These are the kinds of things I hear every single time I write about the effects of child abuse. There are people who have let me know that they don’t believe child abuse should affect a person’s mind, spirit, especially once the child reaches their teens or adulthood. It’s just no big deal , according to them, to be born to a violent or unloving parent, whether from mental illness, postpartum psychosis, or some other reason that a child has no control over. It’s really all about attitude or chosen perceptions.

I am so tired of all these people playing the victim. Whatever happened to accountability?

If it had been me, I’d have run, screamed, told someone. I don’t have any sympathy for those who don’t care enough to save themselves.

Adults who were abused kids just need to forgive and move on.

We all come to the same fork in the road eventually, no matter how we were raised.

Everybody has some dysfunction in their family. It’s not a big deal unless you want it to be.

We all have the same choices. 

The past doesn’t matter.

It’s not what happens to you, it’s how you choose to feel about it.

God has a reason for everything.

There are no accidents.

I would like everyone who watches this video to ask themselves —

Do you think this child feels loved and secure?

When she’s an adult, how many will tell her just to get over her pain, her sadness, her fears — her lifelong emotional and psychological makeup — because she just isn’t as easygoing or relaxed as other people?

Do you think positive thinking will cure her of everything?

Do you think therapy can undo her primal wounds, including ones she may not even remember?

When she falls in love, do you think she will feel worthy of having her love returned?

How hard do you think it will be for her to learn trust and to trust herself?

Do you still think that child abuse is really no big deal?

Do you know that both early childhood neglect and abuse can cause permanent damage to the brain, even if those damages aren’t apparent? That neural pathways are forever changed and cannot be recovered or fixed?

Do you know that there are more children who are not rescued from abuse than those who are?

Did you know that the majority of children never tell?

Do you know that the chances that a mother who abuses her infant like this is unlikely to stop on her own?

Do you know that in many abusive families, not all children are abused or abused equally?

Do you know what a “target child” is?

What if this was all you knew from birth through adolescence?

How do you think you might be different?

What if she was YOUR child?

Do not turn away from this. Thousands of children suffer this kind of abuse and worse every single day. If they can bear the pain and trauma, then you — and here I am speaking to the ones who are so quick to criticize survivors and write them off as perpetual victims, chronic whiners, or people who just need to “get over it” — should at least have the backbone to watch four minutes of what an abused child suffers for years.

NOTE: This child was eventually rescued. According to the Royal Malaysian Police FB page, the mother was arrested and sentenced to 18 months. The video was filmed by a friend of hers who had tried to intervene many times before unsuccessfully. She made the videotape in order to have proof. After the mother was arrested, the friend took care of the child for a month before the child was put up for adoption. The child in question is confirmed to be a girl. This story has a happier ending than most. It is actually very rare for an abused child to be rescued.

UPDATE: I have heard from many people that this post should have come with a warning. I did not include one because it’s an entitlement these children do not have. Most people will not watch this video for longer than a few seconds. They cannot handle the pain of watching even from a great distance. That is understandable. I hope, though, that even those few seconds will loosen the grip of the many fallacious but common cliches about child abuse and its survivors that infect our society. The fact is that child abuse does have longterm consequences and that a child raised without love will not be the same as one who was, not at 5 months old, 10 years-old, 16, 25 or even 40. It is not about “attitude” but about reality. It’s not about being a “perpetual victim”, but about recognizing that there are real consequences that age, attitude and intelligence may not mitigate. Child abuse changes the course and matter of a life — it damages spirit and mind, and in many cases even biology — and recovery is often a lifelong, step-by-step process.

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Jim Deitz and his polka dot house. AP Photo/Grand Forks Herald/Eric Hylden, Photographer

I recently came across this news article about Jim Deitz and his neighbor’s complaints about painting his two-story rental complex with colorful polka dots. It’s not that unusual of a story. A homeowner gets creative, vengeful, or even desperate and an uproar ensues. Such homes are generally thought to be eyesores, ruining the aesthetic of an otherwise orderly neighborhood and threatening property values.

