Donaldson Institute-Identity Study

Hello everyone, I apologize for not writing in a long while. My graduate studies are keeping me quite busy, as it’s nearly the end of the semester.

I just found this article over the weekend and it’s full of issues that I’ve written here on my blog so far. Check it out below.

Adopted From Korea and in Search of Identity

A few thoughts:

One of my favorite things to read in the article was the comment from Adam Pertman the executive director of the Donaldson Institute regarding listening to the “adoptee voice.”

Finally, they are asking the adopted people themselves how THEY feel about their adoption. The study went directly to the source. ““We wanted to be able to draw on the knowledge and life experience of a group of individuals who can provide insight into what we need to do better,” Adam said.

His attitude is a welcome step in the right direction.

As readers of this blog know, that is one of the biggest reason why I scribble my thoughts on this page. It’s crucial for people to hear about adoption and it’s consequences and the lives of adopted people, from the ones who have been adopted themselves.

One a more somber note, it remains sad to me how many parents are afraid when their adopted children begin exploring their birth roots. I feel for people like Ms. Towne (a personal friend) and quoted in the article who said ““A lot of adoptees have problems talking about these issues with their adoptive families. “They take it as some kind of rejection of them when we’re just trying to figure out who we are.” One of the things I stress to anyone whom I converse with about international adoption, is the overall spirit of openness that must be there throughout the whole process for both adoptive parents and the adoptees.

Adoption is a complicated, emotionally chaotic situation, however, hiding behind fears of rejection, as many adoptive parents do, when their adopted children just want to “know where they came from and who they are,” merely makes the situation worse and potentially increases resentment as the adopted person grows older.

I am so grateful to my own parents for always letting me explore my identity and never shying away from the tough questions about my birthmother and birthfather, Indian roots and whatever my life was before I joined theirs. They have allowed me and blessed my efforts as I continue on the road to discovery of what being adopted means to me and how my adoption and my birthculture shapes my identity to this day. I can’t thank them enough for that.

Elton John and Celebrity Adoptions

Once again another celebrity is getting into the adoption game. This time it’s 62 year old Elton John. Ugh. Great. Is this really necessary? A number of people want to know my thoughts about celebrity adoption, you are about to hear them.

One of my biggest concerns with celebrity adoptions is the ease and speed in which they are conducted. While ordinary people wait many months, even years to receive a child, celebrities go through paperwork in a matter of weeks. It’s patently unfair to those who have gone through proper channels and have waited excruciating amounts of time to be passed up on the list just because someone is well known. Why should a famous person get a child through adoption any faster? If anything it should be a MUCH slower process for them. What kind of home study was going on for Madonna and Angelina Jolie? What social workers were looking into their households to determine if they were fit to adopt a child? I would think they never had to deal with that intrusion on their lives. Shouldn’t there be due diligence done on them, as there is for the rest of the adopting world?

Celebrities should have their ability to raise a child scrutinized even further than a non famous couple or parents. Who thinks a child that grows up in a celebrity house is going to be any better adjusted than a child who goes to a regular family situation? To me it’s almost a laughable question. Not only will they be pampered and live in a world most of all will never know, their parents by the mere fact they are celebrities have a much greater likelihood of not being involved in their lives. If the child is going to be raised by a number of high priced au pairs, and servants, while their parents have minimal contact with them, how is that beneficial to the child?

Adoption is already a complex emotional process. There is no need to add the burden of fame and being in the spotlight to a child who is desperately trying to fit in with their new family.

Some may say, being adopted by a celebrity is great, because they will never have to worry about material possessions and will live a life “better” than anyone could imagine. Yes, eventually they may be wealthier according to Western standards of consumption. For sure; they will be able to have all the toys in the world, and will almost certainly be able to do whatever they want with their lives, as money will be no object. But are those reasons enough to justify a celebrity adoption? In my view no amount of money or material possession could ever take the place of love, a sense of belonging, and acceptance of that child as your own which parents can bestow. All the opportunities and riches are great, but if you don’t feel loved and wanted, what good is all the rest?

One of the biggest issues I have with anyone who adopts a child internationally is their future plan to help that child get in touch with their birth culture. I don’t think anyone should adopt a child from another country if this is not the case, celebrity or otherwise. Now tell me, what are the chances that celebrities not only will value the birth culture of their children, but will give them the opportunity to explore it? From what I’ve read, they want to “Americanize,” their children as soon as possible. Essentially erase connections of their children’s former lives from adoption onward. That’s patently wrong.

