Professional Adoptee
It's been a long time since I blogged. I have a travel blog these days, which is much more upbeat, positive and frankly user-friendly than gloomy meanderings into the miasmic worlds of depression and adoption.
And since my last post I've become something of a professional adoptee, a sort of rent-a-kid whenever adoption is in the news, when someone needs a critical eye cast on adoption policy, or a happy-ever-after
But the truth is neither and both of those things all at the same time, as this rather more revealing podcast interview shows The truth is that I had a wonderful childhood, with my parents caring for both my material and (for the most part, as best they could) emotional needs; the truth is that I had opportunities many, including the brother I left behind in the care system, did not have; but the truth is also that I grew up with a constant need to succeed, to please, to "earn" what I had, to give back - possibly connected to adoption, possibly not. As I have grown older I have been painfully aware that all these things that I have come from the good fortune of being born second, of social workers being prepared for my arrival, having used my brother as their guinea pig; my qualifications, positive relationships, the fact I was able to partially train to be a professional singer, my constant desire for knowledge, for travel... all this privilege, for which I should be eternally grateful, comes from a system that saw my mother as a problem, pressured her to give me away and won. Thanks to their judgement and also a mixture of selflessness and despairing resignation of my natural mum, here I am. I have not earned these things; I did nothing to deserve any of them. I am acutely, agonisingly aware whenever I allow my mind to wander into this area that all my fortunes came from others' misfortunes: the misfortunes of my mother having a dysfunctional family and violent partner; the misfortunes of my wonderful adoptive parents when biology failed them and they did not find themselves bearing children of their own. In my darker moments, which are increasingly frequent as I waver on the edge of a chasm of depression that's been trying to suck me in since my grandmother died back in April, my brain tells me that, really, I shouldn't be here at all, that it would have been easier for all concerned if I had never been born, that I should (and would now) have been aborted. Each time I don't quite succeed at something, or I upset someone (deliberately or, more usually, inadvertently), or I am lazy, snappy, thoughtless, or I fail to make something of an opportunity (why didn't I go to music college? Why didn't I apply for that job I didn't really want, but that paid so much better?) I loathe myself for my ingratitude, my selfishness, my failure to appreciate, to thank, to give back.
Adoption is complicated. I could write a book on it, and it would be sent back by the publisher for being too inconsistent, too jumbled: "what's the message you're trying to convey?" they'd said. "Who is this aimed at?" And, frankly, I wouldn't know the answer.
I fell apart earlier this week, reminding me just how little it takes for this to happen these days. I feel terms like "trigger warnings" are overused, and thus sneered at by those who would term us snowflakes (fine by me - snowflakes are pretty, not to say powerful, regularly bring the whole of Transport for London to a halt) yet at the same time maybe I should be covered in them - for it is rarely something big, but rather usually just a throwaway word or dig, that sends me spiralling. This weekend I had been asked to write a piece about Christmas as an adoptee, and how I incorporate birth and adoptive relatives into this. I did so, happily, because I feel that, against many odds and after multitudinous bumps, my situation sets a good example in this area. My two mothers exchanged cards this year, I see both regularly, and I love both dearly. My dad and natural mum had a long video chat last year where they each thanked the other for their part in my life, which remains one of the single most special moments I have experienced. I put a lot of work into a genuinely heartfelt and personal story which I was satisfied would show all these dear, treasured people in the best of lights - a sort of tribute to them. But then I received an email asking me to change the piece: specifically, they wanted me to change the phrase "natural mum" to "birth mum" because "natural mum is offensive to adoptive parents as it implies they are unnatural."
I don't want to delve too deeply into the linguistic minutiae, but the idea that adopted people don't think about word choices, when many of us dissect almost every aspect of our personal lives to a probably unhealthy degree, hit me very hard. I use the word "natural" for a reason, no, for many reasons. Firstly, simply as a differential - in real life I call both my mothers "Mum", but that doesn't work on paper; OK, so, why not use an alternative? Well, I personally don't like the term "real mum" because I agree that this COULD be offensive - the mum who raised me is very much real, and very much my mum; but she is not my NATURAL mum. Natural means of nature, and, in terms of pure biology, I do not have the genes of the wonderful person who raised me, nor did she give birth to me. In no sense, then, is she my natural mum, and I don't see what is offensive about that. Adoption IS unnatural - that's not to say it can't be a beautiful, positive, mutually advantageous thing, that all parties cannot flourish, but a successful adoption comes not from an accident of biology, but from a painstaking process where numerous parties combine to collectively play God. They might well do a good job, but it does not make anything about it "natural". Conversely, the term "birth mother" to me reduces my sweet, vulnerable mother's role to one that is purely transactional. It makes her sound not like someone who gave me half her genes and with whom I now have a very real relationship, but a mere incubator. I understand others may disagree, and this is why they should be allowed to use words that work best for them. For example, I know adoptees who use the term "first family", but they are generally those who have some connection with that family, or have a letterbox adoption. For me, "first family" (when speaking about a family with whom I had no contact until my 30s) would be as disingenuous as "birth mother" is inappropriately dispassionate.
In case you're wondering what happened, this did lead to an interesting and sometimes bruising (and sometimes affirming) discussion on Twitter, which is perhaps a start. In the meantime, I am excited to be falling back on my sideline as a comedian by providing an alternative Christmas message for a podcast this year, which at the very least is one for the CV. I could write a book on adoption. One day perhaps I will. For now, I'm using a blog as a blotting pad for a situation that, if I'm honest, will never be OK, will always be happy yet complex and painful all at the same time, and which I'm afraid, in my darkest, bleakest moments, has the power to drown me.