There’s a lesson in this that goes beyond hues of paint, or personal rights versus collective ones, and into the much beleaguered realm of tolerance. As an ideal “tolerance” is an easily up-ended concept. As part of a political ideology, it’s an ineffective argument. Too often, it’s a word thrown into the debate ring naked, expected to defend itself only with the nobility of its own lofty goal.

However, it takes almost no effort to expose the low endurance of cultural tolerance, no matter how well-meaning.

Tolerance: I want a world in which everyone is accepted for who they are and all belief systems are embraced in the name of diversity.

Some Extremist. Somewhere: I hate fags. I believe dark-skinned people are inferior and all Jews are going to hell. My religion says I have the right to take a rod to my children and my wife should be submissive to me. I believe a rapist shouldn’t be punished as long as he’s willing to marry the girl he raped and girls should be circumcised so that they don’t go astray. 

Tolerance: Those are terrible, hateful, ignorant beliefs! 

Extremist: Well now, you’re not very tolerant of differences after all, are you? 

It doesn’t matter whether the extremist is right-wing or left-wing, religious or secular. The example above might also be about a militant vegan, a socialist, or an anarchist. The fact is that as both a sociopolitical ideology and personal ideal, tolerance often proves to have very short reins and more than a chance of being outed as hypocritical.

Tolerance — “the ability or willingness to tolerate something, in particular the existence of opinions or behavior that one does not necessarily agree with” —  is not easily separated from personal values, ideas of what’s morally right and wrong, or even from purely aesthetic likes and dislikes. Who among us would really be willing to live next door to a polka-dotted house or one festooned with stuffed animals and graffiti? Who among us is willing to hold their offense at having neighbors whose values, habits, beliefs and tastes might drastically differ from our own?

In America, we often talk about peace between Israel and Palestine as if we — in our still segregated neighborhoods — have all the answers. Yet, everyday in America there are disputes, debates and court cases over issues that are minor in comparison to the cultural, philosophical and religious differences that divide Palestinians and Israelis.

In California and New York recently, there have been lawsuits against neighbors who smoke cigarettes or cigars in their own yards, homes or apartments. There have been outcries against homeless shelters, halfway houses and drug treatment clinics opening in certain neighborhoods all across the land. The building of a mosque in Tennessee and a synagogue in Connecticut were hotly debated. There’s a glut of NIMBY (not in my backyard) realities that fly in the face of inclusive ideals. We may feel compassion for the homeless, but we don’t want to live near a tent city. We may not want the mentally ill to suffer on the streets, but don’t necessarily want them housed in our neighborhood.

Even religious tolerance, which is an longstanding ideal many Americans agree with, only extends only so far. Would you appreciate the diversity of having a Michael Pearl adherent, one who believes that even infants should be smacked, living next door? What about a polygamist family? Members of a religious cult? The head of the Westboro Baptsist church? No one I personally know would and neither would I — which is why the argument for “tolerance” rings hollow for me both socially and politically.

Most often, when we speak of tolerance we leave off the disclaimer of  ”within my comfort level,” which is what most of us really mean if we’re being honest. However, when we try to define the collective values behind what’s tolerable and what’s not, we often find ourselves in never-ending, circular disagreements. It’s one thing when the matter at hand is the rare polka dot house, but it’s quite another when the talk is about more pressing, universal problems such as equality, liberty, justice, and individual rights.

There’s also this: As a person subject to several possibly exclusionary labels — gay, for example — the idea of being “tolerated” as if I were a public nuisance of some sort is offensive to me. I don’t oppress anyone with my sexuality. I don’t harm anyone else by being attracted to other gay women. I didn’t insist that my children be gay because I am, nor did I raise them to resent their own heterosexuality or that of others. My “lifestyle” isn’t violent, hateful, or outrageous. What’s to be tolerated? What I do in my bedroom? Occasionally holding hands with another woman in public? I can think of hundreds of things more appropriate to the word tolerance — children having public meltdowns, barking dogs, people who wear too much cologne — but love? Between happy, consenting adults? My values say that love should be accepted, even celebrated, not just tolerated.

