By Monica Stoffal

My mother once told me: If you think someone is going to be your friend, tell them the worst thing about you; a true friend must know your worst thing. 

In December 1971, I was twelve-years-old and pregnant from the incest I’d experienced since I was five. On April 16, 1972, labor started with its vice-grip of contractions, bringing me to my knees just outside the hospital, where I pulled my mother to the ground as she tried in vain to hold me up. A kind stranger helped us to the hospital door. While the on-call doctor considered whether to give me an epidural, he said, “If this baby even lives, it will be small.” Eight hours later, a seven-pound boy was born—a boy I never saw or held. The adoptive parents and older brother were overjoyed. 

I followed my mother’s advice for a while, believing that a true friend had to know my worst story.  

I considered Robin to be that true friend and, when she shared her hardship story about growing up with an alcoholic mother, I told her my incest story. I was nineteen at the time, and Robin, who was eight years older, seemed trustworthy. I was naive about how hard my story truly was. Unbeknownst to me, Robin gossiped, telling her long-time friend, Colleen, about my childhood sexual abuse. I happened to be renting a room from Colleen, and when we had a disagreement, she accused me of sleeping with my stepfather. I was stunned. Not only by her calloused, out-of-nowhere comment, but by the shocking realization that Robin told someone else my hard story, something I rarely shared. After that, I kept my story all inside, hidden by my Cheshire Cat grin, my cool, aloof self.  

Marriage, two children, college, a teaching job, gave me many years to stuff the story down deep enough that I realized I could live my entire life without ever telling it again. 

When reproductive rights came up in conversations, I’d hold my breath and wait for the conversation to end. But once, I was in the staff workroom with a colleague—a man I respected for his kindness and skill in helping freshmen love Steinbeck—when he said “I really am against abortion. I think it’s wrong.” 

Breathing slowly, I asked, “But what about incest? What about rape?”

“Even then,” Jim said. “Adoption is a really good choice.” 

It took me years to even know the next question: “Have you ever given a baby up for adoption, ever done what you are asking a victim of incest to do?” I asked this question of a protester outside of Planned Parenthood.

“No, I haven’t,” she relented. “But…”

I kept my voice calm. “Well, let me introduce myself. My name is Monica, and I gave a baby up for adoption in 1972, just after I turned thirteen. I just want you to know—the loss is permanent, visceral, and at times, all-consuming. Please keep that in mind when you tell a girl, a survivor of incest, that adoption is a really good choice.”

Adoption was my only choice in 1972, but it was not the worst thing that happened to me. The worst thing came later, after I had my own children, held and loved them, when I realized what I’d done—that I’d given away a baby. 

I should not have kept him. But…I had that baby, gave him to another family to raise. The empty place he once occupied, that has been my worst thing. Surviving that empty place has been the challenge of my life.

Hearing Hadley Duvall speak on stage at the Democratic National Convention gave me my next, next breath. Hadley was brave. Her courage was a signal to me that the other choice, the only choice I had in 1972 pre-Roe, the one Jim did not understand, comes at a price he could never pay. I paid that tab, and I would never ask the same of any female, regardless of age or reason. 

My hope is to share something true about one person who was not crushed by incest. Surviving our deep and early wounds takes time, and we need one another, just like I needed Hadley to take the next breath, the next step forward. 

As Kamala Harris said, “A twelve- or thirteen-year-old survivor of incest being forced to carry a pregnancy to term? They don’t want that.” 

Indeed, we do not. We want freedom from our worst story, and the support that comes from hearing powerful people say: “They don’t want that.” 

As Hadley and I both know, we never did.

Monica Stoffal is a retired educator and a mother, wife, sister, and daughter. She’s writing a memoir about her journey as an incest survivor. Find her on Facebook at MonicaLeigh@Facebook.com and on Instagram @MissyLeigh59.

 

By Maelyn Schramm

My Dearest Biological Mother,

You don’t know me. Well actually, I suppose you do. You grew me in your belly for nine months. You held me in your arms when I was born. You cradled me likely with tears streaming down your face as you left me on the doorstep now 29 years ago.

You don’t know me, but I am your now thirty-year-old biological daughter, Alexia Maelyn Schramm. I write you to share my half of the story. I write to tell you I’m OK. I write because I love you.

***

Firstly, my story: a Caucasian, middle class American family adopted me. I grew up in North Texas, where I still live today. My parents—Tim & Denise—are still married. My older brother still pokes fun at me, my younger brother still annoys me at times. But I love them.

In fact, my family has grown! The oldest of us siblings married and has two sons—“The Boys,” as I lovingly refer to them. The Boys are sweet and wild and rambunctious. They make me laugh and give me hugs. They usually remind me of my brother, but sometimes I see a little of me in them too. I consider their childhood, and at times compare it to mine. I consider how the current me can love the version of themselves now, Little Them, to make up for the pain and hurt and longing Little Mae felt.

A little more of my story: my childhood was simple, yet sweet. I had friends—mostly Caucasian. I played sports (basketball, ultimate frisbee, volleyball, swim, track, and softball). I took art lessons. Water color was my favorite followed closely by sculpture. My dad’s mom taught me piano until I was seventeen-years-old, and I taught myself a touch of guitar and ukulele. I accepted Christ as a young age and plugged into our Baptist church’s youth ministry.