International adoption should never be an “it” thing to do. That some people look at a foreign adopted babies as the newest “thing” to have disgusts me. Children are not a trendy accessory in order for you to feel better about yourself, or to feel like you can keep up with Angelina and Brad. I’m talking about a child. A living, breathing human who I feel in some cases is being bandied about in a game of one-upmanship and used to show off a higher social status. I realize not all famous people view internationally adopted children this way, but I fear some do.

So far I’ve only discussed the effects on the children and society, while not touching on the effects celebrity adoption has on the orphanages and societies where the children are born. First off, it seems to me that bringing high visibility to orphanages is a double-edged sword. On one hand I am glad that the plight of some many of the world’s abandoned and orphaned children goes to the forefront of national news. On the other, adopting a child may lead many mothers in less developed countries to put their children in orphanages in the futile hopes that their child too will be picked up by a famous person in the Western world.

While international adoption’s existence can be debated, and I will discuss that in a later post, I believe countries should be working with parents and families to help keep everyone together. Giving your child for adoption should be one of your last options. I would love to see a world someday where the structural failings of a society no longer existed, in order for international adoption to cease. But that world is utopian and never coming. In the meantime I’d like to see governments and other institutions which work closely with families help developing nations understand the importance of keeping their children with their birth parents. Celebrities have clout with other governments and NGO’s because of their humanitarian beliefs, and money. Could they use that political currency to help address the underlying social situations which make adoption neccessary?

I realize I have made some sweeping generalizations, but the topic gets me fired up. What do you all think? This is an issue that I’ve heard discussed from adopted and non –adopted people and everyone seems to have an opinion on it, I want to hear yours.

From Indifference to Love: How my Affection for India Evolved –Part Two

As I discussed here, my Indian heritage was a source of deep embarrassment and shame most of my young life which included my junior high and high school years. Coincidentally India’s stature on the world stage increased, as my love for it grew, from my Senior year of high school in 1998 through the present. After high school I attended the University of Delaware for college.

Again though, I felt uncomfortable with Indian students. Actually I tried to show interest in the Indian Student Association, but that did not turnout as planned see my post about thin slicing.

The turning point in how I viewed India came when I finally returned the spring of my junior year of college. My affection for India started to grow exponentially during and after my visit for three weeks in 2001. Growing up, our family dream was that all five of us would travel to India when we were old enough to appreciate it. After my grandmother unfortunately passed away the fall of 2000, my parents decided to use their inheritance money to finance our long-awaited journey to land of our births.

My return to India with the family merits its own set of blog posts, but I will mention a few things about it. One, it changed my life in a deep way. I looked at the world differently; I viewed my own life through a new lens. I became passionate about returning for a longer period of time, at some point in the future. Spending three weeks there with my entire family was the most intense emotional experience of my life. I must have cried myself to sleep half the nights I was there. My trip to India was a watershed event for me, and its effects continue to this day. The biggest change: for the first time I was proud to be known as Indian.

Before leaving for India, my mother suggested I contact a girl from Namaste (the group of adopted kids from Madison), who I had grown up with. She was a fellow Indian adoptee who had already made the trip back in her teen years. Besides my own brother and sister, my mom reasoned, I was not in communication with any other Indian adoptees. I did not think Ruthie would remember who I was and so I blew my mother’s suggestion off. However, Ruthie would resurface in my life a short time later.

A little more than a month after I returned from India I asked my mother for Ruthie’s email address and wrote her a message. I received a response a few days later, thus re-connecting with a woman that I knew as a young child in Madison. Over time my relationship with Ruthie evolved into one of the closest friendships I have. In fact Ruthie and I have an incredible story, one that I’ll share with her blessing at a later time.

I had fundamentally changed. I began speaking wistfully of India and my experiences there. Somehow, I was always working India into my conversations with people. I was fascinated with her politics and plotted ways to get back using my journalism education and political science background.

In the coming months whenever I would meet someone who looked like they were from the subcontinent I would politely find out. “You look you are from the subcontinent, right?” And then pretend to hide my glee when they replied, “Yes, I’m from Delhi, or Bombay, Madras, Pakistan,” or other places. I’d reply that I was from Kerala, and then try continuing the conversation. Two things would happen at this juncture. Either they would say some Hindish (Hindi-English mixture) or they would feel awkward and leave. Both responses were less than optimal. But I was putting myself out there as an Indian person, owning it, loving it, and proud of it.

The majority of Indians that I met in those few months and coming year and change did not become anything more than minor acquaintances. They were for the most part on the opposite quest from me. They were trying to become more American, looking to shed their accents, their Indian stereotypes and their clumsy English conversational skills. They were essentially trying to be more like me (the American), and I was trying to get more into the world they were desperate to minimize. It was a glaring contrast.

I began reading books about India at a prolific rate. My first read was Arundhati Roy’s “The God of Small Things.” Ruthie bought it for me. About my home state Kerala, it’s a beautiful story and remains one of my favorite books of all time.