That is, of course, my ideal and not everyone agrees. There will always be disagreement in a society of individuals with varying beliefs. Even when America was almost exclusively a Christian society, there were divisions. Predominately Islamic countries remain embroiled in war and strife. Religion is hardly the unifying force that many people — particularly politicians who use it as bait and religious figures who use it for political gain — believe it to be.

However, there are ways to become more unified — not by religious or political sameness, not by the weak gospel of tolerance — but by education and the promotion of humanist values that can be shared. We’ve seen this lately in the campaign against bullying. What was once taken as a somewhat normal, if unfortunate, part of growing up is now being seen in a new light. Collectively, we’re making bullying less socially acceptable. We’ve called for new policies and prevention programs and we’ve gotten them. The problem is not solved, but at least most of us now agree that there is a problem that needs to be addressed.

We’ve come far in gay rights with the same human-centered promotion of values. When I was growing up, it was inconceivable that any gay people be out of the closet unless they were so rich or famous that they could insulate themselves from the consequences. Yesterday, in conservative Tucson, I saw two young women walking hand in hand at a dog park and no one gave them more than a nod and a smile. If there were people who objected, they kept it to themselves.

Human-centered values don’t necessarily exclude spiritual beliefs, but also don’t seek the approval or appeasement of organized religion . Historically, religion has evolved around human progress, not the other way around. There are many things we don’t do anymore — burn witches at the stake, enslave other people, deny voting rights to women, or put children to work as soon as they can walk — that were once justified by common religious interpretation. As people, (including the religious), gained new knowledge and perspectives, the interpretations of religion changed. Society created laws to ensure that the human values that were most shared would be upheld, and kept safe from any dogmatic creed that might threaten them.

This is where the “tolerance” school of thought fails, and abysmally. Without the backbone of stated values and discussion about what might actually, realistically be tolerable (and not) within those values, it comes across as a feeble and naive call to wear blinders when it comes to even heinous offenses against humanity. I see this often in both progressive and conservative political circles. Progressives too often espouse tolerance and make excuses for human abuses — especially abroad — in the name of cultural or religious differences, while conservatives  too often pat themselves on the back for tolerating those they see as American outsiders, like immigrants, the irreligious, gays, minorities, Union workers, and the poor.

Unfortunately, the American discussion on values was tainted by the religious right when it was used as a battering ram against gays. “Family values” became an unpleasant, divisive, and ultimately laughable (Tinky Winky is gay! Feminism causes women to kill children and become lesbians!) catch phrase. Obviously, “family values” wasn’t a human-centered campaign, nor was it about values shared by the majority, religious or not — but it was a fringe movement that scared many people off and made “values” a frightening word in the area of debate.

I believe we have to move beyond our fear of discussing values because, even with disagreement, this is where we find the most fertile common ground. This is where we “tolerance” matures into actionable ideology and choices to embrace, accept, or reject certain social mores. By defining and then promoting the secular human values we might share, as opposed to promoting a religious or political agenda, we can change the tone and depth of discussion. For instance, I don’t personally know anyone on the right who is so anti-abortion that they would rather have a rape victim give birth or a mother die — and I know a lot of people. I also don’t know anyone on the left who thinks welfare should be a free-for-all without any restrictions. How many people do you know who are extremists on either side? My guess is not many. Yet these are the types of conversations that dominate politics and the media today . They take away from the truth and heart of human matters, while fanning flames of antagonism and disunity. In the media, it’s not the calm, sensible voices that have often pulled in the biggest audiences, but the most hyperbolic and divisive. Do we value that? Should we? If we don’t, how do we change it?

That’s the kind of value discussion we should have. That I think we need to have if even our most commonly shared ideals are to kept whole, alive, and growing. (I mean, come on, who doesn’t believe in the American Dream, in liberty and justice for all, in a land of opportunity?)

