November is a surreal and painful month for me: it’s National Adoption Month, Native American Month
and possibly my birth month.
The perfect traumatic trifecta!
While non-adoptive families are preparing to be grateful and thankful for their lives with their loved ones
(Thanksgiving, Christmas),
I am preparing to endure another year of not knowing my biological
family and trying to accept that I will die, never seeing my birth
mother’s face, or hearing her voice or receiving a hug from her.
I will die like I have lived, as the mythical changeling, forever
severed from heritage, family and identity. And I will die knowing I
failed miserably as the replacement baby that was supposed to cure my
adoptive mother’s infertility.
So why am I upset about November celebrating Native American Month?
Because I was told by my adoptive mother that I was mixed-blood American
Indian and Irish. Given that I was adopted in 1958, I most probably am
one of the babies that was stolen from my American Indian mother during
the U.S. Government’s collusion with adoption agencies to exterminate
native people (
Indian Adoption Act of 1958). The adoption
agencies that worked with the federal government made sure that Indian
babies were transported across state lines so the mothers could never
find them—some of the babies came from Canada. And because I was adopted
through Catholic Social Services, my birth date was most probably
changed. All I know is that my earliest pictures are labelled on the
back like this:
Changeling 3-4 1/2 months?
Before she died, my adoptive mother destroyed all my adoption papers
plus the baby moccasins I was wearing the day she got me. She remained
committed to her promise to Catholic Social Services to obscure my past
so I could never find my heritage, my family and roots.
My adoptive parents were not thrilled when I became an adult and was
accepted by numerous American Indians—to the point that I was taught
traditions and ceremonies. In fact, I was so welcomed and loved by these
people, I raised my sons as traditional Eastern Woodland American
Indians. Then, after years of feeling I had a place in the world—even
though I didn’t know my mother and father—everything changed with the US
Government’s passing of the
Indian Arts and Crafts Act of 1990.
Suddenly, having a Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) card certifying
American Indian heritage was necessary to participate in pow wows and
ceremonies. Thus began the attack by Full-blood Indians against
mixed-blood Indians which is continuing to this day.
Overnight I and my sons morphed in white wannabees—who had no right
to claim any of my heritage— I didn’t have “proof on paper”. After 25
years of acceptance, I was ostracized and lost the closest thing I had
to a heritage and belonging that non-adoptive people take for granted.
So, ya, November is a terrible month for me. I am reminded by
adoption agencies and adoptive parents, and some birth mothers, as well
as non-adoptive people, that I should be grateful and happy I was taken
from my mother the day I was born—I was “saved” from having a terrible
life. I am reminded that without my original birth certificate and
without a blood-quantum paper trail from the US Government, I cannot
practice my American Indian beliefs and traditions—without the risk of
going to jail. I am reminded that before the Indian Arts & Crafts
Act of 1990, I was part of a vital and life-sustaining culture that my
soul resonated with.
And, because I am part of some groups that are welcoming Split-Feathers home to their tribes (those American Indian adoptees that were lucky enough to find their paperwork)
I
am reminded that I will never experience the welcome home pow wows and
ceremonies that are intended to help adopted Indians heal.
November this year is worse than previous years—I am close to sixty—I’ve lived more years, than I have years to live before I die.
And I know now, I will die without ever seeing my mother’s face or being accepted by my tribe.
Happy Adoption Month! Happy Native American Month! And
(maybe?) Happy Birthday to Me!
ABOUT NoName Changeling: I am an adult adoptee who is finally coming to terms with my past
and the psychological damage that occurred the day I was born. For
fifty-seven years I believed I was worthless and that all the problems
and challenges I had were totally my fault. After thirty years of
psychological counseling for chronic depression, severe anxiety and
late-diagnosis ADHD, I found my “family”—other adult adoptees that had
similar experiences and characteristics. This blog is about freeing
myself from the trauma of adoption and taking back my power from the
adults who treated me as a disposable commodity.