I devoured books about modern India, about the Moghuls and the ancient Indian kingdoms, and the many novels of Salman Rushdie, a favorite author of mine. I read Gandhi’s biography, books about the Partition, current Hindu-Muslim relations in North India, the history of spices and Indian trade and a host of other sub topics about India, her people, her culture and her history.

I found an Indian restaurant near the college and began going there for Sunday buffet lunches. Over time I began bringing large groups of friends there as well. I’d always loved Indian cuisine and was happy to share what I consider one of the best ethnic food groups in the world with my college buddies. I became for my non-Indians friends, a portal to all things Indian. It was thrilling.

Some things, however, remained the same. I still felt out of place and alienated by the Indian-American community. I still had no grasp on any native Indian languages and my friends were all non-Indian. I was getting to “know” India, rejoicing in my heritage in purely solitary ways, save for my Sunday lunches. As my collegiate life came to a close, my initial earnestness to get in touch with my Indian roots began to dissipate. The reason; the journey was my own, but I wasn’t really sharing it with anyone. It was a lonely adventure for me.

After a stint of living at home, I decided to move out of my parent’s house and down to Washington D.C. Thus began another phase of my trying to connect. After moving to DC I began attending cultural events based around Indian holidays, Diwali, Independence Day and Republic Day. I went by myself to see local dance troupes perform in front of family and friends for Republic Day celebrations. I ate the Indian fare at tables and tried to make conversation with those around me. I even went to the Indian Embassy here in Washington, for a raising of the tricolor and to take part in Independence Day. Everyone around me seemed to enjoy the festivities in large groups. But I was by myself, feeling self-conscious and definitely alone.

I wanted to bring other people, but the few Indian friends I had were not interested in going. Since I knew the gatherings would be primarily Indians, I was aware that bringing non-Indian friends would mean annoying stares all day. If there’s one thing I’ve realized about the Indian-American community over the years is that when you’re in their world, and you have non –Indians with you, you’ll feel like a celebrity with all the attention.

My journey from isolation to exploring my Indian-ness with others finally came about when I joined an adult adoptee group called “Desi Adoptees United (DAU).” It was founded by my friend Lata in New York a few years ago, and it’s made up of more than 30 Indian adopted adults throughout the country. We post messages regarding identity, birth mothers, culture and many other issues on a Yahoo group board.

The group also gets together every year in a random US city for a weekend of hanging out, which usually includes trips for the females in the group to get mehndi (I figure out a way to skip that part) a meal at an Indian restaurant, a Bollywood film screening or Indian clothes shopping. I know on the surface clothes shopping seems superficial, but for me, it was part of a bigger step. I was not only proud to be Indian, but I was willing to wear the clothes of my birth country, not just read about it or attend random Indian events.

Being a member of the DAU “family” gives me tangible, non intimidating ways to explore my birth culture and the group has changed my life. Not only is it wonderful to have so many adopted friends who understand and “get,” being adopted, but many of them are on the same journey, getting in touch with their roots, exploring what India means to them and we can talk about it together.

This September I’ll be in my 2nd year of graduate school, still planning on going to India in the near future. I love India today, more than ever. But I realize it has massive amounts of problems as well. My dream is to find a job that helps to eradicate some of those evils; its poverty, its poor governance, its religious conflicts, etc. I love her diversity, and the resourcefulness of her people. A year ago I came to a conclusion that has colored the way I look at the trajectory for the rest of my life. It’s very simple, but to me a profound shift in my thinking:

If I am to be proud of being Indian and all that India is, then I must do everything in my power to make India a better place. For me that means living there for a period of time, and advocating for her people whenever I can.

Those simple words belay a passion for seeing change come to India, and the acknowledgement that because I was blessed enough to have grown up middle class in this country as a young child, I have a responsibility to use my strengths, gifts and education to help make India all of which I believe she can be.

Now that’s a growing love for India, come full circle. Not only am I proud to be Indian now, relishing in my birth land, but I want to go back there and help it become a better place for everyone, because I love it so much. You can’t find a deeper love than that.

Thoughts to a Teacher regarding Adopted Children

Recently I was speaking on a panel to adoptive parents and one of them asked me what practical steps they could take to help their adopted children adjust in their new lives. I said one area I would like to see change is the vernacular in which teachers discuss adoption in their classrooms.

In my opinion, a child has as much choice in being adopted, as they do in choosing their gender and their race. This is to say, I think adoption should be talked about and discussed in the larger language framework of “diversity.”