Right now, the country feels stagnant to me. Politics seems to be running somewhere between the rails of apathy and enmity. People are scared for their futures and fear tends to bring out the worst in humanity. When people don’t feel like they might not have much to look forward to tomorrow, they get greedier, more self-preserving, less likely to give others a break or the benefit of the doubt, or to care about problems they may not personally have a stake in (women’s reproductive rights, lack of health insurance, homelessness). I believe it’s gotten to this point for several reasons, but that a major one is that we, as a society, let go. Somewhere between the afterglow of the idealistic 60s and the infusion of extremist religion into the Reagan White House, we gave up searching for and promoting shared, human values. We became entranced by dogma and dividing lines — by how far away, rather than how close we could stand. Our perspective seemed to shift from “family of man” to “dog eat dog”.

In an atmosphere like this, it’s not “tolerance” we need, but a renaissance of critical thinking and thoughtful debate. Who do we want to be as individuals and as a nation? Where do we want to be in terms of tradition or progress? What do we want our futures to look like? What values are most important to us and to a majority of others? What values might we share and then move ahead with together? When we can speak as openly and easily about those things as we do about a polka dotted house, I believe the manufacturing of political and doctrinaire divisions will slow down, allowing us all to catch our breath, rediscover our commonalities, and move toward a more productive, hopeful, prosperous and conscientious time.

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The sun is a ball of liquid fire. 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit on its surface, 27,000 degrees at its core. It is only from an average distance of 92,955,887.6 miles away that we welcome it as a benevolent, life-warming source.

This is how I’ve come to feel about the experience of loving her. At a distance of 543 days and 13,052 hours, all of love’s fires, the passionate ones, the hurt ones — the wishful, longing, frustrated, glorious, hot, horrible, surprising ones — have gone out. Even the smoke has cleared.

There are only stories and memories and, at least once a day, a feeling of gratitude. Love, in retrospect, just shouldn’t have been that hard, critical, or heartbreaking.  For every day we soared together perfectly, it seemed like there were at least ten days of damages and repairs.

Love isn’t anything at all like a car, but I can’t help recalling a pretty green convertible that I once owned for a short time. It was an amazing car to drive — 5 speed, fast, sleek and solid — but every other week it was in the shop needing repairs that I could barely afford. I invested in parts and labor anyway, in the hopes that eventually all that needed fixing would be fixed. Despite my efforts, the car never stopped bleeding and it wasn’t long before the joy of owning a convertible was trumped by the insecurity of never knowing when it would break down or where.

No, love isn’t at all like a car, but it is an investment. I put everything I had into loving her — heart-mind-body-spirit — and hoped for a return that would last a lifetime, but it lasted less than a year. Nine months of life-changing joy, giddiness, discomfort, worry, curiosity, fear, excitement and anticipation — which ended in pain and a long period of mourning.

I’m no longer sad, though. While I’m not given to mysticism and beliefs like “everything happens for a reason”, I’ve come to appreciate that even the most compatible lovers don’t always make the best partners. Ultimately, she and I wanted and needed different things in the long-term. We had different visions of the future. Within days of our breakup (and it possibly could have been before, but it doesn’t matter anymore), she found someone who fit her vision better than I did. I felt very hurt by that at first—meaning my ego found it hard to process that I was so easily replaceable—but I can say now that I’m genuinely happy for her. I’m also happy for myself.

Since leaving on my road trip in October of 2009, my life has been a series of growth-spurring evolutions that are almost always preceded by some challenge or setback. I’m not sure how to explain why this feels good and right to me, but it does. Logically, I could say that much of my life has been challenging and wish myself done with anything that feels like an uphill climb, but this is different. I don’t know why; it just is. Maybe it has to do with age, or having a level of encouragement and emotional support I’ve never had before — maybe it’s as simple as knowing I’m finally on a path of doing what I love for a living — probably it’s all of that and more. In any case, even the biggest challenges don’t make me feel as anxious or dread-filled as they once did. I’m even excited about some of them, like moving to a new cottage and finishing my second book.

I think, too, that taking on all of these challenges might not be possible if I weren’t alone. In a relationship, I have a need to pull my own weight as well as the desire to be an equal participant in the things my partner likes to do. Which is a problem when you’re a struggling writer dating anybody who wants to dine out, travel and, well, spend money.

