Let's start with the jubilation...
Last night was beyond amazing. I have not felt such hope and positive energy in — well, in eight years at least. I cried, I danced, I sang. I stand in awe of a man and his campaign machine who were able to so effectively mobilize and energize, and make people believe in change. My faith in humanity is restored...or at least the 80% or so of American humanity who believe as I do in tolerance, ethics and general reasoning.
But it's that 20% who have me concerned. I've spoken with or heard from a few of them and their self-generated bile makes me want to choke. They also make me ashamed, because quite a few of them are self-proclaimed "Irish Americans." I've always been wary of that ethnic tag, because in all honesty, what the hell is an Irish American, or an Anything American? If your ancestors landed on these shores more than eighty years ago, aren't you really just an American? But I won't belabour that point.
Suffice to say these self-proclaimed "Irish Americans," or "Plastic Paddies" as I prefer to call them have the unmitigated gall to express outright racism at our newly-elected President. It's obvious these eejits have forgotten their own Irish History 101 and the extreme persecution we suffered at the hands of the British, not to mention the racism and loathing we received after fleeing Ireland and hitting the shores of America. Like our black brethren, we were also compared to apes or monkeys; deemed lazy; tagged as drunkards or brawlers. Does the phrase "No Irish Need Apply" ring any bells with anyone? How quickly we forget. In the words of Jimmy Rabbitte in Roddy Doyle's The Commitments: "The Irish are the n*****rs of Europe."
In fairness, the public schools in this part of the Philadelphia 'burbs pretty much like to keep Historic Atrocities 101 to discussions on the Holocaust. Not that I have any truck with opening young minds to the horrors ol' Adolf perpetrated. But when my kids started coming home and reporting they were learning about the Holocaust in MATH class, fer crissakes, I drew the line. It's time our doughy, over-protected kidlings learn a little about An Ghorta Mor.
But tell that to some fecker in Fishtown or Port Richmond who believes his AOH membership entitles him to stupidly wear garish green every March 17th and drunkenly boast of his great-great-granny's Mayo roots and about his own pasty, white skin (the latter certainly owing more to fluorescent bar lighting, bad fast food and too much alcohol as opposed to any true Celtic roots). Did great-great-granny forget to pass down as lore how she never wanted to clap eyes on Kiltimagh again, or eat grass, and jumped the nearest coffin ship to NY in 1848, abandoning forever all kith and kin back in her home village? 160 years later loutish great-great-grandson claps on his hideous green sweater, books two coach seats on Aer Lingus, and then proceeds to make a total arse of himself rolling through Temple Bar, singing at the top of his lungs and destroying any ounce of credibility Americans might've had abroad.
And yet these self-same "Irish Americans" declare themselves racist and hate Barack Obama. John F. Kennedy was once the Barack Obama of his generation, and yet I guarantee you won't find a kitchen in Fishtown that doesn't have the ubiquitous JFK portrait hanging right there next to the (now German) Pope. (Author's note: In 1980, following a night of drunken revelry while my parents and I were away, some of my brother's friends gave JFK a drawn-on Beatles haircut and Pope John Paul II a nifty little blue goatee. My mother wailed for days.).
I just don't understand this mentality. I guess I never will. But funnier yet, these same Barack-haters are now saying they want to leave the country. Now admittedly, I had sworn that if the outcome last night had been different, my own sweet arse would've been on a plan ee-MEEJ-etly back to the land of my birth, Ireland. (Author's note: I am NOT Irish American...I was born there and plucked from my little crib and shipped here...I had no control over it.).
So where do disgruntled Republicans go? Well, one suggestion I heard from some sore losers was Canada. Canada!? What in the world would a bunch of conservative, God-fearing Christian Right (which we must remember is neither: Christian nor right) red-stater folk do in a socialist, progressive country? Matter of fact, that pretty much leaves out most of Europe. Perhaps Saudi Arabia? I hear the Bush family has some good connections there...perhaps they can set up all these disgruntled folk in nice little Dubai condos. Mexico can also be a pretty conservative place and the weather's nice.
