Tag:

Essays

    AdoptionEssays, Fiction, PoetryUncategorized

    Dear Birth Mother and Father

    by bkjax

    I do not know, and it is the not-knowing, the possibility that I will never know, that whispers to me when I am alone.

    By Lisa Ann Yiling Calcasola

    Dear birth mother and father,

    How are you? Where are you? Who are you?

    I grew up with two Italian-American parents who have given me the world and more. I had as happy a childhood as anyone, the majority of my time spent running around outside in the grass and sunshine of a small, safe New England suburb. I have had many identities as an athlete, student, traveler and artist. I am in my third year of college in New York City.

    From the outside my life looks fantastic, a true American dream. I’ve gotten everything I’ve ever wanted—moving to this big city to fulfill bigger dreams—and I should have absolutely nothing to complain about. I have been so fortunate, physically, financially, emotionally. I have the most caring and supporting family. I have no reason to be sad.

    And yet you cannot help how you feel, can you? You cannot apologize for your emotions because you are not in control of them. Or you can have control of them, but only after some time. I’m not sure—I’m still trying to figure that out. But the uneasiness and anxiety over my past is something I still struggle to understand every day. I have no immediate reason to be anxious, but I am.

    Few people would guess this, because outwardly I am fairly energetic and optimistic. It is inside my own head, especially when I am alone, that this fog comes over me and I feel an unending loneliness, even with the knowledge that, not too far away, there are people who care a lot about me.

    I guess I used to cry about this a lot, when I was four—at least that’s what my mom told me this past winter break. I just learned, after twenty years, that I was not merely put into a foster home; I was abandoned in a park. Forest Park, a truly ironic twist of fate, given that my home in America is a five-minute drive from another Forest Park.

    It does no good to dwell on the past. I try not to be sad and think about you, but I am. Sometimes, I am. I miss you, these people I have never met. You left me, I presume, I hope, because you wanted me to have a better life, and here I am, twenty years later, with everything a girl could ever ask for.

    And yet I am still not whole. I still miss you. I still feel lonely, especially in this city that is so vast. I still think too much, but I cannot help these thoughts: that for all my outward material comforts I sometimes feel an emptiness that comes out of this dark pit I want to keep hidden and buried within me. It is ugly and thick and I do not want to expose it. Because I am afraid of it.

    I wonder if meeting you would make a difference, if the loneliness and anxiety I feel is linked more to the mystery than to the two of you, who seem to me more phantom than real. It is always the unknown that haunts us.

    You wanted to give me a better life, but is this better? In one of the biggest most “successful” cities in the world, yet still feeling lonely, still feeling lost? I do not know what life would have been like with you in China, in our city of Fuzhou, of three point seven million people or more. I do not know what it would be like to have a brother or a sister, to see the world through an Eastern rather than Western lens. I have my education here, but what has this education taught me but that the world is far more complex than I’d ever imagined, with more and more terrible things happening each day?

    And I do not know if this is related to you, or just to me, and to my growing up. And I do not know anything about you, who you are, what jobs you do or don’t have, if you’re short like me, if you’re athletic, or artistic, or happy. If you are even alive. I do not know, I do not know, and it is the not-knowing, the possibility that I will never know, that whispers to me when I am alone.

    I miss you, but I do not know how much. Because my mother and father here are the ones who raised me, who taught me how to walk, and speak, and treat other people. They instilled these values in me. What values would you have instilled? Is it egotistical and nonsensical for me to even ask such questions? Maybe I should just accept what is and move on.

    But like I said, feelings cannot be controlled. I can’t help how I feel. I can try to change my perspective, of course, but at the end of the day I still think of you, and I do not know if you think of me.

    I hope to go to China very soon. I look forward to it more than any other trip, and of course I want to see the culture, but mostly I want to find you. I don’t know if this is possible. But it’s another distant dream.

    Take care,

    Your Fu Yiling

    福宜玲

    Lisa Ann Yiling Calcasola is a writer and adoptee. Her work has been previously
    published in Hyphen Magazine, Vol 1. Brooklyn, the Asian American Feminist Collective’s
    digital storytelling project, and more. She wrote this essay in 2016. Find her @punkelevenn.

     

    Severance Magazine is not monetized—no subscriptions, no ads, no donations—therefore, all content is generously shared by the writers. If you have the resources and would like to help support the work, you can tip the writer.

    Venmo: @punkelevenn

    BEFORE YOU GO…

    Look on our home page for more articles about NPEs, adoptees, and genetic genealogy. Please leave a comment below and share your thoughts. Let us know what you want to see in Severance. Send a message to bkjax@icloud.com. Tell us your stories. See guidelines. If you’re an NPE, adoptee, or donor conceived person; a sibling of someone in one of these groups; or a helping professional (for example, a therapist or genetic genealogist) you’re welcome to join our private Facebook group. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter and Instagram @Severancemag.