So I feel like I’m at where I should be at right now. I see being single as an opportunity to write, grow, and to face the challenges that I hope, one day, will result in me becoming the kind of person, writer and even life partner that I want to be.

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A friend of mine was diagnosed seven weeks ago with esophageal cancer. It’s terminal and she is in a hospice with only days left to live. I will write about Liljana “Pat” Stewart in a future post, but here’s what I can tell you now. She loved her life and lived her beliefs. She retired five years ago to become a full-time writer and besides having a passion for poetry, stories and painting, Pat absolutely loved her home. After years of renting, she finally purchased a place that she envisioned would be the sanctuary she always wanted. She spent hundreds of hours planting amazing English-style gardens, decorating rooms and hanging her art just-so. I don’t put too much stock in astrology, but Pat was a consummate Libra. She loved comfort, food, art, holidays and entertaining. If Pat’s house had a motto like those above, it might have been “In this home, we do warmth, we do welcoming.”

Pat's Home

When I saw the painted wall picture on Facebook this morning, minutes after I spoke with Pat, it brought to mind the dozens of photos that she sent me over the years of blooming flowers and new artwork. It also brought up my own thoughts about security, comfort, and the kind of environment that I’d like to live in one day. My needs and wants have evolved over the years. When I was raising my daughter, there were just four house mottos: Respect, Consideration, Kindness & Love. Everything from keeping the house clean to kisses goodnight fell under one or more of these simple words.

My Dream House

Being single, it’s different. Meaning that while my intentions are still the same, they’re not spent in the day-to-day realm of a familial or intimate relationship. And as much as I like to be alone, sometimes for days, there’s also a part of me that longs for someone to create an agreeable, loving environment with . . . to help paint the walls with mutual hopes, beliefs and goals.

I’m not lonely, though, and I’m not even looking. One of the things Pat and I have in common, besides our passion for stories, is a certain kind of acceptance for the twists of luck and life. If this is what it is and how it is to be, then I will make peace with it. Like me, Pat spent most of her adult years single (and quite contentedly), but I’m sure that if she’d met the right person—someone who made her heart soar while keeping her grounded with love—she would have returned their loyalty ten-fold and been very happily married.

That Red Hedge by Pat Stewart

Henry Ellis once said, “All the art of life lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.” It took me many, many years just to start understanding that art, which can never truly be perfected. Sometimes, what seems to be a battle worth fighting proves futile, while at other times we suspect that we gave up on something too early. We can never really know. In the meantime, there’s only life . . . and that’s all there is until it isn’t anymore.

In this house today, I do reflection.
I do writing.
I do mourn, but I don’t regret.
I do great big imaginings.
I do nurturing of dogs & dreams.
I do laugh to myself and at myself.
I do cry when I have to.
I do wish.
I do pray.
I do live one close-up hope at a time.

What I don’t do, ever, is forget that life is a temporary state, meant to be lived as sweetly, fully, and passionately as we can make it . . . even when alone, even when it sometimes hurts, even when it’s unlucky, and even we’re so very far from any sort of perfect understanding that we constantly feel like we’re starting from scratch.

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There’s nothing I could say about Annie that hasn’t been said about other special dogs, but that’s true of parents talking about their children, too. Redundancy doesn’t stop us. Love is always new when it’s our own.

Annie has come so far since I adopted her from Pima Animal Care Center on 10/27/11. On that day, I tested the patience of shelter volunteers by taking about a dozen other dogs out of their kennels into the “getting to know you” pens. I was open to any size, any breed. All I wanted was a steady, easy-going, even-tempered companion. One of the last dogs I took out was a black and tan shepherd mix who was, in all ways, perfect. He was interested in me and in playing, and already knew several commands. Just as I was about to commit, the shelter volunteer said there was one other dog I should look at and led me to a kennel where two older puppies were frolicking around a curled up ball of red fur. The volunteer called out a name, “Monster”, and the red ball didn’t respond at all.

I learned that “Monster” had a brother who was recently put down for being ill. He was known as “Monster II”. The intake form said that the dogs, Chow-Retriever mixes, were kept outside for the whole two years of their lives and had no experience being inside of a house. The reason for surrender was foreclosure.

