Should I have not been adopted? Who is to say? At different points of my life I have wondered why me and why was I adopted. There must be a bigger reason for me to be in America. I don’t know what the answer to those questions is and I think that there truly is no answer. Was it fate, destiny, or luck? Through this blog I have heard so many opinions about my adoption. I’ve been told that I need to call myself “sold” rather than adopted to I am not grateful enough to be adopted and also many thanks from people who say these posts are making a difference for them as adoptees and adoptive parents.
The opinions about me really don’t seem to matter. What does matter is that our story (my families and mine) be told. There is no possible way for strangers to know what any of us have been through.
As a stranger on the reading end of my stories you can only “imagine” what my mother Shanti went through when her first born baby girl disappeared never to return for 25 years or how my adoptive mother Shirley may have felt when told that the adoption she was involved with may have been done without my biological mother’s consent and there is no way for anyone to step in my shoes either and feel the loneliness, isolation and emptiness that I share with so many other adoptees.
Judgment is rampant when looking at someone else in our world. Why are we spending time judging when we could be learning and understanding how to make our world and lives better through compassion and love for each other?
My adoptive mother Shirley never discriminated on whom she would help. She helped everybody never taking a moment to think about his or her religion, race or how he or she got into his or her predicament. There were drug addicts to little old ladies that she embraced.
My mother Shanti doesn’t discriminate. She stops to pray at every church regardless of religion whether Catholic, Buddhist, Hindu, or Muslim.
Even as an adoptee with my experience, I do not feel I have the right or ability to judge whether someone is “better off” or not because they were adopted. Who is to say what is “better off” for an individual?
The matter of adoption is a deep and intricate subject, one that everyone has strong opinions on.
The facts are that I was adopted, it was done with carelessness, my adoptive parents did nothing wrong, my mother only trusted a friend, I am a product of circumstances, I love both of my families, and I will continue to tell my story in hopes that it helps somebody in even the smallest ways. It is the system that is broken and needs revamping. One of the biggest voids is understanding of the adoptee and their suffering that occurs without a foundation of familial background. We all need to know our ancestry and our families regardless of the situations we came from, it is only natural for humans to have this desire. Another problem are the legalities, who is really watching over these adoptions to make sure that they are done properly?
All of us affected by adoption are being called forth to help in our own little ways to make a change. There is no change with ignorance and complacency nor without acceptance.
Should I have been adopted is a waste of time to ask, it is my story but what I choose to do with this experience can be either an opportunity or pain and suffering. We adoptees have that choice, that is the opportunity. We didn’t have choice in the matter at the time of adoption and cannot change anything but we do have the choice now and we can make a difference.
Humanity places great importance on what we don’t have in the moment.
As adoptees we have enormous pain and suffering through those things we don’t have anymore; the mother, the father, the culture and that which we had no choice in changing. Everyone seems to want what they don’t have in the moment. The white person wants the tan, the dark Indian wants lighter skin, the poor want riches, the rich want more , the Obamas want a dog, and my adoptive mother wanted a child for Christmas(that is what she got). When we don’t have it then we sink into wishing and hoping or sadness and depression. No amount of sadness or hoping brings those things closer…my wishing doesn’t ever bring me to India to see my mother.
I grab for that one little piece of me daily that might bring me closer to what I am missing but in turn end up missing the beauty of what is presently here to enjoy in my life. Is this not truly the essence of human life? To be happy and find that joy, love and peace with our present life? The challenge is to not allow the past pain to affect us as if it is currently happening. To find joy in the depths of darkness and difficulty is living fully. The present is truly a gift.
The dancing god in my meditative minds eye is Shiva(auspicious one), swaying too and fro like a refreshing, gentle, crashing wave lapping on the broken shores of the Pacific Northwest. He is the one who is the duality of destroying and rebirthing. His praying hands spark above his head as he sways like a seductive snake. What is it that he has come for? He has come to bring peace and serenity to the inner soul and to show that there is power in peace from within.
