tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53703490200976503142024-03-13T18:10:01.855-07:00POETS ON ADOPTIONAdoption is complicated. Poetry is complicated. The featured poets share some of their experiences with adoption and how it may or may not affect their poems and/or poetics.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-3567676890372933882017-07-18T12:18:00.000-07:002017-07-18T12:18:27.384-07:00FEATURED POETSOver time, this blog will feature poets presenting the many varied face(t)s of the adoption experience, and how such has affected (or not) their poetry. This blog is open to any variety of the adoption experience, including but not limited to poets who've adopted a child(ren), adopted poets, poets with adopted siblings and/or other adopted relatives, poets who've experienced disruptions (failed adoptions), poets who feel they've de facto adopted regardless of whether they've done the legal documentation, poets who've given up a child(ren) for adoption, poets with parents who were adopted (or not), even poets who've been impacted by other people's adoption experiences ... and so forth. We are open to exploring positive and negative experiences, as well as the uncertain and/or unresolved. <br />
<br />
Here are the participating poets listed in alphabetical order of last name; the list will be updated over time as more poets participate. Click on the poet's name to read their contribution. Also next to the poets' names will be the months their entries were posted; this should allow readers over time to determine new entries since their last visits <em>(the date of this "Home" post also is updated whenever there's a new contribution)</em>:<br />
<blockquote>
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/kate-adams.html"><strong>Kate Adams</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(daughter of attorney Philip Adams (1905-1997) who completed over 5,000 adoptions in his career and was a founding member of the Academy of California Adoption Lawyers)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/ned-balbo.html"><strong>Ned Balbo</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(placed as a baby with his birth mother's sister and raised as her son)</em> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/jim-bennett.html"><strong>Jim Bennett</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small><br />
<em>(in England, was adopted as a baby. as a parent, adopted two children)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2009/04/jim-benz.html"><strong>Jim Benz</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as an infant domestically in the U.S. brother to adopted sister)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/peter-boskey.html"><strong>Peter Boskey</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as a baby from Korea by U.S.-American parents. brother to two siblings who were both also adopted as babies from Korea)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/nick-carbo.html"><strong>Nick Carbo</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(in the Philippines, was adopted as an infant. later, his parents adopted his biological younger sister)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2014/02/margaret-carruthers.html">Margaret Carruthers</a></b> <span style="font-size: x-small;">February 2014</span><br />
<i>(in Scotland, was adopted as a baby)</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/sunu-p-chandy.html"><strong>Sunu P. Chandy</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small><br />
<em>(awaiting final government and court approvals in India in order to complete adoption of an 18 month old baby girl from South India)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/02/cathryn-cofell.html"><strong>Cathryn Cofell</strong></a> <small>February 2012</small><br />
<em>(adopted an infant son from the Philippines)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/mary-anne-cohen.html"><strong>Mary Anne Cohen</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(surrendered baby son for adoption and is an adoption reform activist)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/dana-collins.html"><strong>Dana Collins</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as a baby from Korea by U.S.-American parents. sister to adopted brother)</em> <br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/02/linda-m-crate.html"><strong>Linda M. Crate</strong></a> <small>February 2012</small><br />
<em>(adopted as a teen by a stepfather)</em><br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/09/trace-demeyer.html">Trace A DeMeyer</a></strong> <small>September 2012</small></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<small></small><em>(adopted as an infant within the U.S., out of a Native American reservation)</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/mary-krane-derr.html"><strong>Mary Krane Derr</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small><br />
<em>(had four near misses, from different angles, with adoption. was a maternity services & adoption social worker)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/phillippa-yaa-de-villiers.html"><strong>Phillippa Yaa de Villiers</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(in South Africa, was adopted at 9 months)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/jennifer-kwon-dobbs.html"><strong>Jennifer Kwon Dobbs</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted by U.S.-American parents)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/marcella-durand.html"><strong>Marcella Durand</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(adopted an infant domestically within the U.S.)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/06/carrie-etter.html"><strong>Carrie Etter</strong></a> <small>June 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted at two weeks old; at age 17, gave up son for adoption)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/cb-follett.html"><strong>CB Follett</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(adopted two baby boys and one baby girl domestically within the U.S.)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2015/02/alex-m-frankel.html">Alex M. Frankel</a> </b>February 2015<br />
<i>(given up for adoption at birth in the U.S.) </i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/samantha-franklin.html"><strong>Samantha Franklin</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as a baby domestically in the U.S.)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/01/paula-friedman.html"><strong>Paula Friedman</strong></a> <small>January 2012</small><br />
<em>(the reunited birthmother of one son who was given up for adoption as a baby)</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/09/denise-kingdom-grier.html"><strong>Denise Kingdom Grier</strong></a><strong> </strong><span style="font-size: x-small;">September<small><strong> 2012</strong></small></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em><em><em><em>in the U.S., adopted at age 7 out of foster care)</em></em></em></em></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/lee-herrick.html">Lee Herrick</a></strong> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as a baby from Korea by U.S.-American parents. brother to adopted sister. as a parent, adopted baby from China)</em><br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/08/dannie-ingle.html">Danni Ingle</a></strong> <span style="font-size: x-small;">August 2012</span><br />
<em>(in the U.S., gave up a baby daughter for adoption)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/karen-g-johnston.html"><strong>Karen G. Johnston</strong></a><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/karen-g-johnston.html"></a><strong> <span style="font-size: x-small;">May 2011</span></strong><br />
<em>(in the U.S., fostered, then adopted a son and daughter)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/joy-katz.html"><strong>Joy Katz </strong></a><small>April 2011</small> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em>(adopted a baby boy from Vietnam)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/06/martha-king.html"><strong>Martha King</strong></a> <small>June 2011</small><br />
<em>(grandmother to two children adopted domestically in the U.S.)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/michele-leavitt.html"><strong>Michele Leavitt</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as an infant domestically in the U.S.)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/11/jeffrey-thomas-leong.html"><strong>Jeffrey Thomas Leong</strong></a> <small>November 2011</small><br />
<em>(father was adopted; adopted a baby girl from China)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/dana-r-lepage.html"><strong>Dana R. LePage</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small><br />
<em>(was adopted as a baby in Korea by U.S.-American parents. sister is also Korean adopted while not biologically related)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/leza-lowitz.html"><strong>Leza Lowitz</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small><br />
<em>(in Japan, adopted a two-year-old son)</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/12/duduzile-mabaso.html"><strong>Duduzile Mabaso </strong></a><small>December 2011</small><br />
<em>(in South Africa, was adopted as a baby)</em><br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/amanda-mason.html">Amanda Mason</a> </strong><small>March 2011</small></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em><em>(adopted an 11-year-old boy from Colombia)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/laura-mccullough.html"><strong>Laura McCullough</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted two children from Taiwan)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/leslie-mcgrath.html"><strong>Leslie McGrath</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted a baby girl from Korea)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/sharon-mesmer.html">Sharon Mesmer</a></strong> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(sister to adopted sibling)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/carol-moldaw.html"><strong>Carol Moldaw</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted a baby girl from China)</em></em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/allison-moreno.html"><strong>Allison Moreno</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a baby domestically in the U.S. sister to two adopted brothers)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/giavanna-munafo.html"><strong>Giavanna Munafo</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a 6-week-old domestically in the U.S. sister to adopted brother)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/christina-pacosz.html"><strong>Christina Pacosz</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(gave up infant daughter for adoption)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/penny-callan-partridge.html"><strong>Penny Callan Partridge</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted domestically in the U.S. adopted a daughter and son. co-founded Adoption Forum in Philadelphia and is former President of the American Adoption Congress)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/karen-pickell.html">Karen Pickell</a></strong> <small>May 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a baby domestically in the U.S. sister to an adopted brother. has two adopted stepchildren, one of whom was adopted from Korea)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/07/elaine-randell.html"><strong>Elaine Randell</strong></a> <small>July 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(as a psychotherapist and social worker, has worked with families and/or placed children in adoption)</em></em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em><strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2013/03/mirah-riben.html">Mirah Riben</a></strong> <span style="font-size: x-small;">March 2013</span></em><br />
<em>(birth mother who lost her first child to adoption)</em></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/martina-robinson.html"><strong>Martina Robinson</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(honorary auntie to friends' adopted children)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/judith-roitman.html"><strong>Judith Roitman</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was half-adopted. adopted two baby boys domestically within the U.S. relatives also adopted)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/susan-m-schultz.html"><strong>Susan M. Schultz</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted 12-month-old boy (now 11 years old) from Cambodia and 3-year-old girl (now 9 years old) from Nepal. husband and a number of other relatives were adopted)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/michael-d-snediker.html"><strong>Michael D Snediker</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(brother to a sister adopted as an infant from Korea. became close to someone who adopted a son from Vietnam)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/rosemary-starace.html"><strong>Rosemary Starace</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a baby domestically within the U.S. three years later became sister to adopted brother)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/dee-thompson.html"><strong>Dee Thompson</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted 13-year-old girl from Russia. 3 years later, adopted 10-year-old boy from Kazakhstan)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/06/kim-thompson.html"><strong>kim thompson</strong></a> <small>June 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a baby from Korea by U.S.-American parents)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/04/jan-vanstavern.html"><strong>Jan VanStavern</strong></a> <small>April 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(was adopted as a baby domestically within the U.S. sister to adopted brother. as a parent, adopted a 10-month-old girl from China)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><strong><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2012/12/susan-van-sleet.html">Susan Van Sleet</a></strong> December<small> 2012</small></em><br />
<em><em>(gave up infant daughter in a closed adoption)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/craig-watson.html"><strong>Craig Watson</strong></a> <small>March 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted 1-year-old girl from Ecuador)</em></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/05/michele-wolf.html"><strong>Michele Wolf</strong></a> <small>May 2011</small></em><br />
<em><em>(adopted a baby girl from China)</em></em></blockquote>
<em>
</em>
We are always looking for more poets to participate in this project. Participants are asked simply to answer the following three questions:<br />
<blockquote>
What is your adoption experience? <br />
How has the adoption experience affected your poetry?<br />
Please share a sample poem(s) addressing (in part) adoption.</blockquote>
<br />
If you are a poet with adoption experience who would like to participate, feel free to email me at galateaten@gmail.com <br />
<br />
Eileen R. Tabios<br />
Curator, Poet & Adoptive Mom<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-45804841053362541662015-02-25T15:43:00.000-08:002015-02-26T15:43:35.347-08:00ALEX M. FRANKEL<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">What is your adoption
experience?</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was given up for adoption at birth,
in the early 1960s. My parents did not tell me that I was adopted until I found
out accidentally, when a classmate at school told me. We lived in San
Francisco. My adoptive parents were German-Jewish immigrants much older than
most parents. I was an only child. My parents (especially my mother)
discouraged any questions about my adoption. She died of lung cancer during my
college years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> I
moved to Spain in the mid 1980s, and after a nervous breakdown decided to seek
therapy. For the first time I could speak about my adoption. My therapist
showed me that it had affected my life very deeply; we called the adoption the
“first rejection.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> After
several years, I tracked down my birth parents while on a visit back to San
Francisco. My birth father was a philosophy professor in southern California;
I, too, I had studied philosophy in college. My birth mother was living in
Hawaii. Both were divorced and had not seen or heard from each other in thirty
years. We had our reunion at the end of 1990, in Orange County. It was
pleasant, it was cordial—and very awkward. My birth father was a loud,
talkative but deeply introverted man. My birth mother was distant and cold. “I
hope and pray that you and I will come to have a loving relationship!” my birth
father said to me. “I’m glad we met; I do hope we meet again,” my birth mother
said to me. And I returned to Spain. During the next year they began dating—and
decided to get married. The wedding took place on a Hawaiian beach in 1992, but
they settled in southern California. They were now man and wife, but we did not
become a family. When I decided to finally leave Spain and return to the U.S.,
I settled about forty miles away from them. My birth father was always glad to
see me. My birth mother remained cautious, distant, standoffish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> After
living in southern California for a few years, I gradually (after a series of
slights, omissions, and nonappearances) woke up to the fact that my birth
mother, even though she’d married my birth father, was uncomfortable around me,
not keen on more than a visit once or twice a year for a polite exchange of
presents and some small talk. Eventually we stopped speaking altogether, and
not too many years later she died of lung cancer. During her last years she’d
remained married to my birth father, but they lived as roommates only, and
ceased to have a marriage in any meaningful sense. They were two very different
people. And then, only a few short years after my birth mother died, my birth
father began to show symptoms of dementia and was taken away first to northern
California and then to Portland to live with his daughter (my biological
half-sister) from one of his earlier bad marriages. He is still there now, at least
his body is. He cannot remember big chunks of his life, including his
relationship with my birth mother. If you mention her name to him, he just
looks at you blankly, before wandering off to take a three-hour nap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> It’s
been twenty years since I moved back to California. Now they’re all gone, all
four. I think about them every day. I sometimes question what good it did me to
meet my birth parents. I am aware that when I first contacted them, I had
unconscious hopes that we could start over, start from scratch, that they could
mother and father me and help me turn into a strong, wholesome man. That didn’t
happen. But it was worth it to meet them, because I was able to form a complete
picture of who I was and am. I take after them in some ways. Like them, I am
introverted and prefer the company of a book and pets to other humans. Like
them, I have an addictive and easily distracted personality, and know little
about making money. Knowing them enriched my life, deepened my character. And
what did I give <i>them</i>? That question is harder to answer. Yes, they
got together as a result of our reunion, but their marriage failed. Did my
reappearance in their lives bring them any joy, any fulfillment? I did have a
few pleasant conversations with my birth father. But my existence was always a
thorn in the side of my sad, complicated birth mother. Perhaps the greatest
gift that I brought was practical: when they got married, my birth mother was
able to rise out of poverty and live in comfort during her last years, planting
and nurturing the loveliest rose garden. And during her sickness she received
the best healthcare possible, thanks to my birth father. This would not have
been available to her had she remained in Hawaii, poor and uninsured.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBT8mKmbmi2EVbG0Jx1NKWkpJmzcZh93jd_O0CEwJJDAYXBUoCmDF3NoxWCwh3FBFIeQNE2ZMICcW3z-ImnXk7N8nScaCayiIruQ6qNMhZo3AKghE1q98bw0Sb9rSAVlnUAc7s-f_ILQ/s1600/BirthParents_Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBT8mKmbmi2EVbG0Jx1NKWkpJmzcZh93jd_O0CEwJJDAYXBUoCmDF3NoxWCwh3FBFIeQNE2ZMICcW3z-ImnXk7N8nScaCayiIruQ6qNMhZo3AKghE1q98bw0Sb9rSAVlnUAc7s-f_ILQ/s1600/BirthParents_Me.jpg" height="271" width="400" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p><i>Alex and his birth parents.</i> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">How has the adoption
experience affected your poetry?</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> I
did at one time write short stories, but in my thirties, when I moved toward
poetry, almost immediately I was writing about my adoption, especially about my
birth mother. With fiction I was always burdened with having to invent
characters. With poetry I felt freer to be unapologetically autobiographical.
And so I began a series of poems called “Birth Mother.” Between 1997 and 2007 I
wrote about thirty of those, many of which I eventually put in my first
collection, entitled <i>Birth Mother Mercy</i>. In these poems I was free
to paint a picture of my birth mother at all the stages of her life: an unhappy
child of alcoholics, a ’50s cheerleader, a Hawaiian hippie, a young woman who
ended up adopting two Hawaiian children not long after she gave me up. All my
anger and hate and love came out in these poems. And I’m still working through
my rage today, trying to arrive at a place of love and understanding for what
she went through during her time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Please share a sample poem
addressing adoption. </span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Pleasures of Relinquishment</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Seven
pounds of shame were shed today </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">and Mom’s delighted to be slim once more. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(The
cries got weaker as they died away.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Lightness!
Litheness! Now a chance to stray </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">to where they didn’t know her name before</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> the
seven pounds of shame were shed today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">No
mouth, no raucous summons to obey, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">she will be rid for life of all that
furor </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(The cries got weaker as they died away.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Perhaps
there’s time to see a matinee, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">freed from what she struggled to ignore. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Seven
pounds of shame were shed today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Find
a bar and worlds will start to sway:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> the thing was just a lonely visitor </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(whose
cries got weaker as they died away).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">“No.
Mustn’t dwell or say the word ‘betray’”—</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> she knows the German couple will
adore</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"> the seven pounds of shame she shed today. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(The cries got weaker. Then
they died away.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.0pt;">This poem originally appeared in The Comstock Review<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">ABOUT THE POET:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Alex M. Frankel’s first
full-length poetry collection, <i>Birth Mother Mercy</i>, was published by
Lummox Press in November, 2013. He also has a chapbook called <i>My
Father’s Lady, Wearing Black</i> (Conflux Press). Besides poetry, he has
published short stories, book reviews, and essays. Recently his essay “Cycles
of Rejection: An Elegy for My Four Parents,” appeared in <i>Switchback</i>. He
is now working on a memoir. He hosts the Second Sunday Poetry Series in Los
Angeles (<a href="http://www.secondsundaypoetry.com/"><span style="color: #386eff;">www.secondsundaypoetry.com</span></a>).
His website is <a href="http://www.alexmfrankel.com/"><span style="color: blue; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">www.alexmfrankel.com</span></a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-82104985364683234952014-02-01T01:26:00.000-08:002014-02-01T13:29:24.841-08:00MARGARET CARRUTHERS
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">I am a wife, mum, and gran
aged 65 who was adopted as a baby in 1948. In those years adoptees did not have
much information. I had spent a very
short time in a Dr Barnados home (orphanage) about which I can’t remember
much. My adoption was entirely
successful and I cannot remember when I was told I was adopted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEKnUSve0ox6d5B23B2ohyphenhyphen0Uy1boH4Hm490GI5CAAFodwShlN4HJ4NrjsRiIn2lfp-SsDMlLJmYwIgyowo6OQcr5-e4RzFhL6FEAb2osarM6NumZE13x27gYhzDSUVb5EOIYIJ2B2HA/s1600/me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEKnUSve0ox6d5B23B2ohyphenhyphen0Uy1boH4Hm490GI5CAAFodwShlN4HJ4NrjsRiIn2lfp-SsDMlLJmYwIgyowo6OQcr5-e4RzFhL6FEAb2osarM6NumZE13x27gYhzDSUVb5EOIYIJ2B2HA/s1600/me.jpg" height="320" width="256" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;">Margaret “as a youngster, I still have
the teddy bear!!!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">As I grew older, married
and had a family of my own, feelings emerged about where I had come from, why my
own children had certain characteristics. Eventually I decided to try and trace
my birth mother. This was not easy, took eleven years. By the time I had
located the family (with a third party contact) my birth mother had died. I
found I had seven brothers and two sisters, who I have been in contact with for
the past twenty one years. We are so alike!!! My adoptive parents had died
before I did my search—I was not looking for replacement parents but had a
great yearning to find 'my place'.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Much of my poetry
reflects the yearning to belong, to find my place and to challenge others'
opinions of adoption who have no first hand experience. Below are samples of my
poetry, it was difficult to choose one, there are so many!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">PLEASE
SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (INPART) ADOPTION:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">BEHIND CLOSED DOORS</span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">My tribe is the 'handed over' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">not for us the rituals<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">of a joyous mother at childbirth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 10.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">she is to spend her life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">forever looking back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">THE RIGHT</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">My
arrival was secret<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">people
took decisions, made plans<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">legal
matters were attended to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">but
who asked me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
cost four shillings<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">paid
at the court hearing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">when
I married the license<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">was
seven shillings and sixpence!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Am
I commodity rising in value?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">or
will society pay more<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">these
days for a soul who arrived<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">in
confusion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Reading
this you might think<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">what
a bitter, cynical soul<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">we
have here<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">you
would be sadly mistaken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">For
all those rules and regulations<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">worked
to some extent,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
belong to a wonderful family<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">and
have no regrets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">But
there was a perpetual longing, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">what
about my genes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">why
am I like I am<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I
have a <i>right</i> to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Do
you look like anybody?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">are
you sick of being told you closely<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">resemble
Great Aunt Ethel,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">value
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Are
you prepared that you might<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">inherit
your grandmother’s medical condition<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">well
my friend be grateful<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">for
the knowledge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">What
about all those stories passed on<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">from
generation to generation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">gold,
pure gold, do not discard them<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">that
is not your right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">1<sup>st</sup> February 2010</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">***<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial;">ABOUT THE POET:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">Margaret Carruthers: “I have
been writing poetry for nearly 15 years now, it is influenced by nature, my
faith, social justice and last but not least my experience as an adopted
person. I live in south west Scotland and am at present working on a collection
of poems related to my experience as an adopted person. Several of my poems
