, the one taken with her standing in front of a tree in the yard, 3 year old me clinging meaningfully to her leg with both my arms wrapped tightly around. She was nice enough looking, but no classic or raving beauty as far as looks go so it was something else she had that brought the future husbands into her life.
In 1943 my father worked in a defense plant in or near the Palo Alto area of California. The country was in the thick of second world war and almost every young man I ever saw was in a uniform of one branch of the service or the other. I loved uniforms and used to spend quite a bit of time lying on the floor on my stomach looking a huge Sears catalog that had uniforms for children. Dang it! I really wanted one of those uniforms, but that would take 20 more years to fulfill. Those of you who are counselors, physicians, nurses, social workers, therapists or psychiatrists may very well disagree or view as absolute nonsense some of the things I am going to tell you here, but try and keep an open mind, everything in life does not go by the books and the theories. By the age of three I already knew, absolutely, that my world was very tenuous. And yes I have memories even younger than that. I already knew that adults were not trustworthy. None of them. I was pretty sure that I could trust my brother, but even that proved to be incorrect a while later. How does a 3 year old protect herself in a world of untrustworthy adults and manage to survive come what may? Well, first of all you have to learn to conceal those parts of you behavior that grownups find displeasing, so you become what we call now a "people pleaser." You try to be really good all of the time even though sometimes it just can't be done. When you are in this process of constantly being alert to how you "should" behave, it feels like you are smothering. So it is understandable that once in a while you just can't do it. Certainly no one would call me the perfect little girl, always behaving the way adults wanted me to. Inside there was the real me that wanted desperately to be the real me and on occasion I was, knowing full well it might be just the thing that the adults would decide so unacceptable they would throw me out.
Some time in late 1944 my father was walking home from work and as he crossed the street, he was struck by a car and killed. My mother took it very hard. I spent a lot of time trying to comfort her and I was terribly insulted by the adults gathered round her that thought my comforting arm around her shoulders and reassurance it would be all right was "cute", too bad I didn't understand.
If I had known the word then, I am sure I would have said, "Fuck yes I understand. Daddy's dead. He's not coming back any more and mommy is scared and very sad." My thought was, adults are stupid besides being untrustworthy. In the intervening months before my 5th birthday, we moved around to different places, A LOT. The two boys were put in a catholic orphanage. They hated it. I was dropped off for extended stays with mother's cousins, aunts, uncles, and various others. That was okay I guess, but what I hated about it was my mother lying to me. She would take me to visit and play somewhere with relatives or friends' children and then ask me, since I was having so much fun would I like to stay longer. Of course I wanted to stay, I was having fun. Then she would say she had to go but she would be back in a little while. It would be weeks or months before she came back. So now I also could not believe her. I was learning quickly that my survival, and I would view this mostly as emotional survival, was solely up to me. No adult was going to come and rescue me from this ever present uncertainty. The walls around my heart and my personhood were built high, thick and wide. No one was ever going to be able to make me feel this bad again. This always leads to stuffing your emotions. I did and I did it very, very well. There was also some time in a foster family which was the worst experience I had. A very hostile environment from my perspective. Their 10 year old son hated me and constantly tormented me in any way he was able. I didn't like him either.
Mother had what seemed to me lots of men friend callers, and the "uncle daddies" came and went. God, how hard it must have been in that time to find a man that was willing to take on 3 children. I can't imagine. My mother must have been in her 40's and that was challenge enough in those days. I am not certain, but I think the latest uncle daddy was going to marry her. I know he lived with us for awhile and was still there when my brother and I were sent off to be adopted. October 4, 1945 I turned 5 years old. Mother made me a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. Happy birthday, you are going to go live with a new mommy and daddy who are "rich" and will take good care of you. You can have a pony. You will get to go on a long bus ride to Salt Lake City where there are lots of trees and everything will be really nice. Then when you are 16 you can come back and be with me if you want to. Now, that was an interesting development. A new mother and father. . .well, fine. Let's get packed and get it over with. Stuffed emotions, remember? At least I had my 9 year old brother who was very good to me and let me tag along after him everywhere he went, and he knew how to open a can of soup and heat it on the stove. Good skills for a 9 year old with a 5 year old to care for to have.
