Tag: Huffington Post

Coercive Trickery

Kim Rossler with baby Elliott

I stumbled on this story. It isn’t new and I am unable to find out any current status. It is a cautionary tale for any expectant mother who is conflicted about giving up her baby for adoption or choosing to parent. Rather than go over all the details of this case (which sadly is common to many other such cases), I leave you with a few links to read more if you are interested in it.

Between 2015 and 2019, the story did garner some very public and at times controversial reporting (depending upon which side of the adoption issues you find yourself leaning into). I did see that the Huffington Post had a two-part article by Mirah Riben. LINK>Part 1 was published July 7, 2015 (Rossler gave birth on May 28, 2015 in Mobile County, Alabama). It was followed by LINK>Part II. At three weeks old, an Alabama sheriff removed the baby from his mother, while she was breastfeeding him.

It is the story about what can happen when a predatory adoption agency and an intent to adopt woman get together to derail a decision to parent by a woman who was previously considering giving her baby up for adoption but changed her mind.

LovingFamilies on WordPress published LINK>Update Baby Elliott Case. I also did find that LINK>in 2019, the Alabama Supreme Court ruled that a Facebook page go back online. I did try to locate it but did not find that it went back up.

This is NOT how adoption is supposed to work.

Baby Name Mourning

I saw an interesting article this morning in The Huffington Post about LINK>Baby Name Mourning. It is not an unfamiliar issue with adoptees that the name their genetic biological parents wanted for them before they were born was rejected by the adoptive parents due to a preference for the name they wanted to give to their adopted child.

From the article – Deema Soufan, a psychotherapist who specializes in perinatal mental health, notes that “As we move through life, we discover meaning in experiences that have been important to us . . . Essentially what can end up happening is we can focus on this idea in our head of what we thought something would look like, what we thought something would represent. And if that idea is shattered or ruptures, a lot of grief can follow suit.”

Expectations and dreams, especially long-held ones, trend to bring up big feelings. The article notes that there are a variety of reasons why people can’t use a particular name that they love. Maybe they are unable to have a child or choose not to do so. The pregnant person may feel ‘silly’ for sharing that they are grieving that their journey to parenthood has become challenging. It can feel like a massive loss of control as well.

She notes a variety of reasons for sadness – “The grief of not listening to your internal guidance, the grief of not advocating for your needs and desires, the grief of people-pleasing, and the grief of ultimately not using the name you love can send parents into a spiral of deep, dark name regret.”

“The advice that I have for anyone who is coping with baby [name] mourning is to approach your stance with curiosity and without judgment,” Soufan said. “I implore you to dig deep and explore what is at the root of this distress for you. Normalize your grief and accept it! Two things can exist at once.” You can feel like you are “completely out of control, especially when one of the first parenting decisions that you get to make feels like it was taken away from you.” She recommended sitting with your thoughts and examining what is reality. “The more that we can develop compassion and curiosity for our feelings, the more that we can accept and move through them.” And this would be common among mothers who surrender their child to adoption.

“We imagine ourselves parenting and nurturing this little spirit, helping them navigate life’s inevitable twists and turns. When we rub up against the reality . . . it only feels right to grieve the loss of these people that we’ll never get to know in the flesh,“ Taylor Humphrey, the baby name consultant who coined the term: baby name mourning.

Hard Truths

It’s easy to be righteous about “life” and extreme in your anti-abortion views – perhaps you should open your heart to read this story in today’s Huffington Post LINK>A Letter To My 1-Year-Old Son About His Abortion. The truth is, for many women (myself included) an abortion is just a waypoint on the way to having other children.

The article is full of the REAL reasons some women must resort to an abortion. Near the end, the father says – We won’t tell you about the joy Dub Dub (grandma) felt knowing you were on your way, or how hard Pop Pop (grandpa) tried to live long enough to meet you, only to pass away on the last Sunday in January, exactly three weeks before you were born. We won’t explain how heartbreaking it is to become a parent just as you’ve lost your own.

We will wait until you are ready . . . We will wait to explain Roe vs. Wade, and make sure you know how to raise your voice when the moment demands it, because women shouldn’t have to face this fight on their own. We will wait to explain how dark our world was during that time, but never miss a chance to tell you that you were the one ray of light.

We will wait until you are older to tell you the bad parts, and how they outnumbered the good. We will wait until you are grown to tell you how fortunate we were to live where we did, because if we hadn’t, we might not have had you.