Or better yet, maybe the whole reason the soon to be ex-Village Idiot has been arduously trying to probe Mars is to scope its possibilities as a future GOP colony. It's a RED planet!!
Ok, so I'm getting a bit carried away. But I must say I really am ashamed of all these racist Plastic Paddies around me. They make me want to puke.
Barack and Joe make me believe...in change, in hope, in the evolution of society. And I guess for now that is enough. I'll deal with the Plastic Paddies later.
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The muses just weren't speaking to me for a while, I guess.
Perhaps they were just having a hard time finding me, since I was pretty well-concealed in this cave I dove into to lick my wounds.
It's been one of those years, affected by some convergence of Mercury in retrograde, solar flares, and Karmic energy gone twisted. But ever the optimist, I have decided to soldier on in life and just continue to take it on the chin if necessary.
So to bring any weary travelers who've stumbled upon my little closet of thoughts here up to date, I thought it was time to let the Muses back in.
Recently, there was some upsetting news. I learned of the tragic death of Sandra Cooper, I woman I've met and known for some years. Sandra courageously and completely selflessly assisted literally hundreds of people reconnect with lost families. Though not affected by adoption in any way herself, Sandra intuitively 'got' the issues facing adult adopted people and used her skills and resources to help them resolve many of those issues. She will be sadly missed.
I have been very negligent of late in my work in and with adoption rights groups. This was actually quite necessary for a while. I needed distance and downtime from it and needed to devote time to working with my own budding relationships with both my birthmother and my birthdaughter; time to working with my younger children and making our lives right; time to heal the wounds suffered from the loss of a long-time partner; and time to recover from the missteps and upheaval suffered by the one adoption rights group I devoted most of my time to, AdoptionIreland.
Breathing room was essential. We moved, literally. Upped sticks and downsized to a dee-luxe apartment in the sky. Well, we're weren't exactly movin' on up, but in the long term, the goal was to find more cost-effective accommodations and hopefully begin to save toward, well, the long term. And the apartment is on the 4th floor.
Whatever that may be. Am seriously considering repatriation to Ireland and over the next year, I'll be checking resources on employment, official repatriation, etc. This has always been somewhat of a dream and at this stage of my life, it is within my grasp to make it reality. The kids are nigh grown, ready to launch themselves into their own world. Hell, they were ready at sixteen, being such old, mature souls. But now I am confident that both will do well, no matter what they face. They are strong, conscious of other's feelings and the golden rule (as applied in the Wiccan sense, meaning do no wrong, else it will manifest back against you three times). They are articulate, thoughtful and when your child can entertain someone in conversation or play, from age 8 mos. to 82, then you know as a parent you've done something right. I am damned proud of them.
From a career standpoint, I can honestly say I have enjoyed my job over the last 18 months more than any other, despite the lousy pay. Our motto when I worked at Florida Tech (which was a close damned second in enjoyment) was, "Where else can you have so much fun for so little money?" It applies to my current situation with the World Affairs Council of Philadelphia. I am now the Director of Technology & New Media, a somewhat ambiguous title, albeit a slight leap in salary over my hired-in-as position.
And for those who like to name drop, here's the shortlist of people I've gotten to see, hear, meet personally or all three:
Bono (met, got photo)
President Bush (er, at least there was the Bono-high I was still riding to soften this visit from Dubya)
Fareed Zakaria
L. Paul Bremer (met)
Thomas L. Friedman (met)
John Bolton (met)
Henry Kissinger (met, directed to the men's room and calmed down when he began freaking out about whether he was speaking before or after Veep Cheney)
Joseph Biden (met)
Dick Cheney (yuck)
Prof. Bernard Lewis (met)
Ayan Hirsi Ali (met)
Judy Woodruff (met)
Rudy Giuliani (met, got photo)
Bob Woodward (met, got signed first-edition copy of 'State of Denial')
Zbigniew Brzezinski (met)
Greg Mortenson (met, enjoyed thoroughly)
And countless ambassadors, former secretaries, a Princess from Jordan and everything in-between.
