Jennifer Lauck's Blog, page 14
September 19, 2012
Day 2: Sept. 19, 4:30 p.m.
He's just a kid. Eighteen, nineteen? I didn't ask. We barely saw each other.
Traffic moved too fast.
I was on Weidler. Northeast Portland.
Yes, I was late to get my girl who waited on the other side of town.
This kid on the corner with his hand out had three tattoos under his left eye. They were black tear drops. Permanent on his young skin. His gaunt, slim, fine face was slick and shiny from sweat.
I wish I had a photograph but there wasn't time. It was rush hour. Cars everywhere, four lanes of traffic, plus a train and four more lanes going the other way. Pandemonium.
Jeans, blue shirt, a black vest. This kid darted out of nowhere. He had a cardboard sign but it wasn't up. He squatted low on the sidewalk. Maybe he was having a smoke? But then he popped up and I was almost where he stood.
I thought, "Oh shit, it's my deal. Money? Where's some money?"
I scrambled my fingers into the little change dispenser under the steering wheel. I bailed out all the quarters, dimes and nickles and quick, down with the window and reach.
"Here you go."
He was fast to grab.
The whole thing felt like we passed a baton in a relay race.
He had black spiky hair. And those tattoos.
His eyes were wide open and he was there. Present.
Our hands touched. His fingers had tattoos, I think. I can't really say for sure but when I close my eyes now and go inside--search deep into memory of that flash of time--I see marks on his slim hands. He looked at me--a woman giving him money. I kept my eyes on his face, his tattoos and his eyes. Were they blue? Or brown? Hell, I do not know. They were bright. That's what I remember.
In the looking that deep, this kid became crazy beautiful. I'm not making it up or pulling some new age who-ha. I mean it. He was heartbreaking wide open, unbelievable beautiful.
It wasn't the looking at him as a homeless kid.
It wasn't looking at him like, "oh man, that could be my kid."
It wasn't looking at him like I thought he would have the face of love.
He just had it. Love was all around and he was beautiful to me.
What's going on here?
TIME TAKEN: One minute
DOLLARS GIVEN: ?? Maybe $2.00
Traffic moved too fast.
I was on Weidler. Northeast Portland.
Yes, I was late to get my girl who waited on the other side of town.
This kid on the corner with his hand out had three tattoos under his left eye. They were black tear drops. Permanent on his young skin. His gaunt, slim, fine face was slick and shiny from sweat.I wish I had a photograph but there wasn't time. It was rush hour. Cars everywhere, four lanes of traffic, plus a train and four more lanes going the other way. Pandemonium.
Jeans, blue shirt, a black vest. This kid darted out of nowhere. He had a cardboard sign but it wasn't up. He squatted low on the sidewalk. Maybe he was having a smoke? But then he popped up and I was almost where he stood.
I thought, "Oh shit, it's my deal. Money? Where's some money?"
I scrambled my fingers into the little change dispenser under the steering wheel. I bailed out all the quarters, dimes and nickles and quick, down with the window and reach.
"Here you go."
He was fast to grab.
The whole thing felt like we passed a baton in a relay race.
He had black spiky hair. And those tattoos.
His eyes were wide open and he was there. Present.
Our hands touched. His fingers had tattoos, I think. I can't really say for sure but when I close my eyes now and go inside--search deep into memory of that flash of time--I see marks on his slim hands. He looked at me--a woman giving him money. I kept my eyes on his face, his tattoos and his eyes. Were they blue? Or brown? Hell, I do not know. They were bright. That's what I remember.
In the looking that deep, this kid became crazy beautiful. I'm not making it up or pulling some new age who-ha. I mean it. He was heartbreaking wide open, unbelievable beautiful.
It wasn't the looking at him as a homeless kid.
It wasn't looking at him like, "oh man, that could be my kid."
It wasn't looking at him like I thought he would have the face of love.
He just had it. Love was all around and he was beautiful to me.
What's going on here?
TIME TAKEN: One minute
DOLLARS GIVEN: ?? Maybe $2.00
September 18, 2012
Day 1: 11:45 a.m.
I'm late.
This is a common phenomenon.
A meeting across town means I must cross a bridge and NE Couch, the new fangled one way designed to channel traffic to the Burnside is blocked by semis and construction signs reduce two lanes to one. The best decision is a left to get on the Morrison instead.
Did I mention I'm late?
I make the lane change and there he is. A man with a sign.
My stomach does that familiar twist. What to do? What to do?
My purse is beyond reach but a deal is a deal.
I keep hold of the steering wheel with my left hand and lean way right. I have to lean so far, I lose sight of the road.
Yes, it's dangerous but this move is nothing.
I've held a bottle for a baby strapped into a car seat. I've fished binkies from between car seats. I've handed back tissues, animal crackers and once stopped a pretty horrible fight while kids were in the back seats--all while driving--all while being late. Although my nerves were shot, I've never been in a wreck.
Purse snagged, I toss my wallet on the passenger seat and fiddle with the zipper while I roll closer to the intersection. Two bucks is what I can find and I beat myself up for how it's not enough. I could give more.
Up ahead, traffic is stopped at a light and a hand reaches an apple to the man on the corner. He turns the fruit side to side and it's like watching a kid open a gift only to find clothes under the wrapping paper.
He shrugs and tosses the apple into his pack on the street. It's a collapsed bundle of canvas.
I roll up to the intersection. I've got a green light but I stop.
The man's eyes jump. His hand fists the two bucks. There is genuine happiness and relief is in his smile. He is now the kid who got a toy--not clothes. He's delighted.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks a lot."
I hold onto the money for a second. I look him in the eye.
We share this moment, this smile and his hand on my hand. The warmth of it all. He is small and brown and compact and feels like a nice person. He's got a sweet smile.
"How long you been out here?" I ask.
"Fifteen years," he says.
This makes my heart hurt. I take the hand he just touched, the warmth of his skin still on my own and I put my hand over my heart because what else can I do? It hurts.
A car honks behind me. Someone yells, "Come on, let's go."
Usually, when people honk at me, I jump and rush to get out of the way. I am the kind of person who doesn't want to hold anyone up. But today, as these people honk and yell, I don't feel those things. Today, I stay with the man on the corner. He's a real person, we're having a conversation here.
"Can I take your picture?" I ask.
"Sure," he says. "Sure, take a picture."
I use my i-Phone and click.
Here he is.
I make a left turn and that's it. He's gone.
I'm not all freaked out about being late anymore. I'm calm in an odd, deep way. The guy has been out there, on the street, for fifteen years. I look at his photo while I drive. He is from Oklahoma. He's a vet. He's a Native American. And money matters to him. Of course it does. Money matters to me too. Now I only regret I didn't ask his name.
I drive through downtown Portland and like a miracle, catch every single light.
I don't know how I did it but I am on time to my meeting, in fact, I'm early for a change.
TIME TAKEN: 2 minutes
DOLLARS GIVEN: $2.00
This is a common phenomenon.
A meeting across town means I must cross a bridge and NE Couch, the new fangled one way designed to channel traffic to the Burnside is blocked by semis and construction signs reduce two lanes to one. The best decision is a left to get on the Morrison instead.
Did I mention I'm late?
I make the lane change and there he is. A man with a sign.
My stomach does that familiar twist. What to do? What to do?
My purse is beyond reach but a deal is a deal.
I keep hold of the steering wheel with my left hand and lean way right. I have to lean so far, I lose sight of the road.
Yes, it's dangerous but this move is nothing.
I've held a bottle for a baby strapped into a car seat. I've fished binkies from between car seats. I've handed back tissues, animal crackers and once stopped a pretty horrible fight while kids were in the back seats--all while driving--all while being late. Although my nerves were shot, I've never been in a wreck.
Purse snagged, I toss my wallet on the passenger seat and fiddle with the zipper while I roll closer to the intersection. Two bucks is what I can find and I beat myself up for how it's not enough. I could give more.
Up ahead, traffic is stopped at a light and a hand reaches an apple to the man on the corner. He turns the fruit side to side and it's like watching a kid open a gift only to find clothes under the wrapping paper.
He shrugs and tosses the apple into his pack on the street. It's a collapsed bundle of canvas.
I roll up to the intersection. I've got a green light but I stop.
The man's eyes jump. His hand fists the two bucks. There is genuine happiness and relief is in his smile. He is now the kid who got a toy--not clothes. He's delighted.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks a lot."
I hold onto the money for a second. I look him in the eye.
We share this moment, this smile and his hand on my hand. The warmth of it all. He is small and brown and compact and feels like a nice person. He's got a sweet smile.
"How long you been out here?" I ask.
"Fifteen years," he says.
This makes my heart hurt. I take the hand he just touched, the warmth of his skin still on my own and I put my hand over my heart because what else can I do? It hurts. A car honks behind me. Someone yells, "Come on, let's go."
Usually, when people honk at me, I jump and rush to get out of the way. I am the kind of person who doesn't want to hold anyone up. But today, as these people honk and yell, I don't feel those things. Today, I stay with the man on the corner. He's a real person, we're having a conversation here.