The social worker picked us up some day in that October of 1945 and took us to the bus station. My brother cried and cried when he said goodbye to mom. I didn't have any tears. I was waiting to see what this adventure would bring and how many lies we had been told. The bus was loaded with soldiers and sailors and a few civilians, some even had to stand. The social worker accompanied us on this trip from Winnemucca, Nevada to Salt Lake City. I had a good time. I got to sit on some young sailor's lap and I just flirted outrageously with him. Cool dude. He made me laugh.
We went to spend our first night or two with the social worker at her home. I kinda liked her. She seemed nice enough. We were taken to a child psychiatrist for evaluations. My very smart, sophisticated older brother went first and when he came out he told me what to expect and not to do or say anything cause he might find out stuff that would make people not adopt us. As I sat for what seemed an inordinately long time in that room with the psychiatrist it took a lot of intense will not to play with any of the amazing collection of toys that were everywhere in that room. But I knew my life might depend on what I did or didn't do while I was there. So I sat quietly, bored and a little scared and kept myself totally controlled. I played with nothing. I said nothing. And I cannot imagine what the assessment of that psychiatric evaluation must have been.
We went to a foster home where they already had 6 or 8 of their own children. We slept on the floor. It was confusing and I didn't like it at all. As far as I was concerned there was me and my brother. Nobody else was getting in. By early November the LDS (Mormon Church) adoption agency had gone through 3 years worth of their waiting list attempting to find a couple willing to adopt a 5 year old and a 9 year old together. A few had offered to take the little girl, but no one wanted both of us, and no one wanted just my brother. The social worker was getting concerned. But down the list that was supposedly 3 years worth of waiting, they came across an older couple (lots of prejudice about people in their 40's or older adopting children in those days, has it changed any?) that wanted to meet us and would consider adopting us. We met in a museum on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. I half hid behind the social worker most of the time, hanging on to her leg just as I had in the picture of me with my birth mother. What do five year olds think about? I thought the museum was creepy. They had mummified bodies of dead Indians. . .yuck. That seemed really wrong to me. It still does, but for different reasons now. What did we think of this Mr and Mrs Johnson? That was what the social worker asked us later. My brother thought they were okay. I frankly didn't have any opinion. Who could tell from an hour in a museum?
Visits to the Johnson's home ensued. I tried so hard to do everything right but stuff kept happening. Like we ate dinner with them on a Sunday afternoon sitting at a dinning table all with fancy dishes and silverware and nice glasses. Yikes, that was scary. I have no memory of ever sitting at a big table with place settings and eating with adults before that. I think we had chicken and potatoes and gravy and green peas. All I remember well were the peas. A 5 year old cannot manage to keep them on a fork OR in a soon. They keep rolling off the fork and they fall out of the spoon too. I kept dropping peas in my lap. I knew I was blowing our chances of being adopted. Who would possibly want to adopt a kid that couldn't even eat right?
As it turned out, after several visits, the Johnson's did want to adopt us. Fine. As long as I could be with my brother it didn't matter to me. They were nice enough. Their house was very clean, and no, they were not rich by any means. Just average middle class folks like most everyone else. But they did have something really important. A drawer full of toys. How neat was that? Grownups with a whole drawer full of toys. Pretty impressive, but I was not going to let them in, adults could not be trusted.
Adoption looms in the following months and the real tials, joys, sorrows, difficulties and problems begin. . . .
Full Disclosure: This is not a sad story, just a real one.
[I know this is a lot of extraneous information and no doubt many of you wonderful writers out there could condense it down to the bare minimum facts in no time. Probably two or three paragraphs at most. My purpose here is to build a foundation for the emotional realities of the child and from that real or imagined perspective what adoption appears to bring forth for the adopted to deal with for the rest of their lives. It is not easy on the children, and it is most certainly not easy on the adopting parents. This adoption thing is not for sissies, but wow is it ever important and worthwhile and valuable to all concerned if you can really know what you are getting into. Those of you willing to wend your way through more of this story will find Part II tomorrow. For those of you skimmers who were led to disinterest or frustration that this type of diary is even showing up here on this political site, thanks for stopping by, and I understand your viewpoint.]