Jan. 24, 2012
While trolling the interwebs yesterday, I came across the blog of a woman who volunteered at the orphanage where I lived prior to my adoption. She actually used the term "unwanted children," which made my heart and mind churn.
I have spent enough of my life feeling unwanted. Do I need some self-righteous 20-something-year-old girl to confirm that?
Friday, October 26, 2012
Les Misérables
"In my life, there are so many questions and answers that somehow seem wrong." So sings Jean Valjean's adopted daughter, Cosette, in the musical Les Miserables.
I've been listening to Les Mis soundtracks for weeks in preparation for finally seeing the musical live. But it only struck me this morning how much I relate to those specific lyrics.
Cosette continues: "In my life, there are times when I catch in the silence the sigh of a faraway song. And it sings of a world that I long to see. Out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me."
In just 10 weeks I will embark for that world that has haunted me all my life. Tickets are booked and paid for. There's no turning back.
It's been several months since I last posted to this blog. In that time, I stopped writing. Spiraled into the second-deepest depression of my life. Found a therapist. Was convinced to go on medication, something I miraculously managed to avoid until this year. Joined a class of (ironically) counselors preparing to travel to Taiwan. Started writing again. And was invited to accompany the shrinks to Taiwan in January.
Over the next few days, I'll post the journal entries I've kept private until now. And I hope to be brave enough to keep posting here as an outlet and a way to share my journey with others who may be going through the same thing. It's been selfish of me to devour other people's stories and be so unwilling to share my own. This blog is my inspiration. Thanks for reading.
I've been listening to Les Mis soundtracks for weeks in preparation for finally seeing the musical live. But it only struck me this morning how much I relate to those specific lyrics.
Cosette continues: "In my life, there are times when I catch in the silence the sigh of a faraway song. And it sings of a world that I long to see. Out of reach, just a whisper away, waiting for me."
In just 10 weeks I will embark for that world that has haunted me all my life. Tickets are booked and paid for. There's no turning back.
It's been several months since I last posted to this blog. In that time, I stopped writing. Spiraled into the second-deepest depression of my life. Found a therapist. Was convinced to go on medication, something I miraculously managed to avoid until this year. Joined a class of (ironically) counselors preparing to travel to Taiwan. Started writing again. And was invited to accompany the shrinks to Taiwan in January.
Over the next few days, I'll post the journal entries I've kept private until now. And I hope to be brave enough to keep posting here as an outlet and a way to share my journey with others who may be going through the same thing. It's been selfish of me to devour other people's stories and be so unwilling to share my own. This blog is my inspiration. Thanks for reading.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Update from Taiwan
"Greetings.
"Through the household system, I received your birth mother’s current information, and I’ve sent a letter to her few days ago. Now all we could do is waiting for her to contact us.
"If there have any news, I’ll update you as possible as I could."
"Through the household system, I received your birth mother’s current information, and I’ve sent a letter to her few days ago. Now all we could do is waiting for her to contact us.
"If there have any news, I’ll update you as possible as I could."
Thursday, February 2, 2012
To Whom It May Concern
For as long as I can remember, I have wondered where I came from. My olive skin, almond eyes and black hair never quite fit in — whether at home with my Caucasian adoptive family, or at my rural (read: white) elementary school. That sense of not belonging followed me into my teenage years. I will never forget the man who told me, as I rang up his groceries, “Your people are such hard workers.” It was a harsh reminder that, despite my American citizenship, some people would never see me as one of “theirs.” The irony, of course, is that neither he nor I actually knew who “my people” were.
Over the years, I’ve attempted to sate my appetite for answers through primarily academic methods. I took a History of China course in college. On my own, I’ve read books about the history of Taiwan. I subscribe to a monthly electronic newsletter from the Taiwanese government, and to another from the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. I’ve followed twin studies (most recently the cover story of National Geographic) that examine the forces of nature and nurture. I’ve purchased adoption-related memoirs and watched documentaries about the subject. A trained journalist, I’ve interviewed and told the stories of other adoptees.
But the more knowledge I gain — about adoption, about my country of origin, about the political and economic forces that likely contributed to my being sent to a foreign country at a mere 3 months of age — the more questions I have.
Last year, I gave birth to a daughter. She filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to that day. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails … they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me.
I know my daughter is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her — traits I now realize I inherited, not learned.
And that brings me to my current quest. To learn from whom we inherited our hands, our eyebrows, our personalities. To discover the boundaries of nature and nurture. To understand, truly, what circumstances brought me to here, to be raised by people with whom I never quite meshed.
There are more practical reasons, as well. The lack of a family history creates a hole in the medical records of not only me, but also my daughter. What genetic landmines lurk around the corner?
I have been in touch with Taiwan’s Child and Juvenile Adoption Center, created in 2005 to assist adoptees in finding answers. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to provide them enough detail to initiate a search for information overseas.
Prior requests for my adoption paperwork have been unsuccessful. My adoptive mother told me, “It’s all Chinese. You couldn’t read it anyway.” The orphanage that facilitated my adoption is more concerned with my spiritual salvation. I would prefer not to have to contact them again. The lawyer who served as my guardian ad litem said the records were lost due to water damage. (I pray he was referring to his own records; not this court’s.)
This letter serves as a formal request for the release of nonidentifying and identifying information, to the extent permitted by law. An original birth certificate with Chinese names would greatly assist the effort by the government office in Taiwan.
Thank you for your consideration.
