Lost Daughters: My Bi-Racial Life

Something I wrote for Lost Daughters about being a bi-racial adoptee.....


Lost Daughters: My Bi-Racial Life

Dear_________

Rec'd my 3rd letter from bMother yesterday. Ripped it open like a present on Christmas morning, sat down and all else faded away.
She never addresses them to me or signs them which I find strange. As if I don't matter or exist. Like she's writing to an anonymous source that has no connection to her. It diminishes me I feel.
She tells me "I am the kind of person who gives away a baby, tosses her in the trash."
What the hell does that mean?
Did she toss me in the trash? Did she think of me as trash?
She says " That is why I treat my children like Gods, let them walk all over me."
I got news for you lady, I AM YOUR CHILD!
Does she have any idea how those words sting?
Was I not worthy of the same adoration because my father is black?
She stayed with him for 3 years during and after my birth.
So it's OK to have a long term relationship with a black guy in the 60's but not OK to raise the child you created?
She kept an older sister that has a white father and a younger brother with a white father.Gee thanks "Ma"....
I find no comfort in her words or actions, no solace, no warmth.

She doesn't respond to the many questions I have asked and instead gives me her version of history.
This cat & mouse game we are playing is childish as best!
Sending what information she deems viable though the mail is time consuming, annoying and infuriating.
I don't understand a mother that doesn't want to know her child. I don't understand her fear or reluctance to tell me things I have the right to know.
We don't have to be friends, we don't have to be anything, just answer my questions and I'll be on my way.
Is that too much to ask?

Before & After

Before I had my OBC I had dreams, hopes. A rich and pretty fantasy where I was searched for, wanted,loved.
Where my children were met with excitement, acceptance and love.
An Oprah reunion moment with all the people who looked like me.
We'd hug, cry and be one big happy family. I would go to family reunions and truly really be a part of a family. MY family.
I would learn about my heritage, where I came from and be able to have a REAL family tree. 
And I would feel truly whole for the 1st time in my life.
Silly silly girl.


Crash land into the "After" OBC life where things are dark and gloomy.
And it makes me wonder if not knowing is better. If hope is better than abject rejection.
I haven't been the same person since that one small piece of paper came in the mail. The thrill of that piece of paper has long since worn off. The excitement and wonder, the hope and fantasy ripped to shreds. 
So who am I now? 
Still unwanted, parts still unknown with no clearer picture of who I am that I had weeks ago. Where does the anger and sorrow go? Who do I direct it to? Does it eat away at me for the rest of my life?
Do I remain in sadness, the colors slowly seeping from my world?
Is this my punishment for demanding the truth?
I still look at that piece of paper every day, looking for what I do not know. 
I hold out the tiniest sliver of hope that she will come around.
That she will want to know me. Will let loose of the secrets that only she knows the answers to. 
Until then I am at her mercy. 

When I was a little girl I used to lay in bed at night,stare at the moon and think of my Mother. In my mind she was a beautiful brown haired Gypsy searching the ends of the earth for me. 

I would drift off to sleep convinced she would find me....Someday.

Fast forward 40+ years and discover she never was looking for me.

A hard pill to swallow.

I have been an angry adoptee most of my life. Never understood how anyone could give a child away like a pair of pants that don't fit anymore.

Sure I've gone on with life, married, had kids, married again, lost the only parents I ever knew. But I never stopped being that angry kid, that unwanted kid.

The effects of being in a "Childrens Home" for 4 months before being adopted have been life long for me.

That feeling of alone~ness and abandonment have never left me. 

Every time I see that P.D.Eastman book "Are You My Mother" I want to fly into a rage or sink into depression.

I have felt like a boat aimlessly adrift in the ocean my whole life and I'm not sure that will ever change.

Adoption is FOREVER.....The pain, the questions, the secrets, the whispers. 

It never goes away, it never gets easier, the pain is always there. FOREVER!