"Can I take your picture?" I ask.
"Sure," he says. "Sure, take a picture."
I use my i-Phone and click.
Here he is.
I make a left turn and that's it. He's gone.
I'm not all freaked out about being late anymore. I'm calm in an odd, deep way. The guy has been out there, on the street, for fifteen years. I look at his photo while I drive. He is from Oklahoma. He's a vet. He's a Native American. And money matters to him. Of course it does. Money matters to me too. Now I only regret I didn't ask his name.
I drive through downtown Portland and like a miracle, catch every single light.
I don't know how I did it but I am on time to my meeting, in fact, I'm early for a change.
TIME TAKEN: 2 minutes
DOLLARS GIVEN: $2.00
Day 1: Sept. 18, 11:45 a.m.
I'm late.
This is a common phenomenon.
A meeting across town means I must cross a bridge and NE Couch is tied up. The new fangled one way designed to channel traffic to the Burnside Bridge is blocked by two semis. Construction signs reduce two channels of traffic to one lane The best decision is a left to get on the Morrison instead.
Did I mention I'm late?
I make the lane change and there he is. A man with a sign stands at the corner.
My stomach does that familiar twist. What to do? What to do?
My purse is beyond reach but a deal is a deal.
I keep hold of the steering wheel with my left hand, lean way right. I have to lean so far, I lose sight of the road.
This move is nothing.
I've held a bottle for a baby strapped into a car seat. I've fished binkies from between car seats. I've handed back tissues, animal crackers and once stopped a pretty horrible fight while kids were in the back seats--all while driving--all while being late. I've never had a wreck.
The purse is up and I toss my wallet on the passenger seat. I find two bucks and beat myself up for how it's not enough. I could give more.
Up ahead, traffic is stopped at a light and a hand reaches an apple to the man on the corner. He turns the fruit side to side and it's like watching a kid open a gift only to find clothes under the wrapping paper.
He shrugs and tosses the apple into his pack on the street. It's a collasped bundle of canvas.
I roll up to the intersection. I've got a green light but I stop.
The man's eyes jump. His hand fists the two bucks cash. There is genuine happiness and relief is in his smile. He is now the kid who got a toy--not clothes. He's delighted.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks a lot."
I hold onto the money for a second. I look him in the eye and smile.
He smiles back and it's a sweet quiet smile. He is small and brown and compact and feels like a nice person.
"How long you been out here?" I ask.
"Fifteen years," he says.
This makes my heart hurt. I take the hand he just touched and put it over my heart that hurts.
"Can I take your picture?" I ask.
He thinks about this. He's not in a hurry. Neither am I even though I'm late.
A car honks behind me. He's in a hurry. Someone yells, "come on, let's go."
"Sure," he says. "Sure, take a picture."
I use my i-phone and click. Here he is.
I make a left turn and that's it. He's gone.
I'm not all freaked out about being late anymore. I'm just calm and quiet. The guy has been out there, on the street for fifteen years. I look at his photo while I drive. He is from Okalhoma. He's a vet. Money matters to him.
I drive through downtown Portland, the traffic is light and I catch every single light.
I don't know how I did it but I am on time. I'm early for a change.
This is a common phenomenon.
A meeting across town means I must cross a bridge and NE Couch is tied up. The new fangled one way designed to channel traffic to the Burnside Bridge is blocked by two semis. Construction signs reduce two channels of traffic to one lane The best decision is a left to get on the Morrison instead.
Did I mention I'm late?
I make the lane change and there he is. A man with a sign stands at the corner.
My stomach does that familiar twist. What to do? What to do?
My purse is beyond reach but a deal is a deal.
I keep hold of the steering wheel with my left hand, lean way right. I have to lean so far, I lose sight of the road.
This move is nothing.
I've held a bottle for a baby strapped into a car seat. I've fished binkies from between car seats. I've handed back tissues, animal crackers and once stopped a pretty horrible fight while kids were in the back seats--all while driving--all while being late. I've never had a wreck.
The purse is up and I toss my wallet on the passenger seat. I find two bucks and beat myself up for how it's not enough. I could give more.
Up ahead, traffic is stopped at a light and a hand reaches an apple to the man on the corner. He turns the fruit side to side and it's like watching a kid open a gift only to find clothes under the wrapping paper.
He shrugs and tosses the apple into his pack on the street. It's a collasped bundle of canvas.
I roll up to the intersection. I've got a green light but I stop.
The man's eyes jump. His hand fists the two bucks cash. There is genuine happiness and relief is in his smile. He is now the kid who got a toy--not clothes. He's delighted.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks a lot."
I hold onto the money for a second. I look him in the eye and smile.
He smiles back and it's a sweet quiet smile. He is small and brown and compact and feels like a nice person.
"How long you been out here?" I ask.
"Fifteen years," he says.
This makes my heart hurt. I take the hand he just touched and put it over my heart that hurts. "Can I take your picture?" I ask.
He thinks about this. He's not in a hurry. Neither am I even though I'm late.
A car honks behind me. He's in a hurry. Someone yells, "come on, let's go."
"Sure," he says. "Sure, take a picture."
I use my i-phone and click. Here he is.
I make a left turn and that's it. He's gone.
I'm not all freaked out about being late anymore. I'm just calm and quiet. The guy has been out there, on the street for fifteen years. I look at his photo while I drive. He is from Okalhoma. He's a vet. Money matters to him.
I drive through downtown Portland, the traffic is light and I catch every single light.
I don't know how I did it but I am on time. I'm early for a change.
September 17, 2012
Anything Helps: Premise
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style></div>I have a mortal fear of homelessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Mor-tal.</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Adj.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Continuing, or intended to continue, until somebody die. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Relating to or accompanying death</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Intensely felt</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">All of these definitions apply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://comedyconglomerate.files.wordp..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://comedyconglomerate.files.wordp..." width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have an ongoing story that runs homeless scenario’s too.<br /><br />I’ve already figured out the gear I need: a tent, an air mattress, a bundled pillow, a tarp for over and under my tent, a knife, a flashlight, pepper spray, jerky, dried mango's, toothbrush, floss, a good sized water bottle, a bike, a bike trailer and a extra long, extra sturdy lock. Oh yeah, I'd need a little cooler. <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>It's not an everyday obsession or a psychotic condition. My fear is under control. I'm not crazy. But it's there and is the worst when I walk into a grocery store or go to get a cup of coffee. Or drive. Each of these activities, part of my daily life, inevitably include meeting a homeless person who holds a sign and waits for me to give him something. Anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The moment I see the dirty clothes, the cracked nails, the slumped posture of defeat--I'm paralyzed like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite. My stomach seizes up and I try to figure out what to do. Dig into my bag for change? Take a sudden interest in my latent cell phone? Reverse my course and blow of the grocery run? </span><br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It's a terrible feeling. I want to be helpful, I do. But I'm just mortified by the need. </span><br /><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Worse, I worry that person could be me because sometimes I'm barely make ends come together around my house. I'm one disaster away from the same fate. Or so it goes in my head. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My fear it not new. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://cdn.smosh.com/sites/default/fi..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://cdn.smosh.com/sites/default/fi..." width="320" /></a>Some kids were scared of the dark or of spiders. My fear has always been living on the streets. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve never been homeless but I’ve been close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> After my mom and dad died, when I was seven and then nine years old, </span>I was dropped in a place where I had no parents, no barriers between me and strangers and I went without food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /><br />During that time in my life, age ten in Los Angeles, I dropped out of school and cruised the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was still in elementary school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begged change so I could go watch a movie, rather than go to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I begged change other times to get a glazed donut from Winchell's.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back then, my goals were pretty small and I can see myself--this little parentless kid--scared witless about how I could be on the streets pretty fast. It was like being on a slide and gravity was in charge. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn't end up on the streets. I was saved. Barely. I moved from home to home until finally I was adopted by an aunt and uncle who used to tell me, "if it wasn't for us, you'd be on the streets. Nothing. Trash."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe that's where my fear was given soil to root. <br /><br />It's one thing to have a fear and adapt to it. It's another thing to face a fear.<br /><br />What if I could turn the corner on this fear? What if, for a year, I could I move through my day, as a mother, a writer, a writing teacher, a member of a community being North East Portland where I shop, eat, walk, bike and drive and give something to every homeless person I meet up with? It wouldn't have to be a lot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A quarter. A dollar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if I also looked each man or woman I meet in the eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What if I said hello? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Could I finally put this fear to rest? Could I learn a thing or two about homelessness and myself? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />Come with me and we'll see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com...' alt='' /></div>
September 4, 2012
Open Adoption? Did I Do the Right Thing?
Dear Tara/Jennifer:
After adopting our first child in a semi-open adoption, I attended an adoption workshop put on by Lois Melina who opened my eyes to the importance of being truthful. Our second adoption was open.
