A Life That Will Not Be Silent

My mom with our dog Ranger. 

Tomorrow, April 7th, is the two year anniversary of my mom's death. By the time I post this, it will
probably be the anniversary. It is also the birthday of my husband's mother, who passed away 12 years ago, when I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. Crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge this evening, over the Delaware River that separates Philadelphia from my home in New Jersey, with my 5-year-old son in the back, chatting away, I thought about that morning two years ago when my dad called me. "Mom had a difficult night," he said, "You should probably come." I was on the bridge. It seems a fitting metaphor for my life, being on a bridge at that moment. I was crossing over -- life before, with my mom, and life after. I know my husband feels the same about his life, before and after.

My mom was many things to me, most of which cannot be summed up in words. What she was to this community, of course, was "an adult adoptee advocating for her rights." Before she died from malignant melanoma at the age of 63, she had fought for nearly 15 years for justice and truth in the world of adoption. To be honest, this was only a small part of what she was to me, but it was an important part. She asked me if I would consider continuing her blog after she died, "only once a month or so, because I know how busy you are." I said I would. I am so grateful I did, because by writing here I have been introduced to many people of great integrity. I have also learned a lot. "Jenn, you wouldn't believe some of the stuff that goes on in adoption," my mom told me. She was right. In my two years of writing, I have discovered everything from simple ignorance to big-time greed and corruption, but I have also rediscovered the beauty of truth in the face of these things. Truth is a gem. Those who work to find it, will.

Berta Cáceres, mother and activist. 

It felt fitting then, that today on the front page of the Spanish newspaper El País (which I read because of my job as a Spanish teacher) there was an essay, La vida que no calla (Life That Will Not Be Silenced), by Olivia, Berta, Laura, and Salvador Cáceres. They are the children of Berta Cáceres, who was killed last month in Honduras. (Click here to read more: New Yorker article on Berta Cáceres). She was an internationally known environmental and human rights activist, much more famous than my mom, of course, but her children's words spoke for how I feel about my mom, about Berta, about anyone who speaks for truth. (The entire article can be found here: El País article on Berta Cáceres). I was especially moved by the last paragraph:


"El dolor no nos paraliza, no nos impide soñar, pero se volverá insoportable si el mundo calla y olvida a la guardiana de los ríos, a la cuidadora de la vida, a la que también nos cargó en el vientre, a nuestra madre, Berta Isabel Cáceres Flores."

The pain does not paralyze us, does not keep us from dreaming, but it will become unbearable if the world is quiet and forgets the guardian of the rivers, the keeper of life, she who also carried us in her womb, our mother, Berta Isabel Cáceres Flores. 

Tomorrow, the anniversary of the passing of my mom, and also the birthday of my husband's mother, I will not forget, I will remember, the beauty of the truth, the beauty of all moms, and especially mine, Susan Thomson Perry. 

Radical Listening and Adoption

Another post by Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away in April of 2014, eight months after being reunited with her biological sisters. 

Mom and Joseph. The picture in his room for him to remember her by.

In October, adoption blogger (and adoptee) Amanda Transue-Woolston wrote a moving post called "Re-framing Searching as Radical Empathy" (Click here to read) about what it felt like, as an adoptee, to become a mother for the first time. My mom, too, wrote about how when my older sister was born she (my mom) stayed up that first night holding her and wondering about the woman to whom she was so closely tied, but knew nothing about.

I've been thinking about "radical empathy" and that October post lately as I ponder what I can possibly say about the Pennsylvania ACLU's opposition to HB162, a bill that would allow adult adoptees in Pennsylvania access to their original birth certificates. The bill passed the House in December 187-7 (though with a clause included about an adoptee having to have a high school diploma or GED in order to access her birth certificate. What?!) and now goes to the Senate, where it faces intense opposition by the Pennsylvania Catholic Conference and the Pennsylvania ACLU. A friend forwarded me the letter that was sent to all members of the House of Representatives by ACLU Legislative Director Andy Hoover back in December, and I have been pondering ever since what I could possibly say in response. What can I say about a letter that ignores the personal stories of so many birth parents and adoptees, including my mom, and then insults them by arguing that "The fairest process in adoption is one that respects the wishes of all parties. Current law accomplishes that"? (My mom is dead, and only by a miracle do I now know and have as part of my life her extended family, so no, no, no, current law does not accomplish that). What to say to an organization that apparently thinks it completely fine that my mom had no rights when it came to knowing her true identity? That would ignore the testimony of thousands upon thousands around the country (and world) to the contrary? After more than a month of reflection, I think the answer, really, is nothing.  If nothing that has been said thus far has moved them, then I do not think that they are really listening.  And what is needed now is radical listening.

