The Child Prize

There has been a story in the news of late about Maria, the blonde haired, blue eyed girl found living with a Roma family in Greece. The Police became aware of Maria when they were alerted by a member of the public who suspected a kidnapping.  The girl was taken from her Roma parents and is now in the care of the “Smile of the Child” charity.

Maria

DNA proved that she was not the biological daughter of her Roma parents, who have told police that her biological mother gave her to them because she could no longer look after the girl. A worldwide search for her biological parents is underway.

Kidnapping is a terrible thing, but let’s consider the impact this will have on Maria, and both her biological and Roma parents. Both set of parents have now lost a child, and poor Maria is left ... nowhere. She will struggle with her identity. Who is she? Where does she fit into the world? She is currently coping without a biological connection to family, and separated from the only family she has ever known. No nature, no nurture. As I watch the media coverage I see her as being portrayed as the “prize” that will be won by her biological parents, once they have been identified. Or, the “prize” will be given a new set of parents, and they will feel righteous for having “saved” her.

I should come clean here ... my feelings on this come from the fact that I am adopted. My experience of having both biological and adoptive parents is that the story is always told from the adult’s perspective. Whether it is an adult explaining that adoption is the best option because they are not in a position to look after a child, or the adult that chooses to adopt a child into their family. Very few people ever think about the process from the perspective of the child.

My adoptive family are terrific, and have always treated me no less than my Mother’s daughter. In fact, I am often surprised when I comment on my birth family that it takes them a while to figure out what I am talking about. They are always telling me how much I am like my Mum (who passed away in 1996), which is a testament to nurture.

I met my Birth Mother many years ago, in the early 90’s. I still get a buzz to this day whenever I see her, or hear her laugh. She looks and laughs just like me. It’s weird. I find people, who have known their biological parents all their lives, don’t really “get” how surreal these moments are for me when she and I say something in unison, or express ourselves in a similar fashion.

My mother told me I was adopted when I was seven years old, and I have to admit, I wasn’t particularly bothered by it at first. I was told that she and Dad had tried to have kids, but they couldn’t, so they decided to adopt. Fortunately, she didn’t give me all that crap about “out of all the babies available I chose you” she actually told me the truth. It was that late 60’s early 70’s, and they had to go through rigorous interviews and endless bureaucracy, and finally they were advised that a baby was available for them ... me.

The next day at school, I told my best friend what my Mum had told me. Her smiling face turned serious, and she placed a gentle hand on my arm and said to me “it’s Ok, I promise I won’t tell anyone.” Huh? Why wouldn’t you tell anyone? Is this something to be embarrassed about?

This was just the beginning of the odd responses I get from people when I say I am adopted.

“Oh, Im SO sorry”. “How old were you when you found out?” “How awful for you”. “You must be SO grateful to your parents?”

That last one always gets me. It makes me wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t been adopted by my parents? What was the alternative for me? I guess I would just have to be put down?   

I should be grateful to have parents – which is something I’d say many of us believe every child has every right to - but for some reason I need to be grateful about it? Obviously, the suggestion is that there is something wrong with me to have be given up in the first place – although not overtly said, that is what I hear – and what I have heard all my life.

People want to know why I was given up (the adults story), or why my parents couldn’t have their own kids (obviously suggesting this would be the preferred choice – and an adults story again). Very few people ever ask me how being adopted has affected me, as a kid and an adult.

As a kid I just chose not to tell anyone, because it was obviously something to be embarrassed or ashamed about. I was kind of confused about this, however, as I didn’t understand how this piece of information changed who I was in the eyes of others, and why it would warrant a stern, sincere look of pity?

I also struggled as a child to find my place within my adoptive family.  As a creative little being who was over-emotional (relatively speaking) and wanted to draw, sing, dance and act in the school play, these were activities quite alien to my pragmatic Mother, who showed little to no interest in my artsy endeavours. I learnt not to mention it, and never to expect her to show up for plays or recitals.

This is a sad memory of my childhood, however, upon meeting my birth mother, I discovered that I came from a long line of female artists, from craftspeople and painters to milliners, and I was inspired to pursue my creative tendencies, and am now an artist – so, those points go to nature.

This all makes my adoptive mother sound quite harsh – and to be honest, I thought she was the scariest thing in the world when I was a child. I couldn’t relate to her, or she to me. We really struggled to connect, and the last thing I considered her to be was maternal. I don’t recall many hugs, or displays of affection offered. She certainly wasn’t abusive, but we didn’t exactly “bond”.

Our relationship didn’t really improve much until I had grown up and left home. I started to see her more as a person than the scary mother-figure, and our relationship bloomed. Turns out she was an awesome lady – and I like to think she finally saw me in the same way.

My relationship with my Birth Mother is also fraught with “issues”, as I am not sure how we are supposed to fit? What is she to me, and I to her? Is she my Mum? Am I her daughter? Are we “just friends”?  Also, as much as I hear and understand the adult story of her being “too young” to keep me, a part of me is still a little girl who is angry about being “abandoned” by her, and I’m not sure how this can ever really be resolved?

And to think – this is a story from a pretty “average” adoption experience, imagine the ups and downs poor Maria is going through as the adults make decisions for her about her life? How is this event going to impact on her in the future? What lessons (be they good or bad) is she taking away from all of this?

My thoughts are with her, and I hope she is strong enough to take care of herself – no matter what stories the adults tell.