Little Orphan Timmy
I never remember not knowing I was adopted.
There was never a day when the people I consider my mom and dad sat me down to tell me the truth that they were not my genetic parents. From as far back as my memories will stretch, I’ve always carried with me the understanding that I did not belong to the family that called me their own. It wasn’t that I felt unloved because they loved me fiercely. It wasn’t that they treated me differently than my brother, their genetic son, because, in most cases, I had a much better childhood than he did. It wasn’t anything my parents did wrong because I believe they did the best they could, which was more than enough. Still, something in me knew something was different about me. There’s the whole gay thing, too, but that came a bit later.
Most adopted kids can sense that they are different no matter how well they are loved and embraced. There’s no denying the sense something is off or missing, and no amount of love and nurture can compensate for it.
The only external proof I had to confirm my suspicions was a baby photo my parents had taken of me at our local J.C. Penney Portrait Studio. I was dressed in a mini sombrero and serape. My genetic father is Mexican, so this was their way of preserving my cultural identity, even if it looked like I was dressed in things pulled off the wall from a Chi-Chi’s.
My parents told me I was God’s gift to them when I asked them where babies come from. I imagined being delivered to my parent’s doorstep in a beautifully wrapped package from Heaven with God’s signature on the tag. So, like most Millenials, I spent my formative years believing there was something special about me to be celebrated, which later gave way to an inferiority complex.
I told everyone I was adopted. I wore it like a badge of honor. My parents never stopped to correct me or tried to make me hide my truth from grocery store clerks, people in waiting rooms, or anyone we met who asked me how old I was.
Growing up, one of my favorite musicals was Annie. Annie was a fiery red-headed little girl who sang and tap danced her way out of an abysmal orphanage into a gleaming house the size of a shopping mall. She had personal assistants, a swimming pool, and all her bills were paid for by a man named Daddy Warbucks. What more could a girl need? I loved the movie and would rent it as often as my parents could tolerate it. Still, I preferred the original Broadway cast recording of the musical, a budding theater snob at age 4. One time, I even tried convincing all of the kids in my neighborhood to stage a performance of Annie in my backyard and insisted I play the role of Miss Hannigan. They were more interested in playing with Nerf guns, so my hopes were dashed, but I still tried on my mom’s high heels to rehearse in case my off-Broadway dreams came true. Knowing Annie was adopted, like I was, gave me some sort of solace, even if my house was a bit more modest than hers. [Editor’s note: I’m still looking for my Daddy Warbucks.]
During an intense neighborhood Nerf gun war, for some reason, I found it appropriate to bring up the fact I was adopted. Don’t shoot me I’m adopted doesn’t sound like a good way to dissuade would-be assailants, but I was desperate. I never liked violence, had asthma, and was uncoordinated, so I was willing to try anything to escape the battle unscathed.
Then, it happened.
Adam, a neighborhood kid who was a few years older than the rest of us, pointed the barrel of his Nerf gun at me at point blank range, laughed, and said,
If you’re adopted, that means your parents must have gotten you from an orphanage. You’re an orphan! Little Orphan Timmy!
Click. BOOM.
I started running home as fast as possible, which wasn’t very fast because of my asthma, with tears burning my eyes and the Nerf dart sticking to my forehead.
That simple word, orphan, dealt more damage than a legion of neighborhood kids pelting me with Nert darts ever could.
I never really comprehended what adoption meant, but I did know what an orphan meant, thanks to Annie. Seeing myself as adopted, I thought I was special, but being an orphan meant I had been abandoned, unloved, and forgotten. This revelation would change everything.
I ran up the driveway and into my house, slamming the door behind me to find my mom washing dishes in the kitchen. Between sobs, I breathlessly blurted out, if I am an orphan, I want to know where my real parents are! What orphanage did you find me at?
As much as Adam’s words shattered my understanding of the world I had known, I know my words broke my mother’s heart. Every adoptive parent has to dread when this conversation happens. Even as much as they can try to steel themselves for it, they can never be prepared when the time comes.
That night, I asked many hard questions, and there were no easy answers, and there was no way for me to begin to wrap my mind around the complexity that my story would hold. I’m still learning the breadth of it today.
Words matter because they shape the stories we tell and believe about ourselves. What happened that day in my neighbor’s backyard was a significant moment because it gave me the language that fueled negative beliefs about myself and my life for decades to come.
My friend Blaine says, “the way we interpret the past is how we imagine the future. And how we imagine the future defines how we live in the present.”
Sit with that for a second. Reread it. And then order his book.
My relationship with my past and the language I used to tell my adoption story kept me bound to a false narrative. It left me believing I was unloved and unwanted. It caused me to think I was a nuisance, separate, and unimportant. And those beliefs fueled ways of living and harming myself to ease that pain and isolation.
Earlier this year, I was part of a therapy group of adult adoptees. My therapist suggested it. I thought I had processed and understood the nuances of my adoption now that I know my biological family, but I was wrong. I had never met other adoptees, and hearing their stories helped me make sense of mine. We all expressed a disconnect between the love we felt and a hollow emptiness in the depths of our souls. We were adopted kids who lived life believing we were orphans. But as we learned in sharing our experiences, that was far from the truth.
We discovered a new way to tell our stories. Here’s how I learned to re-tell mine:
I was born into a family that was already in turmoil and struggling to survive. Adoption was not their first choice, but they had no other option but to place my life in the hands of a family they trusted. That’s how much they loved me. My unexpected arrival into that family forced them to rearrange their lives overnight. They dropped everything, loved me, and cared for me like their own. It wasn’t easy for anyone, but they all did what they did because they loved me.
No matter how much we celebrate adoption, the harsh truth is that it’s excruciatingly painful. Good can and does come from it, but it comes at a great price for everyone involved. It’s violent. There’s a separation from a source of life and grafting into a new one.
I may have always sensed that separation, but instead of feeling the pain of it, I’m learning to see and embrace the love that caused it to happen in the first place.
Despite the pain and the scars, I have managed to flourish.
Not only am I adopted, but I know I am also loved. I always have been.
Think about the way you share your story. It may be time to find new words to say to tell it.