Be true to thyself and all things come out of this loyalty to the self. The inner unraveling shows through authenticity and passion.
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Since I began a new journey in yoga I have come to the realization that it is difficult to come to that authentic place when I am so muddled with duality.
Reverberating background Indian music sung only in Hindi summons that “Indian part of me” deeply buried that slithers to the surface as if to remind me “I am here, have you forgotten me?”
I miss this part of me; the peaceful relaxed okay with myself one. Where does it go? I wonder…
This is just another visit to let me know the other half of me still exists only to succumb to survival and withdrawing so as to live according to the rules of my other half, the well put together oh so Westernized woman with not a hint of Indian heritage.
The duality of international adoption…survival and authenticity.
This following note was written by a woman whom I grew up with since the first grade. She lived in the same community that I did, went to the same schools and has just gotten a “glimpse” of what many adoptees or races that are not represented in the United States experience. We as adoptees not only deal with the racial aspect but being able to just know our health history, our actual birthdays, seeing who we get our crooked smiles or small ears from or our graceful abilities to dance. This story really says what I faced so much with trying to identify myself in magazines, television, or in a restaurant to no avail. This photo of my sister and niece was taken within the first year of being in the United States. No one in my family, community or school looked like me.
Hi Pushpa,
I remember reading your blog about not having a Barbie doll that looked like you. I had an eye opeining experience recently that made me think of you. We got the Tiger Woods golf Wee game. So I sat down and began to make my character. I couldn’t find the caucasian woman. I looked and looked went back and clicked all the buttons then realized there was no caucasian woman, the woman was a model with African American characteristics. So for the first time in my life I found out what it feels like to not be able to identify with my race. My frustration turned to pure facinations at how weird it was, this is what others have had to endure all their lives! It was truly eye opening and I think who ever came up with that idea was brilliant. It really helps one to get a glimpse of how it feels. I understand it was a mere glimpse, but a good glimpse for me at least to better understand some things.
Adoptees deal with layers upon layers of issues. Writing, exercise, painting and sharing have been my ways of dealing with my pain. When I read the following poem I realized that many of us have so much to express of our own journeys that can help others. Please read the following over and over…
Written recently by my friend Jenny while in turmoil with her adoptive mom.
Two years ago today my adoptive mom Shirley passed away peacefully in her bed. Her last words were spoken to me over the phone while I was in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains visiting my biological mother Shanti. My gut feeling was that she was about to go. The last three weeks had been rough for her with difficulty breathing and she became more and more tired. Two days later as I flew into the United States her spirit moved on.
My mother Shirley teaching me something!
As I remember her I also think of the many adoptive mothers I have met through this blog. These women are a breed of their own.
My mother didn’t have the depth of understanding or the compassion to know me until her last year of life, in her 80’s. Even then she still didn’t know the depth of what I had gone through as a little Indian girl in a community of no Indians. She lived in so much denial about me with her belief that all was good and there could be nothing that bad about being adopted.
It was not that it was bad but it was difficult to adjust and conform to so many things as a child. She really never took the time to understand me. Although I think she truly loved me but just didn’t know how to be in a relationship with anyone, not just me.
For years I had a perception of adoptive mothers all being like her. The kind of people who look good to the community, who to the outside world appear to be so compassionate and kind, but are slave drivers and unkind at home. They used their adoptive children to make themselves look good without a care for the child’s mental well being. They were do-gooders, telling the world all of the great things they did for others “I adopted Pushpa from India, she was starving and her mother didn’t love her.”
These things drove me to despise and hate her to the point where at the age of 8 I would daydream of killing her with a knife out of my kitchen that we used for cutting meat. In my eight year old mind I visualized the whole thing and feeling relieved with the outcome of her being gone. I wanted her out of my life.
I forgave her years ago for the mean things she said and I forgave myself for being so difficult and having such high expectations of her.
