Sibling Reunion .....

If I'm remembering correctly, the last time that all three of my full siblings and I were together was in 1996.  It's also the only time we've all been together, except for when we were very young children.  In 1996, the occasion was our mother's birthday, and it was a surprise.  She hadn't seen me in several years, and hadn't seen my younger brother since he was taken away from her for adoption at the age of three months.

Last year my older brother and sister, who are fraternal twins, turned 60.  They decided on a co-celebration and invited me to join them.  Unfortunately, their birthday falls at a time when it just wasn't possible for me to get away so, reluctantly, I had to decline.  

So this year, as *I* turn 60 (and just how the heck did THAT happen?), there was some chatter about them coming to see me to formally acknowledge my official over-the-hill-ness.  In the end, though, we decided it was easiest if I traveled to them.  So, come April, I'll be heading off for a second sibling reunion.  I'm actually glad I'm making the trip this year rather than last, as my younger brother (who also didn't attend last year) will be able to join us!

I've met my sister's husband, but haven't met my brothers' wives, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to get to know these new-to-me family members. 

And I'm grateful that we all actually consider each other to BE siblings.  Legally, that's not the case, as adoption has officially made us "cousins" -- but we refuse to use that term.  We are, now and forever, brothers and sisters.  Siblings.  Family.

Happy Birthday to me!

Recruited .....

In the summer of 1980, I was (temporarily) a student at New York University.  Between classes, I often sat on a bench in Washington Square Park, alternately studying and people watching.  One day, I was approached by a clean-cut fellow who appeared to be in his mid-20's.  Hovering a few feet behind him was a young woman of about the same age.  She watched, smiling rather nervously, as the man started to talk.

 

He greeted me and said that they were members of an eclectic group of people who enjoyed music and art, were interested in social activism, and hoping to make new friends. He invited me to a potluck dinner the next weekend and gave me the address in Brooklyn.  I thanked him and said I'd consider it; he and his companion then headed towards a bench where another student was sitting by herself. They started talking and, I assume, she was extended the same invitation.

 

I admit, I was curious. I was also a little concerned for my safety, but assumed everything would be fine, since serial killers don't travel in pairs, right?

 

Good food, good music, good friends -- what could possibly go wrong?

Summer Camp Stories (part I) .....

I was sent to sleep-away camp every year that I lived with my uncle and his wife.  When I was younger, it would be for two weeks at a time; as I got older, it was for four weeks.  Although, as a rule, I usually enjoyed being out of the house for a while, my uncle's wife did at one point -- in one of her usual fits of frustration -- tell me that the primary reason for sending me was so that she wouldn't have to deal with me.  I wasn't surprised to hear that, but it still stung.

Regardless, off to camp I went.

In 1969, my uncle and his wife decided to take a month-long trip to Wales while my younger brother (who was, temporarily, living at home) and I were away at camp.  I don't know where he was sent, but I went to a local Girl Scout camp.  Unfortunately, in her narrow-focused desire to be free of me, my uncle's wife neglected to notice that the camp didn't offer four-week sessions.  Instead, the sessions were two weeks in length, and the counselors told me I was required to go home the weekend between. 

Oops.

I actually didn't mind heading off to summer camp, as it let me escape the abuse from my uncle's wife.

Sent away -- again (part II) .....

The driving distance from our house to the school was approximately six hours.  It took about half that time to fly, and by midday we'd landed in Waterville, Maine (population ~18,000).  From there, we drove a rental car to the school, which was located in North Vassalboro.  Though just 10 minutes outside the "city," it was an extremely rural area, home to numerous dairy farms and had a population of just over 2,600.

Having grown up first in a small city, then in a suburban community, I was upset to find myself in what I perceived to be the middle of nowhere.  The school, itself, was a disappointment.  Unlike the nice Canadian school I'd toured, this facility had an enormous main building, but it was shabby and in need of maintenance.  My assigned dorm room was large, but run-down, and from the moment I set foot on campus, I felt like I didn't belong.  I didn't want to be there, but it was what I'd chosen (based only on a directory description) and this was to be my prison "home" for the next nine months.

Oak Grove-Coburn School -- closed in 1989; now the site of the Maine Criminal Justice Academy.

Sent away -- again (part I).....

