I recently finished the Hulu miniseries Little Fires Everywhere, based on the novel by Celeste Ng. (I have not read the book, although I understand that the screen adaptation departs from it in important ways.) I was unaware of the plot when I clicked to watch the miniseries, and wow — it resonated with me deeply. I didn’t love the ending, which I won’t give away for those who haven’t seen it, but the show addressed heavy, complicated themes profoundly. It made a big impression on me.
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In my last post in this series, I wrote about meeting my immediate biological family, my siblings and mother. But family roots, of course, go far deeper than one or two generations. I wanted to have a more complete picture of the ancestors whose genes I’d inherited.
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You can read the earlier posts in this series here:
I was 27 when I first looked at a person who shared my DNA. On a gray day in late November, I opened the door of a diner and saw my then-12-year old niece, who gave a small smile and pointed to her mother standing at the counter. My sister.
It’s been nearly five months since I alluded to this post, and I’ve procrastinated on writing it. It’s a difficult one for me to write. This meeting happened almost eight years ago now, and I wish I had journaled about it at the time. My memories of my feelings have no doubt been affected by experiences in the intervening years and the soul-searching I’ve done since then. I’m also uncomfortable writing about other people, but I’ll do my best to recount things as honestly as I can.
Read moreYou can read the earlier posts in this series here:
Happy Mother’s Day! I thought this day would be an appropriate time to revisit the topic of my adoption and my two mothers: the one who carried me and gave birth to me, and the one who raised me. After my first two posts on being adopted, I received some feedback that they painted adoption in an overly negative light. To the contrary, adoption is very often the best solution to incredibly difficult problems. The fact that it is an imperfect solution does not mean we should avoid it or that we shouldn’t relish the many joys it brings. I am grateful to both of my mothers for the choices they made and the role they played in my life. I would not have lived the life I have lived, and I would not be the person I am, had it not been for both of these women.
I had always been curious about my biological family. In my early adult years, I took some half-hearted steps toward finding them, like adding my name and birthdate to online registries. It wasn’t until I was 22 or 23, though, that I started really seeking information about them. Read more
I learned I was adopted when I was four years old. My parents didn’t mean to tell me yet, but someone else told me and I asked them about it. They did intend to tell me eventually, but I don’t know that they had decided when the perfect time would be.
Four was as good an age as any. The news wasn’t shocking or devastating. I understood the basic premise: my biological mother couldn’t care for me, and my birth parents couldn’t have children but wanted a child, so I became theirs. I thought it was kind of a cool story, something that made me special and different. As a four-year-old, I didn’t really have the emotional capacity to delve beneath the surface of this new information. Over the years, what it means to be adopted would gradually unfold, coloring all aspects of my life and personality. Thirty years later, I’m still learning how it affects me.
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