(no subject)
Sitting in the audience of an elementary school band concert, I see the faces of several Asian children on the stage. I peruse the program and realize that there are no Asian surnames to match the Asian faces. Smiling to myself, I think of how this fact would at one time have been confusing. But since international and interracial adoption have become so common, most Americans would no longer think twice about the seeming mismatch. Almost everyone I know has a family member or friend with children adopted from outside of the United States. It is not infrequently that I will see a Caucasian mother toting along an Asian youngster in the grocery store or mall. When this happens I find myself staring, but not for the reasons one might assume.
I was born in Taiwan in 1971 and adopted by Caucasian American parents who were living in Taiwan at the time. Shortly after my adoption, my parents brought me to the United States, first to Oklahoma and then to Michigan, where I have spent most of my life. International adoption wasn’t as common in the 1970s as it is today. In fact, I was one of only a handful of Asian-Americans in the small Midwestern town where I grew up. Strangers often assumed I couldn’t speak English or that I was a refugee or political asylee. Having people stare at me in public and ask me questions about my “homeland” was no strange occurrence, and I grew up knowing that as one of a very small minority, I was very visible and provoked curiosity in others.
I am aware that the fact that I don’t look like my parents, not to mention that I am not even from the same ethnic group as they are, is odd to others. To be born and give birth is one of the most natural things for humans, and I can see how the fact of my calling my parents “Mom and Dad” might be jarring to most people, who accept their biological lineage as one of the givens in life. Many people ask me if I am curious about my “real” parents, and I have also been asked why my “real” parents gave me up, and whether I am angry at them. When asked these questions, I understand that those asking just cannot fathom having a parent-child relationship with someone to whom one is not biologically related. To me, such a relationship is so natural-in fact, it is all that I have known all my life-that until I put myself in my interrogator’s shoes, for a minute I forget why my family is even an issue.
My mother says that the first time she left for a trip away from me, her arms ached in my absence. When I was a little girl my parents bathed me, dressed me, and fed me. As I got older they guided my ethics and principles and scolded and disciplined me as well. I relied on and loved my parents as any other child loves his or hers, and I similarly rebelled and struggled against them as a teenager. My parents were proud of my accomplishments and helped me through the tough times in my life as well. They are the only parents I know, and as far as I am concerned, Bea and Phil Russell are my real parents. I say that living with me for 33 years is about as real as it can get.
When I see parents with obviously adopted Asian children, I do stare. I stare not because I am struck by the oddness of such a mixed family, but because I wonder about the life of the child. And wondering about the child makes me wonder about myself. The inter-cultural aspect of being an international adoptee is probably much easier now than when I was growing up. There are support groups, special camps, trips back to the country of origin, and special culture and language classes, all in response to the interest and demand created by growing number of international adoptees. I think it is wonderful that the experience of being adopted is now that much less strange, that much more understandable to others.
I was born in Taiwan in 1971 and adopted by Caucasian American parents who were living in Taiwan at the time. Shortly after my adoption, my parents brought me to the United States, first to Oklahoma and then to Michigan, where I have spent most of my life. International adoption wasn’t as common in the 1970s as it is today. In fact, I was one of only a handful of Asian-Americans in the small Midwestern town where I grew up. Strangers often assumed I couldn’t speak English or that I was a refugee or political asylee. Having people stare at me in public and ask me questions about my “homeland” was no strange occurrence, and I grew up knowing that as one of a very small minority, I was very visible and provoked curiosity in others.
I am aware that the fact that I don’t look like my parents, not to mention that I am not even from the same ethnic group as they are, is odd to others. To be born and give birth is one of the most natural things for humans, and I can see how the fact of my calling my parents “Mom and Dad” might be jarring to most people, who accept their biological lineage as one of the givens in life. Many people ask me if I am curious about my “real” parents, and I have also been asked why my “real” parents gave me up, and whether I am angry at them. When asked these questions, I understand that those asking just cannot fathom having a parent-child relationship with someone to whom one is not biologically related. To me, such a relationship is so natural-in fact, it is all that I have known all my life-that until I put myself in my interrogator’s shoes, for a minute I forget why my family is even an issue.
My mother says that the first time she left for a trip away from me, her arms ached in my absence. When I was a little girl my parents bathed me, dressed me, and fed me. As I got older they guided my ethics and principles and scolded and disciplined me as well. I relied on and loved my parents as any other child loves his or hers, and I similarly rebelled and struggled against them as a teenager. My parents were proud of my accomplishments and helped me through the tough times in my life as well. They are the only parents I know, and as far as I am concerned, Bea and Phil Russell are my real parents. I say that living with me for 33 years is about as real as it can get.
When I see parents with obviously adopted Asian children, I do stare. I stare not because I am struck by the oddness of such a mixed family, but because I wonder about the life of the child. And wondering about the child makes me wonder about myself. The inter-cultural aspect of being an international adoptee is probably much easier now than when I was growing up. There are support groups, special camps, trips back to the country of origin, and special culture and language classes, all in response to the interest and demand created by growing number of international adoptees. I think it is wonderful that the experience of being adopted is now that much less strange, that much more understandable to others.