Now, I find myself getting to know other adoptive moms on line and they bring tears to my eyes. They are really moms to their kids. They have compassion for their children, they want to know if they are doing the right things for them, they care more than some biological parents about their little Indian children’s souls and spirits. These women bring me hope that adoptees can have mothers who are kind, who nurture them and who listen to their needs.
My mother was a teacher and taught me many wonderful things but these moms are more than teachers, they are moms.
I have always had my original Indian name but many adoptees do not. There are many issues that come up with having an unusual name(I know all about this!). What do you think about what is in a name? Is it important to have your “ethnicity” show in your name or does it matter? Please answer with all honesty! Thank you!
This morning my usual weekly phone call to my mother was laced with sadness. She went to the hospital two days ago after an accident while on the bus. The crash occurred while en route to what she calls her duty”, administering therapy to handicapped children.
There is an echoing voice in my head that responds to the guilt of not being in a position to give my family everything they need, telling me “I am worthless”. Why am I not better equipped in my life to help them? Guilt seeps through every pore while the acid floods into my stomach as I envision the life that my mother lives in that cesspool.
She checked into the hospital with swollen legs, high blood pressure and pain from the accident but then realized that she didn’t have the funds to afford to stay the five days the doctor wanted her to stay for bedrest. In my phone call she sounds lifeless, weary and cries that she does not want me to worry. Muttering “your mommy has no long life”, as Pinky (my pre-teen niece) takes the phone and begins talking to me she tells me that “my grandmother is not doing fine”. I ask for the truth, she promised me last year after they withheld it from me that my mother had a twelve day stay in the hospital that she would always tell me the truth. After my voice of authority demanding “tell me the truth” commands to Pinky she succumbs with a breath of relief “my grandmother left the hospital because she didn’t have the money for bedrest and medication.”
I am devastated, knowing that she is home when she should be in bed in a hospital. With voices in the background getting louder I ask “what is that noise?” Pinky replies, “the neighbors have come to see my grandmother”, I reply with anger “why are all of these people there when she is supposed to be getting rest?”
I am frustrated because I can’t take care of her, take her to the hospital where she needs to be. What if she is really sick, what if I never see her again, what if she could die tumbles through my head at the rate of a roller coaster screaming down a hill.
Immediately I call Glenn to tell him and he promptly calls Western Union to make the money available to them to pay for the six days with medication and also extra money so they don’t have to worry.
Money helps but it won’t buy health.
How do you help someone when you are so far away? It is a long ways to travel and time I have to leave my family and business to go if indeed I do need to go. I am never sure. They don’t want me to worry so I don’t know the severity of the problems.
Two years ago I lost Shirley, my adoptive mom, but I am not ready to lose my biological mom that I’ve hardly known or seen the last 40 years and so badly want to see.
The aromatic incense swirls under my nose while the woman’s abyssal voice sings to the gods…her deep moans of faith reverberate through that which is immortal in me. An energy draws from within my soul to bring forth hope and the desire to do my part to make this world a better place.
Something I often hear is “aren’t you glad you have a better life?” Many adoptees have heard this from the moment they were adopted. It always sounds to me as a judgement…what is a better life? I don’t really know how to respond to that except by saying “how do we know what a better life is?” I am the one who has lived this life without my family but with so many opportunities and with my adoptive family but I cannot even answer this question. Material things are wonderful, food is a necessity(a luxury for some), shelter is a necessity(also a luxury for some), education is also a luxury for some, but what is family? There is the need for biological family, that which you connect on a genetic level and there is the need for people who are there for you and take care of you when you are unable. How do we define a better life? Is it to have opportunities and things or does it include love,roots and culture?
The “talk” within the Internet communities about adoption and these children we all keep hearing about that were adopted illegitimately keeps bringing up this issue of “what is better for the child?” Some cases the child has been living under this false pretense of that the adoption was above board but then the truth comes out and then what? Do we send the child back to a life in poverty by our standards to live with their “real” families or do we keep them here because we have provided a “better life” for them?