This mother is well aware of the insensitive comments that teachers and students make when they have an internationally or domestically adopted child in their classrooms. She puts the responsibility on the parent to educate the teacher, not the other way around. I like that she believes in taking a proactive approach. I would think it would really advance the conversation that the teacher could eventually have with their students about their classmate who is adopted.

These are her thoughts.

I really like the point she made that face-to-face contact is critical for the parents and the child. I’m unsure if my parents sat down specifically with my teachers on an individual basis, but I think it’s a great idea.

What do you all think about this? Is adoption something that should be talked about using the language of diversity? Anything you would add to the conversation?

Thin Slicing my Name and My Physical Appearance

I’m still working on Part Two of my story about my growing love for India. In the meantime, I want to share another interesting consequence of my adoption, having brown skin, but a western name.

The background: Early Spring 2001, I was a junior in college at the University of Delaware. I had attended a campus fair which has showcased a myriad of student groups. I spent a few hours walking around checking out both the booths of the student groups and the girls manning them. After visiting the display for the Indian Student Association (ISA), I was interested in attending a meeting. Having just returned from my trip to India with my entire family a few weeks earlier, I was eager to begin connecting more with my birth culture. A few days later I received a call quite late in the evening on my campus phone. This was before the proliferation of the cell and I still had a land-line.

My roommate handed me the phone and said a Pushpa was looking for me. I didn’t know a Pushpa, but I took the call anyway. I introduced myself and she replied that she was calling from the Indian Student Association. She was calling because I gave my contact information as I was interested in attending an ISA meeting. She wanted to inform me that the ISA was made up primarily of Indian students, and did not want me to feel out of place in the group because I was not Indian. I calmly replied, “Oh, but I am Indian, I just don’t have a typical Indian name.”

She didn’t know what to say, I think she was deeply embarrassed. The conversation ended shortly afterward, because it was awkward to continue. To my credit, I had reacted to her assumption without being snarky. It wasn’t her fault. Adam Bryant, does not like an Indian guy’s name. I understood her confusion. But this is a typical response to having a “white” name, but being brown skinned. A lot of my adopted friends have experienced similar situations and confusions over their names.

When people read my name on a list, without meeting me face to face, they sometimes assume that I’m Caucasian. Occasionally after meeting for the first time as I introduce myself, I can see they are surprised. I get it. We all make immediate judgments based on prejudices, likes/dislikes, and stereotypes. It’s a fact of human nature. Every one of us does what Malcom Gladwell calls in his book Blink, “thin-slicing.” We all make split second decisions, based on what we perceive and historically what we know.

Pushpa thought I wasn’t Indian because of my name, and Indians assume I am culturally Indian because of my skin. The following scenario occurs ever once in a while. I will be sitting somewhere, alone, reading a book or just thinking to myself, and an Indian guy or guys will sit down next to me. I’ll acknowledge their presence with eye contact briefly followed by a second or two of silence.

All of a sudden, it begins. They start jabbering away at me in Hindi, or some other Indian language. It overwhelms my ears, this onslaught of a language I don’t know a single word in. They pause. I haven’t responded. This is when I meekly reply that I don’t know any Hindi or any other language they might be speaking. They look at me, not quite comprehending what I just said. I ask if they will repeat what they just spoke, but in English this time.

I see the disappointment arise on their faces. They thought they would be able to communicate in their native language with someone who understood them, and I couldn’t do that. They wanted a quick connection, in a language they assumed we shared. I couldn’t give them that. In fact my response gave them the opposite, making us both feel like foreigners. Obviously I’m being more dramatic than neccessary, but you get the idea.

Another time I was in an Indian grocery store. I needed to buy paneer, the common type of Indian cheese. I walked back to the refrigerator and was confronted with a dizzying array of paneer choices. There must have been at least 15 different brands. Some were packaged in blocks, others already cut into bit sized pieces. All of them had markings in a language other than English. As far as I could tell, they were all the same basic flavor.

In my confusion I called over the owner of the store and told him I wanted paneer, could he give me some recommendations and explain their differences. He looked at me with a look of surprise, and said “aren’t you Indian?” Implying, am I not “Indian enough to know about paneer.” I tried to explain, “Well I wasn’t sure which to buy, and I don’t usually buy paneer.” But the damage was done, I wasn’t enough Indian for him and his subsequent attitude towards me become one of indifference. Needless to say I never went in that store again.

There are plenty of non –adopted people who go through similar experiences. But our names are so much a part of our identity; it’s fascinating to watch the extent to which people associate names with ethnicities. As an adopted person with a western, non- Indian name I wonder what it would be like if I had brown skin and the Indian name to go with it.

From Indifference to Love, how my Affection for India Evolved- Part 1

The next two posts will document how I grew to love India, after being indifferent/embarassed of my heritage. It’s interesting to note I was never ashamed of being adopted in and of itself, just being Indian.

