Module #10: Openness in Adoption
Homework: Pre-Session Assignment #5
Read the following five articles with your clinical/social work/counseling hat on. From each article, extract what is most useful to you. Be prepared in class to contribute a discussion around the following questions:
- What are the realities of search and reunion that as professionals we need be very mindful of?
- In working with an adult adoptee, how would you help prepare him/her for search and reunion and sustain him/her through her search and possibly into reunion?
- What are your primary learnings about the experiences of birth parents, particularly birth mothers, in the search and reunion experience?
"How to Be His Mother"
Twenty-six years after placing my son for adoption, we found each other. That's when I started learning - the hard way - how to be a mom.
by Denise Roessle
June 12, 2016
Eight years ago, I became the mother of a 26-year-old man—a virtual stranger with whom I had little in common other than a handful of genes, and no history beyond the nine months he had spent in my belly.
Like many birth mothers, I had no more children after relinquishing my baby, in 1970. My sole experience with parenting came when I married 12 years later and became stepmother to my husband’s 16-year-old son. I failed miserably, although I can’t take all the blame. Being dropped smack into the middle of his troubled adolescence, I probably didn’t have much of a shot. My tendency to replicate my own parents’ rigid style (which I had hated, growing up) didn’t help. Twenty years down the road, my stepson and I have a wonderful relationship. But our first few years together—coupled with guilt for having given up my only child for adoption—left me certain that I was not “mother material.”
When my birth son and I found each other, everything changed.
Contrary to everyone’s assurances that I would “forget and move on”—conventional wisdom at the time I relinquished my son—not a day went by that I didn’t think of him. Although I was afraid to search, I registered with International Soundex Reunion Registry when he turned 18. An ISRR search is by mutual consent (both parties must file for a match to be made). After eight years with no results, I had given up hope. Then the call came. My son had registered two weeks earlier. We talked that night, and 10 days later I was on a plane from San Francisco to New Orleans to meet him.
My Adult Child
From the beginning, Josh called me “Mom” and said he loved me. As he described his difficult childhood and teen years, his failed first marriage, and scrapes with the law, I was overcome with guilt for having left him. And I wanted to make it up to him. He and his second wife, an equally troubled 17-year-old who was expecting their first child, were financially and emotionally needy. He was estranged from his adoptive parents—so much so, that we didn’t know until later that his adoptive mom had died a month before. He was clearly looking for a mother, and I desperately wanted the job.
Most adults—adopted or not—don’t need, let alone want, parenting. And most adoptees, when they decide to search, aren’t seeking another mother. In reunion, there are issues to address, feelings to process, and expectations to resolve. Even in her relief and joy at finding her child, the birth mother often feels unexpressed grief, shame, and guilt. The adoptee may feel angry, overwhelmed, or disloyal to his adoptive family. But once the dust settles, the birth mother and her son or daughter are essentially two grown people with their own lives—which can include each other on a healthy, adult level.
I didn’t know that in 1996, and I didn’t care. For the first time, I felt lucky, fearless, and worthy of motherhood. My long-buried maternal instincts surfaced in an euphoric rush, and I leaped whole-heartedly into the relationship. Our first year was a “honeymoon,” enhanced by our easy relationship, cross-country visits, and the birth of my granddaughter.
When I look back, I see that Josh and I acted out the natural stages of parent and child at an accelerated pace. After months of enjoying his childlike behavior—the cute magnets he sent me, and his inability to make even the smallest decision without my advice—I began to resent the level of attention he needed. But by then, he had changed into a demanding, defiant teenager. His expectations of what a mother should be, and my inability to meet them, crashed head-on.
At first, I ignored his history and believed that he would be fine once he had me in his life. The longer I knew him, the more worrisome his problems became—his inability to maintain relationships, lack of compassion for others, and quick temper. I watched helplessly as his second marriage disintegrated. When his wife left him and their 10-month-old daughter, he turned to me. I was willing to help until it became clear that he held me responsible for his misfortune and expected me to change my life to repair his.
The next few years brought more confrontation. He jumped in and out of jobs, married and divorced again, and moved around the country, sometimes without telling me where he was. Trapped between my own need and fear of losing him—possibly forever—it was all I could do to hang on.