Sometime during my sophomore year of high school, I made a suggestion to my uncle.  Having met with my guidance counselor and counted my credits, I realized that I would have enough credits -- though just barely -- to graduate one year early.  My uncle's response was a quick and firm "no."  Since I had skipped first grade, I was already one of the youngest students in my grade, and graduating early meant that I'd be just two months past my 15th birthday.  He thought that I was simply too young and too immature.

Later during the school year, I made another suggestion -- that I be allowed to finish my last two years at boarding school.  I'd met a girl at "fat camp" the summer before who attended boarding school and said she enjoyed not living at home.  Again, my suggestion was rejected.  During the brief time that my younger brother lived at home (between discharge from the juvenile psychiatric facility and being remanded to the adult psychiatric hospital [at the age of 14]), my uncle and his wife had placed him in a nearby boarding school.  He'd lasted only a couple months before being expelled.  Since boarding school tuition is non-refundable, my thrifty uncle had lost quite a bit of money with that venture.

That didn't stop me from asking again, several more times that year.  However, each time I was told that boarding school was not a possibility.

No graduating early, no boarding school, no getting out of the house anytime soon.

What the "experts" decided .....

In preparation for my (as yet unsuccessful) quest to have my adoption annulled, I decided to request a copy of the records from my second adoption, so I filled out the form, had it notarized, and mailed it off to the Department of Families and Children.  Soon afterwards, I received an e-mail from one of the employees of the "Adoption Search Unit" with the following information:

The application for adoption states the following:

[Grandfather], sole surviving legal guardian of [me], a minor child, desires to place said [me] for adoption with [uncle] and [uncle's wife].  And whereas [uncle] is the natural uncle of said child and thereby a blood relative descendent from a common ancestor not more than three generations removed from said child.  That the court approve a certain adoption agreement between [grandfather] the surviving legal guardian, [uncle] and [uncle's wife], the proposed adoptive parents of said child, to adopt said [me], which agreement is dated 12/28/67 at [city, state].

The record indicates that you were placed with maternal aunt and uncle on 11/9/67.  Your grandmother's burial per her death certificate was 11/6/67 in [cemetery] in [city, state].

The follow-up letter, which didn't provide much information beyond what I'd already learned.

A Mother's Hands .....

Preface

After my second adoption, I stopped referring to my uncle and his wife by those names and started calling them "dad" and "mom."  For the purposes of keeping this blog as uncomplicated as possible, I'll continue with the original terms.



A while back, I accompanied a friend and her mother as they browsed the stacks in a used book store.  At one point, my friend knelt down to look at the title on the bottom shelf and, as she did so, her mother reached out her hand to gently touch the top of my friend's head.  It was a sweet, loving, totally un-selfconscious gesture and, seeing it, I felt a deep pang of regret.

The stereotypical view of a mother's hands -- gentle, kind and caring.

In all the time I lived with my uncle and his wife, I can remember only two instances of obvious kindness:  the morning of my first day at my school, when she stood with me at the bus stop; and about three years later when I was home sick and she, without me asking, fixed me something special for lunch.

Two kindnesses in somewhat more than 2,200 days of living in that house.

On the other hand (no pun intended), the cruelties were numerous.

Cancelling the Adoption Contract

Look at any website encouraging women to give up their babies for adoption and you’ll see that one of the promises is a “forever family” for the child. Sign on the dotted line and, and you’re guaranteed that s/he will have a better life and a permanent family. For someone who truly wants the best for her child, this can be an enticing lure.

The reality, though, is that adoptive parents don’t have to be bound by this contract. At any point in the child’s life, should the adopters decide that they no longer can, or want to, parent the child, they can place the child in foster care, petition to have their parental rights legally terminated, or simply “rehome” the child – oftentimes through a shadowy, unregulated network of online sources. This is known as an adoption “dissolution” (as opposed to a “disruption,” which occurs prior to finalization).

According to the Child Welfare Information Gateway, between 1% and 5% of finalized adoptions dissolve. It’s impossible to know the true number, due to sealed records, child name changes, and modification of other personal information, but if more than 130,000 adoptions are finalized each year (again, per the Gateway), then somewhere between 1,300 to 6,500 adoption contracts are cancelled by adoptive parents on an annual basis.

Unfortunately, the person who is arguably most affected by adoption – the adoptee – has no similar recourse under this contract. Once you’re adopted, you’re adopted forever. I know this, because I’ve been trying for the past year to find a way to cancel my own adoption “contract.”