Madison, Wisconsin has a vibrant and growing Indian-American community due to the large number of graduate students attending the university. When I lived there during the early 1980’s there were numerous traditional exhibitions (dances, plays, bazaars) which showcased India and allowed for personal interaction with Indian people and food. As a youngster, my parents took me to many of these events, exposing me to Indian culture. Since I’ve grown older, I’m glad they recognized the importance of keeping me in touch with my birth culture and never wanted that connection to fade away and be completely lost. But that was not always the case.

Growing up in predominantly white Wisconsin was not easy. As a young child I was actutely aware of my small stature in comparison to the Midwestern farm boys who were my classmates, and hailed from Swedish, German and other European ancestry. I was very thin, weighed less than 100 pounds (I finally broke the century mark in high school) and was shorter than everyone, including most of the girls. This was not a combination of body characteristics which led to high self esteem. Not to mention I had brown skin, while everyone around me, save for my own brother and sister, were Caucasian. I felt out of place and different, more than I’d like to admit.

During primary school I was subject to more than a few instances of being mocked for having brown skin. But it’s difficult to say if that was just because kids tease ruthlessly or the mocking was racially motivated. I looked different than the kids around me, there’s no denying that. They didn’t know how to react to diversity; and I just wanted to be accepted. Teasing is natural for boys that age. I don’t condone it, but I understand it.

I endured what I believe were actual racial slurs, but mostly refused to acknowledge, or become confrontational towards those saying such hurtful things. One time I do remember being mocked mercilessly by a guy and responding to him kicking him in the jaw. Luckily for me, given my age and the fact that parents are super involved in their children’s lives, I was never caught for my transgression. For the most part I tried to stick by the childhood mantra, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I didn’t realize until much later, just how wrong that pithy saying is.

As an elementary school student, we brought in desserts for our classmates when we had birthdays. I think this is standard practice in US schools. Typically we’d feast on cupcakes, brownies or something similarly sweet, while congratulating our classmate and taking a “break” from our studies. Having a birthday in late June meant school was never in session on my actual birthday. But I brought in my treats for my schoolmates near the end of the school year.

I offered my favorite Indian dessert, Halwa (a cakelike mixture of semolina, milk, sugar and nuts) and kids loved it. But there was a weird paradox in my choosing halwa. On one hand, I was proud to bring a unique international food from India to share with the class. But, I didn’t identify as Indian and wanted to be as American as possible. I didn’t realize the inherent contradiction at the time.

Over the years, a few of my classmates’ parents contacted my mother requesting the recipe to make the dessert themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if for a number of them my birthday snack was their first exposure to Indian food. And I’d like to think that in scattered houses in our Madison neighborhood, American mothers were experimenting in making halwa for their children, because their children asked for it.

While living in Wisconsin, we were members of a group called Namaste, which was made up of other families who had adopted children from India. I still stay in touch with some of the children, nearly 30 years later. My mother still corresponds with some of their families as well. We formed beautiful connections which last to this day and are meaningful to each of us. Among the activities of the Namaste group was an annual Christmas party, complete with an Indian Santa Claus. We also had picnics, met at restaurants for dinners and enjoyed each other’s company through meals around member’s dining room tables. I was happy to be with other Indian kids, and at least feel comfortable because they had brown skin like me. But we were alike, the severe minority, surrounded by the majority.

Growing older I was no longer interested in attending Nameste gatherings or the cultural offerings downtown. I considered myself fully American, despite my brown skin. Additionally, my family moved away from Madison, to New Jersey when I was 13, in thes summer before sixth grade. My mom still made Indian food on special occasions like my adoption anniversary. When we moved to New Jersey we discovered a vast Indian diaspora population. Our next door neighbors were Indian. I had a number of Indian classmates. Less than 20 minutes away from us was a town called Edison, known affectionately as “Little India.” One can’t walk more than ten feet there without running into an Indian restaurant, jewelry store, clothing shop or grocery store in Edison. It’s an amazing place.

However, I didn’t identify with being Indian very much during my junior high to high school years. There were a few reasons for this. One, India was not discussed during the time. Today it’s an anomaly to watch television, read a newspaper, or surf the Web without reading/ hearing/seeing news about India. Whether it’s her rising world prominence, economy, poor or her personalities. India is seemingly everywhere these days.

In the mid to late 1990’s that was not the case. I felt like the only Indians that people knew were “Apu,” the stereotyped convenience store clerk on the Simpsons, Gandhi and random proprietors of 7-11 and gas stations. With the exception of Gandhi, not exactly people I enjoyed being associated with. India’s economy was not growing like it was today and the world was not going through globalization as it is now either. India was relatively unknown outside of its borders.

