Poetry Monday ~ For Veterans Day

Tags

Adopted daughter, adoption, adoptive parents, birthparents, Flanders Field, Poppies, Remembrance, Sacrifice, Soldiers, Veterans Day, WWI

NOTE FROM ELAINE: Both my original and adoptive dads were WWII veterans. As an adopted child, one of the so-called “goodbye babies,” I am a product of that bitter combat. Since the publication of my adoptive father’s wartime correspondence (From Calcutta with Love, Texas Tech University Press, 2002) I’ve been studying both world wars. Today, in honor of all our country’s veterans, I bring to you one of my favorite poems from the first global war. World War I ended 100 years ago. The fight involved 32 countries and took the lives of 10 million men. Sadly, the “war to end all wars” did not. Instead the harsh years of 1914-1918 spawned new wars. May we learn from history.
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Poetry by Lt. Col Dr. John MacRae, Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
between the crosses, row on row
that mark our place; and in the sky
the larks, still bravely singing, fly
scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
loved, and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
to you from failing hands we throw
the torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders fields.

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Join author Elaine Pinkerton on alternate Mondays for her reflections of adoption and life. Your comments are invited!

Looking at the world through adoption-colored glasses.

On the Trail Again

Tags

adoptee, Adoptee Recovery, adoptive parents, anger, birthparents, Empowerment, Hiking, Injury, Santa Fe National Forest

As an adult adoptee, I’ve learned that inward healing leads to outward recovery. Along the way, I found that the obstacles in my path cause regression. Whenever life presents a new crisis, I’m thrown off balance. Because of last Fall’s serious injury, I experienced not only a physical but an emotional setback… a “pre-adoption recovery” state of mind.

After all four of my parents died, I found that looking into the past helped me move into the future.

Balance ~ that’s what I lost eleven months ago, when a hiking injury threw me totally out of commission https://tinyurl.com/yb2ruz3k. Months of physical therapy and healing techniques such as acupuncture, Feldenkrais, water aerobics, strength classes at the gym, stationary cycling and neighborhood walks helped lessen the pain from a compression fracture. However, until I faced the main culprit – anger – I would not really get better.

Why anger? I fell during a hike, something that could happen to anyone in difficult terrain. My anger was mainly aimed at myself. For taking my eyes off the tricky uphill path. For a disastrous moment of inattentiveness. For not taking an easier hike, which half of my fellow hikers had opted for on that September 22nd of 2017. My anger was about the injury itself – a compression fracture that would take months to heal and would lead to related lumbar and joint issues.

Anger is a terrible thing. Unless one deals with it, it corrodes. It can seem there is no bottom to the Canyon of Despondency and that one can never escape from this negative emotion. Until I admitted that unresolved issues about adoption were the root of my unhappiness, I was doomed to be under the cloud of angry, hurtful emotions. Only when I looked the demons in the eye could I begin to recover.
I had to admit my sadness that I did not grow up in a biologically related family
Only after meeting my biological parents, (who were not “parent material”) did I fully realize how lucky I was to have been adopted. After five years of being shuffled about in foster care, I landed in a forever home. Adoption adds so much to a child’s life: parents who chose her (or him), security and stability, a room of ones own. But it also takes away: blood ties, growing up with people who share your DNA, a family tree that is connected to you. As a baby, you, the adopted one, resided for nine months in your mother’s womb; you were connected at a primal level.

When I was adopted at age five, which I describe in The Goodbye Baby-Adoption Diaries – I was afraid to ask questions. Instead, I grew up longing to know where I came from, why I was relinquished. Years later, I felt I’d answered the questions and silenced the demons. With my injury, however, the old anger crept back in. Only when I acknowledged my anger and worked to release it did I start to mend. I forgave everything and everybody, including myself. Last week I ended my 11-month layoff. from hiking. With my neighbor Joalie, I hiked up the Tesuque Trail in Santa Fe National Forest to a beautiful lookout point. Because I’d cleaned out my feelings of anger and resentment, the physical knots in my back left me. Being out of pain and back in touch with nature was an incredible reward.
What I learned from my injury and long, slow recovery was the importance of releasing anger. Perhaps it took the injury to make the lesson sink in. I can recommend the following. Do not take a fall, but instead spend time with your inner self to discover who you really are. YOU are worth it!