have been published here in the UK.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-87153977984782556922013-03-01T08:00:00.001-08:002017-03-31T07:59:43.231-07:00MIRAH RIBEN<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">I am a mother who lost her firstborn to adoption in 1968. I never forgot her and by 1980, together with four other mothers, I co-founded the original Origins: a national organization for mothers who lost children to adoption, based in NJ. We held monthly in-person support groups and produced a national newsletter. Members of our group were finding their children in far less than the better homes we had been promised. Disheartened and concerned, I searched and found my daughter to ensure that she was safe. I also began researching adoption and wrote my first book, <i>shedding light on…The Dark Side of Adoption</i> in 1988. The following year, while Director of the AAC, I helped organize the first march on Washington for Adoptee rights. </span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">My activism has continued to this day resulting in my second book, <i>THE STORK MARKET: America’s Multi-Billion Dollar Unregulated Adoption Industry</i> in 2007 and many articles.</span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGS9Ev7NX45n_d7sWlROtBk-NN6EJed6N9im7CV8oSwnztPfoZo79d2DEkO-RYo111yNAkuHPG7hOrTJp-27BvN6HZvNFJxUxLOdaZPIzMtpCsvyIL-unaP3s2VpZZrum4ux62fCGcw/s1600/MirahDec2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGS9Ev7NX45n_d7sWlROtBk-NN6EJed6N9im7CV8oSwnztPfoZo79d2DEkO-RYo111yNAkuHPG7hOrTJp-27BvN6HZvNFJxUxLOdaZPIzMtpCsvyIL-unaP3s2VpZZrum4ux62fCGcw/s320/MirahDec2012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">***</span></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</span></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am not a poet. I am a writer and sometimes use poetry to journal. Most of my poems are about my adoption loss. Adoption has driven me to write…it is the only way I can cope with the pain, the grief, and the anger at the lies and deception of adoption.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">***</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION.</span></strong></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><div class="WordSection1">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sacrifical Firstborn<o:p></o:p></span></strong></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Firstborn<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">first begotten one<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn of spirit<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn of flesh<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">child that opened my womb<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Only one is called<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn of many<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">brethren in spirit<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">others<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn of many<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in flesh<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And others still,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">like the child of Arsinoe,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">who died while giving birth to<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">her firstborn child,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are first and only.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Your firstfruits shall be holy,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">saith the Lord,<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and shall be dedicated unto me<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">as a special offering<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">lamb of God<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">sacrificial lamb<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">sacrificed in spirit<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">scarified in flesh<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">…and God gave his only begotten son<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">son born of unwed mother<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">so that others…<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">…and God spoke to the Jews<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and told them<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">to sacrifice<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">their firstborns no more<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">but God also asked<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">that atonement be made<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">so she shall be clean.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and netherworld demons<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and peddlers of flesh<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in the black-gray<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">underworld marketplace<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">seek out<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and offer false promises<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">for a coveted <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn child<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">…and on the 31<sup>st</sup> day<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">firstborn sons become<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">legally<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">and ritually<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Firstborn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But sons (like mine)<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">who follow<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">in the wake<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">of ghostly Firstborns<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">are forever displaced<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">as firstborn heirs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lamb of God<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">silent sacrificial lamb<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">sacrificed in spirit<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-outline-level: 1; tab-stops: center 3.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; letter-spacing: -0.15pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">special offering to God<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<strong><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ABOUT THE AUTHOR:</span></strong></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">MIRAH RIBEN is author of two internationally acclaimed books, <em>shedding light on...The Dark Side of Adoption</em> (1988) and <em>The Stork Market: America’s Multi-Billion Dollar Unregulated Adoption Industry</em> (2007) and numerous articles. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Riben is former Director of the American Adoption Congress and Past Vice President of Communications of Origins-USA, a national non-profit that advocates for mothers' rights and keeping natural families together. Riben has been researching, writing and speaking about the need to reform, humanize, and de-commercialize American adoption practices since 1979. She has appeared on several national television programs, and was keynote speaker at many conferences. She blogs at </span></span><a href="http://mirahriben.blogspot.com/" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: normal;">http://mirahriben.blogspot.com</a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="color: black; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Riben was among the very first mothers to go public in order to put a face on women who had been called the invisible party in adoption, publicly addressing the lifelong pain of losing a child to adoption. Risking imprisonment, she reunited hundreds of families separated by adoption and helped mothers prevent unnecessary adoptions. In 1980 Riben co-founded the original Origins, a New Jersey-based national organization for women who lost children to adoption (unaffiliated with any other similarly named organization).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-81781433583857411872012-12-01T21:38:00.000-08:002012-12-01T22:39:11.631-08:00SUSAN VAN SLEET<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? / HOW HAS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY AND ART?<o:p></o:p></span></span></b><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My daughter, “Mary,” was placed at birth through a closed adoption in 1966.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My daughter contacted me at age 26.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At her request, we met in 1993. Our reconnection was extremely emotional, cathartic and liberating for me. From that day forward, I no longer needed to purge my longing or secreted desire to see and embrace her on canvas. After our meeting I was also able to pen the poetry that was deep within my heart for twenty-six years. Undeniable feelings I experienced but never allowed myself to write. And it felt good to put words on paper. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Today, when I look at my artwork from that secreted adoption placement time in my life, I see shame, sadness, and confusion oddly depicted in a serene manner. My paintings were a means of transferring, to canvas, innermost feelings at that time. Artwork sustained me. It was a means of channeling my feelings …a way to speak the unspoken. Little by little, I transitioned from painting somber self-portraits to creating a little girl who grew up on canvas. That girl was “Mary” …my daughter. I painted the pretty blond, blue-eyed girl from toddler to young adult. The last painting of Mary shows no face but rather the image of a young woman looking beyond. Surreal as the thought may have been at the time, I believed in my heart, that someday, we would meet as women. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">As for art, I stepped away from painting for nearly two decades following our reunion, but in the past year have felt energized to create again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It is my belief that creating on canvas and writing from one's heart are certainly undeniable vehicles of communication, both in sadness and joy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I am currently in the final phase of publishing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mary and Me Beyond the Canvas A Birth Mother's Memoir</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">PLEASE SHARE A POEM ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This poem is the last in a series written about my secret adoption experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Garden Gate</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <br /><br />The young woman paused <br />At my garden gate<br />The time was not early<br />The time was not late<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Her head slightly turned<br />I saw no face<br />Still my heart felt calm<br />At this mystical place<br /><br />Distance remained<br />While briefly she stayed<br />Still looking beyond<br />But not away <br /><br />Then mist filled the air<br />As dew touched the ground<br />And I understood why<br />She turned not around<br /><br />This portrait I reasoned<br />Must be the last<br />Knowing one day her future<br />Would include my past<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Susan Van Sleet, an artist and writer, has always been passionate about her creations and believes her earliest poetry and artwork are naturally cathartic. For nearly three decades, using art as therapy, Susan processed her longing for the estranged child she had placed through a closed adoption in 1966. She privately named her birth daughter, Mary. When the two women met, in 1993, at Mary’s request, Susan saw for the first time the daughter she had only imagined for nearly three decades. As a writer, her published poetry has been described as riveting. Susan is currently writing a memoir, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mary and Me …Beyond the Canvas</i>, which is scheduled for release early next year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/susan.vansleet" title="https://www.facebook.com/susan.vansleet"><span style="color: blue;">https://www.facebook.com/susan.vansleet</span></a> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-44402345536212245022012-09-24T10:21:00.000-07:002012-09-24T17:24:24.825-07:00DENISE KINGDOM GRIER<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My mother died when I was born. I spent my first five years in foster care and was officially adopted at 7. I have been a foster parent and even foster /adoption worker for three years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Even as an adult there lingers a longing and question that I can only locate in my identity as an orphan. I often write from that place. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Hanging singing that same ole song<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">from the days of love long gone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">so here i am just hanging on<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Rev. Denise Kingdom Grier is a native of New York City. Her mother, a single parent, died shortly after giving birth, leaving both Denise and her older brother permanent wards of the New York City court. She spent five years in foster care after which time she was adopted by a childless couple. Rev. Grier moved to North Carolina as a teen and endured many emotional struggles, which fueled her desire to help struggling children. She went on to attend Shaw University in Raleigh, NC where she received a Bachelor of Arts degree in Psychology. Shortly after graduating from college she worked as a Habilitation Technician for children with severe disabilities. She later went on to become a Housing Supervisor and Case Manager for homeless women and children. In 1998 she moved to Michigan where she was a child welfare specialist at Bethany Christian Services in Holland. Her job included foster care, adoptions, licensing, foster parent training and post adoption support services. Since leaving Bethany she has completed her Master of Divinity and has been ordained and installed as senior pastor at Maple Avenue Church and Ministries in Holland, MI.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Denise and her husband Chris are licensed foster parents with the state of Michigan where they specialize in older children and permanent state wards. In their thirteen years of marriage they have parented 13 children ,most of which were non-foster care placements. Denise is a member of Sigma Gamma Rho Sorority Inc., a mentor and community advocate for parents and children, as well as the biological mother of two biological children ages 6 and 9. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-44755940035887589362012-09-19T10:15:00.000-07:002012-09-19T16:16:32.705-07:00TRACE A . DEMEYER<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">How adoption affected me: I'd never told my story of opening my adoption while I lived it. A few friends knew details but not all of it. I got the idea for a book when I wrote an article in 2005 about stolen generations of North American Indian children placed for adoption with non-Indian parents. That article, "Generation after Generation, We are Coming Home" was published in <i>Talking Stick</i> magazine in New York City and then in <i>News from Indian Country</i> in Wisconsin. It took me down a path I never expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />I'd lived as an adoptee but had not done research into its history. I was not aware of the various medical terms for adoptee issues such as severe narcissist injury or post-traumatic stress disorder. There is new science called birth psychology so I read studies about adoptees in treatment for identity issues, reactive attachment disorder (RAD), depression and suicidal thoughts. Then I found statistics. So I wrote my memoir as an adoptee and wrote about the history and business of adoption as a journalist. I found more adoptees after my article was published, which really added to my understanding of the devastating impact of the Indian Adoption Projects.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Trace A. DeMeyer is also the author of <em>ONE SMALL SACRIFICE: A MEMOIR / Lost Children of the Indian Adoption Project</em> (Blue Hand Books, Massachusetts, 2010-2012).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is part of her Preface to the First Edition:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I’m a fly on the wall, one who listens, the observer of the absurd, and a young girl wearing braids. That’s me standing in front of an Ojibwe wigwam with my adoptive mother Edie and my adopted brother Joey. I’m the only Indian in this family. It was 1969. I’m 12 and the family is attending the famous Lumberjack Festival in Hayward, Wisconsin. Then I heard the drum. The Lac Courte Oreilles Ojibwe powwow was happening on the same grounds. The sound of the drum, the men singing filled me, like my heart opened up and the sky fell in. I could not tell anyone what I was feeling that day but it made me feel good, proud, and different. I knew I was an Indian girl just like the other girls I saw there but no one could tell me anything since I was adopted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Back then life was about mystery. I knew little to nothing about being adopted or Indian, just that I was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">North American Indians call adoptees Lost Birds, Lost Ones or Split Feathers. Adoption messes with the brain’s natural order so we Split Feathers get two experiences. I explain how later. One could argue which experience is best. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Adoption practices affecting one race of people had a specific purpose<i>—</i>the break-up of Indian families, to disrupt tribal culture across North America. I guess the idea was to assimilate us, tame us red devils and dirty savages. No kidding. So what is known about the Indian Adoption Projects and the aftermath, it’s pretty much been secret. Few books acknowledge it happened, but it did... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">It hurts to think secret adoption files (thick binders of papers with real names and the identities of real people) are still guarded (sealed by law) in 2011.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pretty much guarantees adoptees won’t be rejoining their tribal nation or family any time soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Wisconsin was my home. I was transracially adopted and I’m American Indian and Irish. I am one of the lucky few who opened my adoption in a sealed record state... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Someone blogged in 2008: “Anyone who questions the Adoption Game gets thrown in jail or called crazy.” Call me crazy then. Ground Zero for me was 2004, when I decided to write about it. Adoption “secrecy” made that nearly impossible. As a journalist I soon discovered nothing about adoption is simple or open; not after 1,000 drafts of this book; not after reading my file at age 22 back in 1979. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I expected little help or new discoveries. I didn’t know there were six to ten million adoptees in the USA (alone). Some are blazing hot new trails on the internet global highway. I make friends, both Indian and non-Indian. Nor did I expect to find so many of us. We’re all clinging to the same boat. Some even blog about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">One in three Americans has an immediate family member who has been adopted… <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Every Indian reservation in North America has a story about missing lost children and future generations who carry the stigma of lost language and culture. Some say Indian reservations were baby factories for social workers to fill their orders, or the place where churches and government abducted children for residential boarding schools. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Very few Americans witnessed this upheaval firsthand. Very few saw the Indian boarding schools and assimilation by whip or by washing the child’s mouth with lye soap. Few knew that the Indian Adoption Projects and Programs were an orchestrated act of genocide, the same as ethnic cleansing. Many friends remember when they were abducted as children, not babies, virtually erased from tribal rolls, not told their tribe or their family’s name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">These children, now adults, are expected to accept this? Funny thing is lost birds/adoptees don’t look like adoptive mom or dad. So we are not supposed to notice this or dare to ask? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I strongly believe adopted children are in training to become warriors. I know many strong courageous adoptees. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Who said wild animals bred in captivity can never return to the wild? Can an Indian child return to the wilds of Indian Country? Sure, but not without baggage…maybe a language barrier, maybe a fear of the unknown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Indian Country is still our home and adoptees like me will not be satisfied until they get some answers and meet some family. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">This book could have many names: <i>Innocent Kid Running into a Minefield; Outside the Circle; Adoption Didn’t kill our Spirit; Orphan Trauma; Babies to Distribute: Cultural Genocide; Not Exactly Grateful; Our Ancestors Prayed for Us to be Born; The Only Good Indian is a Dead Indian; and Adoption Reality is No Place for the Weak. </i>All would fit. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">My Irish blood advised, tell your whole story. The Indian in my heart cautioned me to stay balanced, humble. Shame tried to interfere and told me to keep quiet. I took my old humiliations and used them like keys. I open up my life like a can of worms. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Take a journey with me. Keep reading. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Trace A. DeMeyer/ Laura Thrall-Bland/ Winyan Ohmanisa Waste La Ke</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My poetry has come in spurts my entire life. There are months I may fill a notebook and other times nothing comes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do have to be inspired. Gathering the poems for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sleeps With Knives</i> was a challenge for me but I am glad I did it. Many of the poems relate to my childhood and experiences as an adoptee. I told a friend that each poem comes with a free knife, since many are cutting and sharp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">ghost shell<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">what we inherit. . . a ghost shell. . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I dream of this, the weight,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">a tortoise shell on my back, a heavy hull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Did I choose its protection? I was asleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">No one ever said, “You can drop it now” or<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">“It’s safe to drop that, you’ll be ok.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Maybe the shell did protect me at one time<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">when I needed armor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Maybe it isolated me for reasons<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I do not know or understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">It was heavy and hard to balance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">When I woke up, I could feel its weight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">I can still feel it, like a ghost,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">like an arm or leg amputated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Somehow it still signals my brain,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">“Protect yourself.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Maybe my mother put this shell on me before she left me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Maybe I inherited it, like a talisman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;">Maybe the shell was what women in my family wore to survive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">All I know is I was born with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>[First published in</em> Sleeps With Knives notionally by Laramie Harlow, a pen name<em> (Blue Hand Books)]<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">ABOUT THE POET:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Professional blogger, mosaic artist and award-winning journalist Trace A. DeMeyer is former editor of the <i>Pequot Times</i> in Connecticut and editor/co-founder of <i>Ojibwe Akiing</i>; in 2012, she free-lances for the national newspaper <i>News from Indian Country</i> in Wisconsin and maintains three blogs and a Twitter newspaper: Modern Ndn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Her academic writing, “Power, Politics and the Pequot: The world’s richest Indians” was presented in Munich at the 26<sup>th</sup> American Indian Workshop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is also the author of “Honor Restored: The Story of Jim Thorpe” in the book “<i>The Olympics at the Millennium: Power, Politics and the Games 2000</i>, published by Rutgers Press. Her book, <i><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">One Small Sacrifice: A Memoir, Lost Children of the Indian Adoption Project,</span> </i>describes the little-known history of the Indian Adoption Project and Indian Child Welfare Act; the new second edition was released in February 2012 on Amazon and Kindle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Trace blogs about American Indian Adoptees at <u><a href="http://www.splitfeathers.blogspot.com/" title="http://www.splitfeathers.blogspot.com/">www.splitfeathers.blogspot.com</a></u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-90201732552075223862012-08-20T12:51:00.000-07:002012-08-21T13:36:37.093-07:00DANNI INGLE<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="background: #eff7fb; color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I never thought about this being my story, it has always been my secret. I have been extremely selective about who I share it with over the years. I am an Army brat and my story starts on an Army base in Germany. Being 20 years old, still living at home and being in Germany was a blast! I had a part time job for extra money, gave my parents $75 a month and had the freedom to do as I pleased within reason. I was a partier. Out every night with my friends just enjoying life as a young adult. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">I met Larry at the NCO club and thought he was cute, a rocker with an army cut. We hit it off, fell in love, got engaged, then found out I was pregnant. It's ok he told me, we were going to get married and everything was going to be ok. He was from California and I was from Florida. He was about to get out of the army and go back to California, so I packed all my childhood in boxes and he sent them with his things back to his sister's home. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">He left Germany when I was 4 months pregnant and I left when I was 5 months pregnant. I did not however go to California. Once he got home and out of the army he decided to start drinking more and doing drugs with his buddies because this was cool and the far away pregnant fiance was not. We did talk on the phone but he never sounded excited anymore about getting us back together. When I finally realized I was on my own I panicked. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">My dad had just retired from the army and he and my step-mom were trying to adjust and get their lives together and find jobs. They said they would help as much as they could, but I knew it was a struggle for them as well. I saw ads in the paper for adoption agencies and so I called just to get information. My uncle asked to adopt my child but as much as I would have loved to give him and his wife the child they had been wanting, I thought it would be too hard for me knowing where she was.</span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">When I called and told Larry I was thinking about adoption, he told me, "Do what you gotta do". So I did. When I told my mom about my decision she told me to have the baby in Texas and she would raise her. Again, I had to say no. I called the adoption lady again and they sent out a worker who explained the process and gave me a lot of paperwork to look over. Once I was sure it was what I was going to do, they found me an apartment, paid my bills furnished the apartment and gave me vouchers for food and clothing. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">My dad and step-mom supported me as much as they could. This was hard for them as she would be their first grandchild. I was so worried about being a burden to them that I never realized that had I chose to keep her, we would have found a way to make it work. I am that person that worries about what other people think and how things will affect them before I worry about myself. But that was not my reason for placing her. I was scared that we would be stuck on government assistance and I wouldn't be able to give her anything other than low income housing and food stamps. I had also never been out on my own for more then 3 months and I had made a mess of that real quick and ended up back with my dad. I had very low self esteem and belief in my own ability to be what she needed.</span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">The agency brought me a stack of papers with bios of perspective parents. I got about halfway through and found "the ones" They had been married for 13 years and had not been able to have children. They were Christians. They had a summer house. They had a dog. They were perfect. They were THE ONES. I called my worker and told her. She told me not to rush into anything, she had tons more of these bios if I wanted to look, but I was sure this was it.</span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">I found myself in the hospital having a baby on 2/18/94. Once she was born I counted her fingers and toes, I fed her, I changed her diapers. I was her mommy for 2 days. My grandma came and rocked her and loved her. My dad and step-mom came and fed and rocked her and loved her. I named her Sarah Joanne. Sarah after my step-mom's mom and Joanne because I thought "Sarah Jo" was cute. </span></span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">Danni and Sarah Jo</span></em></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="background: #eff7fb;">I had to stay in the hospital for a day longer then she did and that was the worst day of my life. The adoptive parents were out of state and they wouldn't be able to get there for a couple of days, so SJ was placed in a foster home type of situation the agency had. I on the other hand stayed in the hospital one more day then went home. I never knew a person could cry so much. The pain that I felt going home empty handed was so many million times worse than the pain of labor. I thought I was going to die. I think I lay in bed for the next two days, I really don't remember. I just remember crying until the tears ran out, then crying til it hurt too bad, and then crying even more. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">Two days later I went to the agency to place my baby into the arms of her mommy and daddy. I had only spoken to them once and had never met them. The first thing I did was hold SJ and put her in a new dress I had bought her before she was born. I kissed her checked her toes again and told her how much I loved her. Then I went into a small sitting room to talk to her parents. They were such nice people and that made me feel good. We discussed the "semi-openness" of this adoption. I was to get letters and pictures for the first year and that was it. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">The time had come to do the honors. I walked out to get SJ as they had not yet seen her. When I came back in with her, the smiles on their faces will be forever imprinted on my heart. Daddy had an ear to ear that would make a boston terrier look like it was frowning. My tears were no longer lonely, theirs were flowing down their cheeks as well. I cannot express what feelings were coming over me at that moment. In one room were the happiest and saddest people in the whole world. We all sat back down and talked for just a few more minutes but it got to be too much for me and I jumped up and ran from the room. Daddy came looking for me. He didn't have the heart to just leave without reassuring me that she was going to be ok. As they prepared to go all I could say was please take care of her. And they promised me they would.</span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">I received the pictures and letters like clockwork for the first year and I have heard nothing since then. After they adopted her they received news that they could adopt a little boy from Russia. He was just a little bit younger then she was and they even sent me pictures with him and her. I devoured the letters written as if SJ was writing them and signed "Aimee". I stared at the pictures for hours and cried. In April, 2 months after having SJ I went to an army recruiter and signed up on the delayed entry program. I still had to lose weight before I could join the army. In October that year I left for basic training. My letters were still coming and while in Military Police school, my daughter turned one year old. </span><br /><br /><span style="background: #eff7fb;">The raw pain passed but the throbbing whole in my heart remains. I hope to one day reunite with my SJ and see her and my other three children get to know each other. For now I can only live on the faith that daddy did as he promised me and took care of my baby girl. This is my secret and reliving it here on this page has opened it all back up. I had been keeping it protected deep inside for a long time, but I think it is time to share it and let it heal more. Thank you for reading if you made it this far. I am sorry it was so long. Believe me, it could have been much longer!</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I am a birthmother. My daughter turned 18 this past February. I received pictures and letters for one year [after her adoption as a baby] and nothing since. I stopped writing poetry after my daughter was born. I have recently been able to open up a little about my experience with an online group for birthmothers I found. I am hoping to one day reunite with my daughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">***</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><strong>Mine but Not <o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My mouth but not my laughter,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My eyes but not my tears,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I cannot gaze upon your face,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">or chase away your fears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My arms but not my hug,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My hands but not to hold,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I cannot feel you close to me,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">or shield you from the cold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My legs but not my journey,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My heart but not my song,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I cannot change the choice I made,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">or know if I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You are mine but not,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I am yours but not,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Another has taken my place<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I am yours but not,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">You are mine but not,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">An emptiness time cannot erase.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">***<o:p></o:p></span> <br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">ABOUT THE POET:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My name is Danni Ingle. I was an Army Brat so I moved around all my life. After my relinquishment I joined the army and spent 3 years in Hawaii. I now live in a small town in Oklahoma with my 3 parented children, 4 horses, 2 donkeys, 5 dogs, 2 cats, a cockatoo and my husband. I hope some day to reunite with my daughter or at least find out if she is ok and happy.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-30110291836916100822012-02-21T19:18:00.000-08:002012-02-21T20:23:12.596-08:00LINDA M. CRATE<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? </strong><br /><br />I never had a father growing up. When I was six my mother married my stepfather--he adopted me when I was thirteen years old. Despite this, it was hard on me because we don't/didn't always see things eye to eye and there was always this void where my 'father' was supposed to be. It was difficult trying to explain to people that I was adopted because I come from a small/rural town where everyone might not like their father but most people have one. It was just really painful to hear people talk about their fathers in high school and all the things that they did with their father because I never met my biological father and MY adoptive father and I had never been close. <br /><br /> <br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY? </strong><br /><br />I used to write poetry to my father and I still do, at times. He was not a good man, I am told, but I can't help but be curious of him. I also write about my stepfather, at times, too--sometimes in love, other times in anger. Unfortunately it is more the latter than the former. He's a good guy, but I don't think he's ever tried to understand me. <br /> <br /><br /><center>***</center><br /> <br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /> <br /><blockquote><strong>father</strong>*<br /> <br />you were void and you<br />created apertures in me,<br />the hole you tore through<br />me in your absence raged<br />with all the fury of the sea—<br />you were nothing in my<br />life, I wonder if that's <br />why even the zephyr is<br />deaf to my soft whispers?<br /> <br /><br /><small><em>(* about my birth father)</em></small><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /><strong>of claws and memories</strong> <br /><br />they say you are a monster,<br />I wonder if I wear your claws —<br />am I that harpy that tears<br />people to pieces or that fire<br />breathing dragon that devours<br />people with sharp fangs —<br />is it possible for me to step out<br />of your shadow, to shake it<br />away; will I ever be able to forget<br />the man that I never knew?</blockquote><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmZt73dYYLFUw8a4uU2WhON7Kdrh5GZqtfsLapgr9Hr38Nkuici51PZd-5qMaLak4KgQAyaSpo0IQUCVs_b1oLPgdZGHm11eYSZ17KMRbITFdUodTZIDvuKDzfxKSmJycm8DYFUMiDAg/s1600/Linda+M+Crate.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizmZt73dYYLFUw8a4uU2WhON7Kdrh5GZqtfsLapgr9Hr38Nkuici51PZd-5qMaLak4KgQAyaSpo0IQUCVs_b1oLPgdZGHm11eYSZ17KMRbITFdUodTZIDvuKDzfxKSmJycm8DYFUMiDAg/s400/Linda+M+Crate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708745836526630226" /></a><br />Linda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poems have been previously published in <em>Magic Cat Press, Black-Listed Magazine, Bigger Stones, Vintage Poetry, The Stellar Showcase Journal, Ides of March, The Blinking Cursor, The Diversified Arts Project, The Railroad Poetry Project, Skive, The Scarlet Sound, Speech Therapy, Itasca Illinois & Willowtree Dreams, Dead Snakes, The Camel Saloon, Write From Wrong, Moon Washed Kisses, The Wilderness Interface Zone, Samizdat Literary Magazine</em>, and <em>Danse Macabre</em>. Her short stories have been published in <em>Carnage Conservatory, Daily Love, Circus of the Damned</em>, and <em>Linguistic Erosion</em>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-10309759533093311432012-02-06T09:53:00.000-08:002012-02-06T10:10:33.811-08:00CATHRYN COFELL<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />My husband and I love a good travel adventure, as long it involves plenty of hot sun, good food and a comfy bed. Not exactly good reasons for adopting a child, right? But an unexpected bonus when we adopted our son from Manila.<br /><br />Frankly, we’re amazed more people don’t jump at the chance to bring home a child from the Philippines. The people are beautiful, articulate and gracious. Compared to more popular adoption countries, the Philippines is much less like a “foreign” place – just about everyone speaks English, and McDonald’s is outnumbered only by KFC. <br /><br />Still, a 20 hour flight to Manila to meet your new son is a heck of a lot different than a 2 hour Funjet to Cancun for snorkeling. Luckily, our flight and the rest of our week was relatively hitchless (except for the huge snoring guy in the window seat). Once through customs, we were met by Ramon, escort extraordinaire: he was our tour guide, shopping consultant, keeper of the itinerary and occasional baby holder. In no time, he got us checked in at our hotel and arranged to take us to the orphanage in the morning. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGrsIoh-DefJTu3DKUtaK1lD5ilr-S6CVkxIpsACNgzNJc9MFUpG22oFDRnW9WuEXnLGFoKdaBTqiR0oxk5G5VZJcNjjxUTkL4ilIZ8-EoYBJwhQC4MgsxPBmUPfTvejAv4oSDdd7uQ/s1600/cathyjackcaleb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyGrsIoh-DefJTu3DKUtaK1lD5ilr-S6CVkxIpsACNgzNJc9MFUpG22oFDRnW9WuEXnLGFoKdaBTqiR0oxk5G5VZJcNjjxUTkL4ilIZ8-EoYBJwhQC4MgsxPBmUPfTvejAv4oSDdd7uQ/s400/cathyjackcaleb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706084348170943250" /></a><br /><em><small><center>First encounter: "our first kiss in Manila, at the Shalom Bata Rescue Centre"</em></center></small> <br /><br />In attempting to describe all the emotions bouncing through us during that van ride to Caleb, I think of Jodie Foster in the movie <em>Contact</em>, and that line she says during her trip through the wormhole: "they should have sent a poet." Except I was a poet, but utterly without words. All those months of forms and waiting and more forms and more waiting and expecting the worst and praying for the best and putting the focus of your entire life into a fuzzy 2 x 3 photo – it was so over and so worth it the second we saw our son that first time in that hot, sticky office. It still amazes me I didn’t cry. I always cry. But in that one moment I think we were all so completely terrified, thankful and overwhelmed. We’d probably still be standing there with our eyes wide open and our mouths wide open and our raw hearts wide open if Ate Shirley hadn’t plopped little Caleb into my arms. That instinct I swore I never had kicked in: I was “mom.” <br /><br />It's been 11 years since. Jack is now 12 (going on 22) but we're still holding each other as tight. Every day since, we give thanks for the luck we have had and continue to have -- despite a speech delay, a stubborn streak that rivals Stonehenge and a new-found belief that his bio father was a Greek God making him a demi-god with some as yet unfound power I better not mess with -- the depth of my love for this pinoy boy is unfathomable. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvj7kQCqrpXyM6dO74ptbVFyMKuQi7ugu3nzeVVPMUAJyby9wM36IPHbtM0ekFL1OE_q8RWWWlrAeZwYXzHWkEc0SUHbEJFWgjBt2YsscE6Kdiz6lmXvRY9dLWw2NeOluXzxm8G5RCA/s1600/CathyJack.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvj7kQCqrpXyM6dO74ptbVFyMKuQi7ugu3nzeVVPMUAJyby9wM36IPHbtM0ekFL1OE_q8RWWWlrAeZwYXzHWkEc0SUHbEJFWgjBt2YsscE6Kdiz6lmXvRY9dLWw2NeOluXzxm8G5RCA/s400/CathyJack.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706084489964820146" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Cathy and Jack</em></center></small><br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />How has it not? My poor kid will be so freaky deaky mad at me when he is old enough to want to read my poetry. He knows he appears frequently in my work, but I'm a poet who puts it all out there - the good, the bad, the ugly. I documented much of that transition in <em>Sweet Curdle</em> (Marsh River Editions, 2006) but the process of adoption, being an "adoptive" mother, bearing witness to my son's growling emotions about being adopted continues to appear and transition in my work as we transition through life. The poem I share is one of the more recent works, as we now struggle with his desire to know more but not want to know more about his bio parents. <br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><blockquote><strong>IN SEARCH OF A WOMAN WITH SPIRIT </strong><br /><br /><br />After I enter your birthmother’s name<br /><br />Google asks if I mean <em>Veronica </em>but <br /><br />that means truth and purity and I don’t want her <br /><br />to be either. But when the truth of <em>Veronilla </em><br /><br />draws a blank <br /><br />that paints your brown eyes blank, <br /><br />I change to yes to search <br /><br />a thousand Veronicas I know she is not,<br /><br />to see your face bright as a minted penny.<br /><br /><br /><br />I want you to find your history in other names,<br /><br />Jack because <em>god is gracious</em>,<br /><br />Caleb moved to the middle to keep you<br /><br /> <em>grounded by faith</em>, <br /><br />the missionaries <em>bright meadow</em> and <em>determined</em>,<br /><br />your social workers <em>honey bee</em> and <em>lively</em>,<br /><br />our chaperone, Ramon, <em>a wise protector</em>, <br /><br /> how he rose early for us and saved his wife’s life, <br /><br /> how he tells of you who watched over her. <br /><br /><br /><br />You should know the irony of Cathryn meaning <em>virginal</em>, <br /><br />you should know there are two fathers and this one <em>is a rock</em>, <br /><br />but you don’t care yet how babies get here, only what happens after,<br /><br />why some are left like broken toys,<br /><br />if some get passed again, like sour milk or baseball cards.<br /><br />I could search a thousand names and not find<br /><br />the answer, so I shift your weight <br /><br />and Google <em>Espiritu</em>, show you she is your Spirit <br /><br />in every language,<br /><br />meaning this woman as essence, <br /><br />meaning this woman as courage,<br /><br />meaning this name as guardian angel, as fire.</blockquote> <br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Cathryn Cofell is the author of five chapbooks including <em>Kamikaze Commotion</em> (Parallel Press). Additional poems and essays can be found in places like <em>North American Review, New York Quarterly, Oranges & Sardines </em>and <em>Women</em>. She is currently performing her poems with the musical duo Obvious Dog from their CD called <em>Lip</em>, and serving on the advisory board for Verse Wisconsin. More at <a href="http://www.cathryncofell.com">www.cathryncofell.com</a>. <br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-62220333815708734572012-01-02T16:46:00.001-08:002012-01-02T18:15:01.244-08:00PAULA FRIEDMAN<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOlO4494cFKgAqSyEcvSV3Ji0Pk1bxrMQiBheeB7R_jpZPE8et2hyyuMKCWYNXEBSUQCtyEslayAZy_0oYwoy7FIaWe2JkjwBis0vErX6RDXokh46gpVLuV6AP_3_Bs-ulijUNKSksw/s1600/authorphotocropMay2011.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 145px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZOlO4494cFKgAqSyEcvSV3Ji0Pk1bxrMQiBheeB7R_jpZPE8et2hyyuMKCWYNXEBSUQCtyEslayAZy_0oYwoy7FIaWe2JkjwBis0vErX6RDXokh46gpVLuV6AP_3_Bs-ulijUNKSksw/s320/authorphotocropMay2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693220468632803026" /></a><br />My experience with adoption was not that of a naive teenager. I was 27 when I became pregnant, while seeking to open myself out to new people and new ways of life, and to stop war in Viet Nam, during the late-1960s antiwar movement in Berkeley, California. This was a time of hope and change, and there was no shame to being pregnant--to the contrary, though there was fear, of course, to be pregnant and alone. <br /><br /> I came to great new self-esteem in recognition of my love for others, in this time, and the loves and hopes of those days are now twined in my soul. But I did not yet understand that a woman alone can indeed raise her child, and, believing this for his sake, gave my child for adoption by--this, so many of us believed--a couple who would be nearly perfect parents.<br /><br /> And then to go on, "as if." Just like the Movement's "as if"---to make a better world by acting as if this is present and possible. <br /><br /> Only, he wasn't with me.<br /><br /> But he was out there.<br /><br /> Many years later, I had another child, and raised him on my own.<br /><br /> And many years after that, on the cusp of another war (this time, on Iraq--the first such war), the agency sent a letter--rather vague and formal--noting I had, when he was 18, sent a letter indicating I would be interested to meet him if he came searching. Enclosed with their note was a "waiver form" and explanation "waiver forms signed and notarized by each party is necessary before identifying information can. . ." There was no statement as to why they were writing at this moment.<br /><br /> So I went all over town searching for a notary, signed and got notarized the form, mailed it, and waited. And after that, piece by piece, the colors came back into my world. And he did, my first son.<br /><br /> And he was, and is, whole---intelligent, sensitive, empathetic, and achieving what he seeks in love and in his work. Responsive and a joy. For him, the adoption experience had worked---has worked wonderfully. (This does not mean I'd support a woman giving up her child; I usually would not; but I do think sometimes it can work well.)<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br /> For the first weeks of our reunion, I could not do poetry, I could barely speak, I could barely listen to music, I was--and my son was--in a state of love and vulnerability, and gratitude, thankfulness, beyond words, beyond joy. Slowly music came back, and then words. I wrote a poem to him, a poem I've shared only with him. Slowly I began to write other poems again; these were, for the first year or two of reunion, only about him. I published some of these, in <em>Chain of Life</em>, in the <em>Touched by Adoption </em>anthology, in NeoVictorian/Cochlea, and so on. And I wrote a soon-award-winning, multi-published essay, "God's Eyes," of those years of the Movement and giving up my son, that I needed to write (it's on <a href="http://www.highlightscommunications.com">www.highlightscommunications.com</a> --go to the "writings" page and then to "essay"). Now there have been many years of reunion, and I write of many other things, but our reunion stays, often, in my works, whether poetry or prose. My new, debut novel, <em>The Rescuer's Path</em> (Plain View Press, 2012), though in the first half the tale of love between a Holocaust survivor's daughter and a fugitive, half-Arab antiwar activist, tells in the second part of their birth-daughter's search and eventual reunion.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanbUZcQDMqvC05RVMNwVFAEbj6DVVWjxVERWKkh4uC_oC6TqnGaecMRam8655gbAOS1fXd5zhC8s2O3myJzSXKID6Sh9j1WgQA23FVY0D22V01Dkfr4j5XbuoHV809U8tSYUqRCVxkQ/s1600/forpoeonadpcropfrompossiblecoverforRP.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanbUZcQDMqvC05RVMNwVFAEbj6DVVWjxVERWKkh4uC_oC6TqnGaecMRam8655gbAOS1fXd5zhC8s2O3myJzSXKID6Sh9j1WgQA23FVY0D22V01Dkfr4j5XbuoHV809U8tSYUqRCVxkQ/s400/forpoeonadpcropfrompossiblecoverforRP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693221033561859586" /></a><br /><small><center><em>The image that is the frontispiece for Paula Friedman's new novel, </em>The Rescuer's Path<em> -- in this image, the young, slightly pregnant woman is based on a photo of Paula when she was young.</em></center></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE:</strong><br /> <br />I am attaching a couple of poems written in the months immediately after our reunion<br /><br /><br /><strong>Birthmother—<br />OtherWhen/Now, or the lost language country</strong><br /><br /><br />“Dark pool of night, black”<br /><em>noir</em> <br /> in France swamped by old sorrow<br />I did not understand <br />This emptiness drained unexplained<br />tears tantrum grey as exile years<br />Parisian <em>murs</em><br />from rue to rue, still clinging to<br /><em>some </em>old love<br />cramped, unfilling<br />as the carps’ dulled milling, <br />cold, in Fontainebleu’s <br />stone pools.<br /><br />The empty well <br />too deep to peek<br />though I knew, carrying you<br />pale clearest blue,<br />there in the heart of the soul<br />reaching to<br />the mothering love<br /><em>for everyone, from every one </em>“but first <br />a man, and only then a child”;<br />I did not understand<br /><br />until again I held you,<br /><br />whom the waters seek,<br />the emptied womb.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Dancing the reel</strong><br /><br />“and when there’s dancing in the streets” <br />I wrote, beneath the silkshot god’s-eye glowing <br />in the early East Bay sunlight, 1968, <br />“then yes, / O people people! I’ll be there, <br />I’ll <em>be </em>there, on my wooden heart, <br />though you are gone”—for I had <br />lost my love and sought him<br />while the watchmen at the gates<br />of Selma, Stop the Draft Week, Port Chicago, <br />Oakland, Peoples Park, <em>Empiyryr </em><br />smote me; I had sought <br />new ways of lovin’ <br />(too soon /gone); <br />meanwhile, in Vietnam <br />the people died and <br /><em>We must save them</em>, heart cried<br /><em>Save them, Save them</em>, and for lovin’<br />I found new <br />and gave new and <br />oh-baby oh my baby<br /><em>—my own baby</em>, <br />gave him, gave you,<br />Oh I gave him, gave my baby<br />love, <br />away. <br /><br /> Gone the years, <br />gone the moment next<br />he found me, this son grown,<br />so early jay-song spring<br /><br /> Next, years, <br />years further<br /> On to autumn, one November <br /> dark with evening, <br />and my second son, long-distance, <br /> hiking down ol’ Berkeley, cellphoned <br />“Mom—hey Mom,<br />hey <em>Mom</em>, there’s people out here watching on TV,” <br />says, “the election,” says <br />“some man is making a speech.”<br />“Who?” <br />“Uh. . .McCain.” <br /> “He’s giving up?” I stood, receiver to<br />my ear, here on the fourth, fifth<br />step upon my little cabin’s handbuilt stairs, <br />quite shaky, out in Oregon; <br />“Mom? he’s conceding.” And we <br />laughed laughed laughed, <br />behind his cellphone hearing <br />cheers cheers cheers. <br /> And when I told my older son, <br />my birthson, baby the beloved <br />of my heart, <br /> “Oh yes it’s real,” he posted<br />from the Mission District, sent a digi-film; I see <br />the people drumming, strumming, listen to <br />the “Ó-ba-ma,” the “Ó-ba-ma”<br />of new hopes, channeled but<br />the emperor’s toppling, ph’raoh gone down<br />beneath our risin’ wave, the last the first <br /> (—march on <br /> /your creaking knees /to see <br /> at last to see—)<br /><br />But is it real? <br />Look at the real, <br />no movie now—you see, we knew it then,<br />already then, must make a revolution on our own it won’t<br />be handed to us—we must<br />occupy our own births, love’s birth<br />every time, O people <br />people, dancing in the streets<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Paula Friedman is the reunited birthmother of one son and the once-Welfare mother of a second son. A published novelist, short-story author, and poet, she has received Pushcart Prize nominations, New Millenium Writing, Red/Green Press, Oregon State Poetry Association, Indigo Press, and other awards and honors, and Soapstone and Centrum residencies/fellowships. She has been actiive on adoption reform issues since her first son found her in 1991. Her new novel, <em>The Rescuer's Path </em>(Plain View Press, 2012), is a political love story of a Holocaust survivor's daughter who, in 1971, aids a wounded half-Syrian accused in a lethal truck-bombing; it tells of their birth daughter's 2001 search for the truth of her origins, and of the mother and daughter's reunion in the shadows of 9-11.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-77168587035275018802011-12-31T07:48:00.000-08:002011-12-31T10:02:04.859-08:00DUDUZILE MABASO<strong>WHAT IS (PART OF) YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />It started with an anonymous call in December 2010. The caller didn’t even say hello: “I say, ask that woman you live with who your mother is!” the venom landed in my ear. My heart beat fast, mad callers and call-centre marketers are the reason I don’t pick anonymous calls. And I still don't know why I answered that call. I laughed and asked who was calling. I mean what could be more ludicrous than for some random person to say that to me. Moreover, she spoke in seTswana—my first language is isiZulu. She repeated herself, then hung up. I was amused. Thought it was a wrong number. And I put it out of my mind.<br /><br />What I didn’t know at the time was that my mother was also being harassed in the same, if not worse, manner. <br /><br />I never gave that call much thought. I knew my mother, that woman loves me to death. This is the woman who still waits up for me when I've gone out at night. This is a woman who has drop-kicked shack doors in the rain in Alexandra when I was eight because she thought I was missing. This is the woman that screamed like a banshee at cops to release me when I was wrongfully arrested—and I heard, she tried to grab the cop's gun. I don’t want to imagine what would’ve happened had she gotten it...<br /><br />I was sure that I knew her womb.<br /><br />That night in January 2011, when my mother sat me down on her bed and dropped the bomb that I wasn’t her biological child was the world night of my life. I wasn’t my father’s biological child. Just like that I had been otherised. I was 29 years old when I found out that my parents had adopted me from my mother’s niece. <br /><br />My parents were not my parents. My parents were my grandparents or at least according to Western customs they were great aunt and great uncle. My direct grandmother being my mother’s sister. My cousins were my aunts and uncles, my cousin being my biological mother. My nieces and nephews all became my cousins. Suddenly the relationships that I had with everyone in the family were different. I thought that meant I was her first born child but shockingly found out that I was her second child. Imagine the abandonment issues that gave me. See if I was the first born and she was a teenager then giving me up would make sense but how does a mother choose one child over the other? I hope to understand that some day.<br /><br />(To avoid confusion, I will continue to refer to my parents as my parents and my biological mother as my cousin—that is how I grew up.)<br /><br />See my parents have always had other people’s children in their care and often these people would return and rip these children away without a descent ‘thank you’. <br /><br />I came from a stable house. I had both my parents. I had a strong sense of identity. And I was their blood. That is what I knew. And as an Africanist knowing my identity meant I was connected to my past (my ancestors). In 2007, I even changed my name to reflect this culture blood connection.<br /><br />Here I am with a name that no longer fits. A culture that might’ve been different had I been wanted.<br /><br />Wanted. <br /><br />It hurts that I wasn’t wanted.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQyLl7f50X-rsY5QgKVMw1Gonj9osDhxRtcM2_TySpcApihaBw3xrCLK5dMuMjMQ0yt2aE4QWFGEY8-sp6AH839rLK_vK-IaIoUbTNedKOGQiX1aCOQVl6kfi_u518Z2-dL16EAH2RQ/s1600/Za...jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQyLl7f50X-rsY5QgKVMw1Gonj9osDhxRtcM2_TySpcApihaBw3xrCLK5dMuMjMQ0yt2aE4QWFGEY8-sp6AH839rLK_vK-IaIoUbTNedKOGQiX1aCOQVl6kfi_u518Z2-dL16EAH2RQ/s400/Za...jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5692352344525706898" /></a><br /><br />There’s a photo of me, I think I’m five years old. I’m standing on the stoep in our old KwaNdebele home, wearing a red t-shirt and blue shorts, I’m carrying a puppy we had named Bobby. Every time I look at this photo I can’t help but wonder “Who would look at that innocent cute face and not want this sweet child?” my mother, tells me all the time that I was a sweet child, talkative, a little naughty but a joy to have a round. I can’t help but wonder why my cousin, my biological mother, would see me at family events, visit my home and not want me back. I know that these questions only torture me; I’m still too angry to get answers from her. I don’t even trust that I will get honest answers.<br /><br />She had her reasons, I'm sure. And did what she thought right at the time. I'm less bothered by the choice to give me up than the choices she continued to make through out the years. She knew me all my life and I knew her as my cousin. And in all these thirty years she never tried to have a relationship with me. I feel that even if I didn’t know that she was my biological mother, I would loved to have been close to her as a cousin. I could've had a better relationship with her and my nieces and nephew that turn out to be my siblings.<br /><br />On the other hand, I had a great upbringing. A stable upbringing. <br /><br />I feel robbed of my identity—I don’t know my biological father and his people and his culture. And according to her I am Tswana not Zulu. I look at everything that has been built on a false premise and I can’t help but wish for ignorance. Being called Zamantungwa is now tainted by lies. Being called a sister is now tainted by lies.<br /><br />I think about the lost years, the relationships not built. I grew up in a home where my siblings were years older than me and my biological siblings are much closer. I think about how that’s affected my ability to relate to people. Now we have to rebuild the way we relate to each other.