So yeah, fun job. I'm now bringing the Council into the 21st century by improving our office equipment, servers, connections and abilities to use them. I am the chief cook and bottlewasher of the Council's website, e-newsletters and such. And we're now doing video for DVD and web streaming. Podcasting and blogging next (although because of our often controversial political and public speakers, we are conscious of the fact that a blog would need to be tightly moderated!)
This past weekend I attended a posh gala up my neck of the woods here in Bucks County, for the Bowman's Hill Wildflower Preserve society in New Hope. All the well-heeled (well, well-Wellingtoned -- it was black tie with muck boots, owing to the preserve terrain which we had the pleasure of trekking through) Bucks Countians were in attendance and our host, Curt Thomsen, seemed to know all of them. Curt is a member of the Council and just the sweetest guy. A retired clinical psychologist, Curt lost his wife some years ago, but stays active in his local politics, developing social connections and writing (I think at least 6 tomes are in the works) more and more in his field. Very interesting fellow. So Curt invited a few of us from the Council, although only two of us were able to make the date. It was a blast, and I got to sit next to our local congressman, Patrick Murphy, the only one of the 50-some Democrat veterans who ran under the banner of the 'Band of Brothers' to unseat their Republican incumbents. Very nice guy as well, as was his delightful wife Jen. This is yet another example of the Council's perks. The vast selection of international food delicacies we get to sample after events is also not bad!
It's been an experience I hope will enhance an already A-to-Zed lifework. I may not have the sheepskin, but these deerskin moccasins have seen more true, world-rocking miles than most drones' churned out of the US' woeful diploma-mills.
The adoption rights thing, well, I'm continuing to support a new Irish rights group, ASNI, with their website and bulletin boards. But I prefer to keep it in moderation. I also keep my hand in the work of the Justice for Magdalenes committee, but since justice for these women seems such a small thing to the Irish people and government, it's hard work to garner enough voices to make a sound loud enough for them to hear. We have hope in a brilliant young filmmaker, Steve Riordan, who has passionately decided to tackle the life Irish Magdalenes have led post-institution. How have they been reabsorbed into society? What were their lives like after such a harsh, precise regime day in and out?
Speaking for my own mother, it has its light and dark spots. Light mostly because of her own spirit and way of dealing with the past. Most of which relies on a steadfast denial of what her life was before my birth. I can't say that's the healthiest approach, but at her age and given what she's been through, I can't say I begrudge her the fantasy. It is enough she is well (mostly) and in my life. She is very special to me.
Therefore it was with great concern that I learned very recently she had been involved in a mishap with a van in her town of Swindon. She uses a little roustabout electric chair to motor to the market and such. There was probably a day in Swindon when this would have been a peril-free, delightful journey through town and the shops. But nowadays, her short trip is often jeopardized by local thugs taunting her, muggers after her meager pensioner pockets and vehicles who don't look for the disabled in the side- and rear-views.
This resulted in the aforementioned mishap, when she was on the sidewalk a scant two blocks from her home, motoring to the shops. A van ahead of her at the intersection had nosed out to turn into opposing traffic. He nosed too far and when he reversed to pull back a bit, he misjudged the curb and backed into my poor mammy, dragging her a few feet as her legs started to go under his rear end.
She suffered some torn ligaments, some nasty cuts and bruising, and the total destruction of her chair, but luckily, no broken bones. And as far as I know, her angina-stricken heart seemed to weather the incident. But she is obviously shaken up. One of her leg wounds required a skin graft, which developed infection. So now she's mending, healing the infection and will soon be getting a replacement chair courtesy of the driver who hit her. She should get more than that by all logic, but I know she's only interested in recouping her medical expenses and the chair. I guess in all honesty, I'd do the same. I'm just glad she is okay.
Things with the other mom are as usual. She is attending my cousin Paddy's daughter Annemarie's graduation from James Madison University. Congrats, Annie! I miss Paddy so much...he's really more of a brother to me than a cousin. One of the most decent, caring, kind guys you'd ever meet.
What a long, strange trip it's been. And I hope it keeps on getting stranger. I have resolved to stay open to life, open to opportunities and to move myself in positive directions, with positive people. If that means accepting a more modest salary, moving 3,000 miles or forgoing the odd romantic relationship, que sera. I have my children, family and extended family and friends, my work, and that is enough.