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Join Elaine on alternate Mondays for reflections on adoption and life. Guest bloggers with adoption-related stories are invited to inquire. If you’ve ever had an injury that served up a life lesson, we’d like to hear your story.

BOOKS and My Father Richard~Adopting the Past (Part 2)

Tags

adoptee, adoptive parents, Alice in Wonderland, Bedtime Stories, Books, Family history, memories, reading

My father at age five. Even then he was a bibliophile.

As one who was adopted at age five, I grew up with two family trees -1. the biological genealogy and 2. the relatives who comprised my adoptive family. Today I’m talking a look at family history from the adoptive side. This is the second installment of a tribute to my late adoptive dad. In my new home, my brother (adopted with me) and I were treated like royalty. Our father Richard read to us every night. I recall listening to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. No one had read to me before. I’d never seen a book. What luxury it was to fall asleep to my dad’s deep, rich baritone. I would have been happy if the book had gone on forever.

All his life my father read eclectically, enormously, exuberantly. An English teacher for many years, a professor of guidance and counseling for most of his career, he collected mysteries, history, poetry, biography, and the classics. My brother and I were encouraged to indulge our love of books. Even though we didn’t have a lot of money, we somehow built up our own book

collections.

My mom would outlive my dad by several years, and she diligently sent me not only

My dad pursued photography as well as collecting books.

his World War Two letters (collected in a volume titled FromCalcuttaWithLove), she also packed up his books and sent them from Virginia to my home in New Mexico.
I’ll never forget that last cardboard box of literary treasures. Inside were leather-bound copies of The Pickwick Papers, The Brothers Karamazov, Maupassant Short Stories, Twain Short Stories, Tom Sawyer Abroad, A Tale of Two Cities, The Trial and The Works of Poe.

Mark Twain was always one of Richard’s favorite authors. Looking through the Twain volume, I saw on the inside cover, his handwritten “7/28/32,” the date he’d acquired the book. It’s no accident that when I was earning my Masters degree in American Literature, I chose to write my thesis on Twain. Specifically, I wrote on Determinism in Puddn’head Wilson.

Turning to an underscored section in Tom Sawyer Abroad, I read the following quote by Tom:

“As near as I can make out, geniuses think they know it all, and so they won’t take people’s advice, but always go their own way, which makes everybody forsake them and despise them, and that is perfectly natural. If they was humbler, and listened and tried to learn, it would be better for them.”

Tom’s words so perfectly reflected Richard’s homespun, down-to-earth attitude toward life that I laughed through my tears. A bittersweet reminder of the wonderful man he was.
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Join Elaine for Monday Blog Posts on adoption and life. Please check out her archived

The Goodbye Baby gives an insider view of growing up adopted.

posts and feel free to add your comments. She is currently seeking first-hand accounts by other adoptees. Subject to review, she will publish your submission as a guest post. For more information, send an e-mail query to deardiaryreadings@me.com

BOOKS and My Father Richard ~Adopting the Past

Tags

Adaptation, adoptee, adoption, adoptive parents, Bedtime Comfort, Books, Enrichment, Family history, memories, reading

 I grew up with two family trees -1. biological 2. adoptive.

My father at age five. Even then he was a bibliophile.

Years after being adopted, I met my birthparents, and that was helpful if not completely rewarding. I was fortunate to end up with my adoptive parents (family tree #2), and in that vein I’m talking a look at family history from the adoptive side.

My father died on a May morning in Virginia, the state where I grew up and he had lived for 40 years. Richard Leonard Beard was my hero, my role model and — after I moved from Virginia to New Mexico in the 1960s — my favorite pen pal. Before the cruel dementia that ravaged his mind and memory, he was a brilliant and much-loved college professor first at the University of North Carolina (UNC) and then at the University of Virginia (UVa). Of the many gifts my father imparted to me, I cherish most his love of books.