The latest of my story: I studied public relations at Baylor University in Central Texas, and minored in poverty studies and social justice. (I’ve always considered myself a social justice warrior). After graduating, I moved back to Dallas, where I nannied, then worked for several law firms, then worked front desk at climbing gym, then studied law, then stopped studying law, and then wound up managing full-time in the climbing industry—where I am today.

The last 10 years of my life have truly been a whirlwind, though I’m thankful for all of it.

***

Secondly, I’m OK.

As mentioned before, my childhood was simple and sweet. Outside of my adoption, there really isn’t much to report. That being said, my adoption and its impacts on me are a bit to report, but I will try to keep it short and sweet.

Tim and Denise, my dad and mom, love me well, deeply, and with dedication. Unable to have children of their own, they adopted all three of us. My brothers were domestically adopted: from Oklahoma and California. I am the only girl and only international adoption—I like to consider myself special in these ways.

While my childhood was not all too complicated and rather quite ordinary, I spent a majority of it feeling mostly lonely and perhaps even a little lost or misplaced.

Though I had a sufficient amount of friends, I learned and constantly re-learn you can be surrounded by a sea of people and still feel lost and alone. While I did not know it at the time, I suffered from major depression and even suicidal ideation in 7th grade. It’s hard to be an awkward adolescent these days. For reasons I cannot explain, I felt ugly and unwanted.

I felt a little lost and misplaced. I was not conscious of it at the time, but I did everything I could to shove my biological culture and ethnic background under the rug. I quit Chinese school (where they taught me of the culture and language). I befriended mostly white kids. I refused to join orchestra. I did not want to be the weird Asian girl. I dreamt to be a popular, cute, skinny, blonde, white cheerleader. In reality, I was only two of those things (cute and skinny).

The only place I truly felt a sense of belonging was when I was with my “Chinese sisters.” My sisters were adopted by their respective families from Holt International at the same time as I was. Our brilliant, compassionate parents intentionally reunited us every couple of years throughout our childhoods. These reunions took place all over the US, as we were spread across the nation as well.

My Chinese sisters, our families, and I returned to China when I was sixteen-years-old, the summer of my junior year. We first started at an American-led, special needs orphanage outside of Beijing. Together we all served there for a few days, then bopped around the country and visited four or so other major cities. We even returned to Fuzhou, where all of us are from. Two of my sisters and I went back to our orphanage, though it was not the same building, which I can only describe as a surreal experience. Never have I ever felt more humbled, more small, more special than when I walked up and down the halls of my orphanage, 15 years post-adoption.

I didn’t look for you. I’m sorry, but I didn’t. Maybe you were still in Fuzhou, maybe you were long gone by then. Maybe you still reside where you did when I was born. Maybe you’ve passed. But whoever you are, wherever you are, I didn’t look for you. Denise has always been my mom and I never had that sense of longing to know you. At least, not until I started writing this letter at thirty-years-old.

Anyway, back to the moral of my second point: I’m OK, really.

Now that I am older and wiser, I wish I could tell Little Mae she did not need to be anyone but herself. And that herself was her whole self: her long black hair, her tan skin, her almond-shaped eyes. Her whole self included her Chinese culture, language, and background, and her biological mother and family. I would like to say, “Little Mae, you are beautiful as you are—you do not need to be any less Asian or any more white. You are adopted. You are loved.”

This year I attended a Taiwanese-hosted banquet honoring the Lunar New Year. My Taiwanese friend Jen invited me. There were so many Asians! It was amazing. I fed one of the dancing dragons a red envelope for luck. I wish you could have seen me, Mom! You would have been so proud.

Yes, I miss you. Yes, I missed out on my origin story. I missed out on embracing my bio culture as a child, missed out on embracing you. But yes, I’m OK. I promise you I am. And a large part of that is thanks to you.

***

Mom, I love you.

I love you for abandoning me on that doorstep 29 years ago. I love you for considering me, my future during a tumultuous time for our country.

With China’s One Child Policy threatening you, I love you for making the hardest decision of your life. It was the right one.

I love you for who you are, your whole self: a Chinese woman, a friend, a daughter, and most importantly to me, a biological mother to an adopted child you may never meet.

I did not expect to feel so much emotion—hurt, pain, sadness, longing, anger—writing this letter to you. I feel these emotions because I cannot be with you today, tomorrow, or maybe ever. Admittedly, I do not think about you often, but when I do, I only feel fondly. Perhaps the reason I do not consider you much is the same reason I pushed aside my culture during my upbringing: it’s too real, too uncomfortable, too challenging.

I did not know I could love or miss or feel for someone I never knew. I did not know how connected I felt to you until now, this invisible string tying us together with a strength that will never be torn apart. This string ties the devastated mother and the lost daughter together.

I love you. I forgive you for walking away. I forgive you for choosing to leave me. I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you.

***

Well Mom, that is really all I have to say right now, but I have plenty more thoughts and feelings and words and silences for you. I love you. I miss you. I’ll do everything I can to come home to you.

Love,

Jin Fang

Maelyn Schramm is a transracial adoptee from Fuzhou, China. In her free time, she writes a wellness and intentional living blog, Words By Mae. She works full-time in the rock climbing industry, but considers herself a part-time creative. Schramm lives in Dallas, Texas with her beloved dog, Jack. Find her on Instagram @wordsbymae and at her website. 

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