Stay tuned to the further adventures of your humble narrator and I promise you a bumpy, fun-trilled ride. Fasten your seatbelts and remember: I was born a bastard, what's your excuse?
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This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I'll never look into your eyes...again
Can you picture what will be
So limitless and free
Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand
In a...desperate land
Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain
And all the children are insane
All the children are insane
Waiting for the summer rain, yeah
There's danger on the edge of town
Ride the King's highway, baby
Weird scenes inside the gold mine
Ride the highway west, baby
Ride the snake, ride the snake
To the lake, the ancient lake, baby
The snake is long, seven miles
Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold
The west is the best
The west is the best
Get here, and we'll do the rest
The blue bus is callin' us
The blue bus is callin' us
Driver, where you taken' us
The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on
He took a face from the ancient gallery
And he walked on down the hall
He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he
Paid a visit to his brother, and then he
He walked on down the hall, and
And he came to a door...and he looked inside
Father, yes son, I want to kill you
Mother...I want to...fuck you
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
C'mon baby, take a chance with us
And meet me at the back of the blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
On a blue bus
Doin' a blue rock
C'mon, yeah
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
It hurts to set you free
But you'll never follow me
The end of laughter and soft lies
The end of nights we tried to die
This is the end
© The Doors
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| Date: | 2006-08-07 22:32 |
| Subject: | Erosion |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  numb |
I shifted and eroded and whittled away
Battered by forces of my life
Beaten by curveballs
I was betrayed and fragile
Trampled by love
You shored me up and gave me harbor
Fortified by your unwavering devotion
I learned who I was
And what I could be
Strengthened by love
Ebbing and flowing in comforting rhythm
We weathered Moher and distance
Sharing our music and passion
Wringing sheets full of ardor
Thriving in love
Then tidal dysfunction crashed once again
You, distracted by history and misplaced longing
Tearing away my coastal defences
Destroying the lovely dune of our lives
Trampled by love again
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| Date: | 2006-08-05 09:19 |
| Subject: | SHATTERED |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: | numb |
I vividly remember the wee hours of the morning of April 7, 1993. At somewhere around 5:20 am, my life changed forever. A sound, a feeling, a million tiny points of light...shattering, exploding, fragments of me, my life...everywhere. But underlying it all, even the horror and fear and sadness, was a sense of freedom and exhilaration. A sense that my life really was just beginning then.
Six months later, that feeling of exhilaration and starting over was further enforced when I found myself validated by someone very special. Nearly non-existent trust and and an overwhelming sense of never quite being good enough for anyone were erased by this validation and love bloomed. Over the course of thirteen years — not without its ups and downs, but certainly as stable and happy a life one could wish for — this love continued to blossom and develop deep, deep roots. I was secure and happy in the knowledge that I was not only well-loved, but along the way had developed new strength to bring closure to my life. I was able to mend and find torn and scattered pieces of myself all over the planet. I developed new, meaningful friendships and discovered causes and purpose in my life.
This past week has shown me once again just how fragile life is. I am back in 1993 again, in a dark, dark place. Betrayed by the one I love and uncomprehending of the actions of those around me. Everything has shattered — my love, my faith in those I thought I could trust and admired so well. I am beyond grief and into some primordial cave of pain and anguish.
I try to walk the line, be kind, treat others as I would want myself treated...do all the things that karma dictates should be done. And yet time and time again I get hit with the same sledgehammer. I begin to wonder what conflagration of stars and planets I was born under. What grievous thing have I done in a past life that would bring so much misery into this one?
Apparently Planet Thinkwithyourdick is in ascension — or at least that's the only plausable explanation I can come up with. If anyone has any other answers, I'd be happy hear them.
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I can't believe it...after six long months of frustration, I've finally had a job offer! As of Monday next, I will be employed by the World Affairs Council of Philadelphia (www.wacphila.org).
W00t!