<br /><br />Trust has been tainted. Identity now has to be reshaped, somewhat. Old relationships have to be built anew. I don't want anything to do with my cousin - I don’t trust her. I may change my mind in the next year or maybe never. I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out who I am. And the one major lingering question is about my paternity. <br /><br />I am thirty years old now. It really is a new era.<br /><br />I still wonder if there’s someone out there that looks like me.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY? / PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br />For a while I couldn’t write. I struggled to make sense of what was going on but my poetry has become darker. I eventually started to write poetry again just to release the pressure in my head, in my chest. It hasn't lead me any understanding but it has made it easier to deal, it has lessened the tears. <br /><br />There are some poems that I wrote a long time ago about my identity. I know look at those poems and though I can't question their authenticity I wonder what kind of poems I would've written if i had known earlier... I've written a lot about identity but there was always a confidence and lightness and ease to it. This is the first stanza of "Untitled #23," written in 2003...<br /><blockquote><em>I’ve always been Afrikan<br />Daughter of Mntungwa* <br />uMuntu ngabantu**<br />Owadl’ izimfe zambili kwaphuma khambi lilinye**<br />One of the brown blk dirt<br />Soil burnished by ilanga<br />Daughter of sun<br />Dispossessed though<br />Langa linye ngizonqoba</em> <br /><br /><br /><small>*Mntungwa <em>is my father's clan name, the name I took up in 2007 references this.<br />** These two lines are from the Mntungwa family praise poem (izibongo). In Zulu, and many other African cultures, these praise poems are part of the family's oral history. it is important to know the family izibongo and to pass them on to your children. Ones identity is embedded within these poems.</small> </em> </blockquote><br />My poetry has become full of questions. Wondering. Wanting. My fears have become even more palpable and the only way to release—so that I don't feel like death is the only release—is to write. I have a number of unfinished poems and I think they shed a light to how I am now. I'm unfinished and I'm just trying to figure out what all this means. <br /><blockquote><strong> <em>1. something (broke)</strong><br /><br />something broke<br />pieces strewn everywhere<br />where they can't be found<br />hidden in crevices<br />eaten by demons<br />washed away by tears<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>2. something (died)</strong><br /><br />something died<br />a light went out<br />into darkness the spirit was plunged<br />there was no night vigil<br />the mourners did not know<br />what they had lost<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>3. something (let misery in)</strong><br /><br />something let misery in<br />let the doom become unbearable<br />took over pulled under the<br />light submerged<br />into a gloom<br />and there was no rising</blockquote></em><br />My post-discovery work is full of 'spilt milk'. I don't like that space.<br /><blockquote><em><strong>was trying to remember</strong><br /><br />was trying to remember<br />who i am<br />trying to pick up the pieces<br />that made me<br />looked back at who i was<br />only found a quilted personality<br />a cobbled self built by stories told<br />to a me i should've been<br />truth can't set you free<br />when ignorance is bliss<br />was trying to remember<br />who i am<br />when who i was<br />is a lie</em></blockquote><br />While I will continue to write about this, I realise that at some point I have to confront everything and everyone. Finding my sanity is priority.<br /><br />I am Duduzile—I have comforted and brought joy to my mother. I am/was Zamantungwa—my ancestors have adopted and looked after me thus far and they will continue to do so. Right now I can’t use this name. I am/was Mabaso’s daughter—this family chose me and they don’t want to lose me. Part of my journey now is about resolving my identity crisis. <br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /> <br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br /> duduzile mabaso is a writer, poet, publisher and designer. She publishes poetry at <a href="http://www.poetrypotion.com">www.poetrypotion.com</a>, and blogs about black women identities and politics at <a href="http://www.aintiwoman.com">www.aintiwoman.com</a>. “I’m pursuing a life out of bounds.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />‘Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-43236280662674379742011-11-01T05:08:00.000-07:002011-11-03T11:45:48.286-07:00JEFFREY THOMAS LEONG<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />My adoption experience first began with the mystery of my father’s adoption in China in the 1910s. In Kwangtung province, it was a fairly common practice for richer families without sons to adopt a boy-child from a poor family to continue patriarchal traditions. Thus, my father was adopted by a family in another village which brought him to San Francisco as a 5-year-old and then loved him all the years of his life. I know little about my father’s birth family except that the birth-father was an educated man, but unfortunately, smoked opium and was unable to financially support his five boys. My father, the middle child, was adopted at age three.<br /><br />The fact of my father’s adoption was kept a family secret until shared with my sister and me after our graduation from college. I’ve always sensed that my father felt a great deal of shame in being adopted in China because it signified poverty and failure in a culture which emphasized family unity. However, my father was able to live a full life raising two children, being married for over 50 years, and working four decades for the National Dollar Stores.<br /><br />My father’s life was profoundly affected by his adoption experience, and I now understand that some of his behaviors were related to attachment issues. In his later years, he suffered from a form of dementia, and though his short-term memory faded, he still recalled the pain of his early childhood.<br /><br />The next phase of my adoption experience began with the decision by my wife and I ten years ago to start a family by adopting a baby girl in China. In 2003, we traveled to Nanjing, Jiangsu province, to receive our lovely daughter Mariya, 9 months old at the time, from the Taizhou Social Welfare Institute. In the course of the past eight years, I’ve learned much about the adoption experience in raising our beautiful girl. Aside from the regular experiences of first-time parenting, I’ve also learned how critical the first months of a baby’s life are and how adoption can have longer term effects on a child, though changeable, in the emotional and physical spheres.<br /> <br />It is ironic in some ways that my father was adopted into another Chinese family to further the patriarchal traditions of China, while my daughter was possibly given to adoption because of the One-Child Policy and the traditional preferences for boys. Both adoption experiences are now a part of my life, and part of a circle of attachment, re-attachment, and love.<br /><br />I feel fortunate that my father was able to know my daughter for the first few baby/toddler years, and despite his diminished intellectual capacity, I felt he understood that this baby girl was too adopted from China, and perhaps this knowledge was helpful to him.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />My poetry is deeply affected by both my father’s and my daughter’s adoption experiences, as I’ve written about different aspects of my life in order to fully understand what it means to be human. My poetry often surprises me with insight I feel difficult to obtain elsewhere. It is a part of my spiritual practice, but also an aesthetic practice where life can be re-examined and purified through the prism of language.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Sm489bpbeUc2hy7_r0hUxOOI4RTnkRuCaKjtEqA5EDIgTbyYgubu3J1Uln_6lQ4XqM-hdos3axwaDIcQxhLR5OhJ2GBLBj2cxT9UqDmCKDzoRyDBD6y1ldlsVSViuUCYDwK-Daq6SA/s1600/JTLeongAuthorPhoto%2528027_24a.jpg%2529.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Sm489bpbeUc2hy7_r0hUxOOI4RTnkRuCaKjtEqA5EDIgTbyYgubu3J1Uln_6lQ4XqM-hdos3axwaDIcQxhLR5OhJ2GBLBj2cxT9UqDmCKDzoRyDBD6y1ldlsVSViuUCYDwK-Daq6SA/s320/JTLeongAuthorPhoto%2528027_24a.jpg%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670184553588620354" /></a><br />In recent years, I’ve written many poems about being a first-time father and about my daughter’s adoption experience. I may never know her true feelings as an adoptee, her fears, anxieties and joys, except to the extent that any parent can know one’s own child. My daughter is growing up in a multi-racial family living in 21st century California, totally different fom her grandparents’ or her father’s experience, yet in other ways similar. She will still have to define herself as a Chinese-American female in an as-yet-inequitable American society, then too need to explore her individual gifts, an artistic talent and wild sense of humor. Her family will be there for her, and so will my poems.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /> <strong>Abacus</strong><br /><br />To my 88-year old father, <br />“You were adopted, in China?” I asked, <br />a boldness made usual in its repeat,<br />unfilial, except that dementia had spilled his weekly sorrow, <br />his memory zapped of every happy filigree: <br />a sister’s name, the fading face of my mother.<br />On a Sunday at the Country Kitchen Café, <br />suddenly it’s 1916 again!<br /><em>Adopted? I was sold!</em> he relates, presses hard against Formica <br />as if to keep at bay the only story still without fade, <br /><em>Six brothers </em>(really five) <em>and I was number three,</em> <br />a fogged fix, once secreted from the children.<br />Every slip of a former life, figured <br />to this pain, freezes him mid-house salad, <br />dressed in tears, and forking lifts of empty air.<br /><br />What can a son know of a father’s deep feelings,<br />his erased history of consequence, <br />transacted to the Lee’s and spirited to Gold Mountain?<br />Of that residual, only fractions remain.<br />His method: <em>Tough Guy</em>. WW II Air Force gunner-mechanic hides all.<br />And yet, every visit his weak-trickle <br />of toddler fail, an ache I sense as shadow,<br />and wishing to know that hulk, its dark cluster,<br />a step-mother, whose slap so real, her handprint forever planted.<br />But everything slipped in the memory disease,<br />sloughed and forever sliding.<br /><br />I’ve been told in old <em>Guangdong</em>, <br />the hungry poor sold sons to richer families needing boys. <br />One birthfather Wong, married to opium, so smoked away his middle child.<br />But then, under adoptive father Joe Lee’s care,<br />that boy repapered to a “Leong,” and on to San Francisco,<br />a transit he accommodates each week as: <br /><em>I’m lucky. I came to America.</em><br />What recompense for such a sale, <br />as if each sluice of abacus beads can sum a series to even?<br />Here, in the <em>Shi Jing</em> texts, boys inherit property, <br />fulfill familial deeds, as when my father carried the red funeral candles<br />for Eldest Sister to Colma, nearly stumbling<br />on a cemetery’s uneven weeds.<br />In those same tracts, girls written off as unlucky, <br />carry loom shuttles for toys, cradled on dirt,<br />where boys slept in beds, clasped new scepters.<br />Even now, girls drowned like kittens in wells, <br />never glimpsing light,<br />at least in 1913, he wasn’t born female.<br /><br />Fingering ancient fumbles, I know not how to carry or solve. <br />In Chinatown, a boy slaps blackjack under boxwood, <br />steals gum, and is sent to Ming Kwong Home, <br />yet later, finds equilibrium selling dry goods to the poor.<br /><em>I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t gamble</em>, he still chants, <br />his mantra of clean living.<br />Can what tips a man start<br />in the cold imbalance of his own adoption?<br /><br />In six months, my wife and I fly to <em>Guangzhou</em>,<br />will bus to <em>White Swan</em>'S four-star elegance, <br />where in a matter of hours, we receive an infant girl,<br />configured to instant family.<br />Dissolves a childlessness when she comes to us, <br />absent of orphanages where dozens of unlucky ones<br />lay evidence to a continued bend towards boys, <br />the One Child Policy not hers.<br />When I think of her saucer smile, her gurgling, farting, <br />insouciance, I wonder, <em>How did it feel?</em><br />abandoned at 1 month on a police station’s steps, <em>Were you cold?</em><br />But new minds clicking, shifting speed, won’t recall, <br />though hard-wired to a neurological pain.<br />I ache to shelter her, but some unintendeds must be,<br />just as a woman pregnant with life, <br />pushes, birth tunnel stretched to full, <br />an answer head first to our grasp.<br /><br />In truth, girls are not boys, daughters not fathers,<br />some differences plain, without ambiguity, <br />a Confucian exercise in order.<br />Perhaps, nothing more to be conveyed on a plane’s reroute, <br />new <em>xiao xin</em> sidled against my wife’s breasts, <br />except to fly on cirrus, coursing mid-Pacific faith and duty, <br />home to California where wired bars gather: <br /><em>boy-child, girl-child, siblings</em> and <em>sire</em>, <br />together snug, so that a son may adopt a father.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><strong> The Pure Products of Parenting</strong><br /><br />At Safeway, that little old lady inquires<br />of her provenance, this infant you’ve adopted from Taizhou,<br />who so resembles you, the father,<br />sprouted roots of sleek black, thickening, <br />nut brown skin, (though you felt, grayed and rougher).<br />“Who is her mother?” she poses. Your wife <br />standing by — olive-tones, sharp-ridged nose, <br />ash-blond betray her.<br /><br /><em>Her mother? What other?</em> you consider, <br />embarrassed for your spouse, watch her shrink <br />into an awful elf, felt alien, <br />a ‘foreign ghost,’ and not belonging. <br />You’ve readied for this query, braced for it, <br />in the twenty-five lines, the I-600A of claim and proof,<br />a myriad of insinuations, boxes a social worker <br />ticks for <em>Abandonment, Abuse</em>, or <em>Cruelty</em>. <br /><br />All those checks for children who refuse <br />a ripeness unto rot, a loss you want unmarked<br />from a girl’s past. What child, still raw, <br />could have originally sinned (no lustful reach, <br />windfallen)? You two didn’t exactly steal her away,<br />but in fact you did, plucked from vacant air.<br />Both of you, now, charged with fraud, <br />pressed for authenticity, brands like Chiquita bananas<br /><br />and genuine Best Food’s mayo. What agency endorses<br />this? A babe laid down by a village gate, <br />her birth date unknown, or the bureaucrat who lists <br />her to the international scrum of parents?<br />What’s most pure in the DNA of giving and getting?<br />You two, twice divorced. No, not a 2 x 2, <br />but distinctly, then married Mendelian into a reverse <br />split, coiled into admirable bliss, with an <br /><br />unexpected bless to add a third, a kind of mitosis, <br />a parsing which multiplies in layers: two, four, <br />then eight, to replicate a whole in <br />the form of a babe.<br />This braided ancestry, though unbiologic, produces<br />a new old form: family, familiar and famished.<br />Hunger steels in this gird of grocery cart,<br />must now speak: <em>There is no other mother</em>.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> <strong>Elegy for the Death of Sex at the Coming of</strong> <br /><br />After the <em>How-To-Books</em> on shelves at Barnes & Noble,<br />those finer volumes, compendiums for child rearing, <br /><br />with somber “bombs of warning,” or <em>italics </em>for questions,<br />grids which set to evolution answers you feared <br /><br />were near, that after the coming of a baby, <br />there wouldn’t be any sex that you could remember, <br /><br />no midnight passion, no spark of nubbed opportunity, <br />like after a snack of milk and cookies, or watching <br /><br />the 11 o’clock news; on a Sunday when to wake for it, <br />was to lose that weekend manner of late sleep.<br /><br /><em>All of that can go</em>, the pages stayed, though a manual <br />imagines not your own particulars, but a general alarm.<br /><br />How wrong they were, you then had thought, remembering <br />that fiery eve, upon returning from first new week <br /><br />in Nanjing, where you two, tired of being parents, <br />no, tired <em>in </em>being parents, the initiate of bottles, <br /><br />finality of poops, a tepidness that’s bathwater, and <br />had begun to get lost in boot camp, the hustle to please, <br /><br />to answer a voice never heard once before, but now, <br />cannot help but hear again, and yet again. <br /><br />In Guangzhou, at the stork hotel of babies and baby farmers,<br />as the innocence of first caregiving was losing shine,<br /><br />you lay her down early in rosewood crib, watched <br />in wonder at the split-tired breathing of her husky tones,<br /><br />her howl of blanket, her suddenness,<br />in that wonder, two <em>had </em>become parents, <br /><br />the dotted lines of waiting year finally reaching signature.<br />And after, both tired (already tired) of losing lips, crawled <br /><br />together onto a single bed under a stopped air conditioner <br />to cool your bodies down to sleep.<br /><br />But for some memory, some immediate recall, your male <br />began nibbling her upper lip, as if it were a small cookie, not candy, <br /><br />a sustenance not sweet, but carbohydrate, steel, <br />yet water-like, an eel, something familiar but softer <br /><br />than anything ever lipped before. <br />And so the kissing ran, along the length of your sweat-driven <br /><br />ancient bodies, your beleaguered insane selves,<br />loving not as if to reclaim a notion of first dating,<br /><br />but your own birthing begins, some water in a womb<br />to be discovered in, again and yet unknown. <br /><br />And you wept, leapt into your passions <br />until the hard thumping propulsions climaxed,<br /><br />killed you two into a sleep of one. But that seemed to be <br />a last, a final dip, the book’s prophecies kept.<br /><br />Months later, two stand before white-panels of small <br />slumber, and this her, to whom both genuflect.<br /><br />Every kiss passed now, dry and drier, ghosting as in <br />a mirror, impenetrable and harried smooth.<br /><br />You’ve tried to recall some sex older than a couple <br />a year ago, older than they could ever be,<br /><br />now seemingly past and lapsed into an irretrievable, <br />another near, feared gone.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /> <strong>Approaching Hong Wan Village Gate, Taizhou</strong><br /><br />What I most need to know about those last moments,<br />blood stroke of future years, is your <br />bend beside a gate, to place <br />down a cry as if offered at an open temple, <br />intersect of passageway and place <br />where things are left each day: <br />thoughts, hurry, pushing towards a home.<br />You (whom I will never know) drop all that <br />behind, not going anywhere you, <br />but perhaps, leaving a self behind, at a juncture <br />visited only sporadically, unlike the returnees <br />whose commute to factory or garden regular <br />mouths opened to an everyday rice,<br />yours was final, fixed.<br />Though, you will never pass it again without a shudder…<br />a small uttered "oh," pain of letting in <br />omission, the less of loss.<br /><br />That voice (baby's cry) heard no more except in <br />your thoughts (always in thoughts, farther away than here).<br />You must carry what you’ve unburdened:<br />her, and too, these drippings of <br />why you went there,<br />a there that continues and will, <br />at least, in what you think each hour.<br />Not the idea of a 9-month old carried in foreign arms,<br />nor of a me you cannot begin to imagine,<br />no, dare not imagine for the opaqueness of eyes<br />shadows that me thinking, of transfer,<br />where at an opening still, if motioned through,<br />we inadvertently brush elbows,<br />stuck in a middle <br />beneath the weight of ancient columns.<br /> <br /><br /><br /><em><SMALL>(“Abacus,” was published in the anthology, </em>Mamas and Papas: On the Sublime and Heartbreaking Art of Parenting<em>; “The Pure Products of Parenting” and “Approaching Hong Wan Village Gate, Taizhou” were published in </em>Crab Orchard Review<em>; and “Elegy for the Death of Sex at the Coming of,” was published in </em>Cimarron Review<em>. These poems are part of Jeff’s first manuscript.)</small></em><br /> <br /><br /> <center>***</center><br /> <br /> <strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Jeffrey Thomas Leong's poems have appeared in <em>Cimarron Review, Crab Orchard Review, Flyway, Asian Pacific American Journal, Bamboo Ridge, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, nycBigCityLit</em>, and in anthologies such as <em>Mamas and Papas: On the Sublime and Heartbreaking Art of Parenting</em>, and <em>Ohana: The Ohana Open Mic Anthology</em>. In 2003, Jeffrey and his wife adopted a 9-month old baby girl from Nanjing, Jiangsu, China. He lives with his family in the San Francisco Bay Area.<br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-83492705652698364522011-07-24T12:30:00.000-07:002011-07-28T09:36:49.135-07:00ELAINE RANDELL<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />I have been writing since 1968 and have been published since 1970. I ran and published <em>Amazing Grace Poetry Magazine </em>in the 1960’s/70’s, which was a highly acclaimed small press literary magazine which was published quarterly and each edition sold five hundred copies. Contributors included Jeff Nuttall Tom Pickard Barry MacSweeney, Mike Horovitz, James Kirkup and many others. I went on to run the Secret Books Press publishing Tom Raworth, Allen Fisher and Paul Matthews. I was married to the poet and journalist Barry MacSweeney between 1973 to 1979. I have three grown up children and live in Kent with sheep and chickens.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MiM7epDlGY6gr3WENuwtibJgirryBwXNLEaWzvXE55JOYv8qzWxk8mdlrjPmirjYIyytvShDL-G3Y4E3z43Tsmer6Yl7lVEVwl32Od9UwrPMFUwtKcB_cJo2ZoXQdFyDzAZKGkbbmQ/s1600/IMG_1072.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7MiM7epDlGY6gr3WENuwtibJgirryBwXNLEaWzvXE55JOYv8qzWxk8mdlrjPmirjYIyytvShDL-G3Y4E3z43Tsmer6Yl7lVEVwl32Od9UwrPMFUwtKcB_cJo2ZoXQdFyDzAZKGkbbmQ/s320/IMG_1072.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634442792982547570" /></a><br /><br />I have always worked full time and have a background socio legal work, having worked for over twenty years in the U.K. as a Children’s Guardian (Officer of the Court) representing the interests of children subject to Care proceedings and I now work as a Child Psychotherapist. I have worked extensively in mental health and particularly in the adoption of hard to place children, preparing them for placement in the recruitment and training of families. I hold a Msc in Forensic Psychology and Law.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />My poetry and prose uses the skills that I have acquired in my employment; that is, of listening carefully and closely to what people say and observing what they do. I use these forensic skills in writing. The <em>Guardian </em>newspaper article in 1996 described me as "working with the casework fable--a brilliant poet. What elevates the dramatic monologues above raw emotion to real art is Randell’s ear for the way language reveals character."<br /><br />My new book, <a href="http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/catalog/2010/randellFM.html"><strong><em>Faulty Mothering</em></strong></a> explores ideas about the particular importance of mothering, the onus and responsibility of getting it right for children.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKb0o7B2xTOc0LAOVYQeECkP4GG1KLazDHb4WsQpxOjKAqA3HlfVH6fXS-wJW7auNCQRzFEdb9iQUCoyOEuSZCGFuH_UjM3EpB5b2na4KKrZAK2MllIgMoap74FdVY7ny0i9Z1Ftbcw/s1600/faulty+mothering+book+cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFKb0o7B2xTOc0LAOVYQeECkP4GG1KLazDHb4WsQpxOjKAqA3HlfVH6fXS-wJW7auNCQRzFEdb9iQUCoyOEuSZCGFuH_UjM3EpB5b2na4KKrZAK2MllIgMoap74FdVY7ny0i9Z1Ftbcw/s400/faulty+mothering+book+cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633005083109934050" /></a><br /><br />From the publisher's book page:<br /><blockquote><em>Faulty Mothering </em>is based on my work with families but focusing on mothers in particular who are experiencing problems in attachment to their children. A backdrop to such difficulties maybe poverty, mental health problems, substance misuse, adoption, fostering, domestic violence or being poorly parented themselves. I am interested in the capacity of people to change and in the courage of children and young people who adapt and survive adversity. The poems explore those issues. "The Song Cycles," which make up the rest of the book, come from a call and response, using sentences sometimes written by others in novels which have resonated for me. </blockquote><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>from </em>Hard To Place</strong><br /><br /><br />I<br />His mother, a petrol pump attendant, was said by those who knew<br />her to be far less than bright. She had not wanted the child but<br />had wanted his father. She grew very fat with the pregnancy but<br />told no one of the forthcoming child inside her. On the forecourt<br />of the garage she went into labour while delivering three gallons<br />of four star. They stifled her screams with the rag that wiped the<br />dip stick and mopped her waters with the sponge that cleaned the<br />windscreens.<br /><br />Now eight years later he’s a tiny child and the doctors write<br />notes about his small head circumference and his stammer. He<br />has moved eight times in the last three years, he is a difficult boy.<br />The woman from the home writes on his review form that he<br />often uses situations to his own advantage. His gait is odd, she<br />comments, and he frequently limps to attract the attention of<br />adults.<br /><br /><br />II<br />It must have been an odd thing from the start. The way they had<br />met, the differing backgrounds from where they both came. He<br />was from a strong Jewish family, his father had been murdered by<br />the Nazis, his mother was said to be beautiful but no one could<br />recollect what became of her. It is known that he was proud of<br />his Jewish heritage and that he played the violin. He was nineteen<br />years old when he met the girl who later became his wife. She<br />was a farmer’s daughter who developed an addiction to heroin,<br />later she became a prostitute. There is a photograph of her on<br />the file wearing a tiny black mini skirt and holding one of her<br />sons in her arms, her face is tear stained. A few days later she<br />killed herself.<br /><br />The two sons have no living memory of her, they have,<br />throughout their lives met their father on three occasions but the<br />interviews were brief and his whereabouts are unknown.<br /><br />The boys don’t form relationships very easily and they tend<br />to test adults out to see how far they will go before they snap.<br />They rarely smile and say they want to live in a family where<br />someone can teach them to play the violin.<br /><br /><br />III<br />It had all been too much one way and another. The fact that her<br />boyfriend had been taken away in a police car that morning, her<br />final demand from the credit card company had been delivered,<br />the fl at reeked of the damp and the child was fretful. She<br />collected together her purse, pushchair and raincoat and set off<br />for the shopping precinct. Once inside she felt better but the child<br />moaned for sweets and the piped music mixed with the lights<br />and her lack of food made her become dizzy. Sitting down next<br />to an elderly couple who were rearranging their shopping, she<br />enquired whether they would keep an eye on the child while she<br />found a toilet. Two hours later the couple continued with their<br />attempt to extract information from the wailing child. Eventually<br />the precinct security guard took the child away and a police<br />woman was called. The sobbing of the infant drowned even the<br />piped music.<br /><br />Now, four years later, the little girl has a new family who<br />worry about her insecurity and dreadful fear of open spaces.<br /><br /><br />IV<br />After her brother had been killed by swallowing the bleach she<br />came into care. Her mother had asked that she be taken away<br />before she harmed her. The last she saw of her mother was<br />never to be forgotten, she has no recollection of her father at all<br />but it is believed he works on a fairground. She frequently has<br />terrible nightmares that wake the whole home. The staff say she<br />encourages boys to come into her room, she has absconded on<br />two occasions when the fair has been in town.<br /><br />Her mother is now in prison and she has written to her but<br />has received no reply.<br /><br />The staff at the home would like her to live in a family to be<br />taught some discipline since everyone believes she is promiscuous<br />and could be in moral danger. She is nine years old and calls her<br />dolly ‘Mummy’.<br /><br /><br />VII<br />Late one January night when the whole house was sleeping the<br />young mother put her careful plans into action and slipped away<br />from her family and its life. The three tiny children remained<br />asleep until 7.00 a.m. and their father until 9.00 a.m. It has long<br />been agreed that the woman has returned to Ireland and all<br />efforts to trace her through the newspapers, police and Salvation<br />Army have now been terminated.<br /><br />When the children realised their mother had gone they tried<br />to ring her on their toy telephones and sent her letters through<br />the Mr Men post office. They cried themselves to sleep most<br />nights and became greedy for food constantly.<br /><br />When their father realised his wife had gone he spent<br />the family allowance at the bookies and told the welfare that<br />something would have to be done. He signed them into care and<br />jumped beneath the Northern line train on the way home. It is<br />true to say that children with their 6, 4 and 2 years are a handful<br />and tend to be clingy. Only last week the eldest boy was found<br />asking a policeman to please find his mummy.<br /><br /><br />X<br />“All I know about me Dad is that he murdered my little sister<br />when she was eighteen months old and I was five. I know that<br />he was from Glasgow and only had one eye. My Mum came to<br />see me just after I came into the home but she was very ill and<br />they took her to a hospital for diffy people where she still is. I<br />think being in the home with all the other children was better<br />than being with my parents. I miss my little sister though. I hope<br />if you do find me a home it won’t be with diffy people, I’ve had<br />enough of them.” She laughs and shakes her head of yellow and<br />green streaked hair. At thirteen years old she possesses the body<br />of a woman and the warmth and humour of a friend. “I don’t<br />remember much about him doing her in really, only that one<br />moment she was laughing because she’d pulled his newspaper to<br />bits and the next she wasn’t.”