I feel inclined to preface this with a deep, warm gratitude that I had an opportunity to leave ‘the system’, though I did not understand foster care to be a bad thing, as I believe I had better experiences than most in my foster home in Los Angeles.
Also, I only had one foster home that I can recall, which probably illustrates my situation rather well.
Children who are given up at or near birth (and even later) are often overlooked, and I am certain I will hold a soft spot forever for those who’ve been through the foster care system and adoption, even if I don’t end up voicing it after this.
We are better than the unfortunate things that have happened to us.
I am not going to go into great detail about my childhood post-adoption – that is to say, I will not be discussing isolated incidents. I have decided that doing so has been and will continue to be detrimental to my moving forward as an adult, but I will say that it was not all rosy.
As a young girl, I was given most freedoms over sense of style, save special events and holidays. I usually liked shirts and pants. I was fond of stripes. I wasn’t most folks’ idea of girly, but I was a kid, so none of that mattered to me really. I had a lot of energy, and when I wasn’t reading, I was running around playgrounds chasing people I liked.
I did well in school without much effort, and people in my little family praised me as gifted, but I never felt anything out of the ordinary. Not until I started asking questions that some adults didn’t want to answer.
My personal history was not my business, I learnt.
‘You don’t need to know’ statements surfaced. It struck me as odd that there was such secrecy around the first few years of my life, and my curiosity was met with anger usually. Eventually I stopped asking, but my curiosity never abated.
Fall ’05, Los Angeles: I find an album with photos of me.
I am seven years old in this photo.
I only felt as good as my accomplishments, most of which I felt to the person raising me included getting high marks in school, being and staying pretty to be bragged about, and being subservient. Since I don’t tend to pride myself on any of those things for too long a time, that didn’t make me feel good at all. I grew distant, and got quieter.
As I am nearing my thirties, I find that I am not any closer to finding out about my past than I was 10 years ago. I find that disconcerting, and shall begin filling out California state paperwork to the best of my ability and limited knowledge, in the hope that I can figure this out and put it all behind me, if necessary. Some chapters ache for closure.
Summer ’07, San Francisco
I am slowly processing the observation that the person who raised me and I want and value different things out of our parent-child relationship. I cannot give this person what they want, and they cannot give me what I want. The other party takes personal slight to this, but as the years go on, I can only hope they’ll see it’s more a matter of accepting things as they are between two people who are so different.
I look forward to pushing the files of this closed adoption open, to learn about my medical particulars and maybe even see if I can connect with my siblings. I wonder, do they even know about me?
It is within a person’s right to seek out their own personal history, with whatever aid they can find along the way. I am lucky to have support. Here’s to this adventure I’m about to embark on, one that might be the most difficult ever I’ve ever attempted.