The last reason was that the Indians I did know, seemed really geeky to me. To be sure, they were extremely bright, phenomenally educated, but had thick accents, horrible fashion sense and an overriding feeling of being lost in popular culture and within their new homeland. Again, I didn’t want to be linked with them either. Even my Indian classmates, were extremely studious, very Indian in their mannerisms and made fun of all the time for their awkwardness. I refused to be connected to them. If I had my wish, I wouldn’t even be thought of as Indian at all, my skin color be damned.

That last sentiment would soon change, radically.

Coming soon: Part Two

Where are you From?

It seems like an innocuous question, but for an international adoptee it’s a complicated one.

My typical response, “Madison, Wisconsin via Central New Jersey and I’ve lived in DC for about five years.” Which elicits a frown, or quizzical facial expression of the person asking and their follow up question becomes “where are you really from?”

I assume they ask me the “really” part because my skin is brown, but my English is sans an accent. So I clearly must be leaving out some detail(s) from my origin storyline and this confounds them. Most of the time, I’m in a good mood, happy to converse with total strangers (I do this quite well as my friends will attest) and so I continue along. “Well actually I’m from India and was adopted.” But other times, I don’t want to share my life story with people I’ve never met and don’t feel like it. So I repeat the Wisconsin, New Jersey, DC spiel and leave them perplexed.

A few years ago I attended a conference made up of entirely of international adoptees and I heard for the first time a great term to describe the “where are you from question.” We named it the “narrative burden.” What an apt description.

Everyone else can get away with a simple one or two sentence answer that sufficiently satisfies the questioner, but for the adopted person of color, that’s nearly impossible. It can be a burden for us.

How much information is too much information? That’s a question that each individual adopted person has to decide for themselves. I don’t fault the person asking the question at all. It’s one of the most fundamental in small talk. What annoys me, is when I clearly do not want to continue the line of questioning, they can see this on my face and yet insist on pushing the issue. I’m nearly always willing to talk about being adopted, with anyone who wants to listen, but sometimes I don’t. However, for some reason, people think when I don’t what to delve into my history that I’m being rude. My story is a convoluted one, and if I don’t want to share it with you, that’s my prerogative.

With people who I’m talking to from the Indian subcontinent, it’s even more difficult. After we get to the “where are you really from” question, I don’t usually say I’m adopted from India. I reply that I was born in India. Oh, but it does not stop there. “Where in India are you from?” or my personal favorite, “You don’t look Indian, I thought you were Middle Eastern, or from somewhere in Africa.”

Then we move to the questions of lineage. “Do your parents still live in India?”-technically the answer is yes. But I say “no.” Then they ask me how often I get back to India to see my family. I reply that I haven’t been since 2001, but conveniently leave out the fact that I didn’t visit any family in 2001- because I have no family I know of there.

Sometimes I blunder revealing that I’m adopted from India when I’m talking to Indians – this is a large mistake on my part, which opens a whole new line of queries. “Where are your real parents?” I smile, even though I absolutely hate it when anyone asks me where my “real” parents are. My parents who raised me are living, breathing creatures, and so they are my real parents. What these folks want to know is where the people who created me, my birth mother and birth father are now? For that I have no answer.

This can get really frustrating for me. At this point I feel trapped and on the defensive, and it all started with “where are you from?” Sometimes, it continues, if they ask my name. Usually I say A.J., which they frequent hear as the Indian “Ajay” and out pops the last name question. When I reply “Bryant,” it’s a flurry of questions. “Bryant, that isn’t an Indian name, how did you get that name? I thought you were from India.” Ah, the narrative burden, gotta love it.

Usually I just laugh off the last name vein of questions, and say something about the British formally ruling India, why would my Anglo name come as such a surprise. They smile and sometimes chuckle. The interrogation is over, and I thankfully am done.

“Where are you from?” Be careful when you ask us the question, it might be a half hour until you get the answer.

Lucky is only half the story.

Throughout my life, when I discuss my adoption, people always seem to respond with -”A.J. you are so lucky.”

“Lucky;” the word reverberates in my ear, engendering a gamut of emotions, frustration, misunderstanding, mild anger and resentment, but also a genuine desire to explain why that word bothers me.

There is a tendency to treat adoption as this virtuous, perfect act, wherein the child has been saved from some monstrous future and everything is beautiful. But that’s not the whole story. Adoption is an agonizing and difficult process. It’s sad, heartbreaking, complex and hurts, a lot. That aspect of adoption is frequently downgraded or overlooked.

