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| Lorraine |
Shortly after my daughter, Jane—whom I had given up for adoption but had reunited with a quarter of a century earlier—died my
husband and a friend of ours were talking about the circumstances of
her death at a cocktail party I had chosen not to attend.
If
you are an adoptive parent reading this blog, do I have your attention
yet? I’ve used words that adoptive parents recoil from: gave up, daughter without modifiers, and though you may be thinking, birth mother,
I avoid the use of the term whenever possible. Women who relinquished
their children are not having the same negative reaction to my choice of
words.
To continue: both my husband and our friend simply spoke of my daughter
as they talked. An adoptive mother walked up midway in the
conversation. The second time she heard “her daughter,” the adoptive
mother interjected, birth daughter.
I
have never been able to see this woman since and not be reminded of
that incident; actually my reaction is much more visceral: I want to
scream at her and pointedly ask about her “adopted daughter’s”
migraines.
To do so would be such a social faux pas—and
it would hurt her to the quick. Yet she felt no compunction refining my
friend’s language, and neither did another adoptive mother, and a
friend, I thought, hold back when she interrupted me to insist that I
not refer to my daughter’s adopters as her adoptive
parents. “They are her parents,” she said willfully while I stood
there, bewildered and diminished. Where is it writ, I wondered, that
adoptive mothers and fathers are merely mothers and fathers, but we women who bore the children, who are, in fact, mothers, must always be reduced to someone with a modifier?
'PREFERRED' ADOPTION LANGUAGE IS FAVORED BY WHOM?
The
“preferred adoptive language” that agencies and adoptive parents have
promoted since the Seventies has made adopters—a term in common usage
around the world--more comfortable with the situation of adoption, but
this has been at the expense of the realities and feelings of the
mothers who bore the children. The tough language of the past has been
smoothed over to sooth the sensibilities of those who take the children,
but in doing so increased the defensiveness and animosity towards those
who raise them.
Once we were natural mothers,
defining our role as conceived by nature; the term, to us, indicated
exactly who we were and how we fit into the scheme of our children’s
lives. It also signaled we were not raising the child, because mothers
are mothers, no modifiers necessary. But as adoption became big business
in the Sixties and Seventies, the clients—those who pay the fees, and
thus the keep agencies in business— conveyed their discomfort at what
the word, to them, implied: that they were the unnatural parents. So
articles about “preferred adoption language” were written, charts of
good and bad language drawn up and circulated, and the new, less harsh
lingo was soon common currency among social workers, adoptive parents,
and the media. But what was cleansed out of the equation was that every
adoption begins with someone else’s catastrophe.
Along with the introduction of terms such as birth or biological mother were a whole passel of others: give up or surrender (which is how we mothers feel) was to be replaced by placed for adoption or the ever more noxious, make an adoption plan; mothers did not keep their children; they chose to parent them; mother and child reunions did not occur; they were meetings, or make contact. The rationale for that one goes into lala land, as it signifies that since mother and child never were never together,
thus a reunion could not take place. Excuse me? After a squealing, live
infant painfully emerges from one’s womb you two have definitely been
together, and a meeting is absolutely a reunion. The concept of make contact or a meeting also implies it is a one-time occurrence.
WHEN DROWNING, SWIM DIRECTLY TO LIFE PRESERVER
The most toxic “preferred” term of all is make an adoption plan. Is
someone who falls off an ocean liner and then thrown a life saver
“making a plan” as she swims to it? Or is she just doing what she must
to save her life? If I can make an adoption plan, certainly I am able to
rationally weighing various options, and have the resources to make an
alternative plan. My social worker at the time of relinquishment may
have been “making an adoption plan” but I was drowning in a sea of shame
and societal mindset that all pointed one way: Give up your daughter.
Give her a good life, better than anything you can provide. She needs
two parents, not one. Et cetera. Indeed, I was giving up. For the vast
majority of us most of us, even today, that is the reality of
relinquishing a child to be someone else’s.
This
preferred adoption language calls we mothers up short and diminishes
our connection to the children we bore; it is meant to lessen the
calamity of losing our children due to circumstances typically beyond
our control, such as youth and poverty, and turns a devastating
experience into someone else’s “miracle of adoption,” a phrase commonly
used on adoption websites. Our reaction is sometimes mere perplexity as
we hear this language in common currency, on television, from
acquaintances, not comprehending why the words make us uncomfortable.
Yet we feel denigrated and react more negatively than we would if our
true connection to the child, and the outright disaster that a surrender
is, were acknowledged by everyone. And thus the divisions that separate
us—mother/adoptee/adoptive mother—become intensified tenfold.
A
particularly noxious practice is calling women who are considering
relinquishing their children “birth mothers” well before a child is
born. Designating her as such establishes a mindset—in the social
worker, in the adoptive parents, and in the pregnant woman herself—that
she is on a track to relinquishment of her child—and changing her mind,
and keeping her child, then appears to be some sort of chicanery on her
part. Until she signs the surrender papers, she is no more a “birth
mother” than a person who wishes to adopt is an “adoptive parent” until
someone brings a child home. Those designations need to come after, not
before, any birth, or signing of the surrender papers.
