Cross-posted at Exile of Xingnan
I found this bit of writing in a small notebook. The handwriting is quite elegant, so it must have been a reflection within the first year of contact:
I have always known I was adopted, well before I even know how to verbalize what the term ‘adoption’ meant. I can remember at about age 7 asking about my adoption, the question that is asked by all young adopted children:
“Why did my mother give me up?”
My adoptive mom’s answer must have been researched, as if she was just waiting for me to ask: “She loved you so much she gave you up.”
“But why?” I remember asking. “Why didn’t she keep me?”
My mom further attempted to explain.
“You were a very ill baby, so she made the sacrifice to give you up for a better life.”
Perhaps she thought her answer was comforting, reassuring, that it would placate my curiousity. Perhaps it is what she believed I needed to hear. As a young child I did not believe that someone who supposedly ‘loved me so much’ would still give me away. And so, I cut off any spiritual or emotional thoughts towards the woman who gave birth to me.
I picture my “mother” and “father” standing outside an old, rusty wooden shack. They are buried in poverty, with ragged clothes, and thin, worn faces. They are very elderly and can barely afford to feed themselves.
I just happened to be a burden, something to “throw out” due to the consequences of poverty.
Because love means giving up, and sending your child away in the likelihood you will never see them ever again.