I would be the first person to agree that my life has been vastly improved; my options and opportunities exponentially increased because I was adopted as an infant from India, and grew up in the United States. I would never argue otherwise. But there are two ways equally important facets to consider when discussing adoption; hope and loss.

On one hand, I am blessed beyond measure to have left what would most certainly have been a life of poverty, hardship and struggle, for a new beginning in my parents’ house in Madison, Wisconsin. I was raised with an incredible outpouring of love and understanding, while my parents and siblings completely accepted me as part of the family. I grew up essentially taking part in all that “white privilege” offered. I’m formally educated, never wanted for anything and grew up in predominantly middle class neighborhoods. My family is awesome. I love my friends dearly and I have a wonderful life here in the US.

But on the reverse, I lost my birthmother as a baby, had my birth cultural connections nearly completely snapped, and will never be as “Indian” as I would have been, had I never left. That reality is one that brings me great sadness. I was not raised with my mother tongue or any other Indian language. I grew up completely outside of the Indian-American community, never feeling included by them or comfortable with myself in their presence. I lost a connection to India that I will never reclaim.

Beyond my own wounds, my birthmother lost her son. I was the child my mom bore for nine months, gave birth to and will never see again. If that is not a sobering thought, I’m not sure what is. I imagine the pain and anguish she must have gone through, or still goes through thinking about having to give me up because she could not offer me a life that she thought I deserved, but could not give me because of her circumstances. Maybe her parents pressured her into “getting rid of me,” thinking it would bring shame on the family as she was not married. Whatever the reason, the fact remains, a mother gave up her son and she probably did not have a choice.

My own parents, who internationally adopted in Madison, Wisconsin in the late 1970’s, went through their own amount of difficulties. International adoption was rare, and not nearly as common as it is today. I’m sure people questioned their decision. Trans-racial adoption was not something that people really understood. They probably endured many stares as they brought an Indian baby, clearly not from their flesh, all around the city. They might have been labeled weird or strange and possibly bore the silent judgment of people around them. I hesitate to put words in their mouth, but I would be shocked if my adoption was “easy” emotionally for them.

The next time you meet an adopted person and you tell them how “lucky” they are, try to resist. Lucky is only half of the story, the rest usually is not palatable for everyday conversation. Being adopted is a wonderful thing in many respects, but it’s also a trying and wrenching act as well. I never lose perspective of all that I’ve gained through my adoption, but I also never forgot the pain that comes with the blessing.

Why This Blog?

After much hand wringing and contemplation, I decided to join the blogosphere a few weeks ago. Many of you are probably wondering why. There are numerous blogs out there which pertain to adoption, either domestic or international, people blogging about identity issues, birthmother conundrums and the list goes on. Some are cheery reads, while others barely hide deep pain, anger and disappointment. A few are a mixture of both. It’s a hard topic to discuss and write about, because it’s rife with deep personal feelings.

I started this blog first off, because I’m a male, Indian adoptee. That puts me in the severe minority. Boys for the most part are not given up for adoption in India, or most other places in the world. Boys contribute to the family’s well-being because they are put to work. Furthermore, when they marry they don’t require a dowry or any sort of financial or social arrangement that would be burden on their parents, as girls do. This is a noteworthy reason why the majority of internationally adopted children are girls.

Secondly, I’m more than willing to discuss adoption, all of its positives and its negatives. This adoptee is a complete “open book” when it comes to discussing what for others can be a private matter. Lastly, I identify strongly as an international adoptee and realize that because of this, my view of the world is quite different from my peers.

But while those are two big reasons why I decided to throw my voice into the world through the internet, they aren’t the biggest.

My biggest passion is reclaiming the voice of the adult adoptee. That’s the subtitle of this blog and that’s one of my great loves. For too long our voice has been submerged in the rhetoric of those who study “us,” but our words remain hidden, non existent or clouded. I’ve grown weary of being invisible.

Before you write me off as just another angry adoptee (I’ll visit that stereotype in another post) let me clarify. I believe that anyone who wishes to opine about adoption and the adoption community should do so. Whether those utterances are from social workers, adoptive parents, birthmothers, academics who study adoption, those who are interested in it, or are thinking about it themselves, they absolutely should share their thoughts and I’m glad that they do. However, their voice cannot in any way take the place of hearing from people who are adopted themselves.

To illustrate this further, let me give you a hypothetical. Suppose I told you that I was going to write a blog about women. You might respond,” Ok, fine, that’s a bit strange, but A.J. probably has some good thoughts as a man, about his perception of women.” But in the back of your mind, wouldn’t you be saying to yourself, “Interesting that AJ is writing a blog about women, but how could he really understand them, because he’s a man?” I realize this analogy breaks down under further scrutiny, but I think you get my point. When it comes to non-adopted people writing about adoption, their voice can only go so far, since they are not adopted.

