I recently joined an adoptee writing group where we follow prompts each week and write about whatever comes to mind. This group has been very eye-opening for me and I now have some insight into how other adoptees feel about adoption. It is interesting to see how each adoptee has their own unique story and struggle, yet they often experience similar things.
The first week of writing, I realized that I had so many thoughts/memories in my head that I needed to get down on paper. So, I decided to create a series of vignettes in the hour and a half time limit that we were given. Each one of these situations is based on something that has happened to me as an adoptee.
I hope that you enjoy reading these and perhaps can relate to some of them. Let me know if you would like me to share more of my writing in the future! **The names in this piece are fictional to keep the real ones confidential**
Writing Week 1
“What are you?” A middle-aged woman with straight blonde hair asked me as I rang up her fruit, placing them in her cart.
Shrugging, I answered as I usually did with, “I have no idea.” I debated whether or not I should follow up with the fact that I was adopted and hadn’t taken a DNA test, but I just didn’t have the patience. Why did everyone need to know?
The woman, obviously not satisfied with the answer, opened her mouth to ask another question but I interrupted her.
“That will be 60.72.” I looked at the computer screen, ignoring her prying eyes.
——-
I laid next to my mom, my fingers tangled in her “limp blonde hair” (as she constantly referred to it as).
“Why can’t I have hair like yours,” I asked, already knowing the disappointing answer.
“Honey. I don’t think you realize that people would kill for your hair.”
I rolled my eyes and grunted as I took my hands off her head and onto my own. I knew that she would never understand what it was like to have hair that you could never let down without it frizzing. Hair that when you woke up you immediately had to put up in a bun or else you would look homeless the rest of the day and be made fun of.
I hated my hair.
——–
I tapped my pencil on my desk, impatiently waiting for class to be over. My sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Rett was showing us a video about slavery and I suddenly felt very small and aware of my skin.
I looked around at the other students with straight hair and paper white skin and knew I looked out of place. I put my head down as my heart started to beat faster. Did I have a right to feel like this though? Would these kids look at me like my ancestors were slaves? Was I even black?
——-
“Are you completely sure you want to do this?” My mom’s worried voice asked me.
I couldn’t keep the smile off my face as I looked out the window of the passengers seat. The thought of not having my hair up in a bun my whole life sounded amazing. People wouldn’t even be surprised when I wore my hair down anymore.
“Mom,” I said, turning to her. “I want this.”
We walked into the hair salon and I immediately felt like something was off. All of the hairstylists were looking at my six-foot, Irish mom who brought in my five-foot-one, dark skin body with disheveled hair.
“Well, this is a little weird. They probably think that your dad is black,” My mom said quietly, trying to make light of the situation.
——-
“It’s insane. Nothing like this has ever happened before,” My dad said at the dinner table.
“And the fact that they’re just trying to make it all political! I can’t believe it. Some people just have no empathy.” My mom agreed.
I sat quietly, listening to my parents talk about how crazy it was that we had this virus that was lasting more than three weeks. My phone suddenly buzzed and I picked it up.
Instagram Notification: DM from Abigail – Hey, I know this might sound really weird but 23 and me says that we’re half-sisters.
My heart almost stopped as I read those words “half-sister” over and over again in my head. Never had I ever thought this day would come.
——
“I’m so pissed because some of my hair in the back is literally straight. It barely curls like the rest of my hair,” I complained.
“Wow. You’re really complaining about having straight hair now?” My mom said incredulously. “Oh my god, imagine if your hair all of a sudden gets straight as you get older.”
I stopped for a second, processing what she had just said. A year ago I would have had a different reaction to that statement, but now, now I realized that without my hair, I wouldn’t have my identity. I would be a whole different person.
——
I stared at the assignment until my eyes watered. Research a topic that is of interest to you and then write a 10 page paper on it. There were so many options, but what would I write that could fill up 10 pages of research?
I groaned and shook my head. I didn’t want to do this, but I knew it would probably be an easy A.
“Let’s write about adoption,” I sighed.
I typed the word that had been a part of my life since I was born, into google. My hand carelessly scrolled through the articles as I looked for something of interest. I suddenly sat up in my chair. What the hell was this? Transracial Adoption. I clicked on it and spent the next five hours immersing myself in the unfamiliar, yet very familiar world of transracial adoption.