    0 comments
    0 FacebookTwitter
  • AdoptionEssays, Fiction, Poetry

    All Alone in a Hospital Bed

    by bkjax

    I was scheduled for surgery on March 25, 2020, but because of the quarantine, the surgery was canceled. My condition declined and I politely and persistently encouraged my surgeon to appeal to the board. The appeal was successful and the surgery was and I had the surgery on April 17. It was a much different experience then I could ever imagine. I wasn’t afraid of the surgery. I’ve had several operations in my lifetime. But what I wasn’t prepared for was being alone—completely alone—immediately after my surgery and the entire night I spent in the hospital. The nurses and patient aides were attentive. If I needed something, I pushed the button, and they were able to help with pain meds or small amounts of food. But I was alone. Because of COVID-19, my husband was not allowed to be with me. He dropped me off at the door at 6 AM and I didn’t see him again until the next day when he came to drive me home. I spent the entire night alone and in pain and had no one to comfort me. I imagine that my birth mother may have felt the same way the night she gave birth to me. I tried to get comfortable, but couldn’t. I tried to sit or lie in different positions, but it didn’t help. I was in pain and I cried. I barely slept. I felt nauseous at times and struggled to drink even the smallest amounts of water. My heart ached for my loved ones. When the nurse did come in, she was quick and efficient but didn’t stick around for small talk. She didn’t provide any kind of nurturing or offer encouraging words. I cried more and thought about calling someone, anyone, but I didn’t want to be a bother. Adoptees do that—we feel bad asking for help, as if we should be able to handle everything or because maybe we are not deserving of basic human compassion.

    Read more
    2 FacebookTwitter
  • AdoptionEssays, Fiction, Poetry

    Birthday Blues

    by bkjax

    I circle my birthday on the calendar every year. As the date draws closer, its approach feels increasingly like warm, heavy breathing on the nape of my neck and I begin to think about it daily, as much as I don’t want to. The breathing on my neck intensifies. I work hard to bottle up anticipation that bubbles up from my soul. When it is a week away, anxiety skyrockets. Try as I might to banish all birthday thoughts and emotions from my mind and body, I’m unable to. The more I try not to think about it, the more I do. Thank you, irony. Then it arrives. It’s here! The big day! Time to celebrate! Celebratory texts and Facebook posts begin rolling in. Regardless of what’s planned for me on this most wondrous of days, I don’t need to guess what this day will be like or how I will feel. It’s my birthday after all. October 10th is here. Yippy. Anxiety levels now reach all-time highs, or, to be precise, match the same highs set each preceding year. I don’t know what to do with myself. There is one certainty with my birthday: I will find a way to sabotage it. As sure as the sun rises each morning, my birthday will somehow become a fiasco. For most of my life it has been like this. I wish it would stop, but it won’t. Like a family of pit vipers slithering over each other in a dark den, something buried in my subconscious moves, waiting for a chance to strike. I’m riddled with emotional pain and loneliness even though I’m blessed to be married to a superhero and am a father to two wonderful children who go out of their way to do nice things for me. I feel as if I am seeking something that cannot be found.

    Read more
    1 FacebookTwitter
  • AdoptionEssays, Fiction, Poetry

    Fierce Mother-Love

    by bkjax

    Many adoptees dread an elementary school project that seems to be universally assigned — the family tree project. The teachers ask children to research their roots and family origins to find out where they came from and what their heritage is. Most children like me, adopted during the baby scoop era, lived in families in which we were simply expected to assume our place in the adoptive family and take our identity from it. I first encountered the family tree project when I was in 2nd grade. It created consequences from which I not only never recovered, but which also shaped my future in unforeseeable ways. I have a strong memory from that school year. I asked my mom, “What am I?” I meant what nationality was I, where did MY people come from? Kids at school were talking about this and I could not join the conversation. Stephanie was German, Korey was Korean, what was I? She had no answer for me other than the vague and slightly suspect information given to her by the social worker who arranged my adoption. It wasn’t good enough for me.

    Read more
    4 FacebookTwitter
  • ArticlesDNA SurprisesFamily SecretsNPEs

    After A DNA Surprise: 10 Things No One Wants to Hear

    by bkjax

    Until recently, most people likely haven’t encountered someone who’s been knocked off balance by a DNA test result, so it’s understandable they might not appreciate the magnitude of the impact. But it’s just a matter of time. Mind-blowing DNA revelations are becoming so common that some DNA testing companies have trained their customer service staff representatives to respond empathetically. While those employees may know the right thing to say, here, in the real world, the people around us often haven’t got a clue how it feels — like a punch to the gut. If you’ve become untethered from your genetic family, you might get a second surprise: some of your friends and loved ones may be remarkably unsympathetic, often infuriatingly judgmental, and sometimes even hostile. It’s clear that although DNA surprises have become ubiquitous, social attitudes haven’t kept pace, and a stigma remains.

    Read more
    36 FacebookTwitter
@2019 - Severance Magazine