I remember when my oldest son, Zack, the product of the semi-open adoption, was about three years old. We were at the grocery store and saw a very pregnant woman. Zack was fascinated and when we got home he wrapped his arms around me and with joy said: "I grew inside your tummy, right!" I told him no that he had grown in another woman's tummy. His look of loss was so huge that it broke my heart. I thought I was doing the right thing (by telling him this truth).
Fast forward 10 years. Zack was ten when his birth mother called. She wanted to reconnect. I agreed but slowly. (She had been a wild child and I wanted to proceed with caution.) I agreed to letters and gifts. She flooded him with letters and gifts from her other children and herself. Zack was overwhelmed and told me he didn't have time for a birth mother. My feeling was that she had rejected him once and now he was rejecting her. I told him he had all the time in the world to get to know her.
Several years later Zack’s birth mother shot and killed herself. Zack says this event is when his life really went in the wrong direction. Although we got him counseling, he slipped down an awful rode of violence, gangs, arrests, heroin addiction, and prison. He always had been a handful, but about this time he began down a dark and dangerous road and no amount of parenting and help stopped him.
Looking back, I know I had the best intentions by being so open, but I wondered if secrecy might have been better? The truth didn't seem to serve us very well. When my son told me he thought his birth mother suicide was the start of his downfall, I asked him if it would have been better if I hadn't told him. He said what would that have helped?
Anyway I guess I'm just looking for verification that honesty in adoption is the best policy. Seems like it might have been better to not be so open...~ Susan
Dear Susan:
Thank you so much for telling me this story and for your question, which is deep and feels as if it comes from a place of personal doubt.
Your big question is bigger than adoption or even open adoption. Your big question is: Did I do the right thing?
One of my teachers once told me that when we are suffering with doubt, fear, worry, pain, anger, heartbreak—whatever—to try to imagine saying, “since I am already suffering so deeply, may I also take on the suffering of all the other people who feel like I do at this moment.”
It’s like a little prayer.
So, in your own case it could go something like this. You could think to yourself, “I am feeling deep doubt about the choices I made around my son, Zack. I worry I did the wrong thing and since I am feeling this way, I agree to feel the doubt of all the adoptive parents in the world. May I feel doubt for everyone. May this huge doubt that plagues me not be wasted on just me.”
I know this sounds a little weird. Why would we invite more sorrow into our lives? But what actually happens is that—in the invitation—the opposite seems to happen. You acknowledge that other people suffer in exactly the same way you are suffering and the feeling is like a dam breaking. You are connected to all people in a truly significant way. It’s a very powerful way to spread the load from your own worried mind to a wider field. It’s reassuring somehow. You’re not alone.
Now lets look at adoption. Just adoption.
In my own humble opinion, this is an arena of deep confusion and profound suffering. There are no easy answers for adoptive parents, birth mothers and most of all, for adopted people. Being adopted, twice, I can only speak to the struggle of the adoptee. Something has been shattered in me by the fact of my adoption. It’s a shattering at the most fundamental level of my being. It’s a profound and irreparable loss. Not one of us, who has lost a mother at birth, can deny this.
The fact that so few caregivers acknowledged this loss has made me “difficult,” in the same way your Zack has been difficult. I have lived in a world where no one has said, “my sweet Jennifer, you lost your mother on the day you were born. I am so, so sorry. That must feel terrible.”
Basic human empathy.
These words would have been so easy say and yet, so few speak them.
I have lived an entire life in denial of a basic loss that defined who I am. I am a motherless daughter. From the moment I took my first breath, I was forced away from the only home I had ever known and into a brutal world of survival via adaptation.
Too many adoptive parents fail to simply acknowledge the basic biological truth of the first mother and the pain the adoptee holds inside--unknown and unrecognized and unspoken. What comes instead are the justifications and the judgments, among them: “She was a bad mother for you, I am a better mother.”
Good mother, bad mother, wild, tame. These labels do not matter, at the most basic level. No mother will replace my original mother. She carried me in her womb, we share DNA, she is my beginning and my blood. Her bones are my bones. To not give some serious time to recognize and “be with” the fact of my deep loss is to deny it and that goes for all adoptees. How many of us have just been “with” the shattering truth of that original loss? How many of us have been given permission to feel our sorrow?
Very few. Very few.
I want to raise one small point about what you have written here: She wanted to reconnect. I agreed but slowly. (She had been a wild child and I wanted to proceed with caution.) I agreed to letters and gifts. Right here is where I’d like to pay closer attention to your words, choices and judgments.
While you may have been working very hard to protect Zack, you may have also been threatened by the potential to lose him. This is totally human and valid. When we feel threatened, we are critical of others and have a great deal of influence, especially over a child. Were you overwhelmed by this birth mother’s attentions and gifts? Did you share this overwhelm with Zack, who then mirrored you by saying, “I don’t have time for this?” What ten year old child says, “I don’t have time for this mother?” That statement is an adult statement or sentiment. Zack likely picked up that you didn’t have time or interest and out of loyalty to you and out of fear of being displaced by yet another mother, he went along for his very survival.
I am not saying this to make you feel badly. You already feel badly. That is not the point. I am saying this to have you think more deeply about what went down and what aspects of this story you didn't understand at the time. Do you think you really understood Zack? Do you think you understood yourself and your own motivations? Did you understand the complex currents that run deep in the adoption narrative?
Likely no. That is okay. You are learning now--by the fact of your questions.
Let’s really think deeply about this idea that we can keep our adoptive children away from the birth mothers.
Systemically, yes, we can do this. What I mean is that we have a system in place to create barriers between mother and child. There are adoptive parents who sign legal agreements and court rulings that make the agreements into law. But what of the biological connection? Can a mother and child ever be truly separated? Aren’t their bodies one body? As Meredith Hall shows us in her important book Without a Map, mothers who gestate children carry the living cells of their babies in their own bodies and babies carry the living cells of their mothers in their bodies. It’s called Human Chimaeraism. Mothers and children, due to the link of biology, are living systems of connection. You may be able to manufacture walls of separation but you can never separate that which is alive in DNA. The energy of connection exists.
When Zack’s mother killed herself, I imagine he did go through a stunning spiral. A part of him died when she died. Her body is in his body. What she did was kill a part of him due to her own suffering and her own ignorance. That is a horrible tragedy. His downfall is aligned with the energetic truth of the biological connection.
I believe he would have had this downfall having known her or not. He would have felt it, no matter what.
So, as for your part in this story, you did your best. You took the information available to you at the time, you followed the rules of the system put into place and you tried to make the best choices from the heart about open adoption. In my humble opinion, Susan, your hands are clean.
You can only be responsible for what you can understand. The rest is learning, making mistakes and asking questions along the way, as you did here to today.
I hope you can forgive Zack’s mom, forgive Zack and most of all, forgive yourself. As an adoptive mother willing to consider open adoption, you are way ahead of the curve for most adoptive parents. Scott Simon, who wrote Baby, We Were Meant For Each Other: In Praise of Adoption, admits he adopted from China in order to never have to encounter the reality of a birth mother. Scott Simon, one of the most beloved radio personalities of our time, tells the truth that most adoptive parents believe. Birth mothers—if removed from the scenario—do not exist. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s simply not true. Birth mother’s do exist in the cells of the bodies of their children. A birth mother can be seen in the hands, the eyes, the voices and the bodies of their children. This is not political. It is practical. It is the truth.
You know this better than anyone now. So do I.
Take care, Susan. Be well.
After adopting our first child in a semi-open adoption, I attended an adoption workshop put on by Lois Melina who opened my eyes to the importance of being truthful. Our second adoption was open.
I remember when my oldest son, Zack, the product of the semi-open adoption, was about three years old. We were at the grocery store and saw a very pregnant woman. Zack was fascinated and when we got home he wrapped his arms around me and with joy said: "I grew inside your tummy, right!" I told him no that he had grown in another woman's tummy. His look of loss was so huge that it broke my heart. I thought I was doing the right thing (by telling him this truth).
Fast forward 10 years. Zack was ten when his birth mother called. She wanted to reconnect. I agreed but slowly. (She had been a wild child and I wanted to proceed with caution.) I agreed to letters and gifts. She flooded him with letters and gifts from her other children and herself. Zack was overwhelmed and told me he didn't have time for a birth mother. My feeling was that she had rejected him once and now he was rejecting her. I told him he had all the time in the world to get to know her.
Several years later Zack’s birth mother shot and killed herself. Zack says this event is when his life really went in the wrong direction. Although we got him counseling, he slipped down an awful rode of violence, gangs, arrests, heroin addiction, and prison. He always had been a handful, but about this time he began down a dark and dangerous road and no amount of parenting and help stopped him.
Looking back, I know I had the best intentions by being so open, but I wondered if secrecy might have been better? The truth didn't seem to serve us very well. When my son told me he thought his birth mother suicide was the start of his downfall, I asked him if it would have been better if I hadn't told him. He said what would that have helped?
Anyway I guess I'm just looking for verification that honesty in adoption is the best policy. Seems like it might have been better to not be so open...~ Susan
Dear Susan:
Thank you so much for telling me this story and for your question, which is deep and feels as if it comes from a place of personal doubt.
