Adoption: A tale about what not to do
Dec 22 '00
Adoption is a complicated and emotional subject. I have so many feelings I could write for hours about it, but I'm going to condense my thoughts. I hope this review is at least organized enough so that it makes sense.
When I was in 8th grade, this kid from a few houses up the road was trying to hurt my feelings. He got mad at me over something I can't even remember, and kept yelling, "You're adopted!" over and over again at me. I went home from school crying and told Mom about it. I remember her calling the kid's mother and they talked a while, and I never heard a word said about it again. Part of their conversation was in private.
I used to have a friend in high school named Richard that was adopted. He had known all his life. I was always curious to know how it felt. I asked him several times, stuff like how he found out, why was he given up for adoption, does he know anything about his biological parents. We talked a lot about it, and he was always at ease with his situation. He seemed well-adjusted. That's why we were able to talk about it without any tension between us.
Mom and Dad were divorced, and I didn't associate with my dad. It was a complicated divorce, and neither of my parents were the type to rise above talking about the other. I had my head screwed on so backwards I wasn't sure who I loved and who I didn't. On September 9, 1990, I was 20 years old. Mom died suddenly. I did all the paperwork and got my mom's affairs in order, all the while I felt like I was losing it. I couldn't attend to my own responsibilities. I missed about 5 weeks worth of classes. To make a long story short, I was going through her papers and found adoption papers, but the name wasn't mine. I was so confused. I took them to my dad, who laughed about it and said, "Yeah, they're yours, son." He was such a joker that I laughed with him, thinking this was another of his gags. Then he proceeded to tell me about my biological mother's death on a train track (which occurred after my adoption), and about how my biological father was sent to prison for stealing copper. I realized after a few seconds that he wasn't joking. My girlfriend squeezed my hand as we sat that and listened to my family story that I'd never heard. My birth-name was James Pruitt, not Brian Kiser. A new birth certificate had been created and the records sealed from public view. Mom had carefully hid the facts, in the hope that I would never find out. She wanted me to feel like I "was hers". She had told me stories of how she had 36 hours of labor, and how I would lose my hair since my dad had. She wanted so much for me to feel like I belong to her.
What Mom never expected was for me to find out like this. It was the biggest stunner of my life. I am about the most grounded person on earth, but this one made me reel. I lost all sense of identity. I like felt something huge in my life was missing and I'd never get it back. I had so many questions for Mom, but could never hear the answers. Dad tried to make me understand why she insisted I never find out the truth, but it was hard to accept.
The punch line is that the adoption papers I found didn't belong to me... they were to another boy that was a foster child that my parents kept briefly. I found out entirely by coincidence, and the rest of the information came from my dad.
My religion teacher at college was there for me, even when I called her at 4:00 am from a pay phone, threatening suicide. She talked to me all the time, went to dinner with me, and cared for me like I was her own family. She was what held me together during that time. Most of my instructors let me make up my work, so I survived that year of college.
Years later, my dad died in 1996, and with him I thought all hope of ever reconciling this whole adoption mess that is always in the back of my mind, and won't resolve itself. It might be easy for someone to say, "Well, why didn't you talk to your dad about this before then?" It's not that easy. I guess you just have to walk a mile in my shoes, y'know?
A few months after he died, I got a call from a girl named Judy in Chilicothe, Ohio. She was my biological sister. She had tracked me down through people in our hometown of Matewan, West Virginia. She had been able to unseal my birth records. It took her years of searching. She also found our brother somewhere in either North or South Carolina (I forget which). We spoke on the phone several times, the last time she let me speak to a man she called "Dad".
I moved in 1997, and haven't contacted her since. I don't think I even have her number anymore.
I look back at what this has done to me, and it makes me very thoughtful about kids that are adopted. Have you ever heard someone say the reason they don't want to adopt is that they want "to have their own child?" People who say that make me want to puke. I know who my parents were. They were the people that raised me from 6 months old, changed my diaper, played with me, sent me to school, fed me, taught me the lessons that they could, raised me to be a man, and loved me even when I must have been hard to love.
It's obvious to me that I have unresolved issues with this mess, and if you've stuck with me this long, you probably agree. Counseling is not for me, and these thoughts only pop up occasionally. I feel without a doubt that there is one rule that everyone who adopts should follow: Always tell the child he is adopted, but make him understand early that you love him very much.
That makes all the difference between my friend who was well-adjusted and fine with being adopted, and myself, who is probably closer to being a cautionary tale.
This is probably my longest review. Thanks for hanging in there with me.
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Epinions.com ID:
bkiser
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Reviews written: 33
Trusted by: 18 members
About Me:
I'm a Systems Consultant for the Kentucky Commonwealth Office of Technology.
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