In some cases the money is what is at the heart of this issue. Money traded for a child, a human with real feelings and a life to live. There is so much at stake for all who are concerned in adoption and that is why the value of that soul can be really high to the commodities trader.
Put a price on your soul, your spirit, your life. What dollar amount will make you feel good? What is your worth? We as adoptees know there is a price stamped on our forehead of how much our parents spent to get us. It is just difficult sometimes to swallow that there was money exchanged for my life, my soul.
As for the majority of adoptive families, money is not an issue because they have the best of intentions and would do anything, they are operating based on emotions.
In the psychology of business the emotional buyer is the one who is best and easiest to “close the deal” with.
Regardless of how my experience with my adoption has been I can’t help but wonder if all of us adoptees are commodities in a game of trade and a “better life” is the justification. A price for my soul.
Proudly with the American flag, my mother and her students
The American freedom seal proudly adorns my certicate of naturalization on an original version stamped “Petition No. 897”.A small photo with my nine year old almond eyes and big teeth beaming of bold possibilities is glued over an embossed American seal.On “this 25thday ofFebruary in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy two”, I became an official American citizen after three and a half years of living in the United States.
It sounded like a big deal but truly I didn’t know too much about the reality of becoming a citizen of the United States.It just seemed to be a day filled with even more pressure to make my adoptive mother proud of me to the public.She seemed proud, but she kept telling stories to the newspaper reporters of how I was found under a house.I wanted to crawl under a rock and die of embarrassment.She was not telling the truth but I never spoke up, I was too afraid of her to speak up.Instead I harbored anger and contempt and buried it deep within until the next day when I saw the articles in the newspaper.Then I spoke up and said “the newspaper is lying, it says that you found me under a house” she replied with “oh Pushpa well you did live under Rabeya’s house.”There were three local papers that covered the story of 13 of us who received our citizenship but their focus was on my story of living under a house.
The truth was that I lived in an apartment downstairs from Rabeya(adoption maker) not under her house.
Recently I reacquainted with a classmate that was in my class the year that I was sworn in under oath as a citizen.This is her recollection of the first memories of me.
“We were gathered together in a class room to celebrate something. I knew because there was a cake or cup cakes, with some sort of patriotic in theme. An unrecognizable woman went to the front of the room to announce something.
She conveyed the exciting news that we were all being invited to celebrate with Pushpa her citizenship. It seemed like it was a very exciting occasion for you. But when I looked at you, you did not look that happy about it, maybe you were embarrassed by all the attention. So it was sort of weird trying to be all celebratory but you were not in the mood it seemed.
Of course I wondered when I would get my “citizenship” party.
On our way out to the playground, I remember hearing this story.
This is a crazy story because it is what the kid said and my imagination mixing together. It is so nice to now know the true story and to see pictures, they are really wonderful.
Mr. and Mrs. Deerdorf were touring through India and came upon a house and heard a baby crying. They went to the basement and found Pushpa abandoned in a high chair with the tray in place.
In my child’s mind, your adoptive parents were dressed in safari outfits walking through an over grown jungle. I had no idea what India was like, it just sounded far away. The house was one like you would find in the US because I didn’t know what homes looked like there either. The house was abandoned and you were in a high chair with thecrying and wondered how you could have survived like that without food and water? Your adoptive parents found you and took you home with them.
When I first read this, I laughed but I also wondered what other stories were told that were not true and how people must have perceived me as a person based on these lies.I never knew whether to be happy or feel like a liar to the world to fit my mother’s story.This was supposed to be a joyous occasion but was tied up in falsities and lies and I didn’t have the freedom to speak up and be heard.What I said was quickly swept away as unimportant.
The aromatic incense swirls under my nose while the woman’s abyssal voice sings to the gods…her deep moans of faith reverberate through that which is immortal in me. An energy draws from within my soul to bring forth hope and the desire to do my part to make this world a better place.
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