Reflection In Her Eyes

Reflection in Her Eyes
By Kati Rounds


The issues surrounding genealogy and adoption have exploded in the past several years. In 1948, when laws surrounding adoptions were changed, records were sealed. The relinquished child, placed in the adoptive home, was expected to forget everything about their bloodline. When these children became adults, thousands allowed themselves to ask the question, who am I?

         I grew up knowing I was adopted.  “Your brother folded his two year old hand around your tiny fingers, and called out in delight, ‘I want her.’” I was told I was hand picked.  However, being “Chosen,” did not quiet my hungering and longing to know my birth mother, and my roots.

In the 1950’s, adopted parents were encouraged to tell the child that they were “chosen,” making the child feel more special than other children. In a guide for adoptive parents, it was suggested that the social workers should drop the “chosen baby,” story, seeing there may be, “psychological drawbacks” (Moreen). Studies found that the “chosen baby” story could cause feelings of anxiety and insecurity.

I grew up silently questioning, “Who am I?”  I was not allowed to ask questions surrounding my adoption, nor did not want to hurt my adoptive parents. However, when I looked at my mom and dad, I saw no reflection of myself in them. When they infrequently talked about their ancestors, I felt like a person on the outside of a window, looking into someone else’s home, someone else’s life. As a small child, I daydreamed about my “real” mother. As I walked down a street, I would find myself carefully searching a stranger’s face to see if my eyes might match hers. When I became angry with my mom, I would wish that my mother would come and whisk me away. As I grew older, I realized these fantasies and feelings were normal for an adopted child. I neatly tucked these thoughts and fantasies away in a corner of my mind.

The search for my mother began after the birth of my first daughter. I was amazed to see, in this beautiful face of my newborn, something so familiar. It was the first time in my twenty years, I saw a resemblance of myself in anyone.
I searched nine years. I received basic information from the adoption agency, including physical descriptions of my father and mother. Identifying information did not exist, or was not shared with me. I wondered and yearned to know who I was, and I felt I had a right to my background information.

Since the 1970’s, finding ones’ roots has become a national past time. There are now, 300,000,000 web sites dedicated to tracing family trees and origins on ones families (Google Search Engine). A person finds his or her place in the world by tracing their ancestry. This is well accepted and embraced by society.

Adoptees do not have the same privilege or opportunity to pursue their background. Up until the last twenty years, a child was taken from the birth mother, placed in an adopted home, and all records relating to the birth or natural parents were sealed, shutting the door to the child’s own birthright. When the birth parent relinquished a baby at birth, all the records were neatly stamped and sealed. Hundreds of years of ancestral roots and bloodlines were neatly packaged and put away, never to be seen again. The child was amputated from generations of genetic input, from generations of ancestral bloodlines, and placed in a new home. The child was expected to forget their original birth parents and accept the adoptive parents as their own.

An adult can accept this, and live a normal life in every aspect, until something happens to bring reality to the surface. For instance, in a doctor’s office, on a first visit, an adult is asked to complete a full medical history. When they say they don’t know their family’s history because of adoption, the nurse will accept that answer with no further questions.  Isn’t it just as important for adoptees to know their medical history, for themselves and future generations?

After years of searching and wondering, I made another of many phone calls on a cool autumn evening. I told the woman on the other end of the line that I was doing genealogy on a particular family name. I was careful when I approached people with questions, not to reveal the real reason for my mission.

As I began to speak with this woman, I knew instinctively I was hearing my mother’s voice for the first time. I started to ask her pointed questions, while my young daughter sat cross-legged on the kitchen table, listening.

“Does May of 1950 mean anything to you?”

“No.” I heard no flinch in her voice at all.

“Does Cook County Hospital mean anything to you?”

“No.”
“I’m so sorry to bother you.” I was confused. I broke out in a cold sweat.

“I thought you were someone else. I’ve made a mistake.”

The words hung in the air. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breath. After what seemed minutes, I heard her speak in a soft voice.
“No, Kati, you are not wrong. I am your mother.”

Years of searching and wondering came together within the minutes of a phone call.

I first met my birth mother, in my thirties. She was warm and friendly. She shared her story with me. On the morning of my birth, the nurse brought me in and handed me to her. Surprised, my mother held me close, burning the image of my tiny features into her subconscious. She whispered, “I will never forget, little one.”  Silently, with tears slipping down her cheeks, she said goodbye.  As she brushed a kiss on my forehead, she handed me to the nurse.  “I think a great mistake has been made. I’m not supposed to see my baby. I’m giving her up for adoption.”  The nurse whisked me  back of the nursery,  put me behind a curtain, to separate me from the other infants, as was the practice in those days, for those being put up for adoption. Even as young as newborn babies, a child given up for adoption was treated differently, including where they were positioned in the hospital nursery.  My chart, marked in big black letters, Social Service baby, again reinforced the idea that I was different. 

My mother realized that a defining moment had taken place in her life, and it changed her forever. She had never forgotten.

It is common for a birth mother to compare the separation from her baby to losing a child in death, yet without closure, knowing that a child is out in the world that is part of her, yet not with her. Often it causes a mother to face grief and remorse that sometimes will last for years. In an article entitled, Releasing the Past: Adoption Practices 1950-1998, another birth mother gives a message that speaks for thousands. “The process of adoption never ends. There is a lifetime knowledge that your child exists out there, somewhere. You pray so hard that all is well. There is a fine balance to be found where grief, pain, loss do not outweigh the hope for the safety, life, and future of the child you brought into the world. And there is nothing you can do to protect them.”(par ?).

In the past twenty years, laws have changed. More adoptions are open and in many cases, the birth parents and adoptive parents are allowed to meet. The secrets are disappearing, and the child is allowed to grow up in a secure environment, where they are encouraged to ask questions surrounding their birth. In most cases, the truth is told.

If I had been told the truth, and if my questionings had been allowed to surface, I may have never searched. But I did search for my identity and self-image, and because of this I met a beautiful, warm, wonderful new friend, my mother. My life began to fall into place and feel complete. I said goodbye to my mother a second time, as we once again were to be separated by time and space. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I looked at my lovely little girl. I saw a reflection of myself in her eyes, and I saw a reflection of my mother. So God, in all His greatness, gave me a small part of my mother in my daughter’s eyes. I thanked Him for bringing my world together.
                                                 
                                                            “I will never forget.”