Changing Me
It took a long time to grasp that I was not doing him any favors by trying to rescue him or to compensate for what was long past. I had to learn to set and maintain boundaries. I had to resist the urge to “fix” him and solve all of his problems (which may or may not have come from being relinquished, and, boy, did I suffer guilt with that one). I had to accept him as the person he was. I had to stand up to his tests—so obviously aimed at seeing if I would leave him again—and trust that our relationship would endure. I had to demonstrate healthy adult behavior and respond to him with love, even when I didn’t like him very much.
Parents, both biological and adoptive, learn such lessons every day, often through trial and error—although usually with the advantage of having started at the beginning. They have plenty of role models, while birth mothers do not. We are an invisible lot and rarely have the benefit of one another’s insight until we are distraught enough to seek support. Friends and family members who have raised children, while well-meaning, come from a different experience. With openness and reunion on the rise, there are now more resources: books, support groups, and therapists who are knowledgeable about relinquishment, adoption, and reunion. I used these to learn to be a good mother. It was a long-term project, like raising kids.
Making the necessary changes in myself was hard work, and the changes often met with resistance from Josh. Over time, our battles became less terrifying, our “time outs” less devastating, and things began to improve.
Something else happened along the way: Josh hit his thirties. He matured and settled. Although it’s impossible to know for sure, I like to think that my presence in his life played a part. So did his fourth (and, I hope, his last) wife, who also refused to give up on him. They’ve been married for five years and, between his, hers, and theirs, have four children.
Josh and I have had our ups and downs, but I’m pleased to say that today we’re on a steadier track. We still disagree—about money, manners, child-rearing—and we probably always will. But like most parents with grown children, I can now relax a little and enjoy being a mother and grandmother. I’m pretty good at it, after all.
Sometimes a Reunion Gives an Adoptee New Secrets
By Heather Katz on January 28, 2014 inInReunionSearching
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Heather Katz, Co-founder of Secret Sons & Daughters, shares her adoption reunion journey in search of peace and equanimity.
I have never kept deep secrets of my own, and yet, I was born one. I entered the world in an outdated era, darkened with shame, dishonesty and guilt. I am, at forty-two years of age, an adoptee still longing to fill in the low-lying branches of my biological family tree.
In the winter of 1971, the unthinkable came to pass for a good, unwedded girl from a devoutly Irish Catholic family—she fell pregnant. Mortified, feeling very much alone, and carrying the firm belief that there was no one to turn to for help, my frightened mother concealed her swelling belly from the rest of the world.
She was sweet, remarkably beautiful, and sought after by many suitors. As a college sophomore with a scholarship in language arts, she had looked forward to a bright future. Despite her dashed dreams, my mother hoped to keep her growing miracle.
At seven months into her pregnancy, her mother finally uncovered the truth. The following day, her parents set events in motion that would alter the course of many lives to follow.
The family arranged for my mother to leave her home state and move into the Edna Gladney Center for unwed mothers in Fort Worth, Texas. No one in her hometown, including her siblings, was ever to know of me—and she was never to speak of my birth.
For nine months, I innocently played beneath her beating heart, and on the day I took my first breath, they pried me from her arms. As she cried, the Gladney counselors tried to comfort her, saying she’d happily marry, have more babies and possibly even enjoy a satisfying career.
Focus on the present. Move on with your life. Those were the messages of that time.
Eleven days after my mother had returned home without me, I was enrolled in an unrecognized form of the American witness protection program. The state of Texas stamped, “Classified,” (or so it feels) across my original birth certificate, replaced the old one with my new identifying information, and then placed me into the (fortunately) loving arms of another set of parents.
I had a charmed childhood. My dad was a Rabbi (now Emeritus) of a large Reform congregation in San Antonio, and both of my parents are recognized leaders in the community. My mom was the Director of Family Life Education at Jewish Family Services and a full-time, attentive mother to my adopted, younger sister and me. I was raised in a warm, well-ordered, and accepting family, as well as in a large group of caring congregants.
We did not keep secrets in our family. From the moment I was adopted, my parents spoke openly of my adoption. When I was only three months old, my great-great aunt asked my mom when she was going to tell me I was adopted. My mom responded with, “I am just going to tell her that she is a girl, Anglo, American and adopted. Being adopted will always be part of her identity.” Indeed, it was. I do not recall a moment of notknowing I was adopted.
After years of trying to conceive, and then waiting even longer to adopt, my parents got “the call” from Gladney that made me their own.
I felt special and wanted. My parents continually expressed their belief that although my original parents could not care for me, they had probably wanted me. I’m unsure I believed that latter part at the time, but my parents still found numerous ways to help me feel loved.