Your big question is bigger than adoption or even open adoption. Your big question is: Did I do the right thing?
One of my teachers once told me that when we are suffering with doubt, fear, worry, pain, anger, heartbreak—whatever—to try to imagine saying, “since I am already suffering so deeply, may I also take on the suffering of all the other people who feel like I do at this moment.”
It’s like a little prayer.
So, in your own case it could go something like this. You could think to yourself, “I am feeling deep doubt about the choices I made around my son, Zack. I worry I did the wrong thing and since I am feeling this way, I agree to feel the doubt of all the adoptive parents in the world. May I feel doubt for everyone. May this huge doubt that plagues me not be wasted on just me.”I know this sounds a little weird. Why would we invite more sorrow into our lives? But what actually happens is that—in the invitation—the opposite seems to happen. You acknowledge that other people suffer in exactly the same way you are suffering and the feeling is like a dam breaking. You are connected to all people in a truly significant way. It’s a very powerful way to spread the load from your own worried mind to a wider field. It’s reassuring somehow. You’re not alone.
Now lets look at adoption. Just adoption.
In my own humble opinion, this is an arena of deep confusion and profound suffering. There are no easy answers for adoptive parents, birth mothers and most of all, for adopted people. Being adopted, twice, I can only speak to the struggle of the adoptee. Something has been shattered in me by the fact of my adoption. It’s a shattering at the most fundamental level of my being. It’s a profound and irreparable loss. Not one of us, who has lost a mother at birth, can deny this.
The fact that so few caregivers acknowledged this loss has made me “difficult,” in the same way your Zack has been difficult. I have lived in a world where no one has said, “my sweet Jennifer, you lost your mother on the day you were born. I am so, so sorry. That must feel terrible.”
Basic human empathy.
These words would have been so easy say and yet, so few speak them.
I have lived an entire life in denial of a basic loss that defined who I am. I am a motherless daughter. From the moment I took my first breath, I was forced away from the only home I had ever known and into a brutal world of survival via adaptation.
Too many adoptive parents fail to simply acknowledge the basic biological truth of the first mother and the pain the adoptee holds inside--unknown and unrecognized and unspoken. What comes instead are the justifications and the judgments, among them: “She was a bad mother for you, I am a better mother.”
Good mother, bad mother, wild, tame. These labels do not matter, at the most basic level. No mother will replace my original mother. She carried me in her womb, we share DNA, she is my beginning and my blood. Her bones are my bones. To not give some serious time to recognize and “be with” the fact of my deep loss is to deny it and that goes for all adoptees. How many of us have just been “with” the shattering truth of that original loss? How many of us have been given permission to feel our sorrow?
Very few. Very few.
I want to raise one small point about what you have written here: She wanted to reconnect. I agreed but slowly. (She had been a wild child and I wanted to proceed with caution.) I agreed to letters and gifts. Right here is where I’d like to pay closer attention to your words, choices and judgments.
While you may have been working very hard to protect Zack, you may have also been threatened by the potential to lose him. This is totally human and valid. When we feel threatened, we are critical of others and have a great deal of influence, especially over a child. Were you overwhelmed by this birth mother’s attentions and gifts? Did you share this overwhelm with Zack, who then mirrored you by saying, “I don’t have time for this?” What ten year old child says, “I don’t have time for this mother?” That statement is an adult statement or sentiment. Zack likely picked up that you didn’t have time or interest and out of loyalty to you and out of fear of being displaced by yet another mother, he went along for his very survival.
I am not saying this to make you feel badly. You already feel badly. That is not the point. I am saying this to have you think more deeply about what went down and what aspects of this story you didn't understand at the time. Do you think you really understood Zack? Do you think you understood yourself and your own motivations? Did you understand the complex currents that run deep in the adoption narrative?
Likely no. That is okay. You are learning now--by the fact of your questions.
Let’s really think deeply about this idea that we can keep our adoptive children away from the birth mothers.
Systemically, yes, we can do this. What I mean is that we have a system in place to create barriers between mother and child. There are adoptive parents who sign legal agreements and court rulings that make the agreements into law. But what of the biological connection? Can a mother and child ever be truly separated? Aren’t their bodies one body? As Meredith Hall shows us in her important book Without a Map, mothers who gestate children carry the living cells of their babies in their own bodies and babies carry the living cells of their mothers in their bodies. It’s called Human Chimaeraism. Mothers and children, due to the link of biology, are living systems of connection. You may be able to manufacture walls of separation but you can never separate that which is alive in DNA. The energy of connection exists. When Zack’s mother killed herself, I imagine he did go through a stunning spiral. A part of him died when she died. Her body is in his body. What she did was kill a part of him due to her own suffering and her own ignorance. That is a horrible tragedy. His downfall is aligned with the energetic truth of the biological connection.
I believe he would have had this downfall having known her or not. He would have felt it, no matter what.
So, as for your part in this story, you did your best. You took the information available to you at the time, you followed the rules of the system put into place and you tried to make the best choices from the heart about open adoption. In my humble opinion, Susan, your hands are clean.
You can only be responsible for what you can understand. The rest is learning, making mistakes and asking questions along the way, as you did here to today.
I hope you can forgive Zack’s mom, forgive Zack and most of all, forgive yourself. As an adoptive mother willing to consider open adoption, you are way ahead of the curve for most adoptive parents. Scott Simon, who wrote Baby, We Were Meant For Each Other: In Praise of Adoption, admits he adopted from China in order to never have to encounter the reality of a birth mother. Scott Simon, one of the most beloved radio personalities of our time, tells the truth that most adoptive parents believe. Birth mothers—if removed from the scenario—do not exist. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s simply not true. Birth mother’s do exist in the cells of the bodies of their children. A birth mother can be seen in the hands, the eyes, the voices and the bodies of their children. This is not political. It is practical. It is the truth. You know this better than anyone now. So do I.
Take care, Susan. Be well.
August 27, 2012
How Do I Forgive? How Do I Trust?
This columnist is on holiday for all of August. Please enjoy the rerun of a few posts and send your questions to jennifer@jenniferlauck.com. I'll be back on Sept. 3rd
How does one forgive? Truly forgive. How does one trust, truly trust...when both of these were never learned. When both were destroyed. "Don't tell" "You can't trust anyone." True surrender seems incomprehensible. When a child is humiliated, ridiculed, shamed behind closed doors, then abandoned when she tried to hide or take away the pain...how does she heal if forgiveness seems impossible? ~ Anon. Canada
Dear you. Dear one. Thank you for your question.
I am so so sorry for this harsh behavior from the past—not so much in the past—but rather alive in the question you ask. That little child. So eager to be shown the way but when the path is revealed and it is full of wicked barbs and confusing twists.
How do we find our way out of such a mess?
Let’s grab forgiveness first. Grab it like the cloud it is, this elusive and impossible thing. We saw it with our eyes, didn’t we? The cloud was there, a collection that seemed so solid but put a hand through and it’s nothing. Air mixed with temperature. A ghost. An illusion.
Forgiveness, for me, is something like this. An illusion. What does the word mean anyway? Like “love” and “God”, “forgiveness” is a word that holds mountains of misconceptions.
From my own early years as a young Catholic, I remember being told that to forgive was divine. I did the math: Me + forgive = divine.
Who among us doesn’t want divinity? I can see my younger, impressionable self in church—the sacred heart of this or that—one of so many penitent girls in catechism class. I wore the white dress, had the garland of flowers in my hair, kneeled before Christ, kept my chin tucked and pressed my hands together in total forgiveness of those who had trespassed against me plus additional prayers that I would be forgiven for the very fact of my existence, made more unholy by my gender. “I’ll forgive and please, please forgive me.” When a person believes they are going to hell, she’ll say just about anything to undo her fate and that’s what I did. I said “I forgive” because I was no fool.But wait. Hold on. How could I forgive what had I yet understand? How could I say, “oh sure, I forgive the men who molested me when I was six, eight and twelve?” How could I agree to let go of so many betrayals, abuses and confusions without proper examination, explanation and integration into my own being? How insane for a church or anyone to tell a person to “let it all go,” when “it all,” has yet to be explained, grieved, considered and weighed. That’s just not right.
And here is what I think. I think the world, our families, churches and everyone else wants this snappy little conversion so it will make life easier for them. Why explore all that nastiness of deception and abuse and being wronged when we can just snap our fingers and make it all go away. Forgiveness is divine. Right?
I just don’t believe it.
Forgiveness can only come to a heart when the time is right.
Our divinity is in our ability to reflect, consider and work experience through our hearts and our minds and clamor towards truth.
To say you are not divine if you don’t forgive is a betrayal to the truth of the soul, which is already divine. The soul is pristine and worthy without being told to bend down and pray and forgive and be forgiven. These rules are constructs of men. They are fear and intimidation techniques churned out by fallible human beings who now prove they have a pretty embarrassing double standard. Aren’t these the same priests on trail for assaulting innocent children?