Over the years, I’ve attempted to sate my appetite for answers through primarily academic methods. I took a History of China course in college. On my own, I’ve read books about the history of Taiwan. I subscribe to a monthly electronic newsletter from the Taiwanese government, and to another from the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute. I’ve followed twin studies (most recently the cover story of National Geographic) that examine the forces of nature and nurture. I’ve purchased adoption-related memoirs and watched documentaries about the subject. A trained journalist, I’ve interviewed and told the stories of other adoptees.
But the more knowledge I gain — about adoption, about my country of origin, about the political and economic forces that likely contributed to my being sent to a foreign country at a mere 3 months of age — the more questions I have.
Last year, I gave birth to a daughter. She filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to that day. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails … they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me.
I know my daughter is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her — traits I now realize I inherited, not learned.
And that brings me to my current quest. To learn from whom we inherited our hands, our eyebrows, our personalities. To discover the boundaries of nature and nurture. To understand, truly, what circumstances brought me to here, to be raised by people with whom I never quite meshed.
There are more practical reasons, as well. The lack of a family history creates a hole in the medical records of not only me, but also my daughter. What genetic landmines lurk around the corner?
I have been in touch with Taiwan’s Child and Juvenile Adoption Center, created in 2005 to assist adoptees in finding answers. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to provide them enough detail to initiate a search for information overseas.
Prior requests for my adoption paperwork have been unsuccessful. My adoptive mother told me, “It’s all Chinese. You couldn’t read it anyway.” The orphanage that facilitated my adoption is more concerned with my spiritual salvation. I would prefer not to have to contact them again. The lawyer who served as my guardian ad litem said the records were lost due to water damage. (I pray he was referring to his own records; not this court’s.)
This letter serves as a formal request for the release of nonidentifying and identifying information, to the extent permitted by law. An original birth certificate with Chinese names would greatly assist the effort by the government office in Taiwan.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
52 weeks
The past several weeks have flown by. I started writing this entry two weeks ago. And now Miss M's first birthday has already passed. I can't believe my baby girl is a year old.
Exactly one year ago, we were preparing to leave the hospital. It was the calm before chaos. Sleepless days and nights. Learning to breastfeed. Laying next to her, mesmerized by every breath, every jerky move, every blink of her bright eyes.
Fifty-two weeks later, Miss M is a cruising, babbling, silly little girl. If she's not pushing her V-Tech walker, she's dancing to its music. She likes cups and balls and chewing on her Robeez knock-offs (thank goodness I didn't splurge on the real thing!). Her favorite word is "dog." It's the first thing she says when I pick her up in the morning. "Dog?" It's also what she chants when we get home: "Dog? Dog? Dog?" as she high-tails it to his room.
In addition to dog, she regularly says "mama," "dada," "all done," "uh-oh," "ball" and "up." She has also been known to say "open," "hi," and "bye." She will high-five and clap when she feels like it. She signs for "milk" and "all done."
She takes after her mama in that she knows what she wants, and when she wants it (or doesn't). It is both endearing and frustrating. It's cute when she says, "All done," but exacerbating when she says this after only one bite ... of the fifth or sixth food you've tried feeding her for dinner.
It's hard for me to remember life without Miss M. I finally understand why so many women say motherhood makes them a better person, although I am still conflicted by this statement. I love her more than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I love myself since having her. I feel like a better person, and yet I know I'm not a better friend or wife or professional. How can I be? I have less time to devote to my friends, my husband, my job.
Miss M has filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to having her. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails ... they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me. I know she is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her -- traits I now realize I inherited, not learned. It is an amazing connection and awareness that may be hard to understand unless you have lived without it.
I didn't know I was incomplete until she made me whole.
Exactly one year ago, we were preparing to leave the hospital. It was the calm before chaos. Sleepless days and nights. Learning to breastfeed. Laying next to her, mesmerized by every breath, every jerky move, every blink of her bright eyes.
Fifty-two weeks later, Miss M is a cruising, babbling, silly little girl. If she's not pushing her V-Tech walker, she's dancing to its music. She likes cups and balls and chewing on her Robeez knock-offs (thank goodness I didn't splurge on the real thing!). Her favorite word is "dog." It's the first thing she says when I pick her up in the morning. "Dog?" It's also what she chants when we get home: "Dog? Dog? Dog?" as she high-tails it to his room.
In addition to dog, she regularly says "mama," "dada," "all done," "uh-oh," "ball" and "up." She has also been known to say "open," "hi," and "bye." She will high-five and clap when she feels like it. She signs for "milk" and "all done."
She takes after her mama in that she knows what she wants, and when she wants it (or doesn't). It is both endearing and frustrating. It's cute when she says, "All done," but exacerbating when she says this after only one bite ... of the fifth or sixth food you've tried feeding her for dinner.
It's hard for me to remember life without Miss M. I finally understand why so many women say motherhood makes them a better person, although I am still conflicted by this statement. I love her more than I have ever loved anything in my life. And I love myself since having her. I feel like a better person, and yet I know I'm not a better friend or wife or professional. How can I be? I have less time to devote to my friends, my husband, my job.
Miss M has filled a void I couldn't articulate prior to having her. For 30 years, I lived with an absence of a history, of roots, of a biological connection to any other human being. Realizing my daughter has my hands, for example, was a profound experience. Her palms, her knuckles, her fingernails ... they're just like mine. She scrunches her eyebrows like me. She is goofy and opinionated like me. I know she is different from me in at least as many ways as she is similar, and yet it amazes me to see myself in her -- traits I now realize I inherited, not learned. It is an amazing connection and awareness that may be hard to understand unless you have lived without it.
I didn't know I was incomplete until she made me whole.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)