Breaking Into The Sealed Record

During my own roots journey, I bumped up against this in Virginia (I actually had a copy of my mom’s original birth certificate, her footprints, her mom’s fingerprints) when all I really wanted to know is whether she was born in a hospital or at home. Given the “prints”, probably it was a hospital but Virginia would not allow me her birth records without an attorney and judge, as they were sealed with her adoption. Same with Arizona’s records of her adoption or my dad’s records in California. Even so, I do know now what my parents never knew – who their original parents were and something of their stories.

Therefore, this story in the Huffington Post caught my attention – LINK>I Could Have Gone To Prison For What I Did To Find My Birth Parents by Jillian Barnet. The article notes – “The vast majority of the now 5 million adoptees in the United States have no right to our original birth certificates, our medical histories or to any information regarding our identities.”

She writes – “Late at night, in my childhood room, questions haunted me: Where did I come from? Why was I adopted? Who was my original family? Though my parents informed me of my adoption at a young age, beyond that the subject of adoption was taboo in our home.”

“When I gathered the courage to pose those questions, I got vague answers: In a hospital. Because we wanted you. People who couldn’t keep you. Because my parents treated the details of my adoption as secret, I desperately wanted to locate my birth family. It was an almost cellular urgency that surged when I became a mother myself.”

“In 1986, there was little information available to adoptees. Searching was something well-adjusted people didn’t do or even talk about. But on a follow-up visit to my obstetrician after the birth of my twins, I found a waiting-room magazine featuring the title of an article on the front cover that read, Adoptees Find Birth Parents With Help of ALMA.”

“I dove into reading about an adopted woman who had found her birth family with help from the Adoptees Liberty Movement Association (ALMA). After my doctor’s appointment, I slipped the magazine into my purse and brought it home. ALMA would end up shepherding me through a frustrating, emotional decade of searching for my birth family until, at last, I found them.”

If you have experienced the same frustrations that I have or that Jillian did, you might want to read the rest of the linked article.

Abandoned in a Cardboard Box

In looking for an image to illustrate today’s story, I was surprised at how common it actually is for parents to use a cardboard box as a bassinet. The story I read in LINK>The Huffington Post isn’t actually about this. The story by Shari Leid is titled – “I Was Found Abandoned In A Cardboard Box As A Baby. All My Life I’ve Been Searching For The Truth About Who I Am.” The subtitle is – “Now a mother myself, I often think about the emotions that must have swirled within my birth mother during her pregnancy.”

She writes – In the bustling streets of Seoul, South Korea, my life began at Chapter 2 with a cardboard box in a nondescript parking lot. There was no Chapter 1; the scant police, hospital and orphanage records offer no clues about my birth name, birthplace, or birthdate. My birth story is shrouded in mystery. It was 1970, a time when adoption, especially international adoption, was navigated with less understanding than it is today. Concepts like the significance of bonding between a baby and its mother during the first year of life were not as widely recognized or prioritized.

She goes on to note – Attachment, the emotional bond between a child and their primary caregiver, is now known to play a pivotal role in shaping our relationships and emotional well-being. My early life was marked by a series of caregivers ― from a birth family to a police station to a hospital ward to an orphanage and finally to a foster home ― before being escorted to the United States by representatives of an adoption agency to meet my adoptive parents. This early experience laid the foundation for the complex web of attachment issues I would grapple with throughout my life.

Not for the first time have I read this from an adoptee – the school project that I hated the most was the Family Tree assignment. It was a stark reminder that I was like a grafted branch, awkwardly attached to a tree that wasn’t originally mine. And the thing with grafts is, they don’t always take ― sometimes they stick out, not quite blending in, or they might not even survive if they don’t heal right.

She relates the effects of her attachment issues – In those tricky teen years and my early 20s, I struggled with trust in my relationships. I was continually searching for assurance, for tangible signs that the people in my life would remain steadfast, that our connections would endure the inevitable storms. Looking back, I recognize this was a dance with fear ― the fear of being forgotten, of being alone. Unintentionally, I placed those around me under the microscope of my insecurities, seeking constant validation of their affection and commitment.

Then she describes how becoming a mother affected her – Now a mother myself, having experienced the profound journey of pregnancy and childbirth, I often think about the emotions that must have swirled within my birth mother during her pregnancy. I can’t help but wonder whether she, too, grappled with a sense of emotional detachment ― an act of self-preservation, knowing she couldn’t keep me — and if she transferred those feelings of detachment and anxiety to her unborn child.