And here is where things went so wrong.
We looked up to a Father to tell us what to believe and what to do and of course, no father, or mother, or teacher or friend can lead us to the truth of our own soul and heart. The mystery of our interior is ours alone. In our own truthful heart, we will know when and how to let go of wrongs that litter our past. We will know. We will.
You will and I will.
My favorite wise study of forgiveness comes from Women Who Run with Wolves , by Clarissa Pinkola Estes who writes, "many people have trouble with forgiveness because they have been taught it is a singular act to be completed in one sitting. That is not so. Forgiveness has many layers, many seasons."
Estes lists the four stages of forgiveness:Forgo (leave it alone).
Forbear (abstain from punishing)
Forget (refuse to dwell)
Forgive (to abandon the debt).
You can do one or two or get through all four or go back to the first. Whatever. You start. You start and see where your good heart takes you. If you need to be mad, sad, righteous, wounded, protected, worried, mired, okay. Okay! Be what you need to be, write, see a therapist, take a yoga class, dig in the dirt, whatever. Do what you need to do and trust yourself in this process.
Forgive when you are ready. When you are ready.
And to know this means you have developed a level of trust in the only person you are going the able to trust in this world. Yourself.
Let’s leap over to the second prong of your question. How do I trust?
You trust, not those outside of you, who will always and I mean always let you down. Even Jesus was betrayed by his own disciples. Remember?
Look, you trust yourself and your own good heart and your own feelings and your own experience. Do a little investigating and see where you lost your own trust in yourself. You know that moment. You’ve had it. We’ve all had it.
The moment I trusted myself the most is when I left home and went to college and studied journalism. Something in me, something deep and powerful, led the way. It said, “Go that way, Jennifer,” and I went. And it was trust that had me go. Each and every day I was a reporter and learned how to investigate was a gift. I was so happy doing my work. I had a gorgeous apartment on the top floor of a vintage building overlooking a park, I made enough money to pay my bills and feed myself and I had a little dog who loved me as much as I loved her back. And, I learned how to write and think and dig for the truth. Righteous and wonderful work. I was truly blessed when I trusted myself. And the place that I lost my own trust was when I believed I needed another to love me more than I needed to love myself. I got lost in the hope, prayer, dream, promise of love—the love of a man—the one. My prince. Where was he? I had to find him and make him mine. And I got lost further still by shoving my own soul voice down as I made the man I found (and there would be more than one) more important than myself. How many years was I lost from myself? Too many to count, sister, too many to count.
How do I forgive? How do I trust?
How do we, you and I, not lament all the wasted years, the betrayal of our own trust and our own souls? How do we not lash out in rage and blame? How do we not demand some form of retribution? How do we not become bitter and dry and hateful?
We forgive the only person we really need to forgive—ourselves. Okay. A mistake was made (many perhaps). We got lost on the path. We forsook ourselves. We screwed it all up. All right then. It won’t happen again, or if it does, it won’t happen in the exact same way and it won’t last as long. We will learn because isn’t that the point of this whole thing we are doing here—this thing we call a life? It’s not called perfect. It’s called life and how do we know until we try and fall and fail? How else can we learn?
Once we go more gentle on ourselves, we can see that our parents or our caregivers were just like us. The priests too. They were human. Full of flaws and confusions and lost opportunities and betrayed trust and mixed messages. And, loo, look out. We are forgiving them too. We look at the people who hurt us from the past and we are just let it go because life is too damn short and there is good work to be done.
Once we get back in touch with our own souls and our own good hearts and we really stay close to the fire inside, things have a way of righting themselves. Forgiveness comes in one form or another. Forgetting can be enough. Setting the whole mess down and just leaving it alone can work too. We don’t have to go all the way across the finish line. We don’t. We are just human. We are not saints. We tell the truth when we say, “I can’t forgive it all the way, I just can’t.” That’s honest. That’s human. That’s the truth.
Tell yourself the truth and rebuild a level of trust—with yourself. That’s when it starts. Once you trust yourself, you will know how and when to forgive.
Forgiveness and trust.
How do we get them when they haven’t been learned?
The answer: they are there. They have always been there. Yes, dented. Yes, challenged, but always there. The work here is to look within your own good, wise, broken heart. As Buddha says, “Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.” Buddha was a guy who told the truth and that is what he and I am say here. Listen to yourself. That’s where trust and forgiveness are alive and well.
August 20, 2012
Using Their Real Names in Memoir & Why?
This columnist is on holiday for all of August. Please enjoy the rerun of a few posts and send your questions to jennifer@jenniferlauck.com. I'll be back on Sept. 3rd
Dear Tara,
A few weeks ago you answered the question,
Even if I wait until I've finished the book, will the story still feel like mine? Thank you!
Mandy
Hi Mandy and thank you for your question. This is a sweet, simple question with a sweet and simple answer: Write your book with all the real names the first time through. Why? Each of these names has a "charge" for you and to make the change during the creative process cheats you out of much needed emotional fuel. Emotion is truth. When you write about your life, in the truest way you can, you get to the deep feelings, release them via your attention and start healing. So in our early drafts, stick with the facts.
Close the door too. The first draft, even the second and third, are for you and your own heart.
Once you have your feelings totally flushed out and you have really gone the distance with as much of your own memory, then play with changes. You can incorporate cue phrases which let the reader know you are making character adjustments. IE: "My step mother had a name but the sake of this story, let's just call her Deb." See? You can go on: "Deb, if she were writing this book, would say that she was a fabulous woman. Misunderstood but basically sweet and kind and nice, and all of that may be true but that was not my experience with Deb. Deb, to me, at the age of eight was the wicked witch of all four directions. A bigger witch could not be found. My hatred towards her was complete."
Again, see?
These cues serve many purposes. One, they let the reader know that you are aware that your feelings are intense and personal, and may be seperate from the person who helped trigger them (ie: Deb). Two, they make you a more reliable narrator because they show a level of vulnerability and integrty. Three, they are the truth! Reader's appreciate the truth.
That's the point of memoir. We explore truth via self awareness. Sticking as closely to the facts as possible allows us to maintain integrity towards our goal.
Unfortunately many memoirs fall short. My own work falls short. But we try and that is the point.
You are part of a genre in its infancy. Memoir has only been around for a few years. Yes, there have been biographies since the beginning of time. But the "ordinary man" and woman, writing their own life with the tools of literature and calling it memoir--that is new. We are writing and learning as we go.
Bravo to you for your courage.
Keep writing and don't worry. Your story and your book--name changes and all--will always be yours. Even when it is no longer who you are. But that is a different conversation.
Good luck, Jennifer
Dear Tara,
A few weeks ago you answered the question,
Even if I wait until I've finished the book, will the story still feel like mine? Thank you!
Mandy
Hi Mandy and thank you for your question. This is a sweet, simple question with a sweet and simple answer: Write your book with all the real names the first time through. Why? Each of these names has a "charge" for you and to make the change during the creative process cheats you out of much needed emotional fuel. Emotion is truth. When you write about your life, in the truest way you can, you get to the deep feelings, release them via your attention and start healing. So in our early drafts, stick with the facts.Close the door too. The first draft, even the second and third, are for you and your own heart.
Once you have your feelings totally flushed out and you have really gone the distance with as much of your own memory, then play with changes. You can incorporate cue phrases which let the reader know you are making character adjustments. IE: "My step mother had a name but the sake of this story, let's just call her Deb." See? You can go on: "Deb, if she were writing this book, would say that she was a fabulous woman. Misunderstood but basically sweet and kind and nice, and all of that may be true but that was not my experience with Deb. Deb, to me, at the age of eight was the wicked witch of all four directions. A bigger witch could not be found. My hatred towards her was complete."
Again, see?
These cues serve many purposes. One, they let the reader know that you are aware that your feelings are intense and personal, and may be seperate from the person who helped trigger them (ie: Deb). Two, they make you a more reliable narrator because they show a level of vulnerability and integrty. Three, they are the truth! Reader's appreciate the truth.
That's the point of memoir. We explore truth via self awareness. Sticking as closely to the facts as possible allows us to maintain integrity towards our goal.
Unfortunately many memoirs fall short. My own work falls short. But we try and that is the point.
You are part of a genre in its infancy. Memoir has only been around for a few years. Yes, there have been biographies since the beginning of time. But the "ordinary man" and woman, writing their own life with the tools of literature and calling it memoir--that is new. We are writing and learning as we go.Bravo to you for your courage.
Keep writing and don't worry. Your story and your book--name changes and all--will always be yours. Even when it is no longer who you are. But that is a different conversation.
Good luck, Jennifer
August 12, 2012
Do I Change Names?
This columnist is on holiday for all of August. Please enjoy the rerun of a few posts and send your questions to jennifer@jenniferlauck.com. I'll be back on Sept. 3rd
Dear Jennifer:
Most of the shocking and negative incidents and events in my memoir involve family members with whom I still have relationships. I think they will probably be angry and offended by my bringing the truth out publicly. Maybe they will deny it. Maybe they will disown me.
