Who the hell gave me these Barney Rubble feet?
On July 25, 1972, on Pg. 22 of the New York Times, reporter Enid Nemy told the story of Florence Ladden Fisher — an adult adoptee — and Fisher’s search for her identity.
The angst of wondering where she came from simmered within Fisher all her life. She had already been searching for her birth family for 20 years when, in 1969, she was in a car crash. Just before the accident, Fisher told the Times, the last thought that went through her head was “I’m going to die and I don’t know who I am.”
So she ran a classified ad looking to connect with other adoptees and talk about their shared experiences. Adoption records were sealed in New York — and most other places in North America — at the time, and she hoped to find a community willing to link arms and stride forth for change.
The ad knocked loose an avalanche of letters from across the U.S. and about a year later led to formation of the Adoptees Liberty Movement Association (ALMA; the Spanish word for soul). Today, ALMA is the oldest, most comprehensive and successful registry of its kind, helping its members connect with their birth relatives.
You might wonder if Fisher was spurred on by an unhappy youth — she wasn’t. Her childhood was quite ordinary, she said, ‘neither particularly happy nor bitterly unhappy.’ But she believed, and thousands of adoptees agreed with her, that an adopted child’s quality of life growing up is actually irrelevant to their question of identity.
“No one really seems to get the message,” Fisher said. “Whether you have a good or bad adoptive home, you have an identity crisis.”
When I stumbled across her story, Fisher’s sentiments washed over me like a cool breeze. Yes. That’s me. And I’m not the only one.
Born in 1958 and officially adopted in 1960, I did have a particularly happy childhood. There was lots of love and encouragement. I lived in Canadian post-war suburbia, with a stay-at-home Mom, professional Dad, swimming, piano and dance lessons, Girl Guides, neighbourhood buddies to ride bikes with, skating and tobagganing, good nutrition and health care. Laughter. Holidays.
I was blessed to be their Chosen Child, and reminded of it often enough that when longing and questions rose up in my throat, a big gulp of guilt handily pushed them back down.
Fisher found that “most people, especially adoptive parents” cannot understand the compelling need for identity experienced by many of the adopted children, and I can vouch for that.
Dad was genuinely thrilled for me when I broke the news about finding my clan, but Mom was threatened by the mention of birth parents. My questions brought clipped replies. “Why do you want to know that? We chose you. You were so very wanted.”
Question, guilt, swallow.
“They think we are shallow and ungrateful, neurotic and maladjusted, disturbed and psychotic and that generally we should be happy that someone took us in,” Fisher had said, and yessiree - I have laid those adjectives upon myself. But the wondering would not be stilled.
I was raised among a number of adoptees; my brother Jay, who Mom and Dad adopted eight years before me, two cousins, numerous friends, and my first serious boyfriend. Without exception, every adopted male among them has not wanted to know where they came from, or wouldn’t admit to wanting it, but every female did.
When I began to search in my early 20s, I was only looking for health information. I had children already and worried about hereditary illness. The provincial government promptly sent my medical background and social history and, once I had that inch I immediately wanted a mile. So I pressed on.
I developed a little handbook of fibs with which to open conversations and honed the research skills that would later serve me well as a journalist. I convinced myself I was prepared to roll with it if my tribe turned out to be hostile, or ugly, or dead. I kept it all a secret from Mom and Dad for what felt like a very long time.
It was the 80s. Public libraries, municipal records and telephone directory assistance yielded an abundance of (albeit slow-growing) fruit and led to my first significant discovery, but thank GOD computers came along when they did. With every step forward, I felt more complete. I began to make sense to myself. It felt so good.
As Florence Fisher would learn, gaining access to one’s birth records may be something we’re all entitled to, but represents just one side of a triangle. Adoptive parents can feel betrayed and birth parents are faced with an unexpected (and potentially unwanted) loss of their privacy.
It might be argued that adopted or not, everyone struggles to figure out who they are. But to find the source of your big nose, stubby toes or unibrow in a biological family, all you’ve got to do is look around the dinner table. Despite the abundance of love in my house, I sometimes felt like a visitor.
Florence Fisher was quoted once as saying she knew more about her dog’s history than her own, but eventually she found her birth parents.
For me, the past 39 years have been so laden with twists and turns, surprises and blessings that I long to share it; but I best lay it on the table in small servings. I begin today, with this appetizer. I hope you’ll stay for the buffet.