She notes that there is a profound power in having a birth narrative. Hers came by way of a psychic at a friend’s party. She was given the gift of a reimagined beginning. It is interesting that after marriage, she and her husband adopted a girl from China only to discover that this woman was already pregnant. This happens more often than you might think (an adoption brings with it a pregnancy). Her son was born a mere seven months after they returned from China.

She notes – We adoptees are not just the sum of our adopted family; we are the continuation of a history, the carriers of genetics, and the embodiment of potential that stretches back beyond our memory. Our birth families, with all their mysteries and absences, are still a vital piece of our identity, a narrative thread that is ours to weave into the story of our lives. 

There is a lot of attention to Korean adoptee stories these days – 112,000 Korean children were adopted by US citizens over the last 60 years. The story author writes – In 2020, the South Korean National Police Agency began offering a service to overseas adoptees of Korean descent that provides a way for us to submit our DNA and register it with foreign diplomatic offices, in the hopes of reconnecting with our biological families. I provided my DNA sample, but to this day, there has been no match.

Not Actually Lucky

Iris Anderson

Today’s blog is courtesy of a Huffpost Personal story by the woman who’s picture is above. LINK>People Ask If I Feel ‘Lucky’.

When I was old enough to comprehend the gravity of my truth, my parents sat me down and told me that I had been adopted from China. It was fairly easy, even as a child, to recognize that I did not look like those around me, especially my parents. In fact, I found it quite awesome to be different ― to have come from a country so rich with history and culture.

However, the reality of living in a town with a predominantly white population is that many of its residents ostracize anyone who is different. I tried desperately to fit in with the other kids, but it became clear early on that despite my parents’ whiteness, my Chineseness would always make me an outsider.

Growing up, she didn’t realize the seemingly small acts of aggression she experienced were actually racist or that they would grow into hatred in the future. She writes – The first time I returned to China with my parents, I was 9 years old and longing for a place filled with people who looked like me. I was completely in awe of the country that created me, and this is when I first realized that I needed to embrace being Chinese. This proved nearly impossible. It was obvious that I did not belong to those who lived in China. From the way I dressed to the language that I spoke ― or couldn’t speak ― to them, I was American through and through. I felt like a foreigner in a country that I desperately believed should have felt like home.

She continues – As I grew older, it became more common for adults to ask me how lucky I felt to be adopted from China, and I became resentful at how their questions commodified me. I was adopted from China after being left at a train station and should be grateful for my parents’ generosity ― for the roof they put over my head and the food they put on my plate. My epiphany occurred when I realized that I am allowed to simultaneously love my parents and grieve what I lost. While transracial adoptees may be placed into amazing, loving families, it does not change the fact that their culture was stolen from them.

The second time I returned to China, I was 15 and felt more in touch with my emotions. I wanted to build connections with other adoptees and hear their stories. This trip, which catered to adoptees from the same agency, allowed me to spend time with others who had been taken into white families. Together, we found and created a safe environment for each other where we could talk about our experiences and vent our emotions without fear of judgment.

I held no anger toward my birth mom for giving me up, especially when I understood the state of China and the one-child policy. But the curiosity of knowing about where and who I came from was there, and probably always will be. By the end of the trip, I cannot say that this goal was completely achieved. But while it might sound cliche, we adoptees did find each other, and in some way that was worth more to us than our original goals.

All transracial adoptees deserve to have a place where they can release their emotions and feel a sense of community. While I know not all transracial adoptees will want or be able to return to their country of birth and connect with others who have shared experiences, I hope they can find another way to build a community, perhaps through local groups or online. Being able to share my thoughts, emotions and challenges ― which I worried only I was thinking, feeling and facing ― with people like me has changed my life for the better.

The author, Iris Anderson, is studying biology and psychology at Columbia University and is part of the class of 2026.

Blogger’s Note – being in an all things adoption online community has made all the difference for me as the child of two adoptee parents. I have learned so much and very often, what I learn is translated into these blogs I write almost every day. My only hope is that I help others who have much less experience with adoption understand better what adoptees feel and experience in the lives they lead.

