A new very short piece on Medium.com today. https://medium.com/@demanuelclemen/what-i-spent-to-give-up-my-child-for-adoption-9f0d1e358bb3?source=friends_link&sk=77f92f9cc2743a6ac7628a3e58a5968f
It can be awkward, this birthmother/ first mother thing. The other night I attended a birthday party, and chatted with a couple I hadn’t yet met here in my rather large condo building. They passed their 4-month-old back and forth between them as we were introduced. I knew from our building’s private Facebook group that the baby had come into their lives unexpectedly. This little boy, with the face of a wise old man, had surprised his bio parents too. His mother denied her pregnancy until she was rushed to the ER, and the father was even more surprised.
Denise is a writer, someone said as they introduced me. “What do you write about?” the baby’s mother asked.
“Adoption,” I said, trying not to pull any punches, as I gestured toward the baby.
They might have flinched a little. I might have mumbled a half-hearted qualifier. But then I told them my story, and they told me theirs. “There won’t be any secrets,” the dad said. “He’s going to know the whole story.”
“He’s going to know everything,” the mother said.
“It was so different back in the day,” we said simultaneously, meaning the Baby Scoop Era. “Secrets,” we muttered. “Lies.”
And then neither of them said what I dread most. You were so generous to give up your baby. No one gives up a baby out of generosity. Here, have mine, says absolutely no one. Really, take him. I insist. C’mon, you know you want him. The most wonderful, kind, intelligent people utter this generosity line. They say it because they don’t know what to say. They say it because they want to be kind. They say it because they know that saying, “How could you do that?” is the wrong thing to say, and they are desperately searching for the right thing to say.
I have so many thoughts about adoption. So many thoughts about what we could say. Thoughts about how we could change things. Here’s a short story (fiction) that I published on Medium.
And here’s an essay (a true story) about giving up my son, also on Medium.
National Adoption Awareness Month is two-thirds over. I’m going to keep posting on Medium until I turn the calendar page. I’ll take a break then, but I’ll be back. Follow this blog. Or follow me on Twitter @demanuelclemen
How do you find your way back after believing a lie?
I have a brand new short story here https://medium.com/@demanuelclemen/bridges-232ff31f08f7?source=friends_link&sk=f723d7e29075c8f8defb2b4f6c3a7c2b
And speaking of lies, here’s a shocking piece about adoption from the New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2019/11/08/world/asia/ap-as-south-korea-horror-home-adoptions.html
I’m finished with secrets and have been for some time. This November (National Adoption Awareness Month or NAAM, for short) I made a promise to myself to write about my experience with adoption. I’ve been posting pieces on Medium. Here’s another one: https://medium.com/@demanuelclemen/top-secret-my-sons-name-2189f230b6b6?source=friends_link&sk=88543939d1a03e10c52b9c751bcf2f77
I have another piece that was featured on Medium yesterday.
I haven’t blogged here for a long time. Consider the previous post the post that could have been repeated every day all this while. Children and parents are being separated. Many of them will never be reunited.
This weekend I’m at a small writers’ retreat. There are five participants, not counting our retreat facilitator. Around the fire next to the lake over our first glass of wine, we discovered that our group includes a birth mother, an adoptee, an adoptive parent, and a grandmother of a newly adopted infant. Ten years ago I would have probably alienated myself from everyone. It’s not that I feel any differently about adoption in general. It’s not that I feel any less pain about my own experience. I guess what’s different is that I’m more able to listen to the experiences of others and take in their feelings. I’m hoping I’ll leave with friends.
We weep. Tear our hair. Exclaim to the heavens about the un-American practice of ripping children and parents apart at the border. But we are all amnesiacs, sleep-walking through the history of a county that has never lived up to its ideal of greatness. In Jelani Cobb’s e sharp-eyed comment on Juneteenth, he sites slavery and the horrors of torn apart Native American families, performed in the name of the greater good, as well as the deficiencies of our social services system..
