So who needs them to make us look bad, when adoptees throw insults like the forever children they make us out to be?
I’ve been told that emails to legislators don’t hold much weight with them. So I don’t send them.
I’ve been told what matters the most is snail mail letters, or, if time is short, faxes. I’ve heard varying reports of how many constituents each letter represents. 10? 50? 100? 1,000? I don’t know.
Let’s go with mid-range. Let’s say 1 letter represents 100 voters to a legislator.
So how many constituents are represented by someone face-to-face?
When someone offers time away from their family and career, to travel to the opposite side of the country, to attend a Conference simply because that’s where the legislators are?
How many does that represent?
When money is spent on a booth, on supplies, on hotel, on travel, on taking the time to
be where they’ll be. Did anyone expect that on the morning of July 23rd records would be magically opened simply because there was a demonstration? No, don’t be ridiculous. It doesn’t matter if there were 5 people, or 50, or 500 outside. To me, what mattered most, what I gave my money for gladly and will do again, is that there was someone
inside that convention center. Someone saying to the legislators –
And you know something – it’s hard to care. It’s a battle. When from day one you’re told your voice doesn’t matter. When you’re told to shut up and be grateful whenever you start to ask questions. When the very first time you realize that there is a 22 year old file clerk on the phone who can see your birth certificate, but you’re prevented by law from seeing it – it’s pretty damn hard to get the strength enough to care.
When you see others kill themselves for bills that die in committee, or bills that emerge mangled and distorted from their original vision – it’s pretty damn hard to care.
When you’re so disempowered by the burden of gratitude that adoptees are expected to shoulder – those who do care – those who give of themselves – how heartbreaking is it to see such courage torn apart bit by bit? Not by the opposition mind you, but by those who know
exactly how it feels not to get what everyone else is entitled to.
We’ve got the opposition saying we’re not grown up enough to see our own birth certificates, and now we’ve got our own people saying we’re not grown up enough to demand them. Way to go. I guess we should just shut up and be grateful.
Let’s add insult to injury here – when you do care, when you’ve lifted yourself up above the ginormous crap that’s thrown on you, or I guess I’ll say me here. Wait, I’ll come in again.
When
I do care, when
I’ve lifted myself up above the ginormous gratitude crap that’s been thrown at me, I personally have a really hard time balancing my demand for owning the same thing every non-adopted person owns against painful realities like this:
Now that’s a tough one. Let’s get real. And yeah I made a promise that I wasn’t going to get partisan or shit on the blog, but I’m breaking this one for now. Because when you weight that depressing reality above against a birth certificate, all the old adoptee issues of not being important enough come front and center. I’m going to ask for a birth certificate,
a birth certificate, when people are
dying? When people are losing their homes? When the Constitution has been torn apart? When America as we knew it is gone? I’m going to get all worked up over
a birth certificate?Yes. Yes I am, dammit.
Here’s what I tell myself. Those horrors up there, there’s not a damn thing my State Legislators can do about it, other than write and call their elected officials in Washington the same as I do.
But what they
do have power over is my access to my birth certificate. So that’s why
I’m so proud of those who were there, I can’t stand it. Because they rose above. They gave their best. They made it happen. They made a commitment and they saw it through.
I’ll see you next year in Philly. And here’s why –
It’s not just for me.. It’s for someone right now, some adoptee who hasn’t even been born yet. His or her mother is sitting in an office with a rich woman, wearing designer clothes that she purchased by selling newborn infants at a sliding scale based on race. And this rich woman will be pretending to be the best friend this expectant mother has ever know. She will be convinced she’s not good enough to raise her own child. She’s not rich enough. She’s not married enough. And the best thing she can do is to give her baby away to strangers. Maybe in another state, say where the time frame to change her mind is shorter. And birth certificates are sealed shut. And maybe she’s vulnerable enough or hurt enough or scared enough to fall victim to the closed adoption trap.
When that adoptee is 25 years old and calling Vital Records, I don’t want them to hear what I heard at that age from a file clerk just a few years younger than me:
“Oh yea, I got your request, I’m looking at your records now.”
My certificate. My identity. What did it require to gain access to this horribly destructive secret, that to reveal it to me would cause the end of the world, what incredible training and security clearance and background check did it take to gaze upon my forbidden name?
A civil service typing and filing test.
A clerk typist can have it.
I can't.
See you next year in Philadelphia.