<br /><br /><br />XI<br />What she said when I asked why she hadn’t seen the children was<br />that she had meant to but hadn’t, she had wanted to but then<br />as it had been so long that she thought it best to stay away. Then<br />she cried a bit and I asked her if she wanted a tissue “I want my<br />f . . . g kids” she said. I told her she needed to show the court that<br />she was responsible now and could care for them properly, she<br />looked out of the window. “Why don’t you take someone else’s<br />kids away”. Then she spat. As she walked away she turned back<br />and shouted “anyway you can have them, see if I care,” I watch<br />her angry back walk through the heavy doors.<br /><br />When she came back she said that it wasn’t me she was angry<br />with. She told me that she had been twelve years old when her<br />mum left her, she had never seen her since and hadn’t wanted to<br />see her anyway. “I can’t be it, I can’t love them enough.”<br /><br />She walks away pressing digits on her mobile phone as she walks<br />out of the building, I watch her as she passes the hoardings on the<br />roadside advertising milk.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>from </em>“Faulty Mothering”</strong><br /><br />XII<br /><br />The space between crying and surrender<br />is a handkerchief away<br />oblivion makes a lumpy pillow at night<br />contentment can only be a closing off<br />a kind of breaking down<br /><br />The shimmer of tears lack lustre.<br />In a nearby garden a young girl a mother<br />of a baby lay down<br />her head in my neighbor’s Syringa, fell asleep<br />confused and drunk.<br />They took her baby inside and cleaned his little<br />head.<br />I feel sick she said.<br /><br /><br />XIV<br /><br />The first time I shook her<br />I knew it would remember it<br />forever.<br />Something unchangeable had happened.<br />She was better in the rain<br />there was hope and breath.<br />I drank in long open<br />shards.<br />The savage lines in my heart<br />are forever on my face<br />great ditches of <br />poisoned forests.<br /><br /><small><em>More from “Faulty Mothering” is available <a href="http://www.shearsman.com/archive/samples/2010/randellFMspl.pdf"><strong>HERE</strong></a>. <br /><br />Poem was first published in <a href="http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/catalog/2010/randellFM.html"></em>Faulty Mothering <em></a>(Shearsman Books, Exeter, U.K., 2010)</em></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />I have had a number of books published and I have contributed widely to anthologies, which are listed. I have read many times over the years at some Festivals and Conferences. For many years in the 19702-80s I served on the Poetry Society Council (U.K.).<br /><br /><u><a href="http://www.bookfinder.com/author/elaine-randell/">Publications</a></u><br /><em>Songs of Hesperus</em>, Curiously Strong Press 1972<br /><em>Telegrams from the Midnight Country</em>, Black Suede Boot Press 1973<br /><em>Seven Poems</em>, Transgravity Press 1973<br /><em>A Taper to the Outwarde Roome</em>, Laundering Room Press 1974<br /><em>The Larger Breath of all things</em>, Spectacular Diseases Press 1978<br /><em>This, our frailty</em>, Oasis Books July 1979<br /><em>Songs for the Sleepless</em>, Pig Press 1982<br /><em>Beyond All Other</em>, Pig Press 1986<br /><em>Gut Reaction</em>, North and South Press 1987<br /><em>Prospect into Breath Interviews with writer</em>, North and South Press 1991<br /><em>Selected Poems 1970 to 2005</em>, Shearsman Books 2006<br /><em>Faulty Mothering</em>, Shearsman Books 2010<br /><br /><u>Anthologies </u><br /><em>Grandchildren of Albion</em>, New Departures 1992<br /><em>The New British Poetry</em>, Paladin Books 1988<br /><em>Other, British and Irish Poetry since 1970</em>, Wesleyan University Press 1999<br /><br /><u>Broadcasts </u><br />Southern TV with Adrian Mitchell 1985<br /><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/factual/midweek_20060308.shtml">BBC Radio 4 Midweek Programme with Libby Purvis</a> March 2006<br />BBC commissioned Bill Connors to set Songs for the Sleepless to music. This was played at the Llandudno Music Festival<br />-<a href="http://www.handandstar.co.uk/?p=800#more-800">review of <em>Faulty Mothering</em></a><br /><br /><u>Significant Poetry Readings</u> <br />Cambridge Contemporary Poetry Festival, 1982 & April 2006, <br />Conference of Translation and Translated poetry, British Council, Paris 1985<br />Cheltenham Festival, 1988<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-40600889487412468802011-06-25T15:41:00.001-07:002011-06-25T17:20:57.578-07:00CARRIE ETTER<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? HOW HAS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong> <br /><br />I was adopted at two weeks old, always knew I was adopted, and searched for and found my birthmother when I was 20. One of the first things I did, when we met, was to hand her copies of the two literary journals I’d just appeared in, my first “quality” publications; I’d felt those appearances as a deeply desired validation of my writing. My birthmother glanced at the magazines, and without opening them, set them on a side table. Over the course of the weekend, I gathered she was more interested in my weight and career plans than my poetry, and our relationship didn’t go much further.<br /><br />At 17, I gave up my own son for adoption. At first I wrote about it confessionally; at readings in L.A., where I moved at 19, I often read a poem about childbirth in the knowledge I was giving him up and came to consider it my “signature poem.” Once, following a reading, a woman approached to express her sympathy for the pain I’d experienced in surrendering him—and said the poem made her glad she’d gone through with an abortion. I’m pro-choice, but I was aghast at such a response and think it was the last time I read the poem publicly. <br /><br />In my mid-twenties, starting my MFA at the University of California, Irvine, I started to dislike focusing my poems wholly and directly on personal experience, and so didn’t write much about my son. During this period, though, every couple years I wrote a prose poem imagining meeting him once he’d come of age. In 2005, in my mid-thirties and now living in England, I wrote two more such “imagined sons” and sent one to Michael Schmidt at <em>PN Review </em>as part of a larger submission. He turned down the group as a whole but expressed his interest in “the birthmother poem” and seeing more of the same. I sent another submission, with another “Imagined Son,” as they were now titled, and Schmidt said he’d like to see the series. <br /><br />Series? What series? I realized at once that I wanted to write this larger, longer series Schmidt alluded to, and in the next six weeks I focused on the project exclusively; by the end, I had 30 I felt worthy of publication. Thirteen appeared in <em>PN Review</em>, and later another sixteen in <em>The Republic of Letters</em>, as I continued developing the series into a book. <br /><br />A few months after finishing that initial 30, still working on it in every spare moment, I realized that the book couldn’t be composed solely of the imagined sons. There needed to be another element, some sort of contrast that showed other dimensions of what it is to be a birthmother. After some weeks, I had the idea of the sons alternating every so often with “birthmother’s catechisms,” where a question that runs through my consciousness repeats, with different answers suggesting the array of responses that might occur at different times. <br /><br />In September 2009, Oystercatcher Press published a pamphlet/chapbook of the work, <a href="http://www.oystercatcherpress.com/cetter.html"><strong><em>The Son</em> (Oystercatcher Press), </strong></a>selected as the Poetry Book Society’s Pamphlet Choice for the quarter. The reviews have been heartening as I complete work on <em>Imagined Sons</em>, my third book of poetry.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaD91Fk7W2s_GUCkYQ_lYnCBpaDZmeNFR-CSpaL6axgCqE4VVrGbpV4wl1cWKuNkjkc9c_uSUq39INOWLVeNKgC1CALWwrUHy2iyB89msiR0tqlvR4Zc8jUHl_ePXrerCEjfh8Ljohw/s1600/Carrie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaD91Fk7W2s_GUCkYQ_lYnCBpaDZmeNFR-CSpaL6axgCqE4VVrGbpV4wl1cWKuNkjkc9c_uSUq39INOWLVeNKgC1CALWwrUHy2iyB89msiR0tqlvR4Zc8jUHl_ePXrerCEjfh8Ljohw/s400/Carrie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622285841213362402" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Carrie Etter</em></center></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>A Birthmother’s Catechism</strong><br /><br /><br /><em>How did you let him go?</em><br /><br />With black ink and legalese<br /><br /><em>How did you let him go?</em><br /><br />It’d be another year before I could vote <br /><br /><em>How did you let him go?</em><br /><br />With altruism, tears, and self-loathing<br /><br /><em>How did you let him go?</em><br /><br />A nurse brought pills for drying up breast milk<br /><br /><em>How did you let him go?</em><br /><br />Who hangs a birdhouse from a sapling?<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Originally from Normal, Illinois, Carrie Etter bought a one-way train ticket to Los Angeles at the age of nineteen and lived in southern California for the next thirteen years. She completed her BA in English at UCLA and MFA in creative writing at UC Irvine before beginning a PhD in English, focusing on mid-Victorian fiction and early British criminology. In 2001 she moved to London and finished her PhD in 2003. <br /><br />In 2004 she began teaching creative writing at Bath Spa University and moved to “the West Country” the following year. Her first collection, <em>The Tethers </em>(Seren Books, 2009), won the London New Poetry Award 2010 for the best first collection published in the UK and Ireland in the preceding year, and her second collection, <em>Divining for Starters</em>, was published by Shearsman Books in February 2011. She has also edited an anthology, <em>Infinite Difference: Other Poetries by UK Women Poets </em>(Shearsman, 2010).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-62712765419516780422011-06-22T17:28:00.000-07:002011-06-23T12:26:32.203-07:00MARTHA KING<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />My younger daughter adopted two children, each arranged before birth, each put into her arms within a few days of birth—the first, 4 years ago in Massachusetts, and the second, 2 years ago in Louisiana. Both adoptions are 'semi open'—the new style. My daughter & her husband submitted the whole thing each time: a dear birth mother letter, the album picture story of their life, all to induce a pregnant woman intent on surrendering her child to choose them. They met the mothers and some family members and keep in touch through an agency in one case and a lawyer in the other—sending a letter or two with photographs a year. (The birthparents are told there's a letter and can pick it up or not.) Both daughters keep as a middle name the name given to them by their birthmother. A token they will be told about... Thus Evelyn Monique and Agnes Grace. Their first names are family too: Evelyn is a favorite great aunt of my son-in-law; Agnes is my grandmother, who meant a great deal to me in childhood.<br /> <br />In truth this separation is another fiction. The families could find my daughter and her husband in a flash...via address, last name, employer, etc. At least for now. But they don't. Everyone obeys the rules. <br /> <br /><center>*</center><br /><br />The cost of modern American semi-open domestic adoption is not all that high in money terms. There’s lots of false information circulating on this. Also stories, totally outdated most of them, about the insecurity of domestic adoptions. That a court may demand return of a child to the biological family, for example. As a life-long conspiracy theorist, unconscious conspiracy, that foulest of all, being paramount, I speculate reasons may have to do with deep distrust of many white Americans for people with African heritage—plus class issues, of course, plus fear of exposure, all of which are ameliorated when a baby comes from a culture far away. Not even the prospect of being present at the baby’s birth, of bringing that baby home within a very few days, is enough to overcome a widespread preference for adoptions from Asia or the Caucuses by those with the resources to effect them.<br /><br /> The actual cost of the “domestic semi-open” is invasion—and the presence of a birthparent in the adoptive family’s collective imagination. Like all adoptions, this parenthood doesn’t start under the covers, in the back of a dark van, in a hot private midnight no one else knows. Grief enough. As in foreign adoptions, institutional grey-blue florescent light bathes every move. Domestic adoptions go still deeper. Not only the “Dear birthmother” letter and the photo album depicting the ideal childhood promised to the baby, but also social worker home studies, employment and medical histories, financial reviews, Homeland Security clearance, pre-adoption counseling, and enough certified paperwork for a Fortune 500 merger, all provided for uncounted strangers to review, copy, file and, oh yes, lose and then demand replacement of. Topped off by a required live performance before the birth: the face to face meeting of prospective parents with pregnant birthmother along with agency rep and whomever else birthmother has requested to be present. <br /><br /> Remember, parents, this is not an interview. We social workers have done all that. This is a <em>meeting</em>, a chance for you all to know each other a little more. (Why?) This is not the time to press for facts. (Why not?) The sibling question for example, is not to be touched. (Why?) In part, I think, this performance is structured to protect birthmother’s self esteem. She is not to feel incompetent, stupid, crazy or sick—though she may be some, all, or none. But she is also not acknowledged to be desperate or even in trouble. This decision is to be seen by all involved as an act of altruism. For the visit, birthmother is pulling on a face of respectability so the adopters will think well of her. To protect herself from any hint of scorn she’ll make coffee and serve something sweet, tell lies about herself and her circumstances, tell her visitors she is sure she has made a wonderful choice. This is the first step in a process that will continue during her free counseling sessions in the weeks following the surrender. Her story will be processed, justified, dewormed and buried in clean wrappings. In my family there are now two such women. I think about them. So does my daughter. My son-in-law operates on a stricter sense of denial, so if he does too, the fact isn’t shared with me. But we all agree that someday there may be contact with one of these women and their birth child, if their daughter, my granddaughter wants it. <br /><br /> The aim of all this is to make a good story about of two bad ones…and surely this is more humane than any adoption process used in the past. I now have four grandchildren, and I could not imagine my life or my family without any one of them. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kGs0Ozg0oxVuWuJnJGvoLuDGeUlOi10SgxOWN3WKZHYTiGw6SFmK7JmUYS5BdeXgrh21OM30K-E8KFSo1HWLGBgb1-eyJmY3SnMJj7OGioaH4RTTFk41A4OWRSRpMPgiKk0Ivb-soA/s1600/IMG_1402.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kGs0Ozg0oxVuWuJnJGvoLuDGeUlOi10SgxOWN3WKZHYTiGw6SFmK7JmUYS5BdeXgrh21OM30K-E8KFSo1HWLGBgb1-eyJmY3SnMJj7OGioaH4RTTFk41A4OWRSRpMPgiKk0Ivb-soA/s400/IMG_1402.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620092602697557042" /></a><br /><em><small><center>(Martha’s daughters Hetty and Mallory, and granddaughters Satrianna, Aggie and Evie)</em></small></center><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHRF_zyFjOWQOpGvpy5xhwcUcl_lWXOIqwafy02gr7Km2pnCT2YYZrW3F67pexLBXdgchZUfLBLTpR9T6qcM3WcSCCVAavI-QgG7-0Ar3ieIFbyKXtUzdWBIzD0DYpM7xKTlox8O6ZQ/s1600/IMG_1358.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqHRF_zyFjOWQOpGvpy5xhwcUcl_lWXOIqwafy02gr7Km2pnCT2YYZrW3F67pexLBXdgchZUfLBLTpR9T6qcM3WcSCCVAavI-QgG7-0Ar3ieIFbyKXtUzdWBIzD0DYpM7xKTlox8O6ZQ/s400/IMG_1358.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620092471932545394" /></a><br /><small><center><em>(Martha and her husband artist-poet Basil King)</em></small></center><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br />I haven't written about this explicitly...but the adoption has certainly had an impact on my world view, on my emotions, on my "family" feelings, on what I've observed of the dance of nature and nurture (which sounds so academic, but believe me it's not!). Essay to come perhaps? Impact is here and working. I never suspected the impact would be this profound, that's for sure. Initially, adoption only seemed to offer relief of the pain of childlessness...after too many miscarriages.<br /> <br />I have wrestled all my writing life with the shifts between memory and inventions, family (and social) lies and conspiracies, ethical demands of loyalty and ethical demands of art, the impossibility of telling a “whole” story, of writing itself as a need to be seen and yet to hide. My family circumstances and the choices my daughter made have confirmed my instinct that these are worthy issues to contend with…and, perversely, conversely, delightfully, they have helped me decide to leave off memoir and consider poetry again. With a willful dissolution of boundaries at my disposal. With an eye to humor always lurking in the quagmire underneath the logical bridge. With a huge hello to Satrianna, Kirin, Evelyn, and Aggie! <br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br />“Impact is here and (still) working.” <br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Martha King was born in Virginia in 1937. She attended Black Mountain College in the summer of 1955 and married Basil King in 1958. She began writing in the late 1960s, after the birth of their two daughters, Mallory and Hetty. <br /> <br />Living in Brooklyn since 1968, King produced 31 issues of <em>Giants Play Well in the Drizzle</em> in the late 1980s (sent free to interested readers). She has worked as an editor in mainstream book publishing, for Poets & Writers, at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, and currently for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. <br /> <br />Her collections of short stories include <em>North & South </em>(2007), <em>Separate Parts </em>(2002), and <em>Little Tales of Family and War </em>(1999). Other stories have been anthologized in <em>Fiction from the Rail </em>and <em>The Wreckage of Reason</em>. A collection of her poetry, <em>Imperfect Fit</em>, was published in 2004. Currently, King is at work on a memoir, <em>Outside Inside</em>, chapters of which have appeared in <em>Jacket #40, Bombay Gin, Blaze Vox </em>and <em>New York Stories</em>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-67093586894102082062011-06-07T09:32:00.000-07:002011-06-09T07:42:29.948-07:00kim thompson<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? <br /><br />more thoughts on what can or cannot be...</strong><br /><em>Friday, June 3, 2011 at 11:44am</em><br /><br /><br />"as an adoptee, i..."<br /> <br />and then where does one go with that statement...<br /> <br />its like when (non adoptees) say "but arent you glad that you grew up in the west? i mean if youd grown up in korea as an orphan or with your mom you would have been so poor and you wouldnt have gotten to do everything youve done"<br /> <br />they say this as if i have never considered this...<br />they ask this as if i could ever really choose the goodness of the life i know over a life i do not know... they ask this as if i could really choose if i want to love my umma or if i want to love my two aunts pat and kathy and have loved my beloved grandparents—jerry and loretta... "you can only choose one"<br />they ask me this as if i could really choose between the things i can do with english and what i most likely would have been able to do with korean...<br />they ask me this as if i could choose between being my umma's daughter or being my mother's daughter...<br />they ask me this as if i could choose between having been able to see so much of the world and live so many places or grow up in the city that i was born in and know it like the back of my own hand and understand my relationship with the river that runs through it...<br />they ask me as if whatever my answer is, is somehow representative of the other 199,000+ adoptees...<br /> <br />they ask me as if i somehow have an answer to questions that<br />(im beginning to believe)<br />were not necessarily meant to be reconciled with an answer of knowing.<br /> <br />sometimes "i dont know" is the best answer<br /> <br />and so, i say that more and more:<br /> <br />Q: "how are things with your umma?"<br />A: "*sighs* its a very complicated relationship. i dont know what to say about it except that some things are not necessarily meant to be reconciled."<br /> <br />Q: "how is it living in korea? it must be nice looking like everyone else."<br />A: "i love it here but it is also such a complicated relationship. and i dont look like everyone else, but yes if an aerial shot were taken of me standing at a crosswalk in a crowd waiting for the light to change then you wouldnt be able to find me and that feels nice. but no, i dont fit in here... not all things are meant to be reconciled."<br /> <br />Q: "that must be hard for you being as you are in a place that is so conservative"<br />A: "i dont know. its ok. sometimes it makes me crazy and sometimes it doesnt. sometimes minneapolis made me crazy and sometimes the liberals there made me crazy... and sometimes they didnt and sometimes minneapolis didnt... i dont think that everything can be reconciled, when so much of my being who i am, in a place like this, is so full of complexities."<br /> <br />Q: "it must be so nice having found your umma. you're so lucky. do you see her all the time?"<br />A: "*long sigh* i am beyond fortunate and i know that. but its so damn complicated and has led to 2 plus years of insanity that im only recently just coming out from... i dont know that something that is so full of complexities and balls of string can ever be fully reconciled... the past cannot be undone ... she is dealing with her own things and i am dealing with mine. some things take so much time..."<br /> <br />Q: "so your korean must be really good. has it been easy to learn?"<br />A: "for me, as an adoptee, i find that learning the language is also a constant reminder of how i have lost this language. which then for me, as an adoptee, i end up getting angry at my umma which leads to getting angry at korea and the west and every single person who gives their kid up for adoption and it spirals out of control and then i have to spend the next minutes saying 'breathe kim. calm down. your teacher is just asking you to answer if you have milk in your house, in korean.'<br />so no, it is not easy... it is a daily uphill struggle that cannot be explained... but within it, as an adoptee, i am finding the joy of doing plays on words between korean and english ... but no... it is not easy and i doubt my relationship to the language can ever be fully reconciled."<br /> <br />Q: "does you umma wish she'd kept you?"<br />A: "does your mother wish she hadn't kept you?"<br /> <br />but no one seems to ask the things that "as an adoptee, i" spend a lot more time thinking about and working through... like:<br /> <br />"what is your relationship to the han river? is that why youve always lived in cities or villages that have a significant body of water running down their middle?"<br /> <br />"what is your body's relationship to the physical geography of the place? is that why youve often lived and have always preferred to live and have always felt most at home in places that are comprised of mountains and rivers or oceans?"<br /> <br />"how does it feel to know that your body is so much of this place. your genetic history is all here and you are returned to it and yet often all you can feel is the loss of all of these things?"<br /> <br />"how is it that almost all of your friends in the states are white and you love as you love your own life, but here in korea you tend to avoid making friendships with white foreigners? what does this say about you? are you internalizing some kind of racism? or are you simply enjoying the fact that you have a choice that you didnt have before? and do you ever feel badly for thinking that?"<br /> <br />"do you see any possibilities of making it as a full time artist there just as you did for years back in minneapolis? do you ever get lost in this? do you ever grow despondent in this? do you ever feel like youve given up so much to be here and wonder if and how this is going to work out?"<br /> <br />"are you being changed by the place? what are you learning about yourself?"<br /> <br />"are you confronting and acknowledging just how deep your attachment and abandonment issues go? or are you still doing like you used to when youd always tell us 'im not affected by that shit that just for weak people who end up on tv talk shows' ?"<br /> <br />"do you see other adoptees as some kind of distant relatives? even the crazy ones? do you have love for the crazy ones?"<br /> <br />"are you sometimes jealous of kyopos for being able to speak korean?"<br /> <br />"do adoptees have a lot of in house fighting and differ greatly on their opinions towards international adoption and being adopted?"<br /> <br />"does it ever make you sad that sometimes people seem to misunderstand what youre saying, and take it to mean that youre bitter when really youre saying, 'i love my life. but i think the system is corrupt and needs to change as its not right to sell children whove been stolen from their families and its not right to deny adopteees access to their own records and its not right that there is and has been such little support for single mothers who are the 'source' of 90% of children being put up for adoption -- but NONE of these things change the reality that i love the life that i have been given and feel immensely blessed each and every day and i am learning to accept that not everything is meant to be reconciled.'"<br /> <br />and<br /> <br />"how do you feel when you eat the food and hear the chatter of people and take everything in and just feel like youre constantly discovering this part of you that you spent the majority of your life denying that it even existed?"<br /> <br />and<br /> <br />"do you think that all adoptee literature and plays are good?"<br /> <br />"do you think that some adoptees are dealing with their inner demons in some very unhealthy ways, even though they appear to be such impressive individuals? do you think that YOU are dealing with your issues in some very unhealthy ways? do you think you are learning how to deal with your issues in healthier ways?"<br /> <br />and<br /> <br />"do you think that there are enough counseling services and support systems in place for adoptees especially in terms of post-reunion?"<br /> <br />"what is post-reunion anyways?"<br /> <br />"do you ever feel like youve just committed to a form of insanity? do you ever worry that maybe this is going to be your undoing? do you ever feel like this might be the path to your own enlightenment? do you ever feel all of those things at the same time? what is that like - to live with so many conflicting emotions all at once each and every day?"<br /> <br />and then...<br /> <br />"what are the things that you believe may not be meant to be reconciled both within yourself, in your relationship with your umma, in your relationship with the people, city, the river, and the country?"<br /> <br />to which i would answer<br /> <br />"all of them."<br /> <br />followed by a "and accepting that is making all the difference in the world for the me who is 'as an adoptee, i...' "<br /><br /><CENTER>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />i was adopted and i am an adoptee, so whether i am writing specifically about such themes or the smell of bread coming from the baker's at the end of my street or how i mistook the moon for a street lamp—i view all of my writing to have been and to be affected by my experiences as an adoptee. i do not view it to be my all defining point just as i do not view my spiritual beliefs or sexuality or the fact that i love meat to be my sole points of definition... but, i do ... view each thing as being a part of who i am and who i am then shapes how i speak and write ... and how i speak and write then shapes how i am and how i live as a queer meditating (yet non full fledged buddhist) meat eating korean american adoptee who has wandered about the world ...<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><small><em>Note: i wrote this on mother's day this spring whilst i was visiting in mpls... *originally the word "umma" is written in hangul/korean in my poem but have romanized it for easier viewing and readability. </em></small><br /><br /><br /><strong>for (my) umma</strong><br /><br />the past cannot be undone...<br />it is not a string that can be<br />unknotted ...<br />nor unwound<br /> <br />and yet (i) have stood before you<br />unraveling since the moment that<br />you let me<br />(halfway) in<br /> <br />and the half of me thats still outside<br />and the half of me thats been let inside<br />are divided into broken splinters<br />my heart a human form of flowering<br /> <br />but i love you<br />and have done so<br />since you carried me sight unseen<br />back when your flesh was my shield<br />back when we stirred each other into waking<br />i have loved you always<br />even in the midst of every righteous tantrum fit of anger/pain for all you did<br />and did not<br />do<br /> <br />and our past is the world's largest ball of seemingly unworkable yarn<br />but the train keeps speeding forward<br />and the solitary street lamps<br />are shining down on this<br />slowly knitted path<br /> <br />so today<br />just like back in the beginning<br />and all throughout the middle...<br />i love you with the heart<br />that you and he<br />made for me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5qUVoSNjma4-eBYz4SNbzEYLZiaDeadLRlxd74ZmNQmRF1M3zt_fAZX_sq0RH3Iis96w7eBgEh8IUlfMexmrSPpGX9pCvwTVIXu1NrJSVLtAAoyOZVkH44qoCvZz5rLQj7YUZT47xA/s1600/myhands.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5qUVoSNjma4-eBYz4SNbzEYLZiaDeadLRlxd74ZmNQmRF1M3zt_fAZX_sq0RH3Iis96w7eBgEh8IUlfMexmrSPpGX9pCvwTVIXu1NrJSVLtAAoyOZVkH44qoCvZz5rLQj7YUZT47xA/s400/myhands.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615887787151204322" /></a><br /><small><em>Image from kim's 2006 solo work at Intermedia Arts, Mpls, MN where she was a recipient of their "Naked Stages" grant. The title of the piece was: "timeline autobigraphia: everything that is..." Photo by Usry Alleyne</em></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />kim thompson is an interdisciplinary artist who was born in seoul, s. korea in 1975 and sent overseas for adoption in 1976. she grew up in s. florida, wandered around europe for most of her 20's, and is currently residing in seoul. before moving to seoul she lived in minneapolis, mn where she was the recipient of several state and national grants including the 2008/2009 jerome travel grant for literature. her style of writing falls within the genre of the jazz aesthetic, hence the seeming "lack" of caps and punctuation as she uses such things to denote—emphasis, space, and breath.<br /><br />she has been published in the O.K.A.Y. (the Overseas Korean Artist Yearbook) book vol 6; G.O.A.L's (Global Overseas Adoption Link in Seoul, S. Korea) publication "The OAK Newsletter," where her work was also translated into Korean; and the Playwright's Center in minneapolis, mn "Notes From Rehearsal" website.<br /><br />along with other poet adoptees residing in n. america, s. africa, and korea, kim runs a korean adoptee poetry blog at: <a href="http://www.thursdaypoems.blogspot.com">www.thursdaypoems.blogspot.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-32387637531715060472011-05-31T18:58:00.000-07:002015-04-29T20:57:46.362-07:00LEZA LOWITZ<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? </strong><br />