But
“birth” and “first” and “natural” are genteel compared to what we are
sometimes called on various adoptive parent blogs. Bitch, reproductive
agent, uterus of origin, womb, source material, egg layer, and egg donor are some that I’m aware of. In a collection of essays titled Wanting a Child,
writer Jill Bialosky could not bring herself to use any “mother” term
at all, but called her son’s natural mother “the woman who labored him.”
She goes on to say that this woman is her definition of a Messiah. I
would like to see her reaction if this Messiah ever came to talk to her
and the son who was “born from other sperm and egg.”
Does
what we call the same thing make a difference in how we perceive it, in
how we experience the world? Until very recently, thinkers assumed that
the human experience was universal and language diversity could not
modify that. However, new research from a Stanford University
psychologist is demonstrating that indeed language shapes thought, so
much so that the private mental lives of speakers of different languages
may differ dramatically, even so far as to include basic sensory
perception. While the work of Lera Boroditsky is with people who speak
different languages, it is not a great leap to see how the words we use
to describe the adoption experience shapes how people feel and think
about it. Today the preferred language, or agency-speak, has been so
thoroughly imbedded in English that the pain and suffering every
adoption represents is all but obliterated in the public mind. Damn
straight we’re pissed off about it.
ORIGINS OF 'BIRTH MOTHER'
The use of birth mother
became common in the Seventies, and was even promoted by women who lost
children to adoption when Concerned United Birthparents was formed, but
it is little different from biological mother and
I have never felt comfortable with either term: “They call me
‘biological mother.’ I hate those words,” I wrote in the Seventies.
“They make me sound like a baby machine, a conduit, without emotions.
They tell me to forget and go out and make a new life. I had a baby and I
gave her away. But I am a mother.”
First mother? That too is stilted and unsatisfactory, and irritates adoptive mothers because it makes them second
mothers. They are, in a sense, but they are also the fulltime mothers
who pulled all-nighters when fevers were high and made countless
PB&J sandwiches, and did the hard work of raising a child. After
I found my daughter and developed a relationship with her other mother,
that is what how I generally referred to her. Jane’s other mother. In conversation with me, she referred to Jane as our daughter.
Small concessions on each part led to a relaxing of barriers. Of
course, she probably referred to me as Jane’s birth mother when I wasn’t
there, just as I refer to her as my daughter’s adoptive mother. But not
every situation is so personal and allows for the kind of leeway that
Jane’s other mother and I enjoyed.
When
I was deciding what to call my blog, I chose First Mother Forum because
I liked the alliteration and thought that would make it easy to
remember, and that became the URL (www.firstmotherforum.com);
however because birth mother is so inculcated into the language, I
reluctantly added [Birth Mother]—now in parentheses—to the title so that
people searching for the subject matter of the blog would be found by
the greatest number of people. The numbers of visitors immediately shot
up. Now I have to admit that in many circumstances, I do not flinch when
I’m called a birth mother; first mother may be less offensive to some, but to me the degree is negligible, and should not be a dividing issue among us.
Yet
it is. The American Adoption Congress has a petition of “birth parents”
in support of adoptees’ right to their original birth certificates, but
many mothers will not add their names because of that distinction. This
is sad. This is an intermural skirmish among us working for the same
goal, but letting this fracture us as we try to change legislators minds
and votes ultimately weakens us and drags down the movement. My hope
that any parent—mother or father—involved in a relinquishment will sign
the petition so that we can, together, be a greater force for change
than we are if we are splintered into many factions. (See sidebar for
link.)
Some
young mothers, evangelicals and Mormons, particularly, call themselves
“proud birth mothers,” but that comes out of being so thoroughly
inculcated into the ethos of their religion. We shall see how they feel
in ten, twenty years, or when what they expected to be an open adoption
slams shut, with no forwarding address.
Yet
I am sadly aware that some natural mothers refuse contact when reached
through intermediaries, or even by the adoptee herself. These women have
been able to shunt their grief and turn away from their children's need
for a complete identity. I don’t know what to say to these women. I can
understand what they do--years of lying by the sin of omission and
telling their spouses or other children is a difficult hurdle to
overcome--but I do not think they understand the additional pain they
inflict on their children. If they do, they are without mercy for
others, they are simply cruel.
CONTEXT IS ALL
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| 4 Generations: My mother, Jane, Granddaughter Kim, and Lorraine |
You know, I liked her calling me that: biological mother. It was direct, honest and as accurate as natural mother. I liked that she didn’t know she should be using PC language--aka birth mother--that she was asking, Did Jane and I share DNA? Before I could answer, I saw that she was with a few other of Jane’s acquaintances from Toastmasters who were waiting for my response.
Yes,
I said, wondering what would come next. “She talked about you all the
time,” the woman said, pleased to be telling me this. In that instant, I
didn’t care how Jane referred to me with her friends.
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