We all know what it feels like when someone really listens to us. And we all know what it feels like when someone doesn't. I've had both experiences when telling my mom's story. Once, a new neighbor, now a good friend, came by my house and noticed a picture on the bulletin board of my mom and her two sisters. She asked about it. I told her a little (there were other people over, and I tend not to go into the whole, complicated story in social situations), but I added, "It's an interesting story. I'll have to tell you some time." The next week, as we sat on the front porch while our kids played on the lawn, she asked for the story, and I told her. I did not get into the politics. I just told her about my mom, and how she had to sit across the desk from some twenty-something social worker who had access to the truth of  my mom's life right there, in the filing cabinet at her side, but she couldn't share that truth with my mom, because one phone call, one scared no from her biological mother, meant that she couldn't. My mom had no rights to contact her mother herself. She had no rights to know her family, including her sisters , who wanted to know her.

"I can't imagine how that must have felt," my friend said. I was so grateful to her for listening, for really listening, and hearing the truth of my mom's experience, that I could have cried. When the ACLU is ready (will they ever be ready?) I will be grateful to them too. By listening, they would know that their stance is wrong, and harmful. By listening, they could understand. And by understanding, they could do what is right. For the sake of thousands of adoptees and biological parents in Pennsylvania, I hope that they do, and soon.

My mom and kids, July 2013. When her rights were violated as an adoptee, their rights to know their extended family, and their heritage, were violated as well. More than anything, though, we just wish she were still here with us. I am baffled by the position of the ACLU that "current law" (law that did not allow my mom access to her family, which gave her access to her full medical history) "protects the rights of all involved." It does not. 

Nieto #119 is Found in Argentina: "Es un milagro"

Mario Bravo with Estela de Carlotto, President of the Abuelas 

Yesterday in Argentina, Mario Bravo, 38 years old, met his mother for the first time. Adopted as a baby after he was forcefully taken from his mother, who was 18 years old and being held by the military junta for her political views, he began his search in 2007. "Es un milagro haber encontrado a mi mamá con vida" he said ("It's a miracle to have met my mother alive"). My mom, too, spoke of miracles when telling of how she met her sisters after more than 60 years of separation. In the case of Mario Bravo, though, it is an even more astonishing miracle that his mother survived. Most mothers of the children stolen during Argentina's dirty war (1976-1983) were killed. Only their grandmothers were left to search for them. They have been searching for more than 40 years, and it is their hard work and advocacy that allow "miracles" like this to occur. Because of them, Argentina has a National Commission on the Right to Identity. Even soccer star Lionel Messi has filmed a spot for the Abuelas in which he encourages his fellow Argentinians to seek out their true identities if they have any doubts because "Te estamos buscando" (We're looking for you). "We" are the families searching for their lost children. ("Resolvé tu identidad ahora," Click HERE to watch). Mario Bravo is Nieto #119, the 119th grandchild to have been found and reunited with his biological family because of the efforts of this group. The Abuelas estimate that there are some 300 more to be found. "Lo que pasó es muy feo, What happened is very ugly," Mario Bravo said, "Lo que venga, es linda, What is to come, is beautiful."

It was only a few hours after reading about Mario that a friend of mine shared the following article with me: Canadian Mothers Whose Babies Were Stolen. It's about young single mothers who were told their babies had died when in actuality those babies were stolen from them and placed for adoption (see also: Forced Adoptions, National Post Article). A decade ago, a Canadian woman named Tina Kelly filed a United Nations report claiming just this. She is not some lone outlier, as the articles show. Australia, Spain, Ireland, Guatemala, and yes, the United States. All have had multiple credible stories of babies being taken from their mothers and placed for adoption when they never should have been.

This is not to say that all those who were adopted were stolen, or even that all parents are desperately searching for the children they have lost. Some adoption agencies are ethical, of course, and some children do need homes. My mom, apparently, was one of those children (though her adoption agency, which has maintained "no position" on adoptees' access to their true identities, is not ethical in my book). Still, the fact that such grave violations of human rights DO exist, and are hidden under the guise of adoption, means that perhaps it is time to have our own National Commission on the Right to Identity here in the United States. While I have great sympathy for the adopted person and what she faces as she decides to search for her biological family, I also have sympathy for those mothers and fathers who feel that their children were stolen from them. Perhaps not by a military dictatorship, but stolen just the same.

My Nana, My Mom's Mom (The Adoptive Parent and Adoption)

This is another post written by Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away in April of 2014, eight months after meeting her sisters for the first time.

I have been thinking a lot lately about my grandmother, Grace Elizabeth Bissex Thomson. I called her Nana, which is where my mom got her name when my children were born. My Nana's mom, Josephine Hinchman Bissex (1884-1971), nearly died, back in 1914