<br />
<u>Like the Lotus</u> <br />
<br />
<em>December 29, 2006</em><br />
<br />
I am standing on a cliff fifty feet above the Pacific Ocean, balanced on a precipice between two oceans. I don’t know how life has brought me to this place, this beautiful rock on the Northern Izu Peninsula on the island of Honshu. But I’m here, with my husband and dog. We’ve hiked up twenty miles to stand on this small point of rock in Dogashima, watching the waves crest below and the falcons crest above. <br />
<br />
It’s my birthday; the dawn of a new year. I sit down on this line of solid land that cuts into the cliff and give thanks to all of those who have held my hand to pull me up the mountain of life. I feel safe, yet I am literally perched on a dangerous place, a narrow cliff that juts straight down to the ocean. But it’s not the literal I am interested in. Deep in my heart, I feel a sense of security and peace that I’ve never felt before. So I shift my weight to one foot. I lift the other foot up, place it onto my thigh. I look straight ahead and hold my focus. If I look down I will be overcome with fear. I hold my tree pose, breathing deeply. Strength and courage flood my cells. I repeat my mantra: “I am calm, I am poised…at the center of life’s storms, I stand serene.”<br />
<br />
It’s taken me 44 years to get here. <br />
<br />
I’ve searched half the world for this feeling.<br />
<br />
And I know, of course, that it is fleeting.<br />
<br />
I don’t have a Zen master, a guru, or even, really, a religion. But neither did Tu Fu, Basho, Musashi Miyamoto or countless other poets and wanderers who made their way through hills and valleys, over mountains and rivers, to seek solace. They didn’t have to sit in a meditation hall and stare at a wall to look inside. They just looked around and paid attention to what was near them. Their teachers <em>were </em>the mountains, rivers, rocks, and trees. Their parents were Mother earth, Father sky. Then they woke up. Or should I say, were <em>awakened</em>. I’m waiting for my epiphany. I’ve found ten thousand other ways to be a mother, but I’m still waiting for a child. <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Elegy</u><br />
<br />
I have a friend who took his 3-year old boy up to the mountains in the Japanese countryside. The boy ran ahead excitedly, as little boys will do. There was a wooden footbridge. It hung over a steep ravine, a hundred foot drop. The boy ran ahead onto the footbridge. The footbridge was made of planks of old wood. Not many people walked in the mountains anymore. There were gaps in the planks. Big gaps.<br />
<br />
The father watched. <br />
<br />
Every year on the day the boy died, my friend posts a memorial picture of his son on his blog. The boy playing a drum set. Standing in front of a samurai helmet. Smiling for the camera. Making the peace sign with both hands. No words, no commentary. Only his son’s picture and the word “elegy.”<br />
<br />
To remember. To honor. <br />
<br />
Life is not safe. I know that. Nothing is certain. Things we hope for, dream about, come or don’t come, and then are gone.<br />
<br />
I meet with my friend often. In our own ways, we both mourn our lost children. <br />
<br />
Somehow, we have been drawn together in this strange world to mirror each other’s pain. To give each other comfort and hope. We <em>will </em>move on, our mutual presence seems to say. We give each other that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Heartlines</u><br />
<br />
My husband is <em>chonan</em>. In Japan, this is a serious business. Chonan means the oldest son and heir to the family name and whatever fortune it may have acquired. While we’d been “away” in the paradise of Northern California for ten years, his younger sister had been doing the dad’s cooking and laundry. But his sister, now in her thirties, wanted to start her own life—open her own business, move on. We couldn’t ask her to take care of the dad forever. It was Shogo’s turn—our turn.<br />
<br />
I hadn’t wanted to go back to Tokyo, the busy life, the pollution, the stress. But I loved my husband, and wanted to be with him. And I knew that a good marriage was based on compromise—even sacrifice. After all, the root of the word sacrifice is sacred. In the highest sense, to sacrifice is to do something completely for someone else, with no personal gain. As an independent American woman, that took some getting used to.<br />
<br />
And it was time to start a family.<br />
<br />
I’d gone about trying to have a child the way I’d gone about everything else in my life—one part perseverance, one part “trusting the process.” And I thought, as many do, that “if it’s meant to be, it will be.” I had a full, fantastic life and no regrets. But after eight years, I did something I’d never done before in quite the same way. I got down on my knees and prayed.<br />
<br />
And then my beloved aunt got cancer. Her one regret is that she did not have children. She worked all her life in child protective services, and had wanted to adopt. She urges me forward with a force and conviction that only impending death can render.<br />
<br />
I learn of an Australian psychologist who has adopted an infant in Japan. When I contact her, she gives me the name of the government agency—Jido Sodan Jo. The application asks questions like: why do you want a child, what kind of upbringing and education would you give it, what are the most important values you would share with a child, what about religion? Filling out the application is challenging, but it is an opportunity for Shogo and me to become very clear on what our values are. So we send in our application and wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Bloodlines</u><br />
<br />
“Japan is a difficult country to adopt from,” everyone says. Not only are there few children up for adoption, but it’s the only country in the world where you need to get the extended family’s approval for the process. <br />
<br />
Bloodlines are seen as all-important, one’s ancestors are one’s link to the past. The family registry or <em>koseki </em>goes back generations and lists each birth and marriage, tying family to family. When we got married, I did not take my husband’s name, and this caused a commotion at the ward office, as the clerk said there was no “official space” to put my own name on the form. <br />
<br />
My husband stood his ground. “Well, <em>make </em>a space,” he said, knowing that was impossible. One thing about bureaucracy is that it most definitely <em>cannot </em>make a space. <br />
<br />
It would have been much easier for him to request or insist that I change my name, but he didn’t. He just waited for the bureaucrat to find a way to remedy the situation. I kept my own name and was added to the <em>koseki</em>. <br />
<br />
Then doubts start to flood my mind. If we succeed in adoption, I’ll be bucking the system again. <br />
<br />
I know how difficult it is to raise a child, let alone one who is adopted in a country that is not particularly “open” to adoption. In Japan, most adoptions are kept secret. Some children don’t even find out until their parents die.<br />
<br />
So we brace ourselves and ask my husband’s father for permission. I find out, to my surprise, that his own father was adopted. Samurai on one side, gangster on the other. My husband has them all in his ancestry—geisha, gangster, samurai, rickshaw driver. This assortment of characters pleases me, makes me feel less strange for my difference, more welcome. My father-in-law says yes.<br />
<br />
We ask his sister, since she lives with us. She says yes. We breathe a big sigh of relief. But still I worry. All the possible scenarios tumble through my mind: I am a Westerner and the child will not look like me, so everyone will know he or she is adopted. I know of foreign women who don’t take their half-Japanese children to school as their children are ashamed and don’t want their peers to know they are “<em>hafu</em>.” And because he is “different,” I don’t want him or her to be the victim of <em>ijime</em>, school bullying. That could lead to <em>hikikomori</em>, someone afraid to leave the house who spends his childhood at home. Even worse, it could lead to <em>jisatsu </em>or suicide. I know I am being neurotic, already thinking about the difficulties the child will face in grade school, middle school, junior high, high school and beyond. I know I am already being a mother. <br />
<br />
I share my fears with my husband. He was beaten up in school, too. <br />
<br />
“We turned out okay,” he says. It was why I studied karate and meditation, which ultimately led me to Japan.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, but we got our asses kicked a lot!” <br />
<br />
“Maybe we went through it so our child wouldn’t have to,” he says.<br />
<br />
“That’s a nice thought,” I shake my head. If only that’s how it worked.<br />
<br />
We decide that we are already a rainbow family, he with his long hair and stay-at-home job, me with my red streaks and funky yoga studio, not to mention our strange pit-bull mutt and his family’s eccentric lineage. In a conservative neighborhood in a conservative country, we already stand out as freaks. Why not embrace it completely?<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Perpetual Yes</u><br />
<br />
In September, the agency calls about a little girl. We say yes. Nothing happens. In December, they call about a boy. We wait. They offer the child to another family. Many young couples are waiting to adopt, and we are low on the list due to our ages.<br />
<br />
I have to do something proactive. I am fiercely committed to living my dreams. If I’m not, who else will be? I contact a dozen international adoption agencies. Most of them don’t write back. The few who do bother to respond say they don’t work with families who live abroad. We apply in Vietnam. We wait some more. <br />
<br />
Finally, I make my husband call the orphanage. I insist that he tell them to stop calling us every month to ask if we are interested in a different child. <br />
<br />
“Tell them to put a perpetual `yes’ on our file, ok? Tell them that whatever child they have available, we are interested.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever child?” <br />
<br />
“Yes. Whatever child.”<br />
<br />
I want to say all those things like “It isn’t fair,” and “Why us?” but I already know the answers to those questions, that there are no answers. This is our fate, our journey, our path.<br />
<br />
And somehow, miraculously, it works. <br />
<br />
A little boy is available.<br />
<br />
“Yes!” we say, eager to meet the child who is destined to be ours.<br />
<br />
But when they come to our house to tell us about him, the information is sketchy at best. <br />
<br />
“Do you have a picture?” I ask.<br />
<br />
No picture.<br />
<br />
This astounds me. More people have cameras in Japan than they have driver’s licenses. Japan is the land of the camera—how could they not have a picture?<br />
<br />
“Are you interested or not?” they ask. They’re not messing around with this child. He’s suffered enough.<br />
<br />
“We’re interested,” we say together.<br />
<br />
And for the second time in my life, I get down on my knees and pray.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Mothering Zen</u> <br />
<br />
<em>Feb 1, 2007</em><br />
<br />
We visit Shinji in the orphanage for hours, days, weeks, months. Finally, we can bring him home for an overnight. Then, finally, we can bring him home forever, just after his second birthday.<br />
<br />
We go to a playground where he can see the bullet trains passing overhead. At the playground, he comes up to the other kids and wants to play with their toys, or play with their balls, or play with them in general. He likes to hold hands. He wants contact, touch, closeness. Because he grew up in an orphanage where everything was communal, he misses it. He has no concept of personal ownership. <br />
<br />
The first time we give him Ai-Ai, the stuffed monkey we’d brought to take with him in the car—he tries to leave it behind at the orphanage. We have to convince him that he can keep it: he’s never had a single thing of his own.<br />
<br />
He is the opposite of other kids, who have to learn how to share. He brings his own toys to share, but the other kids don’t take much interest in them. I don’t want to try to make sense of things like this, or explain everything to him He’ll learn. I want to cut a path in this crazy forest of life with him. Sitting Zen. Walking Zen. Playing Zen. Mothering Zen. It’s all practice, and we have a lifetime.<br />
<br />
But my aunt doesn’t. I want him to meet her before she dies. <br />
<br />
So we bring him to San Francisco.<br />
<br />
We see a homeless man with a cat on the street in front of Macy’s on Union Square. The cat has been hit by a car and the man needs money for its hospital bills. Everyone rushes by the man and the cat, but Shinji pulls my arm, insists on petting the cat. Then he sits down on the pavement and tries to pick up the cat to hug it. I tell him the cat is hurt and he shouldn’t touch it. So he pets it instead. Now people stop to look at the little boy sitting on the sidewalk, blocking their way. Some mothers pull their children away. A photographer stops to take a picture. Others put money in the basket. More children come to sit by his side.<br />
<br />
Somehow, he brings together the splintered worlds of strangers. He is a healer of cats and hearts, a small wonder in this world of so many wonders. If I ever felt any doubts, I do not now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>All That has Divided Us Will Merge</u><br />
<br />
<em>September 14, 2007</em><br />
<br />
Though there are many customs for birth in Japan—the mother returning to her parents’ house, a celebration of the child’s first solid foods—we’ve missed them all. So we return to California to hold a Jewish baby naming ceremony for Shinji. Many people from my mother’s community gather to welcome him, though we are strangers. Shinji is given the name Benjamin after his maternal grandfather, who came from Ludz, Poland, and Walter Benjamin, the Jewish writer/philosopher and member of the resistance in WWII. There is a ceremony where we throw all of our sins into the Napa River. Any time between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, in the Jewish tradition, it is customary to throw breadcrumbs into a body of water as a symbolic act of repentance. The ritual is called Tashlich, A Sending Out. We gather at a waterfront to “cast away” the sins of the past and resolve to have a better year in the year to come. <br />
<br />
My mother and stepfather, father and stepmother, my sisters and their sons are there. The whole family has gathered to heal and rejoice. All over the world, it is a holy time. In India it is the Ganesha festival, honoring the Elephant god of new beginnings and remover of obstacles. In the Muslim world, it is Ramadan. <br />
<br />
My mother’s friends, most of whom I don’t know, come up to congratulate us. Some tell me their stories, of how they too were adopted, or how they have adopted children, and what a wonderful <em>mitzvah </em>it is. <br />
<br />
Tossing bread into the water, everything is still. It is a beautiful moment.<br />
<br />
The congregation has prepared a special blessing for the occasion. It says:<br />
<blockquote>
<em>May the one who blessed your ancestors bless you. We hope that you will be a blessing to everyone you know, humanity is blessed to have you.</em></blockquote>
<br />
Shinji sits atop his father’s shoulders wearing his beaded yarmulke, smiling and dancing. Shinji is Jewish and Japanese, he is universal. <br />
<br />
I look at my husband and see that he is crying, too.<br />
<blockquote>
<em>Humanity is blessed to have you.</em></blockquote>
<br />
The adults gather and say the Shabbat prayer:<br />
<blockquote>
And then all that has divided us will merge<br />
<em>Then compassion will be wedded to power</em><br />
And then softness will come to a world that is harsh and unkind<br />
<em>And then both women and men will be gentle</em><br />
And then both men and women will be strong<br />
<em>And then no person will be subject to another’s will</em><br />
And then all will be rich and free and varied<br />
<em>And then the greed of some will give way to the needs of many</em><br />
Then all will share equally in the Earth’s abundance<br />
<em>And then all will care for the sick and the weak and the old</em><br />
And then all will nourish the young<br />
<em>And then all will cherish life’s creatures</em><br />
And then all will live in harmony with each other and the environment<br />
<em>And then everywhere will be called Eden once again</em>.</blockquote>
<br />
My mother has ordered a special cake for Shinji decorated with Pokemon, though Shinji seems to be the only one there who does not know who Pokemon is. He devours the cake, which says: “Mazel Tov, Shinji. Welcome to the Tribe.” <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>April, 2008</em><br />
<br />
My aunt passes away. I am stricken with grief. She is my beloved, my friend, my mentor, my guide. But I cannot cry forever. Shinji has been given a pogo stick and wants to bounce on the sidewalk. It is dangerous, but he can’t be stopped. He seems impervious to pain, though I know he is not. It’s just that he learned not to cry at the orphanage, where help might not have been as quick and as plentifully as it might otherwise have come.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, he points to the pavement. <br />
<br />
<em>“Cho cho! Cho cho!”</em><br />
<br />
A butterfly lay on the ground. A beautiful orange and black monarch. <br />
<br />
“<em>Nette imasu</em>,”—it’s sleeping. I use the Japanese euphemism for death. <br />
<br />
He leans over its lifeless body. “<em>Shinda</em>?” he asks. Is it dead?<br />
<br />
I wonder how, and where, he has learned that word. <br />
<br />
“Yes,” I say, scooping up the butterfly in my hands and bringing it over to the garbage. <br />
<br />
But this will not do.<br />
<br />
“<em>Hana! Hana</em>,” he stomps his feet and motions to a potted daisy bush in front of the house. Understanding, I carry the butterfly over and put it to rest on the bed of flowers. He covers it with a leaf. Then he points up. <em>Sora</em>, he says. Sky. <br />
<br />
Satisfied, he takes my hand and leads me back to the pogo stick, where he bounces and bounces until dinnertime. <br />
<br />
<br />
<small><em>(First appeared in the May 2010 </em>Shambhala Sun <em>magazine. It also will appear in </em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Best-Buddhist-Writing-2011-Shambhala/dp/1590309332"><strong>Best Buddhist Writing anthology 2011</strong></a><em>, edited by Melvin McLeod, and published by Shambhala.)</em></small><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cG_Na0zFqJRKlLbel5EiHByD1KOXZPkKZQ7CjOYw67UXcWlq2fti4a0VoYHbbYwVQzBMJcrdUXe5flEhq6sDh3aUhNWWGd8Ug-Moj3zRlX6Y70SrI-Ib5sFhN3MhyhG49vlK9vA_ZA/s1600/leza130027.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6cG_Na0zFqJRKlLbel5EiHByD1KOXZPkKZQ7CjOYw67UXcWlq2fti4a0VoYHbbYwVQzBMJcrdUXe5flEhq6sDh3aUhNWWGd8Ug-Moj3zRlX6Y70SrI-Ib5sFhN3MhyhG49vlK9vA_ZA/s400/leza130027.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613070705762227010" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
<small><em></em></small><br />
<center>
<small><em>Leza Lowitz and her son</em></small></center>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<center>
***</center>
<br />
<br />
<strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br />
<br />
I am not sure if the adoption experience per se has affected my poetry as much as becoming a mother. It has made me more patient, compassionate, understanding. At least, I try.<br />
<br />
<center>
***</center>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:<br /><br /><br />Butterfly</strong><br />
<br />
Orange and black butterfly<br />
alights on a potted sage <br />
in an alley.<br />
<br />
Put one hand on top of the other,<br />
spread your fingers into wings,<br />
move them up and down, <br />
together and apart.<br />
<br />
What else is there to do<br />
than to become the butterfly,<br />
winging through the world,<br />
enchanted?<br />
<br />
Its freedom our freedom,<br />
its beauty our beauty.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Resistance</strong><br />
<br />
Not words<br />
but the echo <br />
<br />
of a temple bell<br />
after it has been struck.<br />
<br />
not action<br />
but an awareness of being. <br />
<br />
Form finds form<br />
as in painting, prayer, song.<br />
<br />
Resistance too, <br />
finds a welcome,<br />
<br />
for without resistance<br />
there is no yielding,<br />
<br />
without struggle <br />
no triumph,<br />
<br />
without sound, <br />
no silence.<br />
<br />
What if all your mistakes<br />
were really divine designs<br />
<br />
to teach you how to see <br />
beyond yourself?<br />
<br />
What you struggle against<br />
eventually becomes you,<br />
<br />
the way river becomes ocean,<br />
small water inseperable <br />
<br />
from big water,<br />
everything in flow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Rock Gardens</strong><br />
<br />
There are those who believe life is like a recalcitrant garden—<br />
no matter how many times you pull the weeds,<br />
they’ll grow right back: no provocation, no fertilizer,<br />
barely any sunshine, not even much water.<br />
They think that like the poison Oleander<br />
the more you abuse yourself, the stronger you grow.<br />
<br />
I’m not a believer. <br />
Drench your neighbor in compassion,<br />
give them a Japanese rock garden any day.<br />
They don’t care to be cultivated by abrasion, <br />
don’t want to blossom under duress.<br />
They need only to be tended to gently,<br />
contemplated in serenity by moonlight,<br />
raked over gently, <br />
revered.<br />
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<small><em>(Poems reprinted with permission from </em>Yoga Heart: Lines on the Six Perfections<em>, Stone Bridge Press, June 2011)</em></small><br />
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<strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br />
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Leza Lowitz was born in San Francisco in 1962 and grew up in Berkeley, California. She has a B.A. in English Literature from U.C. Berkeley, and an M.A. in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. For over two decades, she has been bringing together the worlds of poetry, writing and yoga, sharing her experience in <em>Yoga Journal, Shambhala Sun, The Best Buddhist Writing 2011, The Huffington Post, The Japan Times</em>, and <em>The San Francisco Chronicle</em>, among many others. Her award-winning poetry has been translated into Japanese, French, Spanish, Burmese and Farsi. <br />
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The author of over 17 books, Lowitz is the recipient of numerous honors for her poetry, fiction, and translations. Among them are the PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award for Best Book of Poetry and The Bay Area Independent Publisher’s Association Award for <em>Yoga Poems: Lines to Unfold By</em>, the PEN Syndicated Fiction Award, an individual Translation Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, a California Arts Council Individual Fellowship in Poetry, an Independent Scholar Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Humanities, and together with her husband, Shogo Oketani, the Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission Award for the Translation of Japanese Literature from the Donald Keene Center for Japanese Culture at Columbia University. Other honors include the Copperfield’s <em>Dickens </em>Fiction Award, the Barbara Deming Memorial Award in the Novel, the <em>Japanophile </em>Fiction Award, the Benjamin Franklin Award for Editorial Excellence, the <em>Tokyo Journal</em> Fiction Translation Award, and two Pushcart Prize nominations in Poetry.<br />
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Lowitz first made her way to Tokyo in 1989, where she worked as a freelance writer/editor for the <em>Japan Times </em>and the <em>Asahi Evening News</em>, and as an art critic for <em>Art in America</em>. She wrote regular radio reviews for NHK Radio’s “Japan Diary” and was a lecturer at the prestigious Tokyo University. Since 1990, Lowitz has been Corresponding Editor to Japan for <em>Mänoa</em>, for whom she has guest edited two features, including <em>Silence to Light: Japan and the Shadows of War. </em>She also broadcast book reviews on Asia for NPR’s “Pacific Time Radio.” <br />
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After almost a decade in California, Lowitz relocated to Tokyo in 2003, where she opened Sun and Moon Yoga. She is grateful to be able to write and to share her love of yoga with others. This essay on adoption appeared in <em>Shambhala Sun</em>, and is forthcoming in <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Best-Buddhist-Writing-2011-Shambhala/dp/1590309332"><strong>The Best Buddhist Writing 2011</strong></a></em>. She adopted her son in 2007 and considers him her wisest teacher. <br />
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She can be reached at <a href="http://www.lezalowitz.com/"><strong>www.lezalowitz.com </strong></a>and <a href="http://www.sunandmoon.jp/"><strong>www.sunandmoon.jp</strong></a><br />
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'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-34033296466400178012011-05-30T14:35:00.000-07:002011-05-31T09:42:09.267-07:00LESLIE MCGRATH<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />I came to adoption at the age of twenty-four, when I was told by my gynecologist that my chances of getting pregnant and having a live birth were very slim. I’d been married for a few years and my husband and I quickly decided to pursue adoption of an infant from South Korea, having had as young adults the image of the 1973 Saigon Baby Lift burned into our minds. As sad as it was to begin to adjust to the idea that I’d not be likely to <em>make </em>a baby, the prospect of international adoption was an open door we barreled through with gusto.<br /><br />It was the early eighties in Fairfield county, Connecticut (not too far from where fellow poet and adoption essay writer <a href="http://poetsonadoption.blogspot.com/2011/03/michael-d-snediker.html"><strong>Michael Snediker </strong></a>grew up) and the only Asians we regularly came into contact with were the owners and servers at the local Chinese restaurant. Thankfully, we were supported without restraint by our families and shared a sense that the world was larger and more diverse than our upbringing had shown us. <br /><br />We filled out the forms, had our backgrounds checked, opened up our home for a home study, and waited. During this time, we received just one day of counseling from the adoption agency, headquartered in Massachusetts, but this really stuck with me: every person is wounded during his or her life; our adopted children will be aware (as would we) of one of those wounds very early on. In one sense, this helped me feel prepared, in a small way, for some of what was to come.<br /><br />We picked up our three month old daughter at Logan airport in Boston on a mild May night in 1983. We were hungry on the drive home and I was eager to give Carly her first bottle, so we stopped at a chain restaurant. Our waitress offered to heat the bottle. A few moments later, she handed it to me and asked to see our baby. I turned Carly toward her with great pride. The woman flinched and backed away, unable to cover her shock. I don’t know whether she thought our daughter had Down syndrome (babies with Down have eyes which look vaguely Asian) or if she was simply shocked not to see a white child, but I felt a rush of near-murderous protectiveness I’d come to feel over and over again during Carly’s childhood. Strangers would approach us and ask how much she cost, tell us how cute “they” are when they’re babies, if she was Communist. People wanted to know if my six month old daughter spoke English. People assumed she <em>didn’t </em>speak English until she was in her teens. One of my childhood friends asked me during a phone call why I’d want to adopt a “gook.” Another friend, who’d just given birth to a son, let it be known that she’d let him play with her but that she wasn’t “marriage material.” <br /><br /> I registered every racial insult, real or perceived, conscious or accidental, that came our way. It was exhausting. At some point during her adolescence, I began to realize that my indignation was doing Carly no service at all. She’d developed her own set of defenses, the primary being humor. She told people she was Korean-Irish and replaced the lining of her Catholic school uniform with jaunty green cotton strewn with shamrocks. She’d taunt her younger sister (my biological daughter) “you may <em>look </em>like Mom, but she <em>chose </em>me.” Late one afternoon, I was fed up with my girls’ sniping at each other while we were in the grocery store. I yelled from the front of the line, “Carly, get over here right this minute!” A number of heads turned in her direction. She looked at me blankly and replied in a Japanese B-movie accent “I no know you, white devil. You not my motha!”<br /> <br />It took a few explanations before I was allowed to leave the store with her.<br /><br />When she was 14, Carly and I took one of the first homeland tours of South Korea with 98 other American families with adopted Korean children. Though we’d been promised access to our children’s birth records at the adoption agency in Seoul, Korean law was changed when our plane was crossing the Atlantic: only the adoptees over the age of 18 would be allowed to obtain information about their birth parents. Most of adoptees in our group were girls; most had been left as infants at police stations, street corners, or other places where they’d be likely to be found. Carly was unusual in that we knew that she’d come from an intact family—the fourth of four girls. It was a blow to get so close to having the means to contact them and have that opportunity lost at the last minute. I promised Carly I’d do everything I could to let her birth family know she was safe and loved.