It seemed to me that “Monster” was ill. The kennel worker agreed and said she would probably be heading to sick bay if she didn’t show signs of improvement, but it could be that she was also despondent over the loss of her brother and a new environment.

I knew that the perfect black and tan shepherd mix would have no problem finding a home, probably one with children who could keep up with his playful side. But Annie? (Yes, I’d already renamed her.) I feared she’d be put to sleep like her brother or that prospective owners might hesitate to adopt a two year old that wasn’t house trained. Besides, she’d need a calm space to recuperate and I had that. My apartment was almost too calm for me—it needed the addition of another life—and I needed something to do other than stare at the walls or my computer screen.

The next day, Annie came home with me. She was very sick (parasites, respiratory infection, worms) and seemed to have lost the will to live. The vet bills were high and the medications were many for the first month, at least until we found an antibiotic that worked. Even then, she seemed somewhat hesitant to re-commit to life and to bonding with another person. She tolerated everything quite well, from my excessive attention to multiple vet visits, but it was a month before I saw her wag her tail.

She seemed to understand no commands when I attempted to train her. She wouldn’t sit for a treat or come when called. I tried both English and Spanish, but she would just stare at me as if I was asking her to perform some algebraic equation. That all changed the day I brought home some bologna from the store. She’d never been curious about groceries before, but kept sniffing the bag. On a hunch, I opened up the deli package, took a slice out, and asked her to sit. Immediately, she complied. Shake? Yes. Lay down? Yes. Sit up? Yes. Suddenly, my Annie was a genius!

We’ve both come so far since October. Annie is now back in love with life and I’m totally in love with her. She’s never had an accident in the house, knows all of her commands, and will walk by my side without a leash. She doesn’t play fetch and seems to have almost no use for toys, but loves interacting with other dogs and their keepers at the dog park. Nearly everywhere I go, she goes. She loves walks, car rides, visiting friends, hanging out at Starbucks, and trekking through the foothills. When I’m working at home, she lies in her bed, napping or chewing on a bone, patiently waiting for me to finish. The dog who once feared jumping up on my bed now looks forward to the sound of a light clicking off. That’s her signal to come on up and get her belly rubbed.

When I had to go to Chicago to work on The Rosie Show, Annie stayed with friends in Lake Tahoe. She enjoyed her stay, and Janice and Van took excellent care of her, but I didn’t think it was possible to miss a creature as much as I missed her. Life just isn’t the same without:

- Unconditional love. (Some people think dogs don’t love. I think those people don’t pay attention.)
- Someone who’s always happy to be with you, regardless of where or when.
- Someone who doesn’t care where you’ve been, how much money you make, or how impressive your credentials are, but only wants you to love them back, care for them, and tap into your silly, playful heart on occasion.
- Someone who warns you when there’s a stranger outside.
- Someone whose loyalty is unquestionable and boundless.
- Someone who never holds a grudge.
- Someone who’s always there for you, in good times and bad.
- Someone who always laughs at your jokes.

Well, you can’t have everything. But having a dog makes me feel like I have more than many people do.

UPDATE! This is Rigby. Annie and I met him at the dog park today. He’s a Tucson Cold Wet Noses rescue who was adopted for two days and then sent back. He was being boarded at Broadway Animal Hospital pending another foster home. He lost his sister to euthanasia; Annie lost her brother. I just picked him up fifteen minutes ago. So far, although Annie’s looking a little confused, they are getting along very well!

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I went fishing once. I liked sitting quietly on a boat in the middle of a serene lake. I liked the near-silence and the feel of the sun on my skin. I liked just sitting there, staring into the sky or water. What I didn’t like was everything else. The bait, the waiting, the wide-open eyes of the fish being reeled in. Even halfway out of the water, they looked like frightened ghosts. I was sure that even those who escaped suffocation were haunted by the experience of being pierced by a hook. After the first death, I removed my pole from the water and asked my companion to throw her next catch back. One fish was surely enough for dinner, especially since I wouldn’t be eating.

