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.