Since that sad, raw Tuesday when Richard gave up his battle for life, I’ve savored memories of this wonderful man. None have been more heartwarming than those provided as I go through his books, which my mother sent me, carton by carton, over a period of three months.

My father was a lover of the written word, a true bibliophile. The oldest of four

Fifties Family -Growing up in university towns.

children growing out in rural northern Ohio, he was the only one who went to college. The family moved from a farm in Hancock County to Findlay, Ohio, and there for the first time he had access of a library. He started reading voraciously and never stopped. In high school, young Richard was president of 38 clubs, including the book club, the drama team, and the debating club. Ultimately, my father became professor of guidance and counseling, before which he was a high school English teacher. His love of books was conveyed to a multitude of fortunate students, and later, to me.

Times were tough for my biological mother, and-never mind books- she had enough trouble housing and feeding me and my brother. In fact, she couldn’t, and that’s when my new Mom and Dad came into the picture. I can’t recall seeing a book before my “rescue” from grim foster homes and what I considered an orphan’s life.

In the wonderful new home where my brother and I were treated like royalty rather than unwanted burdens, I recall our father reading to us every night. There must have been other bedtime stories, but my most vivid memory is of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Night after night, I would fall asleep to my father’s rich baritones, with visions of the White Rabbit, the Queen of Hearts, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the Cheshire Cat, the Mad Hatter, the Jabberwock. He instilled in me a passion for reading and transformed what had been a bleak, booklets childhood. I grew up rich in words, finding through books fantasy, adventure, edification and a world apart that seemed to make up for the first five years of my life.

During the mid-1950s, In Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Richard established an

Ahead of his time, Dr. Beard spearheaded a book TV program in the 50s.

educational TV program in conjunction with the University of North Carolina, based on books and reading. He was the host and I was a frequent guest. In the meantime, his personal book collection was growing. In thirty years, it would reach over 5,000 volumes. (To be Continued)

Next Week: “Books and My Father Richard,” Part II. Join Elaine on Mondays for reflections on adoption, adapting, and life.

Lost and Found

Tags

Above the clouds, adoption, adoptive parents, birthparents, Dealing with Adoption, Gratitude, Hiking, Mother/Son, Mountain weather, Planning, Raven's Ridge, Santa Fe National Forest, Winsor Trail

“Not all who wander are lost.” -J. R.R. Tolkien

(Note: But some are. The good news is that even if lost, the lucky ones will be found.)

My 40-year-old son  was visiting me for the weekend. Since we both love hiking, we

A brief period of sun before the clouds lowered.

decided to climb to Deception and Lake Peaks, located in Santa Fe National Forest, both above 12,000 feet. We had just one day available for the hike. This particular Saturday was iffy, threatening rain and cold mountain top temperatures. An early start was mandatory. Fortified by Starbucks, we drove to Santa Fe Ski Basin and were forging up Winsor Trail shortly after 7:30 a.m.

A few hours after embarking, we’d traversed Raven’s Ridge and were above the treeline. The temperature had dropped from 50 degrees to below 40. Wind picked up; Cloud level lowered. Reaching Lake Peak, which is just beyond Deception, involved scrambling over a rocky ledge. Because my son is stronger and faster, I told him that Deception would be my final destination. I’d wait while he went on to the more technical destination of Lake Peak. Then, when he’d gone the difficult extra half mile, he’d turn around, come back and we’d reunite forces.

He instructed me to wait on a boulder near the grove of trees next to the end of Raven’s Ridge and at the base of Deception. He’d be back, he promised, in 30 minutes or less. Though this seemed like a fine plan, that’s when the trouble began.

Deception Peak lives up to its name.

You might say it was my fault. Instead of just sitting on a boulder near the grove of trees, I decided to keep warm by temporarily joining some hikers who were headed toward Lake Peak. My plan was, after the 20-minute trek to keep warm, to take the same path down to the tree line and wait for my son.

