I Am My Mother’s Daughter

From an adoptee’s point of view....
A story by a high school student Why do mothers love their daughters unconditionally? Could it be because she has her eyes or her hair? Maybe it’s because she knows she created her. Or perhaps love comes hand-in-hand with the seemingly unending torture of labor. Although I don’t have my mother’s eyes, I’m not her creation, and she didn’t carry me in her womb for nine months, nothing will prevent her from loving me more than anything in the world. The idea of loving a stranger’s child became a complex concept for many people, including myself, to understand. My adoption story is about as typical as they come (if there is a typical story.) I was merely six years old when I was informed how special I was for being “chosen”. In first grade Mrs. Wollert sent her students home with a project. We were given pieces of construction paper with holes in the side binded together with ribbon. On the front appeared the title “About Me”. My peers and I were assigned to draw pictures of our family and explain our similar characteristics, a.k.a., “genes”. I sat in my minute desk pondering what “genes” I had from my mother. “It couldn’t be the hair; hers was gray with a dark brown tint. I must have her eyes,” I thought. I was anxious to get home and begin my project. At such a young age, I hadn’t fallen into the wretched habit of procrastination. I was determined to have the best project in the class (as always), allowing my obsessive side to shine. After the most dreadful classes of the day (Art, French, and Social Studies), the bell finally rang. I sped out of the classroom, ran to my locker, and jogged out the door to the carpool line. Immediately, I spotted my mother, she was driving one of the first cars in line; she is always punctual, a trait I will always admire. I casually strolled up to the car and waited for the hall monitor to open the passenger door. I gazed into my mother’s big brown eyes. I flipped down the visor and peered into the miniature mirror to reassure my suspicion. Just as I recalled, my eyes were bright blue. Ignoring my confusion I told my mother all about my school day, most importantly, my project. My mother didn’t say a word, exactly the opposite of what I expected. The silence was eerie and awkward. My mother, the smartest person in the world (or so I thought), didn’t know what to say. I was in shock. Not a word was spoken until we entered our beautiful home. My mother sat me on her lap and explained how I was “special”. My chosen story was the typical story adoptive parents tell their adopted children. My mother and father were told they couldn’t have children, so they decided to adopt a baby girl. They went to the hospital and I envisioned my mother and father walking in between numerous aisles looking at every baby, then, suddenly they spotted me. I had something that stood out to them; that made them want me. Perhaps it was my bright blue eyes that both of my parents envied. Whatever it was, my story was just like every other adopted child’s chosen story. Their parent’s saw something in them that they just couldn’t live without. As sweet as this chosen story may seem, there are multiple flaws behind the intentialy heartwarming story that Lifton addresses in her book Lost and Found: The Adoption Experience. Lifton points out “The central character, the woman who gave birth is missing.” Lifton further claims, “Many Adoptees have told me that the stories made them feel twice rejected: by the natural parents who didn’t keep them, and by the adoptive parents who couldn’t have a baby of their own. Being chosen meant being second best.” I must admit, I have felt rejected by my biological parents before; however, taking on this attitude toward one’s adopted parents is unreasonable. From the beginning the adoptee is creating a divide between themselves and their new family. Because of this absence of a typical family relationship, adoptees are more likely to abuse drugs and alcohol, and have severe personality disorders. (Bohman, M.) However, I was not concerned with the errors in my chosen story, nor did I even fathom having psychological problems one day; being a naive girl, I was consumed in my own dreams. I thought to myself, if I wasn’t her daughter, then maybe I was Britney Spears’ little sister, or even better, Justin Timberlake’s cousin. Then I realized, if I was in fact related to Justin, my future plans of marrying him would be impossible; however, I was content thinking I could be his cousin. Soon my fantasies were rudely interrupted by disappointment; my project would be ruined! I didn’t have any “genes” from my mother. Geez. How self-centered could I be? There my mother was, talking to me about how much she loved me, telling me she had chosen me. And what was I doing? Daydreaming and worrying about my insignificant first grade project. Like any typical first grader, my mother and I didn’t have many deep conversations. I wish I had actually listened to what she was telling me instead of thinking about becoming Mrs. Timberlake. As I grew older I continued to dwell upon my unrealistic famous life. Unfortunately, with age came a preteen attitude my mother loathed. This horrible temperament reached it’s peak in fifth grade. I was finally an upperclassman...of Elementary School. My friends and I planned for weeks to go to the mall-without an adult chaperone. The Monday before our adventure, I finally gained enough courage to ask for my mother’s permission to join them. I had already played the conversation out in my head. She would say something along the lines of “N-O.” To make her response more effective, she