I didn’t feel the same way when I went abalone diving. There were no eyes to contend with, only hard beautiful shells to collect and bloodless white meat to pound into tenderness before it was sliced, battered and fried. In the salty ocean air, with wood smoke from a camp fire burning my eyes, I ate my fill along with my children and friends. Afterward, I watched my green-eyed daughter and brown-eyed son wander off in search of the perfect sticks to roast marshmallows.

On that day, just like nearly every day before and since, I wondered who I was. Most often, the thought was fleeting. I’d see someone who looked like me and wonder if we shared roots. Sometimes, I’d ask strangers what nationality they were and then, if they were game for conversation, cagily get them to guess at my own. I’d flip through the pages of a magazine looking for someone who shared my features. On occasion, the thoughts lingered. Who was I to have this son who looked just like me and a daughter who looked so opposite? My children were a mirror that reflected a past haunted by one unanswered question: who am I really?

My mother, MJ, would never tell me and, in fact, seemed to delight in holding the power of her secret. I was a ghost fish she reeled in and decided to keep as a resented pet of some sort. I cannot number the times I wish she’d have thrown me back or given me away. Instead, she dined on her secret while I squirmed and flailed about looking for some sense of identity, of belonging, of love.

It is hard for me to speak with adopted children who resent having been adopted, even when they were raised with love and care. Many of them seem to imagine that had their mothers kept them, their lives would be complete. They believe I am lucky because at least I knew my birth mother. Never mind that she was cold and unwelcoming, or that I spent every day of my childhood wondering what I did to deserve her wrath — at least I knew what she looked like and who she was. I do not feel lucky for having that knowledge. I wish that MJ had the strength and the integrity to understand her limitations. I wish that she’d been able to set aside her great pride to say, “I made a mistake by having this affair and neither my husband or I want this child, so I will let her go to someone who wants a child and who won’t punish her for my sins.”  MJ didn’t have that kind of strength, though. Her pride, not her desire, made her keep me. It would have been too humiliating to explain to the mistake of her third pregnancy to her older daughters, her family, or her neighbors. It was easier to pass me off as her husband’s child — to tell strangers who inquired about my coloring that there were dark-eyed Gypsies on her side of the family.

On Facebook, a young Korean adoptee rails against the picket fences and dance lessons of her white-parent youth. She bemoans being “bought” as a baby in an international adoption and shipped to an American suburb, to diligent parents who gave her warmth, security and love without a biological imperative. This is an outrage to her. She has read The Primal Wound and believes that being given up by her birth mother has forever damaged her. She believes that, no matter who her birth mother was, or how her life might have turned out — no matter how poor, dire, or even resented she might have been — she would have been happier, more whole, more like herself  had her birth mother kept her. One half of me understands. She is a ghost fish, too. Wide-eyed, she was pulled up from her natural element and taken to another pool, by people who do not look like her and who probably could not answer her most pressing questions, even if they wanted to.

The other half of me is jealous. Envious to the point of frustration, really. I want to tell her that it is better to be rejected early, with finality, rather than rejected day by day, every day, piece by piece, until the fact of your mother did not want you, cannot love you, will never love you  is not only the seed of infancy, but all the branches of childhood and beyond. There is no warmth in that cold water of resentment. No guidance and no solace. No hands, not even unfamiliar ones, to hold onto. No dance lessons, no one to cheer you on, or pick you up when you fall. There is only you, with a gaping hole in your heart and a torn-up psyche. You become your own parent, eventually. You learn to nurture and encourage yourself, but it’s not the same. Somewhere, always, you’re waiting for that mother-voice to say, Good job. I’m proud of you. You are a worthy human being. The voice does not come, so you pretend it; you create it for yourself, maybe through other women, other relationships.