Some members of my writers' colony have asked whether I intend to change the names of the characters. That may be a legal issue to deal with down the road, but I'm just not sure what I will do. They will still know who they are. It is not my intention to hurt and embarrass people, however, that may be a natural result of the consequences of their actions. I feel compelled to tell my story and wonder whether you have an opinion based on hindsight, or Tara's inspiration. ~ Faith
Dear Faith:
This is a Jennifer question, all the way. Jennifer teaches writing and has direct experience with this complex question. So here we go.
First, let me tell you about the blueberry bushes on the east side of the house. Did you know you have to have at least two of these bushes to produce berries? It has something to do with cross-pollination and bees.There they are. Two lush blueberry bushes and as I write these words, three jays and a robin are in a little battle over the berries. They flap their wings and squawk their fruity agendas. The robin wants a berry for her little babes in the nest and the jays just want to eat. They are hungry.
We aren’t that much different than the birds. Living creatures are living creatures. We all want our blueberries and are willing to battle to serve our agendas.
The same goes with interpretations of the so-called truth. Each of us has a different version and many are willing to battle to the death.
A couple of questions to consider: How mean are the people in your family and how far do you think they’ll go to discredit you?
Louis Pastur said, “chance favors only the prepared mind.” Since you cannot prepare for the outcome, you can prepare for all possible outcomes by taking a good hard look at past events. Be honest with yourself—don’t sugar coat your experience, question your feelings or make justifications for those who did you wrong. If brutality was part of your experience, remember it, and ask if these people have changed (and very likely they have not). Okay. Once you have this perspective, take proper precautions to cover your own a@#. Yes, this is cliché to write but I’m sorry. The only butt you can cover, in the end, is your own and if your people are butt-kicking mean then cover yours quick and don’t get kicked. Your personal interests need to come first.
Changing names doesn’t change the game. I changed names, advised by lawyers at my publishing house and when my book hit big, out came the butt-kicking mean people from my past. Why was I surprised? These people put glass in my food, left me to starve, stole my father’s money, beat teeth out of my head and all those incidents are what I can remember. When Blackbird released and hit big, these butt-kicking mean people showed up to grab the attention, make my story about themselves and in the process, harassed me and worked to discredit me as well. In fact, they behaved in ways that were most consistent to the ways they behaved in my experience. The fault wasn’t in their behavior but my own lack of preparedness.
How do you deal with the butt-kicking mean people in your story? Do you not tell the truth because you are scared?
No.
You tell the truth but you also let the reader know three things:
1) You changed names and identifying features to protect them from the general public.
2) Your writing is your version of the truth and that you recognize the butt-kicking mean people have a side of the story too and maybe even could provide convincing evidence that could prove you wrong. Okay. That’s out there. 3) You are doing your best to tell your truth, the one that created your perceptions and developed your sense of truth about the way things happened, and that’s where you are keeping your attention in your story telling.
Readers know memory and the truth are as slippery as a gardener snake after a good rain. Those who read memoir also know memoir is not about having all the facts straight or getting every version down on the page. Writing and sharing your life is about experience. What happened to you and what did you do with what happened to you?
If you work hard to be authentic, dig into what the heck happened and what it all added up to (if anything), that is all the reader can ask. And you have done the good work of being transparent upfront by saying, "hey, these people might come after me, I am scared about that but, this is how I remember it."
Your question has one little caveat that I’d like to address: It is not my intention to hurt and embarrass people, however, that may be a natural result of the consequences of their actions.
Memoir cannot carry any hint of a self-righteous vibe. The book will not be a good read if you are helping “karma” along by writing the story of what happened and who wronged who. Memoir isn’t about settling a score and the minute you have that kind of agenda in your writing, the reader will spot it and you’ll be discredited as an unreliable narrator.
Memoir is a crazy genre. Some say memoir is easy to write, easier than fiction or poetry, but I say nonsense. Memoir, as Mary Karr says, is rigorous. If you are keeping your eye on the truth, your truth and your part of the story—it cannot help but churn you up. You’ll feel a lot of really unpleasant things you don’t want to feel and blame is a ready switchblade we are eager to pull—stabbing at the ones who did us wrong. No, no, no. That’s not the way to play it.Yes, be pissed, be sad, be vengeful, but get all that out in your therapist office, on a long hard run or in a rage release workshop. Don’t put your rage on the page.
N. O.
The page is the place for you to come to the highest possible place. It’ll take time to climb high but set the goal towards that destination. Set the intention, right now, to get the highest truth that serves you and all others. Write to bring yourself peace and to bring peace to all around you and your work will move in that direction. Rise high, see the wide view and put the whole story into perspective. Memoir writing is about you. Who are you? What happened to you? How did you cope? How did you deny? When did you wake up? What’s keeping you from waking up now?
These are the questions we all need to have answered at this difficult time in human evolution. We need each other to dig out of this mess we are in. Your wisdom, not your blame, is what we need. Leave karma and natural consequences to forces larger than yourself.
This is how we are different than the birds. While they will always fight to have their primal needs met, we won’t. Human beings, with our ability to reflect, evolve and change our minds, can change. We can. Memoir, in my very humble opinion, is a way to move towards that change. Change yourself and you change the world.
Keep the faith, Faith! You'll do fine, Jennifer
July 29, 2012
Making Peace with Adoptive Parents
Dear Jennifer,
I am an adult adoptee who met my birth mother 18 years ago. We were in reunion for almost 9 years, and then the wheels came off. I have had my birth father's name and address since that time and was too fearful to do anything. For some reason this year I decided to contact him and it has been like coming home. Our connection was instant, and his love for me complete…I cannot even begin to describe it. I was born on his birthday…Valentines Day. It is also incredible to have access to my life story when once it was only a blank sheet of paper. It is a crazy story, but it is mine!
I have been in denial for 46 years about how hurt I have been as an adopted child, and now with the help of a good therapist, a patient husband and my original father, I am starting to heal some of that hurt that I have denied. I always felt like the ugly duckling with my parents and sister, and now I am back in my family of swans.
The hard part now is reconciling how my relationship with my adoptive parents. I never felt as though I belonged with them. Now I know why so many people wait until their adoptive parents are both dead to search for their birthparents. My parents are not bad people..they did the best they could. Even if they could have been better parents, I am not sure it would have been enough.
If you can speak to this it might be a big help to me and other adoptees out there. I think my parents who raised me did the best they could, but I don't know how to continue in a relationship with them in a comfortable way.
Julie GaglioneNashville, TN
Hi Julie, thanks for your question and for your story. This is a Tara question, all the way. Yet again, as someone who has been in the adoption arena for a long time now—it’s also a Jennifer question. So let "us" take a shot.
First, congrats on the connection to your father. It is said, via Buddhist philosophy, that when we incarnate, it is through attraction to the opposite sex parent. So it's in keeping that you would feel very strong connection with your father. I highly recommend Betty Jean Lifton's book Journey of the Adopted Self. She had some remarkable insights about the father/daughter connect.
From a larger view, I want to tell you about a teacher I know, Harvey Aronson. He wrote Buddhist Practice on Western Ground and teaches with his wife, Anne Klein, at Dawn Mountain. Harvey, during a teaching, once said something like this: we have no idea how truly miserable we are.
His comment was like an arrow to my heart. He is right. We have no idea how miserable we are and more, we create all these stories to convince ourselves (or numb ourselves) to a different point of view. To do otherwise means we must be with how miserable we are and once we are with how miserable we are—well, we will eventually have to find a way to stop being so miserable. And that’s the path. It’s not a Buddhist path. It’s a human being path. We suffer. We are miserable. Now we know the problem, how do we get out?
I’ll tell you what Julie, I have been working this equation for years and the only way I’ve found is to keep coming back to the center of myself via the breath. It helps to have a teacher who can make sure I’m not tipping off into some fantasy of resolution. Walt Whitman wrote how ours, for the most part, is a solitary journey:
Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
So ultimately, I have had to go it alone.
In the midst of my long solo journey, there is a very important truth I’ve come to wrestle with and it is around the issue of being adopted. How can we come home to our center, our truest “self” when that very core has been denied us?
Where is the true self?
These are the the questions an adopted person must have the courage to ask and then, when she gets the true answer of, “I don’t know,” she must begin a journey. Well, this is a real problem, isn’t it? The people who have adopted us, by no fault of their own other than (in some cases) stunning ignorance and (in some cases), overblown arrogance, believe they know who we are and tell us every day. “You are my daughter/son. You are our chosen child. You belong because we found you, blah blah blah.” That’s a very nice story but it’s not the truth. It’s what adopted families tell themselves to stop thinking. And many of these parents want adoptees to stop thinking, questioning and questing because it makes them feel uncomfortable.
Okay, I am generalizing here. This is not all adoptive parents. I know, I know. There are many remarkable adoptive parents out there, full of compassion for the displaced person they adopted. And there are others who simply don’t get it. How could they? Many who adopt have basked in the luxury of self-hood since infancy. They know who their mother is, who their father is, what these people sound, smell and feel like. They have immersed in ancestry to the point of saturation and take what they’ve always had for granted. That is the ignorance and the arrogance.