Let’s add Georgia Tann, a well-known adoption villain–but let’s steady our gaze toward adoption “heroine” Edna Gladney. Peer below the surface there and find more hearts destroyed.
Separating children from parents is what we do in this country. It’s what we’ve always done. If you’re too brown, too black, too young, too poor, too foreign, someone will be happy to judge you as unfit to parent your child. What’s new is that now our president and his cronies are actively orchestrating the new version of this terror.
As the policy of separating families at the border is mitigated (supposedly), do you think some of those children will never find their way back into the arms of their parents?
There were six Hart children, and now, though not all bodies have yet been found, authorities think all of them perished in the car that was intentionally driven off a cliff in Northern California. The children were adopted from foster care in Texas in two separate transactions, two sibling sets of three each. The adoptive parents were white, the children persons of color. Now everyone is dead.
It’s logical to presume that children end up in foster care after a clusterfuck of parental missteps. A lot of things go wrong. And then things go wrong over and over again. Really wrong. And so children are removed from the home. The Hart children were permanently removed. Their parents lost custody. The children were adopted out. They were removed from the state they were born in, removed from family, both immediate and extended. Maybe things were epic proportion horrible for these kids. But here’s the thing. It didn’t get better. They were “saved” by two white women who killed them.
The birthmothers are always the tragedy in the background in stories like this. There’s a whole cast of characters in this silent background that doesn’t make the newspapers until weeks later, if ever. In this story there’s an aunt who had custody but broke a rule, and so she lost custody too. Now according to THIS,the birthmother of one of the sets of children is” taking it hard.” Can you imagine? If you’re a birthmother you can. But you sure as hell don’t want to.
There’s a long history of adoption in our country, and we’ve learned things that we have yet to put into practice. In Adoption in America: A Historical Perspective, E. Wayne Carp cites an early 19thcentury historian, reporting on four orphan asylums between 1800 and 1820: “But adoption did not emerge as the preferred system of child care in the early nineteenth century because elite families with whom the children were placed often treated them as servants rather than family members. This experience led the female managers to favor blood relatives when considering child placement.” Similar conclusions were made decades later as a result of the orphan trains wherein foundlings and street children from eastern cities were sent to more rural areas throughout the country to live with families that sometimes treated them as indentured servants. Early adoption law in Minnesota was forged to combat the corruptions of the orphan trains.
While there are certainly many kudos deserved to those who adopt children from foster care–those people who have the capacity to love and to work toward healing, there are still uncomfortable truths to be reckoned with. I’ll leave you with these thoughts from Liz Latty and her piece “Adoption is a Feminist Issue, But Not For the Reasons You Think,” :
“Here’s the toughest truth yet: Those children are almost always the children of poor and working class people, people of color, native and indigenous people, and young people. The people who adopt them, who directly benefit from the economic and racial oppression of these groups, are most often middle and upper-middle-class people and are primarily white”.
And if you’re the sort of person who prays, pray for everyone. The social workers in the system, the children, the foster parents, the adoptive parents, and the birth families. I’m really not much for praying myself, but I’ll be thinking of the birthmothers of the Hart children forever.
Sometimes it feels like a secret society, this adoption thing.
I’ve been at a writer’s residency the past month at the Vermont Studio Center, and as I read from my book manuscript a couple of weeks ago, I looked out at the faces in the audience. I know that whenever I read from my memoir afterwards, either right away or in the coming days, there will be whispered conversations. People tell me their stories–or maybe not the story at all–just that they are a birthmother or an adoptee.
I’m still thinking of the young man who waited until the day before he left to tell me how much he appreciated the reading. “I’m a child of adoption,” he said. I saw loss and longing and questions in his eyes. The intensity of it threw me off balance, and I had one of those moments wherein I tried to say something right and good, but because I was trying so hard, I can’t remember what it was I said.
I would have liked to have said that I’d bet a million dollars that his mother loved him and has missed him every day of her life.