I recognize that last sentence is bound to be controversial, but it’s the truth. My parents, as much as they love me and my siblings, and strive to help us process our adoptions, are limited in their understanding of what we it’s like to be adopted, because they are not. I applaud and appreciate all the ways they have tried to comprehend my hurt, my identity issues, my fear of abandonment due to adoption, etc., but since they are not adopted, their understanding of all which I have gone through, has a ceiling. It’s not their life, it’s mine.

I know I’m not the only adopted person who feels this way. There are others who share this belief. Many of us who want our views as adopted people included in the dialogue of adoption. This blog is for them.

When celebrities adopt a child and one scans the news stories, it’s rare to see an adopted person quoted in the account. One might see a quote from an adoption advocacy group, an orphanage, or any other individual or organization, but a person who is actually adopted, voicing their opinion on the matter is practically non-existent. That needs to change. I’m not entirely sure how, but I know why and hopefully this blog and others like it will reveal how to make our voices a part of the world in a new way and not merely whispers in the adoption arena.

What say you all? Am I right or totally wrong here or a mixture of both? How would you characterize the absence of the adopted person’s voice in the discussion? Comment please.

Father’s Day for the Adoptee

I have a father in my life, who I consider one of my closest friends in the world. But this post is not about that man I know, but rather my biological father, who I don’t.

Who is my birth father? I’ve often wondered what he’s like. Are we the same height? Does he have my body build? Do we both have deep voices, or long “good for piano” fingers? Does he share my intellectual curiosity or my annoyingly bushy eyebrows?? If I saw him standing next to me, would I recognize myself in him? What would I even say to him if I could meet him?

In the vernacular of the international adoption world, the birth father is rarely mentioned. I understand why this occurs. Typical reasoning includes; “he wasn’t the one who carried you in his womb for nine months..There isn’t the bond between a father and child, as with mother and child.” Or, “he wasn’t as instrumental in your birth as your mother was. Mother’s are nurturing, Father’s can be nurturers, but aren’t known for it.” The arguments are myriad, and seem justifiable, but that doesn’t mean that a discussion of birth father is unwarranted.

Other factor’s that lead to the birth father being out of the conversation include the fact that many unwed women don’t want their parents to know who the biological father is. They keep him hidden either because the woman knows the father does not want anything to do with a child, or the parents did not even know she was sexually active. In some cases, when the biological father comes into the picture during the adoption, the whole picture becomes cloudy and confused, as he may even push for custody of the child. I know there are probably other grounds for why biological father’s are not given their due in adoption circles, this is by no means an exhaustive list.

Regardless of who my birth father was as a person, he did biologically create me. There is no denying that. So for that reason alone, he should at least get some words on this day, and I’m going to give them to him. It does not bother me that birth fathers lack the same amount of attention as birth mothers, but to totally ignore them seems to be wrong. He impacted me in some way, even if he wasn’t around when my mother gave birth, (I don’t know my personal facts are about this) but half of his chromosomes are in me. So why do we rarely analyze him in the adoption dialogue?

Do we think that adoptees don’t wonder about who “their daddy is,” like they wonder who “their mommy is?” Clearly we must, but why? Aside for the reasons I mentioned earlier, it seems like we bypass the subject because we don’t really know what to say about them. It’s like we’re afraid to bring up biological father’s because they are some sort of enigma that cannot be explained. Bringing up birth father’s just seems to be a messy proposition and most in the adoption community want to shy away from it.

As I continue exploration of the adoption world I hear often hear the same refrain: “well although your father created you, he probably was not around when you were born and so therefore he is not worth mentioning in the discourse.” But if that’s the assumption, aren’t we painting the biological father with a rather large brush. I’m positive that there were and are loving fathers who decided together with their wives or girlfriends that they needed to give up their child for adoption. Giving up their created child for adoption, was the best option and they reached the decision together. If that’s the case, which it must be in at least some cases, then why does it seem we ignore the possibility that a child may want to meet their birth father, or at the very least question who he is and not focus solely on their biological mothers.

This Father’s day I’ll honor the man I call my father. He is also an amazing Dad and has helped me in so many ways become the man I am today. But I’m also going celebrate my biological father. I don’t know anything about him, but his genes are in me and so he deserves at least some acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to focusing on birth mothers’ and all the issues that vein of conversation raises. But today it’s “Dad’s” day, and somewhere out there, is the man who helped give me life. This one is for you, my birth father. At least one adopted child wants to buck the trend and bring you attention, if only for one day.

What do you all think? Am I off base with these observations, do you agree? Please comment and let me know. This space is for you to share your opinions and thoughts and I want to hear them.