How could anyone, for one moment, imagine that it is right to deny a child their name, their ancestry and their true blood connections to mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers? How could anyone believe they are so grand that they could “replace” the very DNA that courses through another's body?
It’s madness and yet we are in the center of this storm. You, Julie and me too. We have lived with this state of displacement from our very first day. What have the ramifications been for our brains? Our nervous systems? Our bodies? Our lives?
And how do we get home again? How do we get to the center of ourselves and begin from the place that others have enjoyed from the moment of birth?
I don’t know about you, but I feel as if I am 44 years behind (I reunited four years ago). When I found my mother, my life began. And this is not because of some romantic fantasy that she and I get along and are together all the time. No. This is because I see myself in her, I hear myself in her, I smell myself and feel myself and even taste myself. I am home in my own body because of the blessing of meeting and being with and even being held by my true mother. I have gone home to the origin of my human life and now I can operate from the truth.
I’m not telling you anything, Julie. You know about what I'm writing here. You know all to well. You’ve done the journey too and while things have come undone with your mother, you have continued and now you find a place with your father. This is good. This is right. This is how it is supposed to be and now you can continue to ask the important questions which include: how do I go on? How do I interact with my adoptive family?
Really, the biggest question is about you. It’s not really about them anymore. It about you and that is the root of your question.
How do I continue in a comfortable way?
The question is this: How can you continue being you and be true that "you" you have found without giving yourself away in order to be the "you" they shaped you to be.
Sound about right?
It's hard not to go back to the old patterns and habits. They have an idea about you and you wanted to be loved and assured a place in a home, so you adapted. But no more. The genie is out of the bottle and you cannot go back.
That is the discomfort, right?
Well, tell them this. I love you, I am grateful, but I am not going to be that person anymore. If you love me, truly love me, you will know me as I get to know myself.
Some very enlightened adoptive parents could hear this and be willing. Others will be very upset. Still others will shrug with utter bafflement.
Julie, you can only be true to you now. You are finding yourself right now and it's a delicate and fragile self. Protect your new found identity. Nurture yourself. Be patient with yourself. And don't try too hard with your adoptive folks.
I’m sure they are fine people and they did right by you in lots of ways. Focus on the good. See what they did right and how they were kind and provided safety and protection and just let all the other crap go. If there is unresolved emotion around some of their actions or confusion about their state of mind while raising you, perhaps writing or conversation or a little therapy will help (with a really good therapist though, a bad therapist is worse than no therapy).
Just resolve to come to peace with your adoptive family. Forgive them or just let it go or whatever to be free of the past. It’s in the past and no happiness comes from harboring ills toward another.
You've found yourself now and that is more than half the battle. Now the work is growing your self to the ultimate state of wholeness. Time is of the essence now. You have catch up work to do. It's time to grow.
You did not go into the issues around your birth mother but I sense there is something going on there. Some confusion and even pain or perhaps I'm seeing my own situation with my own mother. Who knows. But let me try to say something about this process of reunion.
It is so hard. In fact, it would seem--at times--to be utterly impossible.
Nancy Verrier, a dear friend and author, told me this and I love the image. Let me paraphrase. You and I are plates. Imagine a great big serving platter, big enough to hold a turkey.
Now see that plate being dropped on the street. Hear the glass shatter, sharp and jagged.
That is the relationship once mother and child are separated.
Now glue the plate together. Take your time. Super glue it, get every single piece in place and let it all set.
That is reunion.
Time consuming and exacting work.
Still, even after you work so hard, the platter will not be what it was. It simply cannot be whole again.
I would suggest that abuse by a mother creates the same effect (if a child is kept by her mother and not adopted away). Relationships that are supposed to nurture and then become something else are destroyed. Going back is not easy. Peace can be achieved, the plate can be restored, but it can never be what it was.
With our birth mothers, who had been so wounded by the adoption experience, reunion is damn hard. They are so often working from a place of unreckoned pain and we (the original child) get hurt by that pain. These poor birth mothers. So deluded at the time they gave up their children and, if they don’t do some deep work around that time of their lives, so deluded about their ability to relate to us.
I’m left feeling sad for all of us. Birth mother, adoptee, adoptive parents. It’s a very sad situation.
At the same time, it’s through pain that we evolve. It’s hard to hear but it’s true. And this takes me back to the opening thought. We have no idea how miserable we are. Adoption helps us see misery in a very bright light and reunion gives us a chance to work that misery out.
My take away from the process is this: I finally know myself. I am calmed by that enriching truth. I know my voice, my face, my hands, my legs. I know my moods, my anxiety, my habits. I make sense enough to myself to settle the heck down and re-build a self. With the self found, now I can take the little self and go meet the big Self and perhaps bring an end to my own suffering and the suffering of others.
That is a gift. I feel very blessed.
You have your gifts too. A father who welcomes you. A husband who loves you. And your own questioning mind. Bravo.
I hope, hope, hope this is helpful Julie. I hope, in all of this, you find the answer you need. Thank you again and great happiness to you!
I am an adult adoptee who met my birth mother 18 years ago. We were in reunion for almost 9 years, and then the wheels came off. I have had my birth father's name and address since that time and was too fearful to do anything. For some reason this year I decided to contact him and it has been like coming home. Our connection was instant, and his love for me complete…I cannot even begin to describe it. I was born on his birthday…Valentines Day. It is also incredible to have access to my life story when once it was only a blank sheet of paper. It is a crazy story, but it is mine!
I have been in denial for 46 years about how hurt I have been as an adopted child, and now with the help of a good therapist, a patient husband and my original father, I am starting to heal some of that hurt that I have denied. I always felt like the ugly duckling with my parents and sister, and now I am back in my family of swans.
The hard part now is reconciling how my relationship with my adoptive parents. I never felt as though I belonged with them. Now I know why so many people wait until their adoptive parents are both dead to search for their birthparents. My parents are not bad people..they did the best they could. Even if they could have been better parents, I am not sure it would have been enough.
If you can speak to this it might be a big help to me and other adoptees out there. I think my parents who raised me did the best they could, but I don't know how to continue in a relationship with them in a comfortable way.
Julie GaglioneNashville, TN
Hi Julie, thanks for your question and for your story. This is a Tara question, all the way. Yet again, as someone who has been in the adoption arena for a long time now—it’s also a Jennifer question. So let "us" take a shot.
First, congrats on the connection to your father. It is said, via Buddhist philosophy, that when we incarnate, it is through attraction to the opposite sex parent. So it's in keeping that you would feel very strong connection with your father. I highly recommend Betty Jean Lifton's book Journey of the Adopted Self. She had some remarkable insights about the father/daughter connect.
From a larger view, I want to tell you about a teacher I know, Harvey Aronson. He wrote Buddhist Practice on Western Ground and teaches with his wife, Anne Klein, at Dawn Mountain. Harvey, during a teaching, once said something like this: we have no idea how truly miserable we are.
His comment was like an arrow to my heart. He is right. We have no idea how miserable we are and more, we create all these stories to convince ourselves (or numb ourselves) to a different point of view. To do otherwise means we must be with how miserable we are and once we are with how miserable we are—well, we will eventually have to find a way to stop being so miserable. And that’s the path. It’s not a Buddhist path. It’s a human being path. We suffer. We are miserable. Now we know the problem, how do we get out?
I’ll tell you what Julie, I have been working this equation for years and the only way I’ve found is to keep coming back to the center of myself via the breath. It helps to have a teacher who can make sure I’m not tipping off into some fantasy of resolution. Walt Whitman wrote how ours, for the most part, is a solitary journey:
Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.
So ultimately, I have had to go it alone.
In the midst of my long solo journey, there is a very important truth I’ve come to wrestle with and it is around the issue of being adopted. How can we come home to our center, our truest “self” when that very core has been denied us?
Where is the true self?
These are the the questions an adopted person must have the courage to ask and then, when she gets the true answer of, “I don’t know,” she must begin a journey. Well, this is a real problem, isn’t it? The people who have adopted us, by no fault of their own other than (in some cases) stunning ignorance and (in some cases), overblown arrogance, believe they know who we are and tell us every day. “You are my daughter/son. You are our chosen child. You belong because we found you, blah blah blah.” That’s a very nice story but it’s not the truth. It’s what adopted families tell themselves to stop thinking. And many of these parents want adoptees to stop thinking, questioning and questing because it makes them feel uncomfortable.
Okay, I am generalizing here. This is not all adoptive parents. I know, I know. There are many remarkable adoptive parents out there, full of compassion for the displaced person they adopted. And there are others who simply don’t get it. How could they? Many who adopt have basked in the luxury of self-hood since infancy. They know who their mother is, who their father is, what these people sound, smell and feel like. They have immersed in ancestry to the point of saturation and take what they’ve always had for granted. That is the ignorance and the arrogance.
