I was a child during the 70's and the term designated for kids who were adopted was that they were "given up" for adoption. Throughout the years there have been other terms such as "chosen" or "placed" or "put up for," but when I was hearing about it from my parents as a young girl I always heard the word adopted paired with the words "given up." I do believe that this choice was made by my parents unconsciously, however, it had a huge effect on me. It created feelings of isolation and loneliness and spurred me to constantly think about and remember the facts....I was "given up" for adoption. Whenever a medical history form had to be filled out, I left mine blank or wrote "don't know." Every time I went to a new dentist, family doctor or made a visit to the emergency room I had to fill one of these out...continuously reminding me that I didn't know what bizarre medical mysteries I would have to face in the future. Since I was very small the only thing that I knew for certain was that I had a genetic family history of bronchitis. I was adopted at the age of 3 months and I do consider the parents who raised me my "parents," but for my entire life I have wondered about who exactly gave birth to me and why I was given up for adoption. I am grateful that I am here, but the "why" question poked at me for years. I felt as if I was missing out on something during the majority of my childhood. My family consisted of my Mom, Dad and my Nana. All other relatives lived in England, which was not a convenient car drive away. It seemed to me that absolutely every other person I knew or friend that I had already had a plethera of family. At Christmas my family would be done opening presents and eating breakfast at 8:30 a.m. and I would want to go to my friends house. My parents always wondered why. At my house my parents would sit, and read; and sit, and read; and sit some more. Everything was structured. Everything was planned. Nothing was spontaneous. At my friend's house there would be people laughing, children playing loudly and obsessively with their new Christmas presents, music playing loudly on the stereo system, and an overall feeling of happiness and joy. It was exciting. It was stimulating. It was fun. These experiences continued to reinforce my feelings of not fitting into my family. I wasn't like them.
My mother and I had few similar interests. She wanted to teach me how to cook, I wanted to learn how to surf. She thought putting your elbows on the table was not ladylike. She wanted to teach me how to properly address an envelope for a thank-you note, I wanted to call them up and say "Thanks!" She would regularly inform me that I would not be welcome at Buckingham Palace whenever I did anything less than proper. She was subtle, I was blunt. She's a talker, I am a doer. All those years growing up as an energetic, verbal, athletic, sometimes wild girl, I felt I was living in conflict. Once again it was confirmed....I wasnít ìfromî them. These differences, as well as others, came to create much conflict and started to convince me that something was wrong with me. There isn't. I am just not her.
I was told by my parents that I was ìgiven upî for adoption because my birth parents were too young. This was only part of the story. Two years ago I discovered that my birthmother had left information at the Department of Social Services, in San Francisco, where I was placed for adoption. I was so relieved that she wanted to be found. The information was all out of date so I was forced to hire a private investigator in order to locate her. I was successful. As I sat on the runway, with my three year old squirming restlessly on my lap, I felt anxious and nervous. What would she "be" like? What would she look like? At 3:00 A.M. in the morning, after about 18 hours of traveling which should have only taken 8, my three year old and I got off the plane to come face to face with the real Debbie, my birth mother. The fantasy I had about who she was, was shattered.
My fantasy of who Debbie was began when I was about 8 or 9 years old. I had just moved to San Diego, California from Sussex, England. My dad was a Commander in the Navy, therefore we moved around a lot. When I started attending the local elementary school, I stuck out like a Beefeater guard without any pants. First of all, I was so much paler than the local kids. They all had kidney shaped pools that they swam in daily for hours. I didnít. Even if I had gotten away with looking like a sun tanned California kid, I sure as hell didnít sound like a California kid. I had a thick English accent. All the adults thought it was adorable. All the kids thought it was freakish. I believe that in an attempt to fit in to this new American culture I thought I had better be interesting in order to get some friends. When I told possible, future friends that I was adopted, it seemed to spark some interest and it intrigued them. Over the years the story of who my birth mother was became an out of control train. Friends would regularly speculate about who she might be. First, she was a famous singer, like Pat Benetar; then she was a playboy bunny, Miss August 1966; after that she was a famous movie star. When I was in high school people would always comment on how much I looked like Kathleen Turner, the actress. Then, my birthmother became Kathleen Turner. How romantic. How exciting. How unique.
When I got off of the plane, there she was, standing there with her stringy, sun streaked, brown hair; a lopsided nervous smile on her face, her arms outstretched. She was no movie star. I didnít even know this woman and she wanted to hug me??? ...B O U N D A R I E S... I thought to myself. Her first words to me were, "I have been waiting so long to see you and touch you again." I couldnít say anything. I was still trying to pick up the pieces. Over the next two weeks, Debbie began to tell me about her life and how she got to where she is. Debbie and I are very different on the surface. She has been hardened after all the years of substance abuse and not taking care of herself. It was a hard road, and still is. She was abused and neglected as a young girl. Her mother abandoned her to fend for herself. She had to count on the kindness of strangers who were not always kind. Today she is an alcoholic. She is a drug user. She has been in and out of prison several times. She has been shot. She has tattoos...a lot of tattoos. She sounds and smells as if she has smoked a thousand cigarettes over the past hour. She is not proper. She is not subtle. I am sure she does not care if her elbows are on the table at dinner time. She would definitely not be welcome at Buckingham Palace.
Over time my impression of Debbie has softened and I have come to accept her how she is. She is as genuine as she can be. She has a kind heart and a warm soul. She has made some poor choices, but one wonderful choice she did make was to put me up for adoption. She felt it was the best thing to do. She refused to take me back to the house of abuse and pain. She saved me from all of that and I am forever grateful. When Debbie was younger; before the abuse, drugs and alcohol consumed her, she enjoyed running and photography and surfing....just like me. She has had 2 other children, both boys and has played the role of "other mother" to two girls. Holidays are a time for big celebrations, with a lot of family. Debbie says that she would have named me Stefanie and you know what? That is what I always wanted my name to be. Debbie and I communicate regularly and she has opened the doors for me to the rest of my genetic family, which is nice. I am glad I found her and them. It makes me feel as if I am part of a bigger piece. I feel more complete, and I understand things now that I couldnít before.
I know my medical history now, and a lot more, and I am more grateful than ever. Being the "same" as your parent or having the same genes doesn't always make things easier. Interests, or hobbies may be similar, but that could be a bad thing. I believe I needed the genes I inherited from Debbie to be balanced by the rigid structure of my upbringing. I strongly believe that had I been raised by Debbie I would not be here today, but possibly close by, residing temporarily at Pelican Bay. I wholeheartedly believe that both my Mom and Debbie did the best they could within their own circumstances. So, growing up and feeling different all of those years was hard and isolating, but now I am so thankful. My parents being so different from me provided the stability and balance I needed to be "different" than my genes predicted...that is if in fact genes do predict. All I know for certain is that I was never really "given up," but I was definitely chosen.
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