At the top of Deception Peak, all paths are just slight demarcations in the rocky dirt, one resembling another. Shivering from the cold wind and realizing that it had been MORE than 30 minutes since I was to meet my son, I mistakenly started down a path that led to another ridge, NOT Raven’s Ridge. Thus began a scary interlude of searching. I tried my smart phone. No voice reception. Panicking, I decided to start sending texts. Here, transcribed, is our broken conversation….

ME: I’m here at the top
SON: Top of what? Went past treeline yelling and I didn’t see you
ME: I went back down and I’m headed toward the trees on the path…go down the path
ME: I;m headed right to the trees where you told me to wait…down the path
SON: I am already down a ways. Head down and I’ll wait
ME: Okay, I’m coming down
SON: Make sure you are on the right path. Stay on the ridge
I’m down about a half mile on but where it starts to go up again…

At this point, texting failed, and I was practically running, not at all sure I was headed toward the right landscape. When you’re lost in the wild, everything can begin to look alike.

Then a minor miracle! It came in the form of two other hikers, total strangers, who were there when I needed help. The first hiker was a man with a long white beard who looked as though he’d stepped from the last century.

“I’m headed toward Raven’s Ridge,” he said, after I’d explained my plight. Another five minutes and we were at the grove of trees where I’d been told to wait. I learned that the stranger’s name was Paul, then hugged and thanked him for being a Good Samaritan. He went on toward Lake Peak and I hurried toward the path that my son was already partially down. Another hiker appeared from nowhere, a young man named Jason and a few of his friends.
“Are you Elaine,” he called out.
“Yes, I’m sort of lost and I’m looking for my son.”
“He’s looking for you,” said the young man. He escorted me a half mile down the trail where my son, who’d hiked two extra miles, was awaiting. It turned out that Jason and his pals were doing field work to qualify for the local Search and Rescue Team. After thanking him profusely, I made a feeble joke:
“Well, at least I gave you a case study.”

My son was relieved but furious. As we hurried down the trail, it started to rain. “I

At the top of Deception, Lake Peak in the background.

can’t leave you alone for a minute,” he grumbled. “You’re a terrible hiker.” Thoroughly chilled, we reached the car in record time. Fortunately, my son’s a forgiving soul and reneged on his decision never to hike with me again.

In retrospect, the episode reminded me of my adoption, of how I’d been lost but then found. It was fate that my birthmother was not able to be a parent. Figuratively and literally, she lost me. My adoptive parents, by a series of fortuitous events, found me and my brother and provided us with a stable home and good childhood. Above all, what I gained from this memorable day, was a sense of gratitude. Oh yes, and this as well: follow directions. and pay attention to the landscape.

Searching for a Family Tree

Tags

Adopted daughter, adoptee, adoptive parents, CBI Theater, family tree, Iowa Teachers College, Ohio Adoption Agencies, Wartime correspondence, WWII

NOTE: This post was originally published last year. Adoptee Elaine Pinkerton is visiting her grandchildren (who turn four and seven this month), and she is happily immersed in family matters. In the midst of a new “family tree,” she feels the question of “roots” is more relevant than ever. Dear readers, adopted or not: please comment on what your family origins mean to you.

What does an adoptee do about the Ancestry Question and matter of ROOTS? While

Elaine asks, Will the real FAMILY TREE please become apparent?

others can trace their family trees, the adoptee has to choose between the birth family and the adoptive family. Do we adoptees even have a family tree? If you’ve grown up with adoptive parents, is THEIR family tree yours? If you’ve been lucky (or unlucky) enough to meet your biological parents and learn about that family, do you BELONG to IT? Could their family tree be yours?  How does one claim ancestors?
These are questions I’m no longer willing to sweep under the rug. I’ve decided that instead of a family tree, I’ll settle for family records, those of my adoptive mom and dad. The letters they exchanged (before they became my parents) during their long WWII separation reveal their search for me. In 2005, I gathered these letters together for a book: From Calcutta with Love-The WWII Letters of Richard and Reva Beard.
Richard and Reva Beard were separated by 6,000 miles and 18 months during WWII.

My Dad wrote home every day.

