01/11/2019
The Celebration of Adoption
When I was young, there were numerous occasions where adoption was publicly celebrated around me. Most frequently in a church setting, the handful of adopted kids would be used as examples of how beautiful it was to adopt. An unwanted child found a home, and an incomplete family grew.
Beautiful.
I would smile, and hold the hands of my adoptive parents as I spoke eagerly of what a blessing it was to have been taken in and made part of a family I was not born to. There was a little party each year, and an alter call for those considering adoption to come and be blessed.
I was grateful. Images of a dark home with scary shadows of unfit parents filled my mind. All my life I'd been subtly groomed to understand that my remaining with the family I was born to would have been a death sentence. This was in direct conflict with the statement that I was so loved that my mother did the most selfless thing in leaving me, and that I was Chosen.
Chosen.
Children make these things work in their minds. Just as we believe the story of Santa and the Tooth Fairy, we are too young to understand, and simply accept. And so I accepted that my mother loved me so deeply that she sacrificed her own happiness for my well-being, and that had I remained with her I'd surely have been harmed and neglected. Possibly to death.
I would have told you, when I was a child, that adoption saved my life.
I would have told you at fifteen, that while I think about my birth family, it was all for the better. I was blessed to be adopted.
I would have told you, when I was twenty, that adoption was a beautiful thing.
I would have told you, when I was twenty five, that I still intended to adopt as well. I was saved, so it would be terrible of me not to save someone else.
There are so many voices of adopted people passionately singing the praises of adoption, while not knowing their own story or what exactly it was that they were "saved" from. There are so many who adamantly insist that they have no trauma from being adopted, no ill effects to them. Those voices go down easy. Sugared words for people who desperately want to hear them. Light reading for the light hearted.
What you don't see are the adoptees in secret support groups that speak of coming out of the fog in their 60s, after their adoptive parents have died and it's safe to think about this. You don't see the adoptees who would never publicly speak ill of adoption because they love their families and never want to hurt them, so they refrain from commenting on that cute adoption video with the sweet music and happy toddlers.
You don't hear the voices of the adoptees who have taken their own lives.
You don't hear the adoptees on the streets, drowning in addiction.
You don't hear the adoptees who have been deported, because their adoptive parents did not complete the necessary processes to secure their citizenship.
There is a reason we speak critically of adoption. It's not hate, or pure bitterness, or the inability to see grey areas in complex situations. We speak, because we have recognized the harm that comes with adoption. Sometimes that harm is necessary, but that is not a given.
So. For this first day of , I urge you to make space for adoptees who's voices irritate you, who's words get under your skin and make your heart race a bit. Adoptees who put you on the defensive, who push you out of the comforting place we all wish adoption was. You can only do better if you know better. There are plenty of adoptees who will give warm fuzzies about adoption. It's important to have a well-rounded meal. Taking in nothing but sugar will kill. Only in this case, it's the adoptee who suffers those effects.
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