would spell out “no”, then say “period!” Even though by her tone anyone could clearly tell it should have been an exclamation point. My mother did, in fact, say exactly what I expected. However, I fired back the meanest, harshest words anyone in my situation could possibly imagine. Two sentences I will always regret. Out of my mouth spilled, “You can’t tell me what to do! You’re not even my real mother!” Instantaneously, my mother’s eyes became filled with a warm, shiny liquid. She blinked rapidly attempting to prevent the buildup of tears. When my mother’s bottom eyelids couldn’t hold any more water, she began to cry convulsively. This instance was the first time I had ever caused such sorrow to my mother. I had never seen anyone so upset my entire life. With two sentences I had caused my mother more pain than a thousand knives stabbing her all over her body. However, my forgiving mother was able to understand I was merely a child who didn’t get their way and spoke without thinking. Yet, at the time I wasn’t asking for forgiveness. I sat there and pouted because I couldn’t go to the mall. I must admit, I am extremely stubborn; I would have continued to pout if someone was holding a gun to my head, if I believed it would result in my mother’s permission to go to the mall. While my mother sobbed to her seemingly unsympathetic stubborn child, it hit me-this woman who dedicated her whole life to me is my real mother. I am not the person I became because of my inheritance; I am my mother’s daughter because my real mother raised me. How could I ever think she wasn’t my “real mom” just because she hadn’t created me? A person’s mother is someone who will love you no matter what happens. My mother is the person who loves me even after I hurt her more than anything in the world. Even though I never had, and never will, consider the person who gave birth to me my mother, the subject could not be completely avoided my entire life. She was brought up during eighth grade. For our eighth grade portfolio, my class was instructed to write a short story. My friend, Callie, decided to write about the struggles of being adopted, from my perspective. Callie asked many questions that I couldn’t answer, such as, “What’s your real name?” “How old were your parents?” “Why did they put you up for adoption?” Naturally, these questions made me more curious than ever. At my house these questions were generally avoided; as you can imagine, it was a very emotional subject for all of us. I was tired of questions. I wanted answers. Callie inspired me to talk to my parents that evening. After dinner I solemnly told my mother I needed to talk to her. We sat in the kitchen looking at each other while I slowly gained enough courage to begin asking my mother important (or so I thought) questions. After a few minutes of stuttering I finally blurted out “Why was I put up for adoption?” My mother explained that my parents were 17 years old and in high school when they had me. She continued to express that the situation was far too difficult for teenagers to finish school and start a life with a baby to care for. My mother told me everything she knew except my real name. I felt mistreated, I wanted to know where I came from, what genes I inherited, and I needed to know why that teenage mother didn’t love me. Luckily, for once my real mother was being selfish, and refused to tell me the limited information she knew about my biological family. Currently, the subject of an open or a closed adoption is highly debatable. In an open adoption the biological mother and adoptive parents stay in contact, weather it be in person, over the phone, or through mail. Nowadays many agencies highly encourage, or even require open adoptions. According to Brodzinsky and Schechter the adoptee benefits the most from an open adoption. The adoptee’s relationship with both, their birth mother and their adoptive parents, enables the adoptee to overcome his/her underlying sense of rejection. Although elaborate studies have proven Brodzinsky and Schechter correct, the idea of the birth mother keeping in contact with the adoptive family does not thrill numerous adoptive parents. According to Siegel many potential parents “Fear that openness in adoption sets the stage for birth parents interfering in the adoptive family’s life, complicates the child’s identity formation, interferes with the bonding between the child and the adoptive parents, and impedes the developments of the adopting adult’s parental role.” In my experience I believe that if my parents had an open adoption my life today would be immensely altered. I would not have considered my adoptive mother my real mother, in turn causing me to distance me from the family I am part of today and will be for the rest of my life. To this day I am glad my mother never told me my “real name”. She was worried that curiosity would have gotten the best of me, making me search for that woman who carried me in her womb. She protected me from excessive emotional trauma and from losing my true mother. Occasionally I do find myself wondering what my parents look like, if their life is better because they decided not to raise me, and if they regret putting me up for adoption. Shortly after my mind begins to wonder, I think about my real mom and realize none of these questions matter, I am in a loving family and I am happy with whom I have become. My mother isn’t the person who created me, or shares my eye color. My mother is the person who will always love me and never give up on me; despite the numerous mistakes I make. My mother will be with me through every heartbreak and smile. I will always love her.

Lydia Davis