How could anyone, for one moment, imagine that it is right to deny a child their name, their ancestry and their true blood connections to mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers? How could anyone believe they are so grand that they could “replace” the very DNA that courses through another's body? It’s madness and yet we are in the center of this storm. You, Julie and me too. We have lived with this state of displacement from our very first day. What have the ramifications been for our brains? Our nervous systems? Our bodies? Our lives?
And how do we get home again? How do we get to the center of ourselves and begin from the place that others have enjoyed from the moment of birth?
I don’t know about you, but I feel as if I am 44 years behind (I reunited four years ago). When I found my mother, my life began. And this is not because of some romantic fantasy that she and I get along and are together all the time. No. This is because I see myself in her, I hear myself in her, I smell myself and feel myself and even taste myself. I am home in my own body because of the blessing of meeting and being with and even being held by my true mother. I have gone home to the origin of my human life and now I can operate from the truth.
I’m not telling you anything, Julie. You know about what I'm writing here. You know all to well. You’ve done the journey too and while things have come undone with your mother, you have continued and now you find a place with your father. This is good. This is right. This is how it is supposed to be and now you can continue to ask the important questions which include: how do I go on? How do I interact with my adoptive family?
Really, the biggest question is about you. It’s not really about them anymore. It about you and that is the root of your question.
How do I continue in a comfortable way?
The question is this: How can you continue being you and be true that "you" you have found without giving yourself away in order to be the "you" they shaped you to be.
Sound about right?
It's hard not to go back to the old patterns and habits. They have an idea about you and you wanted to be loved and assured a place in a home, so you adapted. But no more. The genie is out of the bottle and you cannot go back.
That is the discomfort, right?
Well, tell them this. I love you, I am grateful, but I am not going to be that person anymore. If you love me, truly love me, you will know me as I get to know myself.
Some very enlightened adoptive parents could hear this and be willing. Others will be very upset. Still others will shrug with utter bafflement.
Julie, you can only be true to you now. You are finding yourself right now and it's a delicate and fragile self. Protect your new found identity. Nurture yourself. Be patient with yourself. And don't try too hard with your adoptive folks.
I’m sure they are fine people and they did right by you in lots of ways. Focus on the good. See what they did right and how they were kind and provided safety and protection and just let all the other crap go. If there is unresolved emotion around some of their actions or confusion about their state of mind while raising you, perhaps writing or conversation or a little therapy will help (with a really good therapist though, a bad therapist is worse than no therapy).
Just resolve to come to peace with your adoptive family. Forgive them or just let it go or whatever to be free of the past. It’s in the past and no happiness comes from harboring ills toward another.
You've found yourself now and that is more than half the battle. Now the work is growing your self to the ultimate state of wholeness. Time is of the essence now. You have catch up work to do. It's time to grow.
You did not go into the issues around your birth mother but I sense there is something going on there. Some confusion and even pain or perhaps I'm seeing my own situation with my own mother. Who knows. But let me try to say something about this process of reunion.
It is so hard. In fact, it would seem--at times--to be utterly impossible.
Nancy Verrier, a dear friend and author, told me this and I love the image. Let me paraphrase. You and I are plates. Imagine a great big serving platter, big enough to hold a turkey.
Now see that plate being dropped on the street. Hear the glass shatter, sharp and jagged.That is the relationship once mother and child are separated.
Now glue the plate together. Take your time. Super glue it, get every single piece in place and let it all set.
That is reunion.
Time consuming and exacting work.
Still, even after you work so hard, the platter will not be what it was. It simply cannot be whole again.
I would suggest that abuse by a mother creates the same effect (if a child is kept by her mother and not adopted away). Relationships that are supposed to nurture and then become something else are destroyed. Going back is not easy. Peace can be achieved, the plate can be restored, but it can never be what it was.
With our birth mothers, who had been so wounded by the adoption experience, reunion is damn hard. They are so often working from a place of unreckoned pain and we (the original child) get hurt by that pain. These poor birth mothers. So deluded at the time they gave up their children and, if they don’t do some deep work around that time of their lives, so deluded about their ability to relate to us.
I’m left feeling sad for all of us. Birth mother, adoptee, adoptive parents. It’s a very sad situation.
At the same time, it’s through pain that we evolve. It’s hard to hear but it’s true. And this takes me back to the opening thought. We have no idea how miserable we are. Adoption helps us see misery in a very bright light and reunion gives us a chance to work that misery out.
My take away from the process is this: I finally know myself. I am calmed by that enriching truth. I know my voice, my face, my hands, my legs. I know my moods, my anxiety, my habits. I make sense enough to myself to settle the heck down and re-build a self. With the self found, now I can take the little self and go meet the big Self and perhaps bring an end to my own suffering and the suffering of others.
That is a gift. I feel very blessed.
You have your gifts too. A father who welcomes you. A husband who loves you. And your own questioning mind. Bravo.
I hope, hope, hope this is helpful Julie. I hope, in all of this, you find the answer you need. Thank you again and great happiness to you!
July 24, 2012
Using Their Real Names in Memoir & Why?
Dear Tara,
A few weeks ago you answered the question,
Even if I wait until I've finished the book, will the story still feel like mine? Thank you!
Mandy
Hi Mandy and thank you for your question. This is a sweet, simple question with a sweet and simple answer: Write your book with all the real names the first time through. Why? Each of these names has a charge for you and to make the change during the creative process cheats you out of much needed emotional juju. Or the better word would be "charge." You need this charge to get to the deepest feelings and the feelings need to be felt in order to stop repressing and start healing. So in our early drafts, stick with the facts.
Close the door too. The first draft, even the second and third, are for you and your own heart.
Once you have your feelings totally flushed out and you have really gone the distance with as much of your own memory, then play with changes. You can incorporate cue phrases too, once that let the reader know you are making character adjustments. "My step mother had a name but the sake of this story, let's just call her Deb." See? You can go on: "Deb, if she were writing this book, would say that she was a fabulous woman. Misunderstood but basically sweet and kind and nice, and all of that may be true but that was not my experience with Deb. Deb, to me, at the age of eight was the wicked witch of all four directions. A bigger witch could not be found. My hatred towards her was complete."
See?
These cues serve many purposes. One, they let the reader know that you are aware that your feelings are intense and personal, and may be seperate from the person who helped trigger them (ie: Deb). Two, they make you a more reliable narrator because they show a level of vulnerability and integrty. Three, they are the truth! Reader's appreciate the truth.
That's the point of memoir. We explore truth via self awareness. Sticking as closely to the facts as possible allows us to maintain integrity towards our goal.
Unfortunately many memoirs fall short. My own work falls short. But we try and that is the point.
You are part of a genre in its infancy. Memoir has only been around for a few years. Yes, there have been biographies since the beginning of time. But the "ordinary man" and woman, writing their own life with the tools of literature and calling it memoir--that is new. We are writing and learning as we go.
Bravo to you for your courage.
Keep writing and don't worry. Your story and your book--name changes and all--will always be yours. Even when it is no longer who you are. But that is a different conversation.
Good luck, Jennifer
A few weeks ago you answered the question,
Even if I wait until I've finished the book, will the story still feel like mine? Thank you!
Mandy
Hi Mandy and thank you for your question. This is a sweet, simple question with a sweet and simple answer: Write your book with all the real names the first time through. Why? Each of these names has a charge for you and to make the change during the creative process cheats you out of much needed emotional juju. Or the better word would be "charge." You need this charge to get to the deepest feelings and the feelings need to be felt in order to stop repressing and start healing. So in our early drafts, stick with the facts.Close the door too. The first draft, even the second and third, are for you and your own heart.
Once you have your feelings totally flushed out and you have really gone the distance with as much of your own memory, then play with changes. You can incorporate cue phrases too, once that let the reader know you are making character adjustments. "My step mother had a name but the sake of this story, let's just call her Deb." See? You can go on: "Deb, if she were writing this book, would say that she was a fabulous woman. Misunderstood but basically sweet and kind and nice, and all of that may be true but that was not my experience with Deb. Deb, to me, at the age of eight was the wicked witch of all four directions. A bigger witch could not be found. My hatred towards her was complete."
See?
These cues serve many purposes. One, they let the reader know that you are aware that your feelings are intense and personal, and may be seperate from the person who helped trigger them (ie: Deb). Two, they make you a more reliable narrator because they show a level of vulnerability and integrty. Three, they are the truth! Reader's appreciate the truth.
That's the point of memoir. We explore truth via self awareness. Sticking as closely to the facts as possible allows us to maintain integrity towards our goal.
Unfortunately many memoirs fall short. My own work falls short. But we try and that is the point.
You are part of a genre in its infancy. Memoir has only been around for a few years. Yes, there have been biographies since the beginning of time. But the "ordinary man" and woman, writing their own life with the tools of literature and calling it memoir--that is new. We are writing and learning as we go.Bravo to you for your courage.
Keep writing and don't worry. Your story and your book--name changes and all--will always be yours. Even when it is no longer who you are. But that is a different conversation.
Good luck, Jennifer