My personal adoption experience is ..... complicated. The “Cliff Notes” version is that I was adopted twice – the second time at the age of 11, by relatives who took me in only out of a sense of “familial responsibility”. The age of consent in the state where I was living was 12, so even though I was vehemently opposed to the adoption, I had no input into the decision. I was never interviewed by a social worker, and I never appeared before a judge. The limited information I’m able to obtain from my adoption file includes this statement: “presently family feels [child] has adjusted quite well and is eager for adoption”. (Emphasis added.)

This is blatantly untrue. I was being abused – emotionally and physically – and was desperately unhappy. I hated living with these relatives, and they made no secret of the fact that they didn’t even like me – much less love me. Within a year of going to live with them, I had started writing diary entries in which I contemplated suicide – at the age of 11.

Regardless, the adoption was finalized and my birth certificate amended for a second time. These people are now my “as if born to” parents and, unless I can persuade my executrix to “forget” my adoptive status, they’ll also be listed as such on my death certificate.

A couple years ago, I decided I’d had enough of being adopted, and started working towards ending that status. All three sets of parents (one birth, two adoptive) are deceased, so there are no concerns with wills or inheritances. It’s just about me wanting to legally sever ties with the adoptive family and reclaim my place in my real family, with whom I’ve been in reunion for more than 30 years. The first step was going to court and legally reclaiming the name given to me by my birth parents. Then I started researching the possibility of actually annulling my adoption – and that’s where I hit a brick wall.

I dug through state law until I found a form one can complete and file with a court to re-open and review decisions made in family matters. I sent it, accompanied by a $175 fee, to the court and waited for a letter giving me my court date. Instead, I received a call from the Clerk saying the form didn’t apply to adoptions, that they had no jurisdiction over adoptions, and that I’d have to contact a different court. I did so, and was told that “there is no process to annul adoptions” in the state and that I needed to contact an attorney for more information.

I’d found another possible route, which was to file an official “appeal”. However, the attorney informed me (and this was confirmed by the court) that there is no standard form for appealing a family decision. It has to be made in the form of a letter, which can only be crafted by an attorney since it must include relevant citations and such. However, he added that adoption annulment is not supported by state law and, therefore, highly unlikely to be granted. He also informed me that the filing fee was $350 and that if the appeal was rejected outright (and he was sure it would be), the fee was non-refundable. He said my only real option was to be adopted by some other adult, who would then become my legal parent. I pointed out that a) at 57, I’m far too old to be re-adopted and b) I don’t want to be RE-adopted, just UN-adopted.

I then contacted three different legislators who represent the state, asking for their help in this matter. Two never responded; the third’s answer was that the Constitution’s separation of powers clause prevents him from getting involved. And that I should consult an attorney for more information. My next thought was that I could try to annul my *first* adoption, which took place in a different state, because if the first adoption didn’t exist, then the second one wouldn’t either. After some research, I found that the state does have a provision by which a form can be filed to annul an adoption, but I couldn’t find the actual form, itself. I didn’t wait to be told to consult an attorney – I was proactive in making contact.

Unfortunately, the attorney said that no adoption can be appealed for any reason, if more than two years have passed since finalization. I was 40+ years too late. He did helpfully suggest that I could try finding someone else to adopt me.

So I’m back to square one. I’m still investigating other options, but the painful reality is that there is simply no way for *an adoptee* to easily annul an adoption. And I have to ask, “Why?”

In my opinion, adoption is a legal contract between the state and the adoptive parents, with the child being the “property” that is conveyed. However, as one person said to me, “An adoptee can’t unadopt him/herself any more than a house can unsell itself.”

Whether adopted as an infant, or as a child, this decision -- made by others -- is irrevocable and binding on the adoptee. That’s neither appropriate nor fair.

Yes, I’ve heard the counter-argument that biological children can’t “divorce” their parents, either. Apples and oranges. The biological child wasn’t taken from his/her first family and given to others to raise. There was no contract written establishing the legal relationship. The child’s birth certificate was never altered. If a biological child really wants to sever familial ties, well, just find someone else to adopt him/her. After all, if it’s good enough for some of us .....

Most adoptees won’t want to cancel the adoption contract and, obviously, no one should ever be forced to do so, but the option MUST be available for those of us who DO want it. At the age of majority, the adoptee should have the absolute right to decide whether s/he wants to remain a member of the adoptive family. If not, then the state has the moral obligation to honor that decision. 

