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TCNJ '21
I write the words I cannot say.
Finding Myself
Jul 25, 2018 5 years agoI was found in a park bathroom. I was wrapped in a sunshine yellow coat. My birth mother was gone but I was surrounded by police, an ambulance and the park employee who found me. That was my birthday. May 18th, 1999. It's nobody's ideal way to spend a birthday, but try telling that to a newborn baby. This doesn't have to be a sob story though. Almost exactly two months later, I was adopted into my forever home. What I have found astonishing about society, is its lack of understanding of what it means to be adopted. That word alone captures my whole life in just seven letters. It blows my mind that people can grasp a firm definition of the word "lit' but adoption is a word farther than foreign. Growing up was rough. People's jaws would drop whenever my family and I would step foot in any kind of social setting. At the age of five I thought nothing of it, but as I matured and grew some common sense, I realized how much it started to hurt me. It was as if these people only saw me as some little black girl who kept following the white people around. Maybe they thought I was some kind of slave or something, or maybe they're just too self-absorbed to realize that the world is actually changing. The people my family considered close were the ones who truly knew my story. Whenever we were around them I felt like a part of their families, and that feeling meant the world to me. I treasured these people because I faced so many situations throughout my life that weren't so pleasant. School was always rough because I constantly had to explain myself. "Why are your parents white?" "Why don't you look like your siblings?" These were my FAQ's. All these questions resulted in a combination of sweaty hands, one huge eye roll and me on the verge of tears. I'm content when it comes to talking about being adopted, but if hundreds of people who could potentially be your friend ask the same things, I have every right to be annoyed. These questions never came with a short and sweet answer either. I always had to have a sit-down and explain the birds and the bees. I have been blessed in life to have found people who look past my situation and see me for who I truly am. I was always scared that people were only friends with me because they pitied my situation. Now I realize that that idea just sounds ridiculous. I guess the thought of this arose because of who I grew up with at school. I always thought that because my family was white, I needed to have a majority, white friends. My two best friends since kindergarten were white ironically, and I just went on from there. I had an extreme lack of self-identity and it swallowed my being as I grew up. I never thought I could live up to having friends that shared a similar skin tone with me. My life was so different from theirs that I thought they wouldn't accept me. Not to mention my situation. I always thought they'd shun me for being a part of a white family. I hated myself for not knowing my true roots, but I also hated myself for being ashamed of the very people who gave me another chance at life. I have always had extreme anxiety; I mean why wouldn't I, given my situation. But I've learned to push myself out of my comfort zone and do things that will benefit my future. My parents always viewed me as this caring, creative and nice girl, and I couldn't agree with them more. As I have grown up, I have become more aware of myself and what I strive for. I'm friends with people of multiple races and ethnicities, and I've even learned about my own race and ethnicity as well. I'm not ashamed of who I am if anything I'm pretty damn proud of myself and my story. Every day I wake up and I'm just happy to have been given a second chance at life. It's my choice to live it how I want, but I know I want to live it the right way. A way that's challenging, fun and worthwhile. People claim that my story defines who I am, but they're wrong. I define it, and I'm making it the best story of my life so far.
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