Richard served as a clinical psychologist in the China-Burma-Theater (CBI).  To imagine my mother’s search, I re-read the letters that deal with adopting a child. One of my favorites …
August 1, 1944

My Darling, We chose what turned out to be a very warm day to go to Toledo. I was very warm
and perspiring all day — to my amazement the big stores there aren’t air-conditioned. I got a purplish wine shade. I thought a red would be too bright. This is really a
pretty color but I’m afraid you won’t approve of the style. I couldn’t’ find a pattern that I liked in a fitted coat to use my fur to an advantage. So I got a tuxedo on the strength that you will like it when you see it. The fur will be down the front you know. I hesitated, knowing you don’t care so much for them but if it is really made to fit me maybe you will change your mind. I visited “The Child and Family Agency” 1035 Superior St. Toledo. They feel that they have to supply Toledo people first but said that their number is increasing so that they may be able to go outside of the city. I had a nice interview and they gave me an application blank to fill in which requires both our signatures. The first part is data concerning our religion, finances and references. I have copied the last two paragraphs which I think necessitates your signature. I suggest you sign it and send it to the agency, providing you agree. Of course they would probably like a letter from you too. I will sign the application and return it to the agency. Most of their children come from the Crittenton home. So naturally most of them are
young babies. (You have them 1 year before adoption is competed.) … I’m watching for the mail man these days.
These days certainly will make me appreciate days of common ordinary living. Goodnight My Darling and
Loads of Love and Kisses,

Reva

It turned out that my mother’s queries at various Ohio adoption agencies came to

Meanwhile, my Mom never gave up on finding a way to adopt.

naught. They waited until after the war ended and my professor dad started a teaching job. Amazingly, and lucky for me, my soon-to-be parents found me through a student (my birthmother Velma) at Iowa Teachers College. I was five years old and my brother Johnny was seventeen months. Products of a short-lived wartime wedding, we had lived in a series of foster homes. Our biological father had disappeared. During this drama, as revealed in this and many other letters, my adoptive mom-to-be was working hard to find a child. As it turned out, parents and children did not come together until after the war ended. The fact that we did was a miracle, one for which I will always be grateful.

Trying to find a family tree no longer, I’m settling for a grove of wartime letters.

Celebrity Adoptions make a Difference

Tags

adoptee, adoptive parents, blended families, Cate Blanchett, Celebrating Adoption, Charlize Theron, Sandra Bullock

Cate Blanchett, one of my favorite actresses, recently adopted a baby girl, Edith

Every adoptee is given a new beginning

Vivian Patricia. Edith joins three male siblings, ages 6, 10 and 13. In a sense, baby Edith is given a chance for a whole new life. As an adult adoptee, who was given a second chance at age five, I cannot help but be happy for baby Edith.
Recently, I’ve heard a rash of negativity of celebrity adoptions. Critics bring out the commodification of adoption, e.g. the money that sometimes enters into the “transaction.” They would say that when the stars adopt, it does not really help the overall rights of adoptees, birth parents and the adoption situation in general. I beg to differ…
There are 145 million orphans in the world today, boys and girls who will have to grow up without the love and guidance of parents. Any situation which allows even one of these children to gain a family is a victory, a triumph, a cause for celebration. Celebrity adoptions call attention to the option, when a couple or single parent cannot or chooses not to have children in a traditional way, of “the adoption solution.”
In my opinion, Celebrity adoptions have helped improve attitudes toward adoption as a viable way to build a family. Magazines and newspapers feature photographs of movie stars holding adopted children. Often these little ones were adopted internationally.  Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, for example, have several children of their own and three from other countries (Cambodia, Ethiopia and Vietnam). Madonna’s tots are from Malawi. Sandra Bullock and Charlize Theron are some of Hollywood’s adoptive moms.

Will they find a forever family?

