- A Question of Trust
- Intro: The Birth of a Blog
- You and Me Could Write a Bad Romance: Part I
- Bad Romance, Part II: The Couch
- Bastard Package #1
- Hallelujah
- Born This Way
- Baby Girl X
- Another Victim of Love
- True Life
- The Girls Who Went Away
- Love and Other Drugs
- 11 Things Adoptees Love to Hear
- Uh, Never Mind
- Adoptee Kid Lit
- Bastard Princess and the Search for the Holy Grail
- MYOFB
- Awkwardness
- Baby Steps
- Faith, Hope, and Catholic Charities
- Special Delivery
- Green-eyed Monster
- !@#$
- Pandora
- Fantasyland
- Adoptees You May Have Heard Of
- Big MAC Attack
- Material Girl
- VISA and Mastercard Accepted
- Don't Hold Your Breath
- Our Love is Like a Constipated Cat
- A Question of Trust
- Adoption, Hollywood Style
- All in the Family
Baby Girl X
I’ve been asked many times how I found out I was adopted. I can’t remember specifics, but I’m fairly sure I’d been told the available truth from the start—no devastating surprises. So I guess that’s a plus. Although I don’t recall dwelling on the missing people details as a kid, as many adoptees do, I remember a constant sense of disappointment, knowledge that something bad was making me different from everyone else. And when you’re a kid, especially an adopted kid, different is bad. Really fucking bad.
As far as I know, I was born in Milwaukee in August 1970. However, the most crucial journalistic details of my story—the who, why, and how—have been artlessly censored from my life with heavy black marker, like a World War II press release. At some point shortly after birth, I ended up with my middle-class adoptive mother and father, who were delighted to have me—so much so that they gave me the middle name Joy (which I’ve always hated because it reminds me that I’m adopted.).
When I was 4, I ended up with a younger brother, also adopted. The two of us got along some of the time, but I feel like we never really bonded, instead living more of a parallel existence. Although we shared parents and a home and family experiences, we were generally strangers under the same roof, like college coeds in a dorm. Although we get along better now that we’re well into adulthood, back then our personalities often clashed over many of the life choices he made and my mom’s tendency to coddle him. It’s bizarre, but, even though I’ve known him for 36 years, he still feels like a mere acquaintance to me, a cartoon or abstract concept come to life. I regret that and wish we’d been closer, although I’m not sure there was really anything I could’ve done to change that.
I grew up in Elmhurst, Illinois, an affluent lily-white western suburb of Chicago. My mom and dad always made an effort to expose us to culture—taking us to the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Natural History, and the Museum of Science and Industry. Each summer we loaded up the van and went north to Wisconsin for a week on the lake, fishing, boating, swimming, flea marketing, and wandering the back roads. My dad, a banker, worked long hours downtown to ensure that we had what we needed and then a little more. Mom worked part-time jobs in retail to take care of the extras, such as vacations and my beloved horseback riding lessons. We had an Atari. I got a Big Ten education. Life was pretty good.
On the surface, I had security and my basic needs were met. But something dark has always been hanging around me--dogshit on my psychic shoes, if you will. Something was preventing me from being a real person. To this day, I often feel awkward and self-conscious in my own skin-- doubting my own knowledge and experience and feeling like an impostor in even the most familiar situations, even in the safety of my own home. Although I’m 40 years old and have a loving family, a career I enjoy, and a comfortable home, I still don’t know for sure where I belong.
As far as I know, I was born in Milwaukee in August 1970. However, the most crucial journalistic details of my story—the who, why, and how—have been artlessly censored from my life with heavy black marker, like a World War II press release. At some point shortly after birth, I ended up with my middle-class adoptive mother and father, who were delighted to have me—so much so that they gave me the middle name Joy (which I’ve always hated because it reminds me that I’m adopted.).
When I was 4, I ended up with a younger brother, also adopted. The two of us got along some of the time, but I feel like we never really bonded, instead living more of a parallel existence. Although we shared parents and a home and family experiences, we were generally strangers under the same roof, like college coeds in a dorm. Although we get along better now that we’re well into adulthood, back then our personalities often clashed over many of the life choices he made and my mom’s tendency to coddle him. It’s bizarre, but, even though I’ve known him for 36 years, he still feels like a mere acquaintance to me, a cartoon or abstract concept come to life. I regret that and wish we’d been closer, although I’m not sure there was really anything I could’ve done to change that.
I grew up in Elmhurst, Illinois, an affluent lily-white western suburb of Chicago. My mom and dad always made an effort to expose us to culture—taking us to the Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Natural History, and the Museum of Science and Industry. Each summer we loaded up the van and went north to Wisconsin for a week on the lake, fishing, boating, swimming, flea marketing, and wandering the back roads. My dad, a banker, worked long hours downtown to ensure that we had what we needed and then a little more. Mom worked part-time jobs in retail to take care of the extras, such as vacations and my beloved horseback riding lessons. We had an Atari. I got a Big Ten education. Life was pretty good.
On the surface, I had security and my basic needs were met. But something dark has always been hanging around me--dogshit on my psychic shoes, if you will. Something was preventing me from being a real person. To this day, I often feel awkward and self-conscious in my own skin-- doubting my own knowledge and experience and feeling like an impostor in even the most familiar situations, even in the safety of my own home. Although I’m 40 years old and have a loving family, a career I enjoy, and a comfortable home, I still don’t know for sure where I belong.