Anything less is unacceptable.

"Fat" is a four-letter word (part III) .....

As I've already mentioned, my weight was a constant source of irritation to my uncle's wife, and it was something she regularly criticized me for.

 

The school day started early, so I was always out of the house by 7:30AM or so.  Lunch was at  approximately 12:00PM, and dinner was usually around 7:00PM, since we had to wait for my uncle to arrive home from work, and his commute was at least an hour.

 

Once my aunt declared that my weight was unacceptable, food was off-limits to me between meals.  As a growing adolescent, seven hours was a looooooooooong time to have to wait between lunch and dinner.  I've also mentioned that food was a source of comfort, so I had a constant and ongoing combination of physical and emotional hunger. 

 

That pretty much sums it up.

 

But a hungry child is a clever child.

 

Dreams .....

Over the approximately seven years that I lived with my uncle and his wife, I often had what I called "escape dreams" in which I was trying to run away from various captors.  Quite often, I was being held prisoner by Germans, which I attribute to the numerous WWII-themed TV shows of that era, but even then I recognized that the people I was trying to escape from were actually my uncle and (more significantly) his wife.  Occasionally I recorded dreams in my diary, but often I forgot the details before I was able to write them down.

 

One exception is the escape dream I had in late July, 1970.  It was strikingly vivid in its details and realism (I physically *felt* some dreamed objects), and I was able to get it all on paper while it was still fresh in my mind.

 

I present it here exactly as I penned it in 1970:

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

"I had another dream the other night.  It is the worst dream and one of the most realistic dreams I have ever had."

 

If I'd run as much in my waking life as I did while dreaming,
I wouldn't have had a weight problem.

 

 

 

"Fat" is a four-letter word (part II) .....

As I matured, I wanted to wear pantyhose, which had become increasingly popular in the late 1960's and early 1970's.  Of course, this was another item that my uncle's wife refused to buy for me.  She told me I could buy my own pantyhose with my own money.  Unfortunately, since I had no money of my own, and no realistic way of earning any, this was impossible.

 

Instead, she got me white bobby socks -- a style that had gone out of fashion at least a decade prior.



OK, sure -- I wear these now, but I'm old and don't care anymore.
It's very different when you're a young teenager desperately trying to fit in with your peers.

My oh-so-sophisticated classmates -- who'd earlier mocked my Girl Scout uniform and Go-Go lunch box -- again let me know that I was in violation of societal norms.  One memory is indelibly imprinted in my memory:  Popular girl Taryn sneering at me before Gym class and saying, with oh-so-false sincerity, "I like your so-oooocks."  My response?  "Thanks."  What else could I say?

"Fat" is a four-letter word (part I) .....

My weight was a constant source of irritation to my uncle's wife, who was tall and naturally slim.  Although I was "chubby" when I arrived, it wasn't long before I started gaining weight fairly steadily.  The exercise I'd gotten in the city -- walking to school, walking to the park, walking to friends' houses, roller skating on the sidewalk -- was replaced by riding a school bus and driving to town.  I was able to ride my bike until my brother destroyed it.  The bike was never replaced and I didn't ride again until I went to college a decade later.

The dreaded scale, verifying what was already obvious.

My uncle's wife frequently commented, negatively, about my eating habits.  She never commented on my younger brother, who ate voraciously.  However, since he was always on the go, his weight stayed well within a "normal" range.   Obviously, it wasn't what I ate, but what I looked like, that was so unacceptable.

It's the thought that counts .....

One of the many differences in my new "home" was the weather.  I'd been living in the Midwest, and had seen a fair amount of cold and snow -- but not nearly the amount that I'd experience in New England, and my wardrobe wasn't adequate.

 

At the first snow, realizing that my lightweight coat wouldn't be warm enough, my uncle's wife reached into the hall closet and pulled out the blue ski jacket that had previously been worn by her daughter.  She gave it to me and told me to wear it.

I'd never even seen a ski jacket before.  The one I was given
looked very much like this and had belonged to my adoptive sister.

I wasn't happy about wearing someone else's coat, but knew better than to complain (too much).  In the end, it didn't matter because it was already on the small size and would only fit me that one season.

 

 

Dear Diary (1968-69) .....