(There comes a time when a lover’s hands are more than precious . . . when they become extensions of everything you ever wanted and never had. Sacred, those hands. Exalted, that shelter of arms that cradle you so many years past the age of a cradle. Your lover will be bemused by your fascination with her hands. By how humble and reverent you feel, laying skin to skin, your plain, dark hand on the altar of her angelic white hip. She will never know how much it means to you that she lets you lay there — that she has invited you to lay there — that, for even a short while, she gives herself freely to you and finds you worthy of this privilege . She will not understand why the tears rise so easily, or exactly why you love her so much, or how very deeply that love goes. She will not understand many things and you will only be able to explain so much without sounding like a madwoman or scaring her off. You are like a church with open doors, where I might wander in and hear a sermon of love and forgiveness. Here, our communion wine on the nightstand. Here, our window, closed to the unholy city. Here, we will gather love and grace instead of coins, so that even a pauper might feel rich.  You don’t say that, though, you never say that. You smile with her. You tell her yes, I know it’s silly how much I love holding your hand in the car or stroking your hair until you fall asleep. I know I sound like an idiot when I try to tell you why having my hand on your hip feels sacred to me or, worse, when I imagine out loud a pretend future of morning walks and Sunday dinners. I just love you, that’s all, go with it. 

None of it matters in the end. You get thrown back or throw yourself back for any number of ungodly reasons, not the least of which are those slight religious differences that determine levels of pride, acceptance, shame, compromise, risk, mutuality and love).

The religion of the ghost fish holds that Heaven is a person who loves and wants you, and a place you feel accepted. The opposite of heaven is the hell of rejection.

I did not want my son to be a ghost fish. My envy of adoptees is why I wanted to surrender him for adoption. I wanted him to have all that I could not give him and all that I suspected I would never be able to provide. I was beyond poor and knew that it would not be temporary. I knew how hard I’d have to work and how little time I would have. I knew he would suffer for my sins through endless hours of daycare, financial crises, and severe shortages. I did not want him to suffer. My most profound regret in life is that I allowed my mother and her husband to intimidate me into keeping Mac and then later sharing custody. My son, like me, does not feel grateful to have at least known his mother. I do not blame him for this at all. I gave him so little to be grateful for. I raised him in chaos, in poverty. He ping-ponged back and forth. I did not have the resources to fulfill his needs. My love, although strong, fell abysmally short. He told me once that he forgave me and maybe he meant it at the time, but it took me 27 years to unwrap the heavy chains of guilt from around my heart and forgive myself.

My son had a father who never saw him, never paid child support and never cared, but I’ve found in relaying the story of my son’s life to strangers that there’s no anger or judgment against the man who simply left. No one, not even once, has ever expressed any surprise or outrage that a father could do such a thing. When it comes to children, it is the mothers who are scorned for their imperfect choices — for not being able to pick up the pieces, or right all the wrongs — for their poverty, chronic instability and desperate decisions. But you were his mother. You should have done better. You should have tried harder. You shouldn’t have let him live with your parents. How could you?  I would never give one of my children up, no matter how bad things got.

Many woman I know, and certainly the women in my son’s life, think they could have given more, worked harder, and been wiser under the same circumstances. None of us will ever know if they are right, and this many years later, it no longer matters. The past will not change with judgment and the future will not be bettered by recrimination and guilt. I do not tell stories like this for personal catharsis, but in the hopes that other young women might learn from my mistakes — to let them know what they might find if they follow either my course or my mother’s. Becoming a parent before you’re fully grown up, before you’re stable and ready, can be painful and full of lifelong consequences. Keeping a child you do not want or cannot care for is a guarantee of damage.

I am a ghost fish daughter and the mother of ghost fish son. I would wish it to be different, but it’s not. My son and I move in different elements, but I am convinced there is a place of love and acceptance for both of us, still, in this life.

It was my 50th birthday the other day. As a present to myself, I ordered a DNA genealogy test. It will not tell me who my father was, or why my mother was so determined to keep him a secret. It will not erase the past or substantially change my future. It might tell me where my brown eyes come from, though. I might be able to stop saying “I don’t know” when people ask what my nationality is, and maybe I’ll even stop wondering myself. It will take a laboratory 6-8 weeks to pry my mother’s secret from my blood.

It is not everything, but at the same time it is so much. This is the half of me that understands the ache of adoptees. This is the half of me that can’t stand fishing, but that still needs to fish.

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