Assembling Self

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Color me incomplete.

Being adopted, for me, is like being the white crayon in a box of crayolas.

I actually read it as a joke somewhere about feeling as useless as a white crayon, and it struck me that was EXACTLY how I felt about being adopted.  Living void of natural family names, connections, and genetics trying all the while to blend in and all the while feeling so very different.  Blank, without color or use as others were.  Sure white crayons are good for accents, highlights, or as my dear friend Sarah said do well in mixing with other colors to make different shades of other tones.  Alone however, they lose their own individual significance and importance.  For me, that sums up exactly how I feel about being adopted and denied access to MY natural family information.

If you look at the photo and really "see" the difference between the white crayon and others perhaps you will get some insight into how adoptees feel.  Those of us without knowledge of our biological and genetic backgrounds.  Empty of any and all answers as we stare every day into the mirror wondering our features, our habits, and where it is we come from.  I'm almost 53 years old and I still feel incomplete.  Until I have the answers I am seeking I always will.

Adoptees often, and some of us always, feel so very different from others.  The fact is that we are.  In what capacity that difference exists varies from adoptee to adoptee.  I can't tell you in what capacity if any, but what I can tell is that knowledge is power for adoptees.  Whether is it physical, medical, or historical information, be it good, or bad, or ugly, it is ours to have.  No one has the right to deny us the right to our own information.  I'm still working on obtaining mine after 13 years.  Until then, I'm just like the second crayon from the right.


A missing sock whose mate is gone,
a former pair apart so long.
A rundown bridge never rebuilt.
Like patches missing from a quilt.
A letter thrown away and lost,
undotted I's and T's not crossed.
A phone line with connections broken.
Important words that can't be spoken.
We search the people on the street,
and in each face we hope we'll meet.
Someone resembling who we are.
These absent ties that seems so far.


  1. and here I sit with quaking heart
    the words you speak tear me apart
    the world out there is unaware
    of what it's like to be in here
    unwanted, unknown, unneeded it seems
    the adoptive mother poses and beams
    not caring a bit of what she has done
    to help the shady sales along
    she justifies the ripping asunder
    of mother and babe; feel the thunder!
    God never intended this horrible state;
    of feeling alone and feeling the hate
    of those who find we are NOT just like them
    and they do not want me to be WHO I AM
    but to be like a crown they set on their shelf
    see how good I am, they say to themself
    generations go by and the tragedy goes on
    as long as enough money is handed around
    'there are babies for sale'... shh; not so loud
    you've bought into the lie
    you've helped it along
    you support what they do
    and you have done WRONG!