To those who claim that celebrity adoptions do not help the overall causes of adoption, I would say this: the adoptions make a profound difference to the children who are chosen. Think of…
The Starfish Story
A ten-year-old girl is walking along the ocean and sees a beach on which thousands and thousands of starfish have washed ashore. Further along
she sees a grandmother, walking slowly and
stooping often, picking up one starfish after
another and tossing each one gently into the
ocean.
“Why are you throwing starfish into the
ocean?,” asks the girl.
“Because the sun is up and the tide is going out
and if I don’t throw them further in they will
die.”
“But, grandmother, don’t you realize there are miles
and miles of beach and starfish all along it!
You can’t possibly save them all, you can’t even
save one-tenth of them. In fact, even if you
work all day, your efforts won’t make any
difference at all.”
The grandmother listened calmly and then bent
down to pick up another starfish and threw it
into the sea. “It made a difference to that one.”

Join Elaine every other Monday for her take on adoption and life!

 

If You Could Whisper in the Ear…

Tags

adoption, adoptive parents, Authenticity, birthparents, Curiosity, self-esteem, Time travel

…of your teenage self, what advice would you offer? Here’s what I would say if I could travel through time and encourage the younger Elaine…

Bryce Canyon, 1970-Smiling on the outside

Dear Me,
Quit feeling embarrassed because you are an adopted daughter!
I notice that your parents Richard and Reva seem afraid to let anyone know that you aren’t their biological offspring. WHY they hide that important truth is anyone’s guess. I’ll keep saying this until you believe it: Being adopted is nothing to cover up.You can tell anyone you like. I give you permission.
Dear young Elaine, why not ask your Mom and Dad (calling them “Richard and Reva” sounds a bit unfriendly) how you came to be their daughter? You might actually be doing them a favor. They will not send you back to foster care, I guarantee. True, when you asked your new Mom about your “real” mother, she got tears in her eyes and said “I’m your real mother and you’re my REAL daughter.” Yes, I know you wanted to die just then. But your question was OK.
Don’t be afraid to keep up with the questions. They might act hurt and disappointed at first but they will get over it! They chose you and your brother Johnny and they mean to keep you.
I know that you have a lot of guilt about snooping in your adopted Dad’s files, trying to find letters from your birthfather, trying to learn what happened during the first five years of your life- the time before you became the college professor’s daughter. You were reprimanded and now no one will talk about it. I know you are afraid, that you feel guilty and traitorous, and I understand that you are very nervous about revealing your curiosity. Believe it or not, this is the perfect time for you to ask those burning questions. Think Pandora’s Box minus the negative consequences.

1980s-A cheery facade hid my inner melancholy

I see that you basically hate the way you look. Stop! Desist! Quit raking yourself over the coals! Even though you think losing a few pounds will make you happier, it will not. You are beautiful from the inside out. Your smile is one that inspires people to smile back. Dry your tears and spend time in nature. It is to become your haven.
In closing, I urge you to shift your perspective from shame to self-respect. Take pride in the fact that you survived the jolt of being “transplanted” when you were just past four years old. You did nothing wrong in being born to a mother who was unable (or unwilling) to parent. It will not serve you well to remain silent about the questions that haunt your every waking hour. Writing about these concerns is good, but it is not enough. Ask and demand answers. Don’t be afraid to be identified as the adopted daughter. Dear younger me, please know that you are lovable just the way you are.

The Goodbye Baby gives an insider view of growing up adopted.

 

Would I do it Again?

Tags

adopting a new attitude, adoption, adoptive parents, Authenticity, Dealing with Adoption, Diaries, healing, memoir, struggles

“What’s Done is Done and can’t be Undone.” -Stephen King

Nowhere is this more true than with publishing a memoir. Let’s be honest. Maybe it isn’t always a good idea to reveal the past. Perhaps it is worse if the “revelation” is in written form, an intimate expose, a confessional, a putting of oneself under the microscope? In other words, why would I present excerpts from my daily journals?

And yet, that’s just what I did when publishing an adoption-focused memoir, The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption. I culled four decades of diaries and transcribed the passages that showed me growing up as someone who felt herself to be a burden, a girl who had to hide behind the facade of being successful and “normal.”  Twenty-three years of grappling with the need to reveal what it felt like to grow up adopted. This act of daring or craziness (or both) accomplished my goal.

Diaries from the past directed me to a better future.

