"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."
Friday, March 23, 2012
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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
10 reasons to not get pregnant again
I used to think women who had children close in age were crazy. Until I had Miss M, in all of her perfect-ness, and immediately felt a desire for another. What could be better than Miss M? Two of her, of course!
Lately, that urge has become so strong, it's all I can think about. So in an effort to restore my sanity, here is a list of all the reasons I should NOT have another baby right now.
1) Poop. Let's just say it's nice to be regular again.
2) Bridesmaid dresses. One of my dearest friends has asked me to stand up with her next fall, and it would be nice to fit into a normal-sized dress. (Because her wedding is all about me, of course.)
3) Fun with friends. It would be more fun if I was neither nursing nor pregnant for any of the four weddings being planned for next year. And I could throw myself one helluva 30th birthday bash. (Who cares if it's two years late!)
4) Sex. It's nice to want it again. I'm sure my husband agrees.
5) My dear Miss M. I want to treasure every moment with her. A new baby would be a distraction.
6) Morning sickness. Momnesia has successfully dulled my memory of this, but blog entries attest to what was apparently a miserable first half of my pregnancy.
7) Pregnancy brain.
8) Waking up six times a night to pee.
9) My already aching back.
10) Post-partum recovery.
What am I forgetting?
Lately, that urge has become so strong, it's all I can think about. So in an effort to restore my sanity, here is a list of all the reasons I should NOT have another baby right now.
1) Poop. Let's just say it's nice to be regular again.
2) Bridesmaid dresses. One of my dearest friends has asked me to stand up with her next fall, and it would be nice to fit into a normal-sized dress. (Because her wedding is all about me, of course.)
3) Fun with friends. It would be more fun if I was neither nursing nor pregnant for any of the four weddings being planned for next year. And I could throw myself one helluva 30th birthday bash. (Who cares if it's two years late!)
4) Sex. It's nice to want it again. I'm sure my husband agrees.
5) My dear Miss M. I want to treasure every moment with her. A new baby would be a distraction.
6) Morning sickness. Momnesia has successfully dulled my memory of this, but blog entries attest to what was apparently a miserable first half of my pregnancy.
7) Pregnancy brain.
8) Waking up six times a night to pee.
9) My already aching back.
10) Post-partum recovery.
What am I forgetting?
Monday, June 13, 2011
Fathers, be good to your daughters
"Any man can be a father. But it takes a special man to be a dad." So read the plaque on my father's dresser. Ironic, considering we have been estranged for nearly 15 years. By my choice, not his. Recently divorced, he reached out to me via my sister, the only member of my adoptive family with whom I have stayed in contact. She reluctantly informed me that he requested my presence at a family dinner for father's day.
My initial reaction was to think of as many excuses as I could to justify not going. For one, this is my husband's first father's day, and I intend to make the day about him. I'm in a good place, I have my own family now, and I want -- need -- to protect that. Then there's the the impossibility of showing up and pretending like I grew up in a "normal" loving family. And the fact that I have no desire to have a relationship with anyone from my adoptive family, including him.
Then, the more I tried to justify my feelings, I got angry. Why, after 15 years, do I still feel like I have to justify my decision to define family as the people with whom I choose to surround myself? And who does he think he is, asking me to recognize him on -- of all the holidays -- father's day? Suddenly, I am 16 years old again and seething with angst.
The day I moved out of my parents' house was the day my father pinned me to the dining room floor and hit me repeatedly. It wasn't the first time things got physical, but it was the last (at least with him. I wish I could say he was the last man who ever hit me, but that's another story for another time). There is no way to justify how something so stupid as a radio playing in the morning escalated to that. My mother picked the fight, there were heated words, and suddenly my dad got involved. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but that was just one of many incidents over years of feeling marginalized within my own family. The irony is that it was my mother who initiated most of the abuse. But it was my father who refused to stand up for me. Refused to protect me. And occasionally became the aggressor himself.
Both mothers and fathers are supposed to love their children unconditionally. But fathers, especially, have a responsibility to protect their children. To stand up for their children and themselves. To show their daughters what a real man is made of, so that their daughters will know to settle for nothing less in a mate.
Well-meaning strangers have attempted to give credit to my parents for the fact that I appear to have "turned out" all right. What they don't know, what my close friends don't know, what even I didn't realize until now, is that maybe I'm still not all right.
My initial reaction was to think of as many excuses as I could to justify not going. For one, this is my husband's first father's day, and I intend to make the day about him. I'm in a good place, I have my own family now, and I want -- need -- to protect that. Then there's the the impossibility of showing up and pretending like I grew up in a "normal" loving family. And the fact that I have no desire to have a relationship with anyone from my adoptive family, including him.
Then, the more I tried to justify my feelings, I got angry. Why, after 15 years, do I still feel like I have to justify my decision to define family as the people with whom I choose to surround myself? And who does he think he is, asking me to recognize him on -- of all the holidays -- father's day? Suddenly, I am 16 years old again and seething with angst.
The day I moved out of my parents' house was the day my father pinned me to the dining room floor and hit me repeatedly. It wasn't the first time things got physical, but it was the last (at least with him. I wish I could say he was the last man who ever hit me, but that's another story for another time). There is no way to justify how something so stupid as a radio playing in the morning escalated to that. My mother picked the fight, there were heated words, and suddenly my dad got involved. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but that was just one of many incidents over years of feeling marginalized within my own family. The irony is that it was my mother who initiated most of the abuse. But it was my father who refused to stand up for me. Refused to protect me. And occasionally became the aggressor himself.
Both mothers and fathers are supposed to love their children unconditionally. But fathers, especially, have a responsibility to protect their children. To stand up for their children and themselves. To show their daughters what a real man is made of, so that their daughters will know to settle for nothing less in a mate.
Well-meaning strangers have attempted to give credit to my parents for the fact that I appear to have "turned out" all right. What they don't know, what my close friends don't know, what even I didn't realize until now, is that maybe I'm still not all right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)