Being Fatherless

From Huffington Post LINK>I Was Told My Father Was A ‘Deadbeat.’ After He Died, I Found Out Everything I Knew About Him Was Wrong. “In the foster care system, being a fatherless daughter was the status quo.” by TJ Butler.

Growing up, all I knew about my father was that he was a “deadbeat.” My parents divorced when I was 4. He was a musician, playing bass in rock and country bands ― the only job he’d ever had ― and child support payments were always contentious. I remember Mom complaining that Dad would show up to the court hearings wearing torn jeans and T-shirts. In one hearing in the ’80s, she was awarded less than $70 for two children, based on his income. (blogger’s note – I remember being awarded $25/mo, when I didn’t ask for child support at my divorce because I knew he would never pay it and I wasn’t going to spend my life in court fighting for it.)

When I was a few years older, my younger sister and I spent an occasional weekend with him. I have little recollection of the infrequent visits, but I have colorful memories of his apartment. Framed Beatles albums covered the walls, sharing space with antique Civil War memorabilia and his many bass guitars. My stepmother, who I thought of only as “my father’s new wife,” was beautiful; the coolest adult I’d ever met. When I got my first period at 10, she was the one who explained how to use tampons.

Like my father, my mother entered a new relationship shortly after my parents divorced. But her boyfriend was an alcoholic, prone to verbal abuse and physical violence. At 13, I ended up in foster care, living in group homes and residential children’s centers. There was little talk of family reunification during those years; the night I left my mother’s house at 13 turned out to be the last time I ever slept there.

The group homes and children’s residential centers where I lived during my teens focused on independent living. As I neared 18, I learned about adulting: grocery lists, budgeting money for rent and utilities, and how to write a resume. In the system, communication with family members is regulated. Since I didn’t grow up with him and he didn’t seem interested, none of my counselors or my social worker encouraged me to have a relationship with my father. Being fatherless was just another box to check when I filled out questionnaires for therapy.

When I aged out of foster care, I was angry, but it was directed inward. Rather than hurting others, I hurt myself. There were drugs and alcohol, body piercings and tattoos, and years of nude modeling. A decade later, I had an epiphany that I couldn’t continue the way I was living and quit the adult business. I took out my piercings and had my most visible tattoos removed. I finished a BA in management, secured a corporate job with good benefits, and married my wonderfully supportive husband.

When my father died in 2011 of Parkinson’s with Lewy body dementia, I didn’t go to his funeral. My feelings were confusing. Why was I sad that a man I hardly knew passed away? It took some time to realize that I wasn’t crying over the loss of a father. Instead, it was the realization that now he’d never be able to change his mind and become my dad.

Moving forward, she decided she wanted to meet her half-brother. Rather than admit that she planned to drive 700 miles to see him out of the blue, she told him she had “a writing thing” near him and asked if he wanted to meet for coffee while she was in town. He agreed. She was excited and nervous, and eager to learn about what life was like growing up with their father. He began to fill in the blanks about their father. The person she’d known little about transformed from a deadbeat into a man. She learned how good-natured he was before he got sick and about how their house had been the magnet for kids in the neighborhood to hang out. He told her that he could see a lot of their father in her face. Since she felt she didn’t resemble the people on her mother’s side, she was thrilled to finally look like someone she was related to. (blogger’s note – this is a common experience among adoptees in reunion as well – having a genetic mirror.)

She goes on to share – I began seeing a therapist to work out some issues with my mother. Although it wasn’t family therapy and we didn’t connect, my perspective changed dramatically. I saw her as a flawed human, rather than simply a bad mother. This new way of thinking answered many questions about why I ended up in foster care and why she chose not to let me come home. This clarity has brought me some closure. She ends with how meeting her half-siblings was “about connecting with a family who welcomed me with open arms. Spending time with them gave me something that wasn’t even on my radar to wish for. For the first time in my life, it felt like I belonged somewhere.”

Genetic Mirrors Matter

Today, I read an adoptee write – My biological grandmother died and I saw pictures posted. For the first time I’m my life. other than with the children I birthed, I saw someone I looked like. Her baby photos are me and my current toddler. Like zero question we are related.

I don’t like her because she had zero interest in me. But I can not tell you how healing it was, for the first time at 39 years old, to be like “oh I belonged to them”. I have literally felt like an alien, or fae or something my entire life because no one looked like me. Not even my full sister or 3 half siblings. No one on my father’s side at all. I do not even look like my biological mother. The ONLY thing I had previously identified were my teeth, being like my biological father’s mother. I look like I took her teeth out and put them in my mouth.