My grandmother kept a diary for years and faithfully wrote entries every single day.  I received a diary when I was 11 (birthday present, I'm guessing) and made a rather half-hearted attempt to keep a record of my life.  Unfortunately, I wasn't very good at it, and I had a younger brother who kept stealing it to read it (even though there was very little written inside -- go figure).

I did make some notes about life with my new adoptive "family" during my first couple years there.  I'm transcribing them now just as I wrote them then.

One of two .....

As I posted earlier, upon my arrival I was informed that I was now "one of four" kids and, therefore, not entitled to anything other than what everyone else had.  However, the reality was that there weren't four kids living at home at that point.  My uncle's daughter had left for college that Fall, and once she was no longer a permanent resident, my uncle and his wife opted to send their Down Syndrome son to an institution in a city two hours away.  Their daughter had been his primary care-giver, much more so than his parents, and he was too much trouble(?), too difficult(?), too time-consuming(?) for them to handle without her.  They never told me the real reason, and I never asked.  He lived at the institution full-time, coming home only every other weekend, until he moved to an adult group home several years later.

 

Therefore, the only other child living at home was my younger brother.  Recall that he was both my biological brother (adopted at the age of three months) and, soon, my adoptive brother as well.

 

 

 

Fish out of water .....

I'd lived my entire life in cities; first San Francisco, then a small city in the Midwest.  My uncle, however, lived in a New England suburb.  Despite its size (pop. ~15,000), it was far more cosmopolitan than the city where I'd been living (pop. ~600,000).  Its location, approximately one hour outside New York City, meant that many of its residents worked in "the city" and, in fact, many were (and still are) at least semi-famous:  novelists, actors, politicians.  One of my classmates-to-be was a child model and had, by 6th grade, already appeared in several magazines.

It was vastly different from what I was used to.

One of four .....

I have no conscious memory of the next few days.  The drive to the East Coast took most of two days, and I don't remember anything of the trip.  I know I sat in the backseat, likely reading or napping the entire time.  If I cried, it was done silently, and neither my uncle nor his wife would have bothered to try comforting me.

As my uncle would later say, many times, he didn't believe in psychiatrists and counseling.  Any problems could and should be dealt with privately and on one's own.  And neither he nor his wife believed in "coddling" children.

I knew it was going to be vastly different, but I hadn't realized how difficult life would actually be with my uncle's family. 

Saying goodbye .....

Going through my grandfather's effects after his death, we found several letters and photographs. Shuffling through them, I came across one that I'd forgotten even existed, and seeing it brought tears to my eyes.

 

Somehow during the intervening years, I've lost the picture, but I have a clear memory of it, even now.  It's a photo of my uncle, my uncle's wife, and me -- taken just before we left for the drive "home" after my grandmother's funeral.

 

The three of us are posed in front of the family car, a station wagon.  Hitched to it, a small U-Haul trailer carrying all my worldly possessions.

 

 

 

The end of the beginning .....

The days immediately following my grandmother's death are rather hazy now.  My uncle's wife soon arrived, having made arrangements for the care of her children and then driven 800+ miles to reach my grandfather's house.  Of course, my mother (my grandmother's daughter) was notified and, as with her relinquishment of my brother and I a decade prior, there are conflicting stories about her response.

 

She was never financially well-off, and she simply didn't have the money to fly from the West Coast.  When we talked later in life, she said she told her brother and father that she wanted to attend the funeral, but just couldn't unless they paid the airfare.  My uncle's version was that she said she'd ONLY attend the funeral if one of them paid the airfare.  He never hesitated to remind me how "selfish" and "unsuccessful" she was. 

 

 

 

A side note:  When someone makes disparaging comments about an adoptee's first parent(s), it's like making a disparaging comment about the adoptee him/herself.  After all, we are the biological offspring of our first parents.  They are part of us and we are part of them, whether or not we have a relationship with them or even know them.  Please be respectful of that.

Unloved and unwanted .....

It was early November, 1967, and my grandmother had just died from breast cancer.  I thought nothing worse could possibly happen, but then my grandfather told me that, after the funeral, I'd be going home with his son (my maternal uncle).

When my birth mother allowed her parents to adopt me, it was with the understanding that they'd be able to give me a better, more stable, life.  Obviously, no one anticipated this tragic turn of events back in 1958, but this is why I suggested earlier that my grandparents were too old to adopt me.