<br /><br />Once we returned to the U.S., it took a couple of years of phone calls and letters before I was told our adoption agency had made contact with Carly’s birth mother, who indicated she wanted to hear from us. Carly, then seventeen, sent a letter accompanied by a number of photos of her childhood—dressed as a Brownie, wet in a bathing suit, and proudly dandling a sackful of Halloween candy. A month or two later, she received four letters: one from her mother and each of her three older sisters. Once they were translated, we began to learn about the circumstances of her birth and relinquishment. The story we had been told by the agency about the details of her being given up for adoption had been a whitewash of a far more troubling reality, but that’s a story for Carly to tell. What I feel comfortable saying is this: it meant everything to her birth mother to know her daughter was loved.<br /><br />Carly has visited her birth family in Seoul three times in the last ten years. She speaks only a few words of Korean; they speak only a few words of English. She has a different relationship with each of her birth sisters and is in touch via the internet with her extended family of nieces, nephews and cousins. <br /><br />Two years ago when she married her husband Jordan, she walked down the aisle in a <em>hanbok</em>, a traditional Korean dress. Her birth mother, who had flown to the U.S. for the first time, tied the mint green <em>jeogori </em>with an intricate single-looped knot, then fastened a small pin at Carly’s neck. She stepped back and looked at her daughter—our daughter—and said “Now I die happy.”<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDr4_c2UlAWKJlvAR9whL0kq8wp16m4dOttQPgO_9ZVl01UPIlVD7EEdf5Pq2izA0L8MgellGKQ4dNzbJdGxlJ2Q4RalKI9Jz_WVqSo6GVvOFKdQd-UOGaKltK983TVLw3Irpo_IIVKA/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDr4_c2UlAWKJlvAR9whL0kq8wp16m4dOttQPgO_9ZVl01UPIlVD7EEdf5Pq2izA0L8MgellGKQ4dNzbJdGxlJ2Q4RalKI9Jz_WVqSo6GVvOFKdQd-UOGaKltK983TVLw3Irpo_IIVKA/s400/IMG_0001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612917734045720386" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Carly and her three mothers at her wedding: Left to right: Leslie (adoptive mother);<br />Carly; Carly's biological mother; and Pam (Carly's adoptive stepmother)</small></center></em> <br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />For me, adoption has been a process of opening. Sometimes it’s a warm sense of having created a bond from sheer love. Family is a thing consciously made and requiring regular upkeep. Sometimes it’s a sense that, by adopting a child of another race, I’ve made a political statement, one which others feel they have the right to weigh in on. The opening continues in other ways as well: my own racial identity as a white person feels fuller, less dissociated from the other races. <br /><br />In my poetic imagination, the souls who inhabit my poems are not all white, not all happily awash in family. I’m aware of that deep desire to be one with others and of the limits on the reality of truly being “at one.” Adoption is a kind of mortar which attaches one person to another more or less perfectly, more or less eternally, more or less happily. <br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br />It’s funny, I’ve written a few poems about my younger daughter. I’ve written poems referring to both my daughters, but every poem I’ve tried to write about Carly as an adoptee has been unsuccessful. I veer into sentimentality or defensiveness. I worry about leaving the reader with more of a sense of exoticism than of familiarity with her as a person I love. I feel more comfortable writing about how my experience as a mother has changed as my daughters have entered adulthood. Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that I wasn’t a poet when Carly was a child. I also want to balance my desire to write what moves me with her desire for privacy. It’s a moving target, though, as all writing about loved ones inevitably is.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Leslie McGrath became a mother at 25, when Eun Jin, who she and her husband renamed Carly, arrived on a 13 hour flight from Seoul, Korea. Leslie McGrath’s poems have been widely published, most recently in <em>SLATE, Tiferet, Long Poem magazine </em>(UK) and <em>PANK</em>. Winner of the 2004 Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, her first collection of poetry, <em>Opulent Hunger, Opulent Rage</em>, was a finalist for the CT Book Award and nominated for The Poet’s Prize. McGrath teaches creative writing and literature part time at Central CT State University and serves on the board of the James Merrill House in Stonington, CT.<br /><br />Carly is now 28, a graduate of Lesley University, and is in charge of child nutrition at the CT Food Bank. She’s been married for two years to Jordan, who is blonde and blue-eyed, and enjoys speculating about the odds of having a blue-eyed baby—just to get a rise out of her adoptive mother.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-63214062094675345232011-05-29T16:46:00.000-07:002011-05-30T17:37:13.064-07:00JIM BENNETT<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />My adoption experience was totally positive. I was adopted as a baby and my parents were the best anyone could ever have. My mum and dad were just that, the best of people who gave me the best of starts in life. Two of my six children were also adopted by me, but that makes no difference in my family. I did find my birth mother some years ago but she died soon after we met. I did however find that I had another family and that was a very interesting experience, not totally successful, but I have one sister who has stayed close. Perhaps that will be a poem one day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvhzlg4JzHU4jUD_TWfJAsFbig2osCo-J1c1BO48sATb_kxILfLTb4hdGfjkYIDUfVSmIzFIBt8-2juJXbfmMDMlSMtm7jbNjOsXZhU4nFf0UsOG-dcyIhcQN4pINDpdObw5NIux-xA/s1600/jan11adopt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOvhzlg4JzHU4jUD_TWfJAsFbig2osCo-J1c1BO48sATb_kxILfLTb4hdGfjkYIDUfVSmIzFIBt8-2juJXbfmMDMlSMtm7jbNjOsXZhU4nFf0UsOG-dcyIhcQN4pINDpdObw5NIux-xA/s400/jan11adopt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612660885601667266" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Jim Bennett reading for Adoption Matters North West event <br />at Gorton Abbey, January 2011, U.K.</em></center></small><br /><br /><br /> <center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />Insofar as my poetry is informed by everything that I have ever experienced I suppose it is all in there somewhere, perhaps the way I view relationships, life even the world around me. I have written one dedicated chapbook on my adoption experience, <em><a href="http://www.poetrykit.org/mil.pdf"><strong>MADE IN LIVERPOOL</strong></a></em>, and I was pleased to be able to record that. <br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>made in Liverpool</strong><br /><br />like The Beatles<br />and Meccano<br />I was made in Liverpool<br /><br />for me it was the city<br />not a path less traveled<br />that made all the difference<br /><br />it was the dockland<br />a port and a place<br />to call home<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>inventory 1953</strong><br /><br />the inventory came with the baby<br />1 three piece outdoor set<br />4 Turkish Napkins<br />2 pair of socks<br />2 nightdresses<br />2 pair of shoes<br />2 vests<br />2 liberty bodices<br />2 pair knickers<br />1 cardigan<br />2 Jersey suits<br />1 pair rubber pants<br />1 pair mitts<br /><br />it filled up the space<br />below the statement<br />which read<br />I will receive James into my home<br />feed, clothe and look after him<br />and bring him up<br />as carefully<br />and kindly<br />as I would a child of my own<br /><br />below this and below the<br />inventory<br />was the familiar scratched<br />signature of my mother<br />who kept her word<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>the sign at the end of the road</strong><br /><br />there was a sign at the end of the road<br />it said “adopted”<br />I always thought<br />that was how<br />people knew<br /><br />but no one had told me<br />I found out at 12<br />about the same time the Beatles<br />officially became<br />a phenomenon<br /><br />in a shop<br />I heard a lady I did not know<br />speaking<br />to someone else<br />this is the one<br />Mary adopted<br />she said<br />as she smiled at me<br /><br />and it was<br /><br />I never told Mum or dad<br />kept it secret<br />like they had<br />but searched for<br />proof<br />eventually found it<br />in an envelope<br />pushed<br />under clothes at the back<br />of a bedroom drawer<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>death of a pop star</strong><br /><br />I was driving up to Hyton<br />when I heard that John was dead<br />the news was not broken in any<br />thoughtful way<br />a newsreader came on the radio<br />just after <em>Hey Jude </em>was played<br />and said that he was dead<br /><br />I didn’t know John<br />never saw him except at a distance<br />but at that moment I felt<br />a close member of my family<br />had been taken away<br />someone I had grown up with<br />someone I had loved<br />I wondered if anyone understood<br />why I was crying over the death<br />of a pop star<br /><br />I need not have worried<br />Liverpool was subdued that day<br />the city grieved<br /><br />in another week<br />I stood with thousands<br />at St Georges Hall<br />singing songs<br />from his Beatle years<br />and his solo work<br />and remembered<br /><br />at the end of the night<br />we sang <em>Imagine</em><br />for what must have been<br />the tenth time<br /><br />and we all did<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>made in Liverpool (2)</strong><br /><br />like The Beatles<br />and Meccano<br />I was made in Liverpool<br /><br />a foundling in the city<br />it gave me a home<br />and an identity<br /><br />I grew with its poetry<br />its music<br />and I cherish it still<br /><br />like The Beatles<br />and Meccano<br />I was made in Liverpool<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>retronym</strong><br /><br />as time moves on<br />sometimes it is necessary<br />to rename things<br />the Great War became<br />World War 1 when they decided to<br />have a rematch<br />the original series of Start Trek<br />only became “:the original series”<br />after more series were added<br />a reel to reel tape recorder<br />was originally just a tape recorder<br />then cassettes came along<br /><br />so things change<br />and you need to find a retronym<br />but then some things don’t<br />some things are so unique that<br />you just know there will never be<br />a retronym for The Beatles<br />no rebranding<br />to The Original Beatles for them<br />their name will never change<br />but take a baby’s name<br />Anthony MacDonnell for example<br />just think what you can do with that<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>made in Liverpool</strong><br /><br />like The Beatles<br />and Meccano<br />I was made in Liverpool<br /><br /><br /><small><em>(All poems are from Jim Bennett's </em><a href="http://www.poetrykit.org/mil.pdf"><strong>MADE IN LIVERPOOL</strong></a> <em>(Starwood Publications, 2006).)</em></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Jim Bennett was born and still lives near Liverpool in England. He grew up in Liverpool during the years of the Liverpool Sound and the Liverpool Poets and it is from this tradition that he developed his own unique style and voice. He is the author of 64 books including books of poetry, books for children, and technical training manuals. In addition his CD "Down in Liverpool" a selection of poetry and music has brought Jim to the notice of a much wider audience. In a career spanning 44 years Jim has won many accolades for his performances and writing including Silver Stake for Performance Poetry (Manchester Slam 2001); Fante Prize for Literature (New Mexico 2000); Poetry Super Highway Poet of the Year 2000; Sefton Literary Competition prize winner; and San Francisco Beat Poetry Festival Competition, 1st prize and Judges Choice - October 2002. Jim also runs courses in Creative Writing for the University of Liverpool, Edge Hill University College and the Workers Education Association. He is the Managing Editor of <a href="http://www.poetrykit.org/"><strong><em>Poetry Kit</em></strong></a>; more information about Jim is available <a href="http://www.poetrykit.org/jim/index.htm"><strong>HERE</strong></a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyraD5sxdsT1uRLFzQTz99uVxT9Su2CT1kgL0doMLwxPrHJH3b87L1fwn_rvAetpJgUTAoGhA9osbnaQbcPoKPhgN-Q8Oid9DFzXEd6amF8lFfbppkLD3A5NoSBxd-I50wrO4viG0svQ/s1600/ed2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyraD5sxdsT1uRLFzQTz99uVxT9Su2CT1kgL0doMLwxPrHJH3b87L1fwn_rvAetpJgUTAoGhA9osbnaQbcPoKPhgN-Q8Oid9DFzXEd6amF8lFfbppkLD3A5NoSBxd-I50wrO4viG0svQ/s400/ed2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612668747385477410" /></a><br /><small><center><em>In November 2004, Jim Bennett was asked to read his poetry for the Royal visit of<br /> HRH The Prince Edward to NWDAF Headquarters, Liverpool. L to R: Susan Hedges,<br /> Jim Bennett, HRH Prince Edward (photo by Leila Romaya).</small></center></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-55365832757202127402011-05-22T18:28:00.000-07:002011-05-30T14:34:53.392-07:00PETER BOSKEY<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />I am a Korean-American adoptee who was adopted to Boston, MA as an infant. This is similar for my two adopted siblings. I grew up in the Boston suburbs in a predominantly Caucasian society. This has really shaped the person I am inside, the person I think I am when not reminded of who I am on the outside. Both my middle and high schools boasted high numbers for diversity in the student body (high in the private school circuit), although there were few people like me. I became a thinker as I grew up and always took adoption very seriously.<br /><br />I had the opportunity to travel to Seoul through Global Overseas Adoptee Link (G.O.A.L.) in the summer of 2009, which provided me with a glimpse as to what it's really like in South Korea. It also gave me a chance to meet other Korean-American adoptees, which in turn exposed me to the vast difference of situations and perspectives that exist within the Korean-American adoptee community, something I had previously never thought on.<br /><br />Overall, I consider myself always one face of Korean-American adoption, which means I represent a community. That gives me a lot of pride. I spent some years when I was young thinking that being an adoptee made me less than, however as I grew older I realize that being an adoptee was the thing that made me a lot more interesting than everybody else; it was something that I could claim as my own.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzQt7CC2bIoy5I8XbizpcF_gLqvq4Co8TNRX30VyO6JoKMjKBslQ2JHHe6H8xIIKfIDodnhuFJuQAGgKOhzk6-7nepahCjJppeyO409Mg-bIqfMbdSJ6LvfAoqIMdHkeNyarzT1k9pQ/s1600/P+Boskey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzQt7CC2bIoy5I8XbizpcF_gLqvq4Co8TNRX30VyO6JoKMjKBslQ2JHHe6H8xIIKfIDodnhuFJuQAGgKOhzk6-7nepahCjJppeyO409Mg-bIqfMbdSJ6LvfAoqIMdHkeNyarzT1k9pQ/s400/P+Boskey.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610017963349215058" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Peter Boskey</em></center></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /> <br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong> <br /><br />The nature of adoption leaves a lot of room to dream, a lot of brain-space. I've been told my poetry deals a lot with the cerebral ongoings on the mind, is very feeling heavy, and normally has some sort of outward turn into something tangible. But because there is so much left to wonder about, so much left to want, there is also that hope in my poems. I've made very strong efforts to maintain a sense of contentment in the subtext of my poetry, although at times it is lost in the back-burner. That, though, is really essential for anybody who tries to understand an adoptee poetry perspective; it has multiple layers that constantly battle to be heard. I've found that stylistically, I go between using a tight poetic format that is both language and sound heavy, but I also love the freedom in a prose format, and often times those poems feel more natural and represent a stream of consciousness.<br /><br />Adoption also plays a role in how I relate to characters within poems. I like the facelessness and ambiguity of using, "you" and "I," rather than name the specific people. Accepting that sometimes there are no specific people that drive a poem is similar to the acceptance that being an adoptee means not knowing, "who." And I mix that theme with other human-centric ones such as physical touches, hands, and the intricacy of relationships.<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /> <br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><br /><strong>White</strong><br /><br /><em>Mai Engrlish ees no goot</em>,<br />I imagine people think I sound this way,<br />not realizing that when I do speak,<br />Bostonian-undertones swell and mix sweetly<br />with the speech of a southern boy I loved.<br />He was white.<br />My yellow fingers laced with <br />perpetual white ones--<br />I will marry a white man;<br />to my mother’s unspoken pleasure.<br /><br />I am always the son my parents wanted,<br />so I’ve been told;<br />they tell my brother this too.<br />Perhaps we are two halves<br />of a mirror-child my parents could never make.<br />I don’t have my mother’s blonde hair<br />or my father’s blue eyes.<br />Mine are of another people,<br />strangers I may never know.<br /><br />I think my sister’s strangers are far from her heart,<br />while mine feel so close,<br />leaving ghost handprints on the fogged door,<br />an afterthought;<br />like when we make it halfway down the driveway<br />and my mother forgets if the stove is on or off;<br />I am the one to run inside to check,<br />passing that fading handprint<br />that looks almost like mine.<br /><br />There are 50,062,000 people in South Korea.<br />Should be 50,062,003, or more,<br />for the other exports like my sister and brother,<br />and me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Going on 30 Hours</strong><br /><br />Words are an easy remedy to un-worded thoughts that billow through my mind, whirlwinds and tempests of touch-and-go logic. When my hands see cramps in their future, like the oncoming and ongoing sunrise and set; I wonder if I will sleep tonight, and wake on the other side of tomorrow a spot more complete than yesterday. Perhaps I may actually smile when I rise... The routine of rest and laying my head on the same pillowcase I used as a child, the echoes and parallels of immature tribulations now in an older rendition; still I am without a take-home message, other than I am just not getting something. Some secret to sleep, to closing my eyes, to pretending I am sleeping until I find myself rising with the sun hours later; the secret written in words, spoken in language un-synced with my vernacular, my speech. An utter disconnect with the reality I reach out to touch and hold like mockingbird, singing softly archaic melodies, haunted by constant migration. <br /><br /> They rest, don’t they?<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Peter Boskey is a university student studying design in Upstate New York. He has been described as, "creative," "thoughtful," goofy," "an enigma," and "a typical Taurus." Adjectives aside, he enjoys spending time pondering, observing the world's on-goings, writing, and watching copious amounts of television. Favorite shows are <em>Glee, Grey's Anatomy, Parks & Recreation, 30 Rock</em>, and <em>Ghost Adventures</em>. In his free time, Peter makes earrings from sterling silver and precious metal gemstones.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-17367341050627322992011-05-18T08:07:00.000-07:002011-05-19T08:30:26.395-07:00KAREN PICKELL<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong> <br /> <br />I was adopted at the age of three months. I have a younger brother who is also adopted from different birth parents.<br /> <br />My husband is the father of two adopted children, one of whom was adopted from Korea. Technically, I am their stepmother, although they were already adults when we met.<br /> <br />My husband and I have two biological children as well.<br /> <br />I have reunited with both my birth mother and my birth father, and have met all but one of my biological half-siblings.<br /> <br />To summarize, it's complicated! Rather than explain any more here, I would rather speak about my experience through my writing.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJVcnJnzoJkWqMlFQnIpXRqy79mFGV0ZuXp-vMVSzFVPSEhzrRFFOPDRWdACmii_Yg7yPHo1S5CBRevQLjPL9peU7uBUyUDNr548B2xGAaMfesC6_A3PKBx8CanlrRktm8RxuIg-R2ug/s1600/KarenPickellandson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJVcnJnzoJkWqMlFQnIpXRqy79mFGV0ZuXp-vMVSzFVPSEhzrRFFOPDRWdACmii_Yg7yPHo1S5CBRevQLjPL9peU7uBUyUDNr548B2xGAaMfesC6_A3PKBx8CanlrRktm8RxuIg-R2ug/s400/KarenPickellandson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608444251715695106" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Karen and her son</em></center></small><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />I find a great deal of my writing explores aspects of my adoption experience, whether or not I set out intending to write about adoption. My condition of being adopted has affected every aspect of my life, therefore it colors all of my writing. I feel like I see the world--particularly relationships--through a different lens than that of people who are not adopted. Sometimes it's difficult for me to express that difference in prose. Poetry gives me a way to more clearly communicate my experience as an adopted person. <br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /> <br /><br /><strong>Reflection</strong><br /><br />You<br />with your mother's wide eyes,<br />olive skin and old-world customs,<br />with cousins akin to sisters<br /><br />You<br />with your father's gravelly voice,<br />his cleft branded on your chin,<br />his surname on your back<br /><br />You cannot conceive what I saw<br />when I studied my boy<br />lying bundled like a burrito<br />innocently twisting in the plastic hospital bassinet<br /><br /> I gazed into a mirror<br />and saw my gray eyes for the first time<br />and saw my milky skin for the first time<br />and saw my Slavic nose for the first time<br />and saw my earnest expression for the first time<br /><br />For the first time I saw<br />my mother and my father<br />my tribe<br />my birthright<br /> <br />For the first time<br />I saw my self<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><strong>Birth Name</strong><br /><br />Google search tells me I am unique<br />just like they always say to kids<br />"there's only one like you"<br />turns out it's actually true<br />and all this time I felt like a carbon copy<br />now the lines around my eyes are zebra stripes<br />I am a reality star in my own life<br />babies call me Mom and<br />Mom calls me Daughter and <br />Mother calls me Honey and<br />Honey calls me Love<br />but if you search my name<br />on Facebook you'll find just one<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Karen Pickell writes poetry and creative nonfiction on adoption and other topics. She is pursuing a Master of Arts in Professional Writing with a concentration in creative writing from Kennesaw State University in Georgia. Her essay "An Ordinary Difference" is included in the charity anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Water-Other-Things-That-Dont/dp/1905091850/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1305739764&sr=1-2"><em>Oil and Water . . . and Other Things That Don't Mix</em></a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-11464344013085822872011-05-17T19:22:00.000-07:002011-05-18T11:31:58.564-07:00PENNY CALLAN PARTRIDGE<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE? HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY? PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:</strong><br /><br /><em>[Curator’s Note: Penny Callan Patridge wrote a book, <a href="http://www.pennycallanpartridge.com/"><strong></em>THE PEOPLE THEY BROUGHT ME: poems in the adoption community<em></strong></a>, which happens to address the three questions asked by </em>POETS ON ADOPTION <em>(albeit in a slightly different format from the typical </em>PoA <em>contribution). With her permission, we feature four excerpts from her book.]</em><br /><br /><br /><strong>I. For My First Mother / Catherine in Cheyenne</strong><br /><br /><blockquote><em><strong>For My First Mother</strong><br /><br />No photograph but a dream<br />brought me your face.<br />We were in your living room<br />which was also a kind of shop<br />where you sold furniture.<br /><br />It was in front of the fireplace:<br />this chair which I can still see<br />along with your face. It was<br />mahogany and wine red velvet:<br />a rocker.<br /><br />Days after the dream<br />I still know<br />that I was to have it<br />and think I can after all<br />if I can translate.<br /><br />I think it was good love<br />your arms binding me<br />your face smiling and I was<br />unsure afraid embarrassed:<br />I was new.<br /><br />And if an old woman knocked on my door and called me<br />Dorothy, it would be like a river rushing backward<br />to rejoin the water with which it had risen in mist<br />and settled on leaves upstream<br />before coming down in separate drops.<br /><br />It would be like a movie running backward<br />me moving backward through it blindly:<br />I would have to learn you by smell<br />and touch, like a baby, before<br />I could finally see your face.<br /><br />Picture in a magazine:<br />the adopted child of (someone)<br />and me wondering if just somehow<br />the other mother might see it: me<br />wanting to get myself into the paper.<br /><br />I have written this, you see,<br />to push myself out<br />toward some meeting with you<br />if you are ready<br />if you’re still there.</em></blockquote><br /><br /><strong>Catherine in Cheyenne</strong><br /><br />This may be my most magic poem in that it really did push me out to meet my birthmother. I had briefly tried to find her in my early twenties. That ended with a social worker’s insistence that I would not want to meet the woman who had given birth to me, because it would cause her too much pain.<br /><br />In my late twenties, in my own pain about infertility, I decided that if my children were not going to look like me, I would try to find someone who did in my original family. So I searched, on and off, for two and a half years. It was often hard to take the next step. It might lead nowhere. I would get discouraged and put the whole thing aside until the not knowing became too hard again.<br /><br />Then came a dream that brought my birthmother into focus like never before. There we were, face to face for the first time, even if it was “just a dream.” She was smiling and completely reassuring that it was all right to have found her. When I woke up, I was desperate to hold onto the new “reality” this dream had brought me. It was hard to believe I could have produced this dream, even unconsciously. It must have come from her!<br /><br />I tried to write down every fragment of the dream I could possibly remember. Its two main images were my birthmother’s face and a lovely rocking chair she was giving me. It was a nice big, comfortable rocker that would have held me, rocked me, comforted me. I got obsessed with the chair for awhile and imagined combing antique stores to see if it just happened to be waiting for me to come buy it. That would confirm the “realness” of the dream. But what if I had to settle for one that wasn’t mahogany? Wasn’t a rocker? Wasn’t upholstered in deep red velvet? Would I settle for something less? In the end, I realized that the face and the chair were symbols of the same thing: the gift of my birthmother’s welcome. I gave up on the chair and went out to find the face.<br /><br />Meantime, I worked and worked and worked on the poem. I’m going to quote William Butler Yeats here, because years later, when I read the following, I knew just what he’d meant.<br /><blockquote><em>My friends that have it I do wrong<br />whenever I revise a song<br />should know what issue is at stake:<br />It is myself that I remake.</em></blockquote><br />No question about it. While writing “For My First Mother,” I was remaking myself. I was spending days pushing myself out, or giving birth to a me who could confidently move out and not only find Catharine but also be up to facing her.<br /><br />And only a few weeks after I had the dream and wrote the poem, I was calling her. I was hearing her say, “Oh, I knew this would happen. Would you like to come visit me?” Three weeks after that, I was pulling up in front of her house in Cheyenne.<br /><br />What link is there between having the dream, writing the poem, and finding my birthmother? Did I have the dream because I was ready to find her? But if I hadn’t grabbed onto it hadn’t worked on the dream/poem as hard as I’d ever worked on anything, would I have gone on to find her?<br /><br />If the poem made me brave, I was not very brave with the poem. In the three weeks between finding and meeting Catharine, I sent her “For My First Mother.” But I actually wrote to her not to make too much of it.<br /><br />Why did I belittle its importance? I was probably protecting both of us from how badly I wanted Catharine to like this poem, to “get it”—and of course to like and “get” me. And she followed my lead (unless I was following hers in the no-nonsense, Western way she spoke). Neither of us ever mentioned the poem again!<br /><br />If I could speak to Catharine now, I might ask if we could talk about the poem I had written right before I found her. <em>Do you remember what you thought of it? How you felt when you read it? I was afraid I would scare you with how much I wanted your welcome, your acknowledgement. I might also have been scared of having “to learn you by smell/ and touch like a baby before/ I could finally see your face”—of going back to the baby me.</em><br /><br />Had we talked about the poem, we might have gotten closer than we did in the fifteen years we had of knowing each other. But I think the poem expressed something I wasn’t up to saying—nor she up to hearing—in person. “For My Mother” thus served a much more typical purpose for a poem than to help find a lost person. It helped me say something the only way I could.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>II. New Legs / Nina Giving Birth Under It</strong><br /><br /><blockquote><em><strong>NEW LEGS</strong><br /><br />I choose grief<br />that river<br />that takes you<br />somewhere.<br /><br />Like when Charlie said<br />it must be hard not<br />to know the person<br />you were born to.<br /><br />And off I swept<br />both hating him<br />and loving him<br />for saying it.<br /><br />Thrashing upstream in<br />anger to come<br />swirling down<br />in sadness.<br /><br />And bumped<br />against the bank<br />to climb out<br />on new legs.