My oldest looks like me and it was so wonderful. But…it would have helped me soooo much as a child to have seen that photo. To know “oh here, you look like this person”. The point is that genetic mirrors matter. Even if I never had a relationship with her, I would have benefited so much to have known of this similarity, when I was yet young.

Blogger’s note – the first time I saw a photo of my mother’s first mom, I could see my middle sister in her facial appearance and body type. When I first found my cousin Laura, I was very reluctant to contact her. She looked so much like my youngest sister, who I am estranged from due to her mental health issues. While I understand the source of her behaviors, it is a kindness to my own self that I maintain distance from her. Thankfully, I really connected with Laura and thanks to her, I have a lot of photos of my dad’s mother, and even of his grandparents and his half-siblings, plus an aunt of his (my grandmother’s oldest sister who died young) who I am coincidentally named the same as.

I found a Huffington Post article about LINK>Family Resemblances by Rachael Rifkin from Jan 2015. Many different family members’ features can be found in one person’s face. It illustrates how many people it takes to create one person. She says, “the more we know about our family history, the more we know about ourselves.” I have certainly discovered that for myself, in my own family roots/origins journey. I found Rachael’s exploration fascinating.

Family Preservation

This is the topic my heart wanted to write about yesterday but I just didn’t have time to do it justice. Then, today I saw a post by a FB adoptee friend on the topic and thought I really need to address this today. These kinds of coincidences always have an impact on me.

After sharing that she still struggles to heal the deep seated abandonment wound within her. She ends her story with “Family preservation. Even if that family is just a mother and her baby. These are the seeds we should be planting today if we want a better future for our children and grandchildren. We can find a better way to care for children whose family won’t or can’t.”

In googling around on the topic, yesterday, I found what is usually the argument against LINK>Fatal Preservation in something called the City Journal. The author, Dennis Saffran is a Queens-based appellate attorney, writer, and former GOP candidate for the New York City Council. Okay, I know. There are situations where the parents are so damaged themselves that they are not good for their own children. No one who cares about kids would suggest that there are not some situations where the children do need to be removed for their own safety. It is true that any good thing can be taken to extremes.

Dennis notes – “It is hard to imagine a more conservative-sounding name for a social policy than family preservation. But in fact, those on the Left who are usually the most hostile to ‘family values’ and parental rights have shaped the policy into its present form and are its most vehement and dogmatic advocates. Family preservation is a classic example of a seemingly sensible and humane liberal reform gone awry because of the ideological single-mindedness of its supporters. The policy now badly hurts those it was meant to help.”

Even so, a rational application of family preservation and reunification efforts by the child welfare agencies in our states has merit. It is true, sometimes parents are not given the time they truly need to address their various issues. A rush to move cases through the courts does cause a miscarriage of what really does need to happen to keep families together.

As a movement, LINK>Family Preservation is actually fairly old (dating back to the 1890s) but has been poorly and improperly applied at times. Family preservation was the movement to help keep children at home with their families rather than in foster homes or institutions. This movement was a reaction to the earlier policy of family breakup, which pulled children out of unfit homes. Extreme poverty alone was seen as a justified reason to remove children.

And that still happens today – poverty is often the main reason that children are removed from their biological, genetic parents. I did like this article in Huffington Post on the topic – LINK>Lifting Families Out of Poverty, One Crib at a Time by Katherine Snider.

She notes – “There are too many stories of need in this country. And nearly all of them start the same way — with the unspeakable stress endured by families in poverty. They tell of parents who reuse disposable diapers; children who are sent home from school for hygiene issues because shampoo and soap are luxury items for a poor family; parents who can’t afford a crib so they put their newborn babies to sleep in a dresser drawer, a hamper, or in a cardboard box. These are the everyday, constant challenges for families in poverty.” Blogger’s note – I was originally put to sleep in a dresser drawer after I was born. That is not abuse, just necessity. I will also note, that although we did use a bassinette, my children never slept in a crib but that is another story for some other day.

One final observation – this country really does not care about families as much as it pretends to. There is a severe lack of resources and the will to supply them does not exist. Money still talks, profit in the adoption industry motivates and adoptive parents still rule over the lives of many children, especially babies, that could have been raised, given adequate supports, by the mothers who gave birth to them (with or without a father present in that household).