And since my last post I've become something of a professional adoptee, a sort of rent-a-kid whenever adoption is in the news, when someone needs a critical eye cast on adoption policy, or a happy-ever-after
But the truth is neither and both of those things all at the same time, as this rather more revealing podcast interview shows The truth is that I had a wonderful childhood, with my parents caring for both my material and (for the most part, as best they could) emotional needs; the truth is that I had opportunities many, including the brother I left behind in the care system, did not have; but the truth is also that I grew up with a constant need to succeed, to please, to "earn" what I had, to give back - possibly connected to adoption, possibly not. As I have grown older I have been painfully aware that all these things that I have come from the good fortune of being born second, of social workers being prepared for my arrival, having used my brother as their guinea pig; my qualifications, positive relationships, the fact I was able to partially train to be a professional singer, my constant desire for knowledge, for travel... all this privilege, for which I should be eternally grateful, comes from a system that saw my mother as a problem, pressured her to give me away and won. Thanks to their judgement and also a mixture of selflessness and despairing resignation of my natural mum, here I am. I have not earned these things; I did nothing to deserve any of them. I am acutely, agonisingly aware whenever I allow my mind to wander into this area that all my fortunes came from others' misfortunes: the misfortunes of my mother having a dysfunctional family and violent partner; the misfortunes of my wonderful adoptive parents when biology failed them and they did not find themselves bearing children of their own. In my darker moments, which are increasingly frequent as I waver on the edge of a chasm of depression that's been trying to suck me in since my grandmother died back in April, my brain tells me that, really, I shouldn't be here at all, that it would have been easier for all concerned if I had never been born, that I should (and would now) have been aborted. Each time I don't quite succeed at something, or I upset someone (deliberately or, more usually, inadvertently), or I am lazy, snappy, thoughtless, or I fail to make something of an opportunity (why didn't I go to music college? Why didn't I apply for that job I didn't really want, but that paid so much better?) I loathe myself for my ingratitude, my selfishness, my failure to appreciate, to thank, to give back.
Adoption is complicated. I could write a book on it, and it would be sent back by the publisher for being too inconsistent, too jumbled: "what's the message you're trying to convey?" they'd said. "Who is this aimed at?" And, frankly, I wouldn't know the answer.
I fell apart earlier this week, reminding me just how little it takes for this to happen these days. I feel terms like "trigger warnings" are overused, and thus sneered at by those who would term us snowflakes (fine by me - snowflakes are pretty, not to say powerful, regularly bring the whole of Transport for London to a halt) yet at the same time maybe I should be covered in them - for it is rarely something big, but rather usually just a throwaway word or dig, that sends me spiralling. This weekend I had been asked to write a piece about Christmas as an adoptee, and how I incorporate birth and adoptive relatives into this. I did so, happily, because I feel that, against many odds and after multitudinous bumps, my situation sets a good example in this area. My two mothers exchanged cards this year, I see both regularly, and I love both dearly. My dad and natural mum had a long video chat last year where they each thanked the other for their part in my life, which remains one of the single most special moments I have experienced. I put a lot of work into a genuinely heartfelt and personal story which I was satisfied would show all these dear, treasured people in the best of lights - a sort of tribute to them. But then I received an email asking me to change the piece: specifically, they wanted me to change the phrase "natural mum" to "birth mum" because "natural mum is offensive to adoptive parents as it implies they are unnatural."
I don't want to delve too deeply into the linguistic minutiae, but the idea that adopted people don't think about word choices, when many of us dissect almost every aspect of our personal lives to a probably unhealthy degree, hit me very hard. I use the word "natural" for a reason, no, for many reasons. Firstly, simply as a differential - in real life I call both my mothers "Mum", but that doesn't work on paper; OK, so, why not use an alternative? Well, I personally don't like the term "real mum" because I agree that this COULD be offensive - the mum who raised me is very much real, and very much my mum; but she is not my NATURAL mum. Natural means of nature, and, in terms of pure biology, I do not have the genes of the wonderful person who raised me, nor did she give birth to me. In no sense, then, is she my natural mum, and I don't see what is offensive about that. Adoption IS unnatural - that's not to say it can't be a beautiful, positive, mutually advantageous thing, that all parties cannot flourish, but a successful adoption comes not from an accident of biology, but from a painstaking process where numerous parties combine to collectively play God. They might well do a good job, but it does not make anything about it "natural". Conversely, the term "birth mother" to me reduces my sweet, vulnerable mother's role to one that is purely transactional. It makes her sound not like someone who gave me half her genes and with whom I now have a very real relationship, but a mere incubator. I understand others may disagree, and this is why they should be allowed to use words that work best for them. For example, I know adoptees who use the term "first family", but they are generally those who have some connection with that family, or have a letterbox adoption. For me, "first family" (when speaking about a family with whom I had no contact until my 30s) would be as disingenuous as "birth mother" is inappropriately dispassionate.
In case you're wondering what happened, this did lead to an interesting and sometimes bruising (and sometimes affirming) discussion on Twitter, which is perhaps a start. In the meantime, I am excited to be falling back on my sideline as a comedian by providing an alternative Christmas message for a podcast this year, which at the very least is one for the CV. I could write a book on adoption. One day perhaps I will. For now, I'm using a blog as a blotting pad for a situation that, if I'm honest, will never be OK, will always be happy yet complex and painful all at the same time, and which I'm afraid, in my darkest, bleakest moments, has the power to drown me.
posted by RLS at 4:56 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home