<br /><br />Where would I<br />still be<br />but for that river<br />and these new legs</em></blockquote><br /><br /><em>from </em><strong>Nina Giving Birth Under It</strong><br /><br />“New Legs” was written by request. The director of an adoption agency in California had heard me read my poems at the Open Adoption Conference in Traverse City, Michigan. When her agency was planning an issue of their quarterly magazine to be entirely from the perspective of the adopted, she called to ask if I would write a poem for them, maybe about one of the seven core issues of adoption.<br /><br />I liked the idea of an adoptee issue of a magazine. It’s a good thing if we grow up hearing about our adoption, but that is necessarily from someone else’s point of view. One of the most important things we ever do as adopted people, I think, is to learn to tell our stories from our own perspective. I liked that some of us older adoptees could serve as models for doing this. And it was time for other “players” in adoption to hear more from the adopted.<br /><br />The seven core issues* were developed as a way to talk about issues common to all sides of the adoption triad: the adopted, their birthparents, their adoptive parents. And the seven issues I had to pick from? Loss, rejection, guilt and shame, grief, identity, intimacy and control.<br /><br />I chose grief because I had a story I needed to tell about it. Twenty-five years earlier, my friend Charlie had said something that spun me around like a leaf in a stream. His response to hearing I had been adopted was to say, “It must be hard not to know the person you were born to.”<br /><br />Such mixed feelings about his having said that! Why hating Charlie? Because if what he had said were true, it was scary. I didn’t know if I could bear never knowing my birthmother. Nor did I want to go through life with the disadvantage, the blindedness, of not knowing her.<br /><br />Then why loving Charlie? Because as hard as it was to hear what he said, it felt true. I was grateful that someone in this world wasn’t afraid to say it: It is hard not to know the person you were born to. My joy, my gratitude, my relief in having this acknowledged was probably what let me give in to the grief.<br /><br />Grief is so paradoxical. We have to let it sweep us off our feet—<em>thrashing upstream in/ anger to come/ swirling down/ in sadness</em>—if we are to end up more oriented in our lives walking on our own two legs. Losing control to gain control. The river metaphor just popped into my head to help me make sense of this paradox.<br /><br />Here is another paradox: “New Legs” was written by request. I got a long distance call and agreed to try to send something by a certain date. In the end though, I don’t think any poem of mine has come from a deeper place. I’m glad I got to go there.<br /><br /><small><em>(* The seven core issues of adoption were first presented by Deborah Silverstein and Sharon Kaplan (now Roszia).)</em></small><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>III. Another Pinocchio / My Funny Florentine</strong><br /><br /><blockquote><em><strong>ANOTHER PINOCCHIO</strong><br /><br />the girl was wooden<br />with so many strings attached<br />she was good good good<br />but that's about all <br /><br />so the way for<br />her to get real<br />was to go out and find<br />her own blue fairy <br /><br />in a small round woman<br />(her eyes were blue)<br />who said I knew<br />you would come <br /><br />I just couldn't<br />see you before<br />or I would have<br />had to keep you<br /><br />and the girl in this<br />blue eyed mirror<br />that held her<br />and held her<br /><br />could see and feel<br />her own fingers<br />unhooking<br />strings</em></blockquote><br /><br /><strong>My Funny Florentine</strong><br /><br />I met Anna Gennie Miliotti at a conference near Disneyland in Southern California. I wish I could say that I went on the Pinocchio ride with this Italian from Florence, but I think it was closed for repairs. And I can’t really say I met Anna simply because of my Pinocchio poem. It’s more complicated than that. But the bonds between Anna and me certainly include Florence. That’s where the Italian language came from, thanks to Dante Allighieri. That’s where I studied it myself when I was in college. Florence is also where Anna was born. It’s where Carlo Collodi was born and where he wrote about Pinocchio. It’s where Anna and I have done two bilingual readings, the ore recent one just down the street from where Collodi grew up. I’ll get back to that.<br /><br />There are many things in the Pinocchio story which adopted people find interesting. There’s that unforgettable representation of being caught in a lie. There’s the lonely old man who wanted a child. There’s the child who isn’t real but wants to be. There’s the woodenness, the strings, and the pulls between needing to be almost too good and needing to try being bad.<br /><br />What matters most to me about the Pinocchio story is transformation. A puppet goes from being numb and dumb (no feeling, no voice), with strings attached (someone else pulling them), and not a real boy . . . to being real. I sensed a similar transformation in myself after I found my birthmother. There was more sensation in my body (that I was aware of). There was a feeling of my life now being in my own hands. And it felt as if, after dangling in some kind of unreality, I had ground under my feet. I am not saying I shouldn’t have been placed for adoption. I am convinced that was a good thing, under the circumstances. I just felt so much more real without a painted background hiding things behind it. Now I had a real background!<br /><br />When Anna and I met near Disneyland (and again a couple weeks later in Traverse City), we were both writers, we were both adoptive parents, and she could speak enough English and I enough Italian that our conversations could rock back and forth between the two languages. Soon we were translating each other’s poems. “Another Pinocchio” was the first poem of mine that Anna transformed into a poem in her own language.<br /><br />The first time Anna read “<em>Un Altro Pinocchio</em>” in public was in Parma, home of parmesan cheese and prosciutto. She was giving a talk to 300 adoptive parents, and she ended with her translation of my poem. By the time she got home to Prato (half an hour north of Florence), Anna had an e-mail from an adoptive mother who had just asked her oldest child about his favorite storybook character. This woman was amazed (che stupor) when he had immediately answered, ‘Pinocchio.” She now hoped her whole family would be gently (piano piano) unhooking strings.<br /><br />The first poem I translated of Anna’s was “Nadezhda”—the name of her daughter Dasha’s birthmother. Anna had taken Dasha back to Russia to see where she had come from and many poems came from that trip. Later, Anna wrote a young adult novel about the experience, alternating the voices of an adoptive mother and her daughter. It has been quite a best seller in Italy—28,000 copies in the first year alone. During my most recent visit to Anna, I translated three chapters of <em>The Me I Don’t Know </em>(<em>Quello che non so di me</em>) so Anna’s agent can try for an English edition.<br /><br />When Anna and I are together, we laugh a lot. Anna likes to enjoy life. Like many Italians, she loves good food. She tends to exclaim a lot over food, whether she has cooked it herself or is in a lovely restaurant overlooking a distant landscape. Anna loves to be dramatic. After we did our first reading together in Florence, she told me my Italian had never been so good and that I had learned Italian forty years earlier just for this one evening.<br /><br />We have had great adventures together. We took a train from Albany to Kansas City for a conference of the American Adoption Congress. My bunkbed in our sleeper car was so tiny I couldn’t roll over. We made a pilgrimage out of Dublin up to Brugh na Boyne. WE twisted our hips to thread ourselves down a dark passage into the prehistoric past inside a mountain. The next day Anna drove us down to St. Kevin’s monastery in Glendalough, while I read poems to her by Seamus Heany and Eavan Boland, my favorite Irish poets. I may have ancestors who were in Ireland a thousand years ago, but Anna is sure she was in Ireland herself in another life.<br /><br />Last May, Anna picked me up at the Pisa airport and drove me to her second home—this one in a medieval hilltown called Roccatederighi. Two days later we were on a train to Florence, me still copying Anna’[s translation of some of my performance piece, “Pandora Out of the Box.” Organized by Anna, and hosted by Libri Liberi (Liberated Books), we were giving a joint reading in a children’s theater next to a garden behind this fabulous bookstore. On an outside wall of the theater was an original Andrea del Sarto fresco. Inside the bookstore was an exhibit room for illustrations for children’s books. The current exhibit had to do with children all over the world liking Pinocchio. Then I was reading my Pinocchio poem right down the street from where Pinocchio’s author had been a boy. Grazie, Carlo Lorenizini (Collodi’s original name). Grazie, Vittorio and Elisabetta, owners of Libri Liberi on Via San Gallo. Grazie, Anna.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>IV. Responding to a Poem by Mi Ok Bruining / Me and Mi Ok</strong><br /><br /><blockquote><em><strong>Responding to a Poem by Mi Ok Bruining</strong><br /><br />This Korean-born adoptee<br />is translating herself<br />back into Korean<br />so she can greet her omoni<br />and even if only in fantasy<br />feel she is getting across.<br /><br />This Korean-born adoptee<br />once hated this white bread<br />California-born adoptee’s<br />using cibultural<br />experience<br />as metaphor.<br /><br />But Mi Ok, even though<br />I had no ocean or border<br />or linguistic barrier<br />to get across, I was<br />still trying to figure out<br />how I’d been translated.<br /><br />If I grant you many differences,<br />will you grant me this one<br />sameness? That we are not<br />as much from either side as<br />we are those who translate<br />are those who are translated.</em></blockquote><br /><br /><strong>Me and Mi Ok</strong><br /><br />Maybe a dozen years ago, I was standing outside the Food for Thought Bookstore in Amherst, Massachusetts. My eye had been caught by an anthology of writing by feminists of color. I went inside and asked if I could take it out of the window.<br /><br />Soon a poem had taken me off a shelf. No longer in the store, I was now a Korean-born adoptee trying out some of her birthmother’s language as a way of getting back to the woman herself. “To Omoni, in Korea” might have reminded me of my own poem, “For My First Mother.” Each of these poems was a bridge built to take the poet back to her original mother—<em>and even if only in fantasy/ feel she is getting across</em>.<br /><br />But I was also remembering the poet herself and her anger. <a href="http://www.little-spirit-horse.com/pages/about.htm"><strong>Mi Ok</strong></a> was once in the audience as a I gave a presentation at a conference. I was looking at how the memoirs of bicultural people had helped me look at my experience as an adopted person. I had found mirrors of my experience in Richard Rodriguez’s <em>Hunger of Memory</em>, in Eva Hoffman’s <em>Lost in Translation</em>, in Paul Cowan’s <em>Orphan in History</em>. I felt I had learned from these books (and others) about taking back a lost part of yourself and integrating it back into your life. <br /><br />To Mi Ok, I might have had losses through adoption; but they had not been increased exponentially by the additional losses of country, culture, and language, or by the additional burdens of racial difference and racism. I had not grown up as the only person of my race in my family and my town. I had not been asked by photographers to open my eyes “wider,” as one of Mi Ok’s poems recounts. I know Mi Ok’s anger during the workshop was less about me than about how little she felt understood in terms of the isolation, the dislocation and the differentness she had experienced in her adoption,.<br /><br />It was my happening upon Mi Ok’s poem in <em>Making Face, Making Soul</em> that returned us to conversation begun two or three years earlier. I wrote “Responding to a Poem by Mi Ok Bruining” and sent it to her. She wrote back. In fits and starts, we have been in communication ever since.<br /><br />With Mi Ok’s permission, I once proposed to our mutual social work alma mater that they publish “To Omoni, In Korea” alongside my poem responding to it. Those poems together in the school’s journal would have made our conversation public again (like our exchange at the conference) , and I thought this would be a provocative and educational read for social workers. Because my proposal was turned down, I now wish I had suggested pairing “To Omoni in Korea” with “For My First Mother.” At least that would have shown two adoptees both moving toward their birthmothers—one in a combination of English and Korean, the other in the language of dreams.<br /><br />About ten years after I wrote “Responding,” I wrote another poem with Mi Ok in it. In “The Adopted Woman Reads an Obituary,” I was again connecting thoughts about a multicultural person—in this case Czeslaw Milosz, the subject of the obituary—with adoptee experience. The following stanza is one of nine:<br /><blockquote><em>I can’t even read the Times<br />without musing adopted.<br />Like the death of Czeslaw Milosz<br />who did translation<br />but thought you could write true poems<br />only in your other tongue.<br />So where does that leave the<br />adopted who come from Korea<br />but grow up in English?<br />Can your mother tongue be<br />your adoptive mother’s tongue?<br />Isn’t Mi Ok Bruining<br />a powerful poet in English?<br />But look how she incorporates <br />Korean. The adopted can<br />surely appreciate this<br />mixing of two mother tongues<br />more than anyone.</em></blockquote><br />Mi Ok responded to my obituary poem by sending me a fable she had written about an Irish-American adopted by Asians. This twist to the usual transracial adoption story still leaves me relatively speechless. Is that because it forces me (Irish-American, no less) to imagine myself growing up with Asian parents? Is it because I read this fable partly as the European-American mother of an African-American son? Am I vicariously overwhelmed by the task Mi Ok has taken on: overturning what people are used to, widening their mental horizons, helping them see things in completely new ways, helping them see hard things? Yes to all that and more.<br /><br />I have apologized to Mi Ok for my silence, but I am sure Mi Ok knows silence can have many causes. Applause, for example, can be merely polite while a silent audience can mean a spell cast that no one wants to break. Silence can mean a nerve has been touched. It can mean awe. On the other hand, if my ongoing conversation with Mi Ok has taught me anything—yes, and if poetry has taught me anything—it’s that words we don’t have today may still come to us over time. So we can keep responding to each other.<br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Penny Callan Partridge says, “I grew up as an only child in a closed adoption. After high school, I was an English major at Stanford and then a Peace Corps Volunteer in Nigeria. Encouraged by an aunt (now a hundred years old!), I went to the Smith College School for Social Work to become a clinical social worker. My first husband had been my teacher there. He was a widower with a little girl, whom I adopted.<br /><br />“Not long after that, I co-founded Adoption Forum in Philadelphia. That was in 1973. In 1976, I met my birthmother; and in 1980, I became President of the American Adoption Congress. In 1986, another husband and I adopted our son in an open adoption. Nathan has grown up knowing his birthmother and brother.<br /><br />“Meanwhile, I had always—even before I could read and write—liked poetry. This was helped by my adoptive mother's obviously relishing it as she read or recited it to me. But my mother was enthusiastic about a lot of things. It was poetry that reached out and grabbed me. I was close to sixty before learning that, through my birthmother, I am probably related to the Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh.<br /><br />“Poetry has connected me to myself and, especially, to my experience(s) as an adopted person. It has also connected me in amazing ways to other people. I tell some of my best stories about this in <em>THE PEOPLE THEY BROUGHT ME</em>. As someone who spent the first weeks of my life with no mother there, I am very grateful for this community we've been building for anyone affected by adoption.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-78424556919512017192011-05-09T13:01:00.000-07:002011-05-10T10:50:54.881-07:00MARY KRANE DERR<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />An experience in four parts, none of them involving an actual adoption within our family.<br /><blockquote>1. When my boyfriend (later spouse) and I unintentionally conceived our daughter in very difficult circumstances, including poverty and my multiple disabilities and health risks, we briefly thought of adoption. We didn’t want to lose her. We decided instead to do whatever it took to raise her, together. And we did.<br /><br />2. Not wanting to risk another pregnancy that could easily endanger me and any child I might conceive, I had a tubal ligation at 27. At 30 I had a complete hysterectomy because of severe endometriosis. My spouse and I debated long and hard about adopting a so called “hard to place” child but we didn’t go through with it.<br /><br />3. I worked for a time as a maternal child welfare social worker. I counseled pregnant women, and conducted foster care and adoptive homestudies, supervised placements, and worked with adult adoptees. My endometriosis diagnosis and hysterectomy happened in the midst of this work.<br /><br />4. In college, our daughter became unexpectedly pregnant. She considered placing her baby for adoption but decided to parent him, finally, as a single mother, a white woman raising a son of African as well as European ethnicities. My husband and I are very involved in raising our grandson.</blockquote><br />After all this, I am not categorically opposed to adoption. For some women and children, it can be a constructive, loving decision. If the birth mother is not pressured by the denial of necessary resources for parenting or anyone who feels her pregnancy “disgraces” them. If she can choose the adoptive family and the degree of openness. If the loss it represents for her and other birth relatives is recognized and honored. If she is not slutshamed or excoriated as a bad irresponsible mother or branded as one without spiritual integrity. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-VmUpYLuJgvZbhS2UBgH9fwqjzCz60ZdjgWVba8LTXvCCx_MsWwyNEz5P31K5Srq_CWaKTBoM-QUJki5_zUfQ_JJSIXEv4K8a5lWpoyz5QK1ojHTdouH8ICvsqZ7RsjCo6yeq0L8wA/s1600/marykranederrwgemma.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-VmUpYLuJgvZbhS2UBgH9fwqjzCz60ZdjgWVba8LTXvCCx_MsWwyNEz5P31K5Srq_CWaKTBoM-QUJki5_zUfQ_JJSIXEv4K8a5lWpoyz5QK1ojHTdouH8ICvsqZ7RsjCo6yeq0L8wA/s320/marykranederrwgemma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603721316853329762" /></a><br />I am aware too that in some situations, adoption is necessary to protect children from abuse and neglect. And of course there are orphans. But no should assume that a woman is unfit to parent simply because, for example, the pregnancy was unintended or if she is not married, poor, disabled, and/or of color.<br /><br />The child welfare system in the U.S. often treats adoption as a “meat market” that privileges able-bodied white babies and presents older children, children of color, and children with disabilities as “economy models” or “damaged goods.” It often shuts out prospective adoptive and foster parents who have lots to offer children but are deemed “unworthy” because they are of color, have disabilities, have low/modest incomes, and/or are LGBT. This really needs to change.<br /><br /><br /><CENTER>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />I have only started to write poetry that draws upon these experiences, so I am not sure yet. I am struck, though, by how much anger and love surface when I do write on this subject. I hope the anger is in the service of the love.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION.<br /><br /><br />BIGGER AND BETTER THAN</strong><br /><br />As I finger the soft $10 in my tightening jeans pocket, my belly spills out a shredded lilac cotton blouse with its fake pearl buttons, swells a half step ahead of my hiking boots that pant their old tongues and stumble past bus stop after bus stop.<br /><br />At the grocery store parking lot, I back accidentally into a shock of a bumper sticker, stark black background, words the same fluorescent yellow of crime scene tape: ADOPTION NOT ABORTION<br /><br />and I strongly want to accost who's absent from that bumpersticker’s driver’s seat: <em>Hey you! Just where else do you imagine we are not going? We, my sentient sl*tty self and my already thumbsucking, somersaulting b*st*rd baby whose life I guard fiercely with my worndown own?</em><br /><br />Inseparable from conception, inseparable at future birth, we are traveling already to, through, over, despite the cracked, hard, shifty public commons made visible audible textural of this broken city sidewalk.<br /><br />Traveling the alternative reality of _____________ NOT ABORTION, that nameless thin line, that thin ground-level ledge, that splintering plywood plank over pestilent sewers that could drown us both if I twisted an ankle.<br /><br />Reality that is not “natural law punishment” for “fornication,” punishment the dreaded unwed can expiate only through some raw sacrificial wound of unchosen pried-forever-shut adoption to Perfect Rich White Chreeshtians in the Suburbs.<br /><br />Reality that results from sly sadistic human agency, i.e., is coldly <em>manmade</em>, is completely classifiable under <em>stuff that doesn’t have to be this way this way at all</em>. <br /><br />Why couldn’t ours be a sure lush path via parkways of fragrant green grass? Why not at least the quarters for a bus seat when I am simply too tired to slog us out on my own two swollen feet?<br /><br />But I do not lie in wait, do not heft any hammer, do not even jab out an unsigned letter to snap under the windshield wiper. I have no hammer, I have no paper or pen yet, I have no patience for anything this day but the slow building up of our reciprocal intertwined survivals.<br /><br />I just curve us right past the store’s electric eye which parts the door for us as much as for anyone “legitimate.” Curve us towards the bin of half-bruised apples, the post-Passover matzohs at 90% off, the tubs of generic unnatural peanut butter. <br /><br />Towards the additive-ridden, the out-of-season, the deeply discounted—from which I create both of us. My belly spills out the shredded lilac cotton blouse, shifts our concentric centers of gravity forward into what we always will make up together as we go along. <br /><br />Bigger and better than what that bumpersticker could provide for us, towards everything it didn’t even begin to have the right words for.<br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>THE FAMILY CAPPERS</strong><br /><br />Plastic wrapped sandwiches and burnt sorry coffee in the dilapidated beige conference room with the stained orange chairs allotted us: the local maternity and adoption workers convene for our monthly lunch we pay for out of our thin salaries.<br /><br />Thin because we are all supposed to have “good-provider” husbands or live out an ascetic asexual professional-woman singlehood? So what does this make of my attempted equal-rights life with my good loving man of a grad student also grossly underpaid alternative school teacher spouse?<br /><br />Pagers all set on in case a maternity ward summons us into volunteer mandatory overdrive: four crisply critical women in tailored suits talk overlaps re: the latest scandal of the broadcast news. The <em>family cap</em>, the <em>family cap</em>, <em>how badly needed, our clients on welfare have babies just to get the extra money</em>.<br /><br />All decree except me, in my colorpatch woven Nepali on sale vest, that my boss just reprimanded as <em>not stodgy enough for your job</em>. All decree as I listen in shock, and wilt down, and wilt down, into a roil of unvoiceable shame and rage for those dissed and denied mothers just about one or two vests away from where I live. Don’t they know family caps will cap and cut families through more abortions?<br /><br />As I struggle to pull my lips teeth larynx into enough order to speak, they careen onto their next judgment: <em>So this woman who has nerve damage, who has constant pain, SHE wants to adopt from our agency, can you believe it?!</em> They purse their lips wildly, shake their heads NO! extravagantly—until I wobbily jump to my uneven feet and splutter out <em>You would… then, never…allow… people disabled as me… adopt.</em><br /><br />And rush my rage loudly through the bathroom door I let slam as final punctuation. I stand pale shuddering nauseous before the mirror. Listen to the broken toilet that runs its random endless torture music whenever I run my lopsided self in here to hemorrhage out the unbalancing clots of my purported “barrenness.”<br /><br />Intone out loud but not too: <em>You effin family cappers.</em><br /><br />But I stave off vomiting, because I need to hold onto that sandwich and coffee. Especially since my pager could go off at any minute, and then what then?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>IN MY PRAYERS</strong><br /><br />So often when <br />I push my grandbaby’s stroller,<br />I flash on you<br />and pray for you,<br />the couple in the album<br />of the agency<br />our expectant-in-college<br />daughter glanced off:<br /><br />your doubly open—<br />one brown one rose—<br />smiling woman faces,<br />the clean, bright blue,<br />empty at-the-ready <br />backyard playground set behind you,<br />tucked next to your “Dear Birthmom” letter<br />with its longing sweeps<br /> of flawless, invitational calligraphy.<br /><br />And I pray that<br />your child is now<br />materialized to romp and sing<br />through that heart’s <br />investment of a playset.<br /><br />And I thank Jesus<br />that we raised a daughter<br />who would think to ponder you,<br />to offer you a fair shake<br /> at the rightful family you seek.<br /><br />And I thank Jesus<br />that your child is not<br /> the same child as hers,<br />that you never knew in the slightest<br />about the one whom you lost:<br /><br />our rosebrown grandson<br />who has just as much fun<br />on the scuffed gray swings<br /> in the city park,<br />imitating raucous crow<br />and liquid cardinal calls <br />and carillon peals with me<br /><br />as he oscillates up and down,<br />his Afro with the Celtic waves<br />billowing back and forth,<br />sleek with the shea butter<br />I learned to work into it myself.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br /> Mary Krane Derr is a poet, writer, musician, eco-activist, and human rights advocate from Chicago. Her poetry has been nominated for a Best of the Web Award, <em>Best American Poetry</em>, and <em>Best Spiritual Writing</em>. She was featured at India’s 2011 Kritya International Poetry Festival. She has contributed to literary magazines in the U.S., Ireland, Great Britain, and India as well as anthologies like <em>Hunger Enough: Living Spiritually in a Consumer Society </em>(Pudding House).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370349020097650314.post-7422449363613352642011-05-07T18:54:00.000-07:002011-05-08T13:52:02.417-07:00KAREN G. JOHNSTON<strong>WHAT IS YOUR ADOPTION EXPERIENCE?</strong><br /><br />I am the adoptive parent of two children whom I had formerly fostered. My son, now 17, was officially adopted when he was five years old and my daughter, now 15, was adopted when she was seven years old. There was a lot of pain at the start because there was back and forth and the system, in my opinion, wasn't working with their best interest at heart. We have an open adoption with their birth mother and both kids have contact with their larger birth extended family. This has made their lives better. It has made mine more complicated. All of it is welcome.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVhmanFk8Q-hhLLZhzy4jAMRtVFpY7lymtWtPUM-fPPezRBKIBVikaJlVbf-AmOSDobrfxEncnDXzwahnD86T5KODEr2hAR6lRssMAeSMoLfP77vXQczWrhzpeUU-GUwt5SBJ1Z_-Kw/s1600/343.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVVhmanFk8Q-hhLLZhzy4jAMRtVFpY7lymtWtPUM-fPPezRBKIBVikaJlVbf-AmOSDobrfxEncnDXzwahnD86T5KODEr2hAR6lRssMAeSMoLfP77vXQczWrhzpeUU-GUwt5SBJ1Z_-Kw/s400/343.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604450667927685586" /></a><br /><small><center><em>Karen and her daughter</em></center></small><br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>HOW HAS THE ADOPTION EXPERIENCE AFFECTED YOUR POETRY?</strong><br /><br />When observable themes have emerged in my writing, parenting is a huge one, but specifically parenting as an adoptive parent shines within that category. It is where I find much of my inspiration throughout the day, everyday, whether I am writing or not—as well as many opportunities for humility. That crossroad of inspiration and humility—of any kind—is a rich source of writing for me.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>PLEASE SHARE A SAMPLE POEM(S) ADDRESSING (IN PART) ADOPTION:<br /><br /><br />New Same Grief</strong><br /><br /><br />She does not yet<br />share my curves.<br />Nor will she ever.<br /><br />Another woman’s bodystory<br />best guesses when first blood<br />will engorge, trickle, then seep.<br />She will wear the echo <br />of some other woman’s body.<br />Its reverberation is the one <br />that chimes my daughter’s bodyclock<br />of egg drop, of bud burst.<br /><br />It is the new same grief.<br />Like when I couldn’t name her,<br />she who came to me<br />two days past two<br />and quite already <br />the whole of her given name.<br /><br />It is the new same grief.<br />Like when I had to reply<br />I don’t know<br /><em>What was my first word?<br />When did I learn to walk?</em><br />I don’t know <em>how come <br />she couldn’t be a live-with mommy?</em><br /><br />Blood. Bone. Body.<br />These bounded things <br />that wither away.<br /><br />My solace—<br />large enough, <br />and more:<br />though body <br />may forever <br />be mystery,<br />not she.<br />Not her love.<br /><br /><br /><center>***</center><br /><br /><strong>ABOUT THE POET:</strong><br /><br />Karen G. Johnston is a social worker by vocation, a Unitarian-Universalist-with-Buddhist-tendencies by faith, a mother by choice, a socialist by inclination, a lay preacher by gift, and a poet by avocation. Her poems have been published in <em>Concise Delight, Equinox, Silkworm, the Naugatuck River Review, Red Weather</em>, and in the anthology, <em>Women.Period </em>(SpinsterInk, 2008). She lives in Western Massachusetts with her two teenage children, her soon-to-be husband, two dogs, a cat, and a growing vegetable patch.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1