The reactions to the book have been surprisingly favorable. Other adult adoptees, birthparents, adoptive parents, and readers interested in adoption issues have welcomed the The Goodbye Baby. Coming out with my angst-filled past has opened doors. Now that I realize what happened to me isn’t that “special,” the book has led me to a wonderfully supportive online adoption community, many members of whom are shining lights, providing inspiration and serving as mentors.

As one of the bright stars in cyberspace, Deanna Shrodes, wrote in a blog post, “You wake up and you’re still adopted.” She is so right; the facts remain. However, having come face to face with those adoption demons empowered me to stare them down. Talking was not enough. Years of therapy, while enlightening, never enabled me to separate from what happened so long ago. Coming out with the story, which I never could have done without the therapy, cleared the path for divorcing the “poor adopted me” syndrome.

“Happy and grateful” is the image much of the world has of the adopted child, or rather of how the adopted child SHOULD feel. Most adult adoptees I’ve met are grateful for being removed from foster care, the orphanage, or whatever dysfunctional situation. But happy? Perhaps not totally. Something has been lost that can never be replaced.

In answer to the initial question, would I do it again, the answer is YES. It was much better to come out with a book containing my personal truth about adoption than to deny its effect. Now, as I burn the final pages of the diaries themselves, I realize that I no longer define myself as an “adult adoptee,” but as an adult. I’m free to live my life.

Join Elaine every Monday for insights into “Life after Adoption Recovery”

From India with Love

Tags

adoptee, adoptive parents, army life, blended families, CBI Theater, clinical psychologist, Ganesha, India, long-distance romance, WWII

Was it the exotic nature of India that resulted in my adoption?

Note: In America, the 1940s were a peak time for adoption. Like other “Goodbye Babies,” I was a product of WWII. My army officer Dad, as relief from a seemingly endless assignment as clinical psychologist, wrote to my mother every night. I am convinced that it was their long-distance romance that strengthened my parents’ determination to create a family. At age five, after the war ended, my brother and I were adopted…

Ganesh, overcomer of obstacles, may have inspired my dad during his 18 months in Calcutta

India

February 18, 1945
Dearest Ritter: Everyone is so despondent tonight that it is very pitiful to behold. Groups meeting in
disconsolate clusters, dissatisfied expressions, and various mutterings occasion concern on all sides. The reason? Well, it is Sunday evening and there is no movie! Someone slipped somewhere and we are left to our devices — and very poor devices they are.
Tonight I joined one of the poker playing groups and played for a couple of hours, but grew bored after awhile — I did win ten rupees! despite poor hands. (But then, I always get poor hands!)
So when old Sturke came wandering along looking like the wrath of God incarnate, I joined him and returned to the basha. There I found Frank and John comfortably ensconced under the light. Our generators are working again, but asthmatic coughs indicate that all is not well.
It is difficult to know when one is well off, but at the moment I am very dissatisfied with my position. Of course, I have had a nice vacation, but it is hard to work at 20% of your potentialities all the time. Then there is the question of toadying to officers with a fourth of your (my) background, education, and ability. There is hardly an officer in the place, outside of their technical training, who comes within a mile of me in ability to organize, analyze, and explain. As I say, it is a little difficult to remember, month after month, that the U.S. government has seen fit to utilize a highly trained man as they have me — and reward him proportionately. If our country and homes were in desperate straits, and I had a rifle in my hands, and grenades in my pocket, and were battling to save my home and your honor and safety, it would be a different matter, indeed. But when the need is so great for trained educators and men who can speak a piece well and convincingly, and the government sees fit to throw all that away — then indeed, I question the wisdom and fruitfulness of the policy.
Now that I have that hot chestnut off my hands — let me hasten to add that I know you are aware of the folly of the whole business and that you agree. It just does me good to let off a little steam to you occasionally. If I don’t you will question whether my personality has not changed and I assure you, it hasn’t.
It has been cloudy today, and is definitely warmer out. Even at 10:00 o’clock in the evening it is still too warm for my sweater! More rain, I suspect.
My sweetest gal — how pleasant it is to dream of you and your treasures.

Ever in love,

Dick