They declared that their adopted children were unequivocally theirs, no matter how we each had come to them, and that we were, and still are, just as much a part of them as any biological baby might have been.
Appearance wise, I thought I fit in nicely with my family and friends. When folks would say I looked just like my mom, she’d say, “Well, thank you, that is a huge compliment, but Heather is adopted.”
I would follow with, “I love looking like my mom.”
Afterwards, and when alone, we’d chuckle.
Most of the time, I forgot I was adopted. If ever I felt unlike my childhood peers, it was more because I was a Rabbi’s daughter, and not because the two people who raised me were not my original parents.
In this broad-minded setting, whenever I was curious, I would ask a multitude of questions and openly fantasize about my genetic ancestry. When my sister, Alisa and I were young, we’d play all kinds of speculative games. Repeatedly, we’d tell my parents that each of us surely had the taller natural father than the other. I’d bet Alisa the trade of a laborious home chore that my father was the tallest, and resembled our six-foot-one dad the most. Therefore, I’d eventually grow to the required five-foot-nine inches to win a modeling contract. I lost. My sister’s natural father is enormous, and she is five-foot-seven. I barely rise above five–foot-two!
This intense curiosity persists today: I still wonder which unknown family member passed on their musical abilities to both my children and me; I wonder what family folklore I might never hear; and while I met my birth father once, there is much I cannot say or know.
My parents spoke kindly of my unknown family and assured me that they would help me search some day. When I was twenty-one-years-old, they set their own fears aside, rolled up their sleeves, and joined me in my journey to find the missing pieces.
My parents hired a search specialist. The weekend of my 21st birthday, while I was on a camping trip, my mom spent hours on the phone, calling all over the country to track down my natural mother. When I returned to my college dorm, my mom called me and said, “I found her!” I was scared to death. I did not want to contact her until I was in the supportive presence of my parents and had had the opportunity to meet this supposed saint-like intermediary. So, I waited a few months until I was home from college for winter break.
I remember the intermediary’s words: “Adoption is about loss. Each member of the triad has faced some sort of loss, but hopefully some kind of gain as well.” She then asked if I was ready to face whatever I might find on the other side of that proverbial locked door. I said, “Yes!”
She turned up the volume on our phone and dialed my natural mother’s number. After several rings, she answered, “Hello?” in a soft, deep southern accent. I grabbed Mom’s arm.
The intermediary introduced herself as a social worker, then she asked: “Does October 30th mean anything to you?” There was utter silence. I felt my heart tumble in my chest.
I wondered if she was okay, or if she’d hung up. I did not want to hurt her. I only wanted to know her and tell her that I loved her. What felt like an hour, but was only thirty-seconds, passed. Finally, she asked if she could place the phone down. She needed to move to a more private location. Then, after asking the intermediary about my state of health and happiness, she whispered, “My family does not know about her. I cannot talk at this time.”
“Your daughter only wishes for you to know that she is doing well and that she’d enjoy exchanging letters when you’re ready and willing,” said the intermediary.
My natural mother took her number. Twenty-four hours later, my biological grandmother phoned our intermediary to request that I write to both of them soon—but only to my grandmother’s address.
And write we did–back and forth, for several months, before we all felt comfortable enough to meet in person. That long-awaited day finally arrived.
My mom and I drove all day until we reached my natural mother’s hometown just before dark. We checked into a hotel room and tried to relax for an hour. We thumbed through my baby book of first photos, which we had brought to share. That did not quell the sick feeling in my stomach. I could tell my mom was nervous, too. She had never heard of any mother meeting their child’s other mother before. With no handbook on reunions, she went with her gut— she wanted to help me find answers, and she wanted to thank my mother for giving her a daughter.
We heard a knock on the door, and the muffled sound of female voices. I pushed my mom in front of me—signaling her to open the door. We grabbed each other’s hands, and drew in big breaths as she unlatched the lock.
My natural mother was standing beside her mother. My mom reached out for a welcoming hug, while I stood frozen. Her eyes looked like mine, both in color and in shape, we shared the same shade of chestnut brown hair color, and the very same turned up nose. I looked over at my grandmother. Though she had bottled blond hair, she too, had huge eyes and a turned up nose. Here we were—two mothers, two daughters, all related in complicated ways.
My mom looked like me plenty, but for my turned up nose. That was my unusual trait—and now—for the first time in my life— after seeing my natural mother, I realized just how much I really looked like someone else!