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| Date: | 2005-09-22 07:01 |
| Subject: | Interests |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  weird |
LJ Interests meme results
- everything:
Because I said my interests are "everything", I only get one entry. So...that means I really am interested in everything! With the possible exception of celebs like Paris Hilton, any reality TV, and NASCAR. - :
- :
- :
- :
- :
- :
- :
- :
- :
Enter your LJ user name, and 10 interests will be selected from your interest list.
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It's been eight months since I was last gainfully employed as a web designer/developer at Fleet BankBoston/Bank of India (er, America). My particular function was actually outsourced to Pakistan. Or maybe it was Phoenix or San Francisco. Can't remember.
Apparently everyone wants to hire some newbie fresh out of college, and moreover, don't know the difference between web design and web development. It's a rare thing to find someone who can actually both code and design a website that's graphically pleasing. Not to mention, if you have a group of people who culturally view or read things differently than 'westerners', say right to left or top to bottom and for whom English is not a primary language, what sort of public, commercial website can we expect? Usability, usability, usability.
I'll stop ranting now. If someone out there is looking for a talented, left- and right-brained "mature", seasoned designer with excellent written and oral (ahem) communications skills, make me an offer.
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Harumph. Maybe. Dunno.
 | You scored as Idealist. Idealism centers around the belief that we are moving towards something greater. An odd mix of evolutionist and spiritualist, you see the divine within ourselves, waiting to emerge over time. Many religious traditions express how the divine spirit lost its identity, thus creating our world of turmoil, but in time it will find itself and all things will again become one.
Idealist | | 100% | Materialist | | 100% | Cultural Creative | | 81% | Romanticist | | 75% | Existentialist | | 75% | Modernist | | 69% | Postmodernist | | 63% | Fundamentalist | | 25% | </td>
What is Your World View? (corrected...again)
created with QuizFarm.com |
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Just weary and wanting something to happen. Anything.
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| Date: | 2005-05-04 08:59 |
| Subject: | The Immigrant's Song — A Look at Intercountry Adoption 45 Years Gone |
| Security: | Public |
| Mood: |  cynical |
The conversation began in my adoptive mother's kitchen on a sunny Sunday over a photo taken that previous Christmas. She was unhappy with the photo and when my mother is unhappy with something, she has the tendency to speak out. Normally, that would be more than fine with your humble narrator, who seeks truth and openness in all things. But her version of "speaking out" is more the type of commentary that leaves people startled and uncomfortable, scratching their heads and saying things like, "Did she really just say that?"
On this sunny May day, she was unhappy because she felt that I and my two teenaged children had not "dressed up" sufficiently for Christmas. My daughter and I were wearing, what we felt, were perfectly acceptable holiday-ish red sweaters and my son was wearing a dark green, long-sleeved polo. Casual maybe, but certainly not sloppy.
Now before we go further, you must understand that I am a Catholic in Recovery. I have long since discarded any belief, confidence or relationship I ever had in the Roman Catholic Church. My children have never been baptised; a fact that drives my mother to the brink of despair. However, I have exposed my children to all manner of religious beliefs and doctrines over the years — Judaism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Wicca, non-denominational faiths, bible study groups, and general Christian youth groups. And I strongly believe that children should not have a spiritual belief system forced upon them. The spiritual path one follows should be a conscious, rational, adult choice.
And my adoptive mother knows all this. We've been down this road many times, painful and bumpy as it may be. So the fact that we were not well-dressed by her standards to commemorate a holiday in a Christian tradition that she knows we no longer accept just makes her nuts, even beyond the fashion aspect of it all.
What followed her initial comment of displeasure at our appearance in this photo startled even me. She said, "You look like immigrants." Now, in fairness I concede that:
1. Jessica was wearing a red bandana to hold her hair back, but that's a common enough teen fashion
2. I really am an immigrant
So I can understand and own her statement well enough. In fact, I answered with, "Well, I am an immigrant."
She sputtered and stammered for a few seconds and then shot back a statement that left me speechless for at least a minute:
"Oh, but you're not really an immigrant…not really. That's not what I meant."
So what the hell did she mean?
Let's look at this statement from a psychological perspective and take it as an opportunity to learn a little bit about the effects of intercountry adoption 45 years gone. This is a rare opportunity folks, and one I hope we can take advantage of. With intercountry adoption so much in the spotlight these days, there's a chorus of voices I'm not hearing. These are the voices of adults who have lived through the experience of being separated from their mothers, their homeland and their identity and shipped thousands of miles away to be adopted by largely white, mid- to upper-middle-class families who cannot biologically have children of their own.
We have heard the angry voices of parents who, largely, adopted for the right reasons and with the right intentions, and did so legally and ethically. They are angry with those of us trying to expose the slimy, ugly stuff under the rock that often occurs in intercountry adoption. These well-meaning people somehow believe we are tarring them with the same slimy brush, which is certainly not the case. The individuals calling in to radio programmes, writing letters to newspapers and so on are not the targets of our concern. We are concerned about those you will never hear on radio, or will never see write an Op Ed piece. They are certainly not going to expose themselves as callous monsters that sought to buy a child at any price from equally callous monsters who took advantage of a lucrative supply and demand in children. Or callous monsters that went through the process of obtaining a child, only to discover that said child didn't quite meet their expectations, and so they decide to call it off like a casual relationship after a few dates, or a dress that didn't fit, and send the poor child back.
All of this furor currently saturating the media revolves around the practises in place today and largely affects the welfare of small, or at least young, children. Yet no one seems to be clamoring for the advice or wisdom of adoption professionals who can speak from long experience with the phenomena of foreign adoption, or more importantly, for the wisdom of now-adults who have actually lived it.
And yes Virginia, they are adults now. Thousands of European WWII "orphans", US and Canadian "orphan train" children, migrant children, Korean, Vietnamese, Cambodian, and yes — even Irish — adopted people now vote, pay taxes, drive cars, raise children (and grandchildren) of their own. And they can now answer — with courage and conviction — the question of what it means to be a foreign, transracial or transcultural adopted person.
I am one of those adults. I am an immigrant. I am an adopted person. I was born in Ireland in 1960 and sent to the US for adoption in 1961, along with more than 2,000 other children, as part of a Church-led scheme that spanned the 1940's-1960's.
But am I really an immigrant? Merriam-Webster defines an immigrant as "…a : a person who comes to a country to take up permanent residence b : a plant or animal that becomes established in an area where it was previously unknown…"
I rather like the second definition! But I interpret the term as more of a voluntary one: people immigrate because they want to, or at the very least, because oppression, poverty or other factors in their homelands drove them to seek better opportunities. My adoptive grandparents, from the west of Ireland, immigrated for those opportunities in the early 1920's. Although I suspect my grandfather, who served under Michael Collins and departed Ireland rather abruptly in late 1922, might've left for other reaons.
But if a child is forcibly removed from its mother and homeland, do we consider the child an immigrant? Technically and legally speaking, I suppose so. Yet I believe many adoptive parents, in order to cement their new family, try to erase the fact that their child arrived from some other country and that adoption itself somehow magically erases the child's foreign status, just as it legally erases the child's identity and the "taint" of bastardy. And I believe my mother's comment and thesis follows this — in her mind, I'm "not really" an immigrant, because I was adopted and assimilated into her family and her culture.
What a dangerous delusion to harbor. We know so much more today about infant and young child psychology, and know how much even newborns absorb of their surroundings and their mothers (however briefly they may have been with them). To believe that a baby or small child can be stuffed onto a plane and flown thousands of miles from everything and everyone he has ever known, and not be in some way traumatised by this event, is beyond ration.
Moreover, this same small child is now expected to rejoice along with his new family upon arrival. Of course they are celebrating the expansion of their family, and all the attendant relatives are joyously receiving the new child along with them. But do they consider that the child has not been permitted to grieve his loss, or give him time to adjust first? Many don't.
Of course I know there are adoptive parents who do understand this trauma and loss and who do actively support and maintain their child's cultural identity, and keep the child's sense of comfort and assimilation uppermost. But sadly, there are many that don't. And unless we shape the current practise of intercountry adoption by learning from past mistakes, we put yet another generation of adopted children at risk.
And as part of pulling up the rock and looking at its slimy underneath, we must also take a hard look at what makes children available for intercountry adoption.
The popular belief is that all children being placed for adoption, domestically or internationally, are orphaned, neglected or mistreated by uncaring or incapable natural families. That is simply often not the case. Mounting evidence now tells us that children have been outright stolen or kidnapped from their parents, removed from parents who simply lacked financial resources or state support, or taken from frightened, coerced women who faced societal or religious shame for bearing a child out of wedlock. I was the product of that last category in a repressed, cold, religiously strangled Ireland. These are not reasons to sunder a child's bond with his natural family or to destroy his identity and heritage.
Adoption should always be about finding homes for children who truly need them, not finding children for homes that lack them. An adoption placement should only be sought when there are no other means of support within the child's own natural family, and that includes grandparents, aunts, uncles, or other in-family placement. Adoption is still such a permanent, closed, secretive practise, one that erases the child's original identity as well as generally hides/seals all "trails" to his natural family. It therefore makes sense that alternatives like legal guardianship or financial sponsorship should be sought — that is, if the couple who claim they want to make a difference in a child's life mean what they say. And this is supposed to be about the rights and welfare of the child, right?
The Hague Convention on Intercountry Adoption clearly defines those rights, as well as the strict guidelines, fees and general practise surrounding foreign adoption. Yet many countries have still not ratified this treaty (Ireland is scheduled to sign by year-end 2005). And many of these non-signatories to the Hague are countries from which we continue to accept children for adoption.
So what effect has intercountry adoption had on us "elder statesmen" who have experienced it?
Well, I'll use my own situation as a "best case" scenario. An upper-middle-class family from Philadelphia adopted me. My adoptive father owned a plumbing and heating contracting business and was a delightful, easy-going man (he passed away in 1990 at age 60). He was terrific with children and a very patient mentor/teacher. In short, I adored him and miss him, as does my younger adoptive brother (also from Ireland). My mother was the eldest of two daughters of the previously mentioned immigrants from Mayo and Galway. There was also a son who did not survive birth, and there was an enormous sense of loss and bitterness there, I think, as a result. My aunt seemed to be the only one to escape it and maintain a vibrant, positive outlook. But this loss seems to have resonated throughout my grandmother's life, and was passed on to my adoptive mother.
No doubt my mother was under enormous pressure to marry and have children, especially since her 5-years-younger sister married the year before she did and quickly produced two boys in succession. Pressure also came from American society of the 1950's — the ideal nuclear family, white picket fence and suburban Eden were all part and parcel of the American dream and if you didn't achieve them, there must be something wrong with you.
This is not the ideal fertile (pardon the pun) ground in which to seed an adoption plan.
So as a result, while I had a generally satisfactory upbringing — no physical abuse, no neglect or want — there were always niggling little moments that reminded me I just didn't quite fit in. My adoptive mother and I have always had a very arms-length relationship. We share very little in common, which is not the case between any of my children and I, or my natural mother. And it's simply very hard to develop a true bond or degree of trust when you have nothing, really, to build a relationship upon.
I do give my mother credit for trying. With a very small "tool box" and little support from agencies or professionals to help her along the road, she's managed to get me to adulthood. But she remains in denial over so many things, which is certainly not healthy, and unfortunately it spills over into my life.
On the positive side, the lesson many of us have learned as the product of intercountry adoption is how to become resilient, high achieving, compassionate and adaptable adults. But on the negative side, the level of trust, comfort and sense of self we develop is hugely impacted by our trauma and loss. No one ever told our adoptive parents to expect these issues, or what to do with a child once they're past the basic human needs of food, shelter, changing and so forth.
I am an immigrant. I am the daughter of another woman. I do have a past, a history — an identity that existed before I arrived in a New York airport in 1961. And no re-write of that history will make it go away. But there is much to learn from that history.
So rather than "shoot the messenger" for being the bearer of bad news on intercountry adoption practise, let's face that bad news and do what we can to correct it. No child should ever be treated as a possession or pawn, or a solution to infertility issues. And no couple wanting to do the right thing should ever be exploited by agencies, intermediaries or other black market operators.
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