REFLECTIONS ON ADOPTION AND IDENTITY

Reflections on Adoption and Identity

Someone just liked this post from October 18th, 2018. As they say, what you put on the internet is there forever. So, I was just reminded of it by Facebook.

A big deal was made of my once saying I was adopted, given away. And a while after that, saying I may, might have been stolen, kidnapped, trafficked, and I was attacked for “changing my mind.” HORRORS! But I did not change my mind. I related new information I had come across. I dared to keep an open mind. 

Seeing this post again reminds me, what does it matter? Face it, I was too young to understand what took place, did not know enough to object, and merely related what I learned. Education is like that. You learn more, research more, and your opinion can and will change. I was honest with you about what I thought—keyword, education. Education and honesty can be foreign to some.

Again, what does it matter what happened way back then? What matters are the emotions experienced thereafter, in my case, during the next 80+ years. If you were never part of the adoption/kidnapping world, it is hard for you to understand. I posted this poem in a group for Native/First Nations Indian Adoptees. Don't get on me for using their term “Indian,” as that was the group's choice.

This poem is long, but others agree with me that it is a good representation of our emotional roller coaster lives. After many conversations and reading many posts and stories, I now understand that my emotional life is foreign to you. Some of you even indicated that maybe I was better off not growing up in the band. I did not know how to respond to that comment, with you not understanding me or my life or how close I might have come to death after being born.

I can't give you my life in 8 bullet points on one page, as some have asked. Could you sum up your life and emotional roller coasters on one page? When you have time, please read this poem. Not for me, but so you will understand others you might meet in your life. I ask for nothing at this point, but merely hope you might now better understand others with a similar history who might present themselves to you in the future.

For those of you who wonder why no other Mi'kmaq is coming forth with stories similar to mine, it could be because their skin was darker at birth. They are among those murdered, buried in mass graves, dumped at sea, or cremated in the Ideal Maternity Home's furnace. A slightly off-white Mi'kmaq in front could be passed off as Sephardic or Ashkenazi Jewish, so long as there were no other “blemishes.”

I want to try resharing this poem by Australian Peter Kapamola Moore, slightly altered, to see if it works. It is titled “Adoption is Such a Lie.”

Adoption is such a lie. I was never to know my father. I was never to know my mother. Never to the day I die. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. You look at me as your own. I was all alone. You said you needed me. Was I just a commodity to make your marriage whole? Just a notch on some totem pole? Adoption is a lie.

Adoption is a lie. At six weeks, a bond was broken and replaced by a token. You gave me love and devotion. Love is such a selfish emotion. Adoption is a lie.

Adoption is a lie. You gave me a name. That's not the same. You paraded me to the family who gave me love and empathy. Adoption is a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. I grew up lonely, never feeling the same. Life, what is this game? Why did I feel like this? What was wrong? I thought I didn't belong. Adoption is a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. In time, I accepted my identity and celebrated that my life had plenty. In later life, I built a family tree, and I thought I found my ancestry. I celebrated my ethnicity. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. An Irish convict ancestor of whom I was proud, I proclaimed it long and loud. 12 years of research I was to amass, 13,500 people in my tree, now in the trash. Adoption is a lie.

Adoption is a lie. At 59 years old, a DNA test unfolded. The lie that I had not been told, what had my discovery cost? My identity had been lost. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. A contact from a shared DNA relative on a quest. My empathy to help her. I could not rest.... it led me to the discovery of my adoption. I was not of Irish but of Italian extraction. And here's the twist. This Italian lady was, in fact, my sister. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. Now both our identities were in question. I pursued the answers with a passion. We held the pieces of each other's lives. I confided this to my wife. My birth mother had the answer. Who was her Italian romancer? Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. My children must be told. We would hold A hastily arranged family meeting. This lie must stop now. Not another day would I allow. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. Within the seriousness was room for humor. What was this left-field family rumor? Almost amidst the laughter, silence fell from the rafters. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. An impatient adoption certificate wait. Forever it seemed to take. Upon arrival, there was no hesitation to peek. I opened it. I was on a winning streak. Her name, it did reveal. I Google-searched with zeal. Adoption is such a lie.

And adoption is such a lie. The oldest son of hers, I did find. A brother of mine, and furthermore, a grandmother, a great-grandfather. What more was in store? A further search revealed his family tree: two more brothers and two sisters. A fatherless child, he knew of me. Adoption is such a lie. 

Adoption is such a lie. A hasty message was sent. My name, phone, "Interested in the fatherless child in your tree," it went. Within 24 hours, a call. "Thank you for calling," I cut in, but that's not all. "You're the son of..." "And so are you," he replied. I nearly cried. For a few weeks, he had known of my existence. No longer would I be alone. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. His job now was once again to ring. To inform the brothers and sisters of me, the new sibling. He left me with a number to call. I did not hesitate, as this was my birth mother, after all. We spoke for the first time. It was sublime. Adoption is such a lie. 

Adoption is such a lie. She told me some of my history. She told me I was a victim of forced adoption. That keeping me was not an option. Six weeks she stayed with me. An orphanage was not to be. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. With hesitation, I asked for my father's name. A hairdresser, whose name I knew to be the same. It was my sister's father who had died. I was pleased to solve that unequivocally with pride. But this would mean a father I would never know. And children he would never see grow. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. My adoptive parents are old and frail. But what was the cost of carrying this tale? Would a burden be lifted if I told them I am not that gifted? Being left to an adopted sister to break the news gave them a bad case of the blues. Adoption is such a lie. 

Adoption is such a lie. Meeting my adopted parents that fateful Mother's Day. All they could say was, "We don't want to lose you, and anyway, we burnt the adoption papers when you were a teen. You are ours and always have been." No thought of my feelings, no hint of remorse. For denying my identity, that was not par for the course. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. I made contact with another sibling. We arranged a reunion shindig. To the City of Gold, we would fly. We all looked the same. No one could deny. Adoption is such a lie. Adoption is such a lie. To think I may never have known their lives. Brothers, sisters, husbands, and wives. Why was I to be denied the truth? Who gave them the right to destroy the proof? What of my rights as a human being? My rights were nowhere to be seen. Adoption is such a lie.

Adoption is such a lie. "A good life you had," I hear you say it in verse. This is true. It could have been worse. The loss I feel is hard to explain. I lived a lie. I was played the fool again and again. Adoption is such a lie.

People all over the world are up in arms over the Trump Administration’s policy of separating immigrant children from their parents, from their families. They are proud of leaving no paper trails, so these children cannot be found tomorrow. They are lost forever. The evidence was destroyed. Every time I hear similar stories on the news, I can't help but wonder where these righteous people were when Native American and First Nation children were being similarly stolen from their parents, their families, their culture. Oh, that’s right, they were the righteous, religious zealots doing the removals.

Blood Memory

https://youtu.be/T9q3dzf46Bg