I Was Adopted
I was adopted when I was a babe
My identity taken away
And I never knew the woman who bore me
Or the reason she gave me away
My name was changed – my records were sealed
I started my life anew
But I never knew where I got my blonde hair
Or who gave me eyes of blue
When all of my friends were tracing their lines
And climbing their own family trees
I had no names to put on my branches
All that I had was me
I always have feelings that I don’t belong
No matter where I go
And all of my past – all the family I had
Is something that I’ll never know
The family I have is the best there could be
I couldn’t love anyone more
But all through my life in the back of my mind
There’s been something that I have yearned for
I don’t want a mother – I already have one
The best one there ever could be
I’d just like to have enough blank spaces filled
To fill every branch on my tree
It’s bad poetry written when I was fifteen, but as I read it today the same sense of longing I felt at that time comes through. I remember what it was like to have no information about the circumstances of my birth, no sense of heritage or history. I’m one of the fortunate ones; I have been able to fill those empty spaces on my family tree; I’ve been able to find peace.
It was the truth that brought that peace.
All adoptees deserve to have peace. Those who have already lost so much – and it is a loss to be removed from your family-of-origin – are entitled to the truth that will allow them to be at peace.
Because I have a grandson who was adopted by very wonderful loving parents… I am always draw to the side of Adoptive children, parents(birth parents and Adoptive parents).
I do not know the perticulars of your birth or adoption… but I can tell you that My Grandson, though he does not live with his birth mother, is no less loved or thought of!! For us… the adoption is open to a point, but only as much as the adoptive parents allow… but we are waiting on the day that our grandson finally decides to seek to see us face to face, and soooo looking forward to it!
Linda, your fifteen year-old-self knew how to write powerful poetry. I’m glad that you could fill the spaces in your family tree, and I hope you’re writing about the journey of that quest and the places (real and metaphorical) your discoveries have taken you. As a step-mom to a truly wonderful 31-year-old daughter, I can testify that parenting isn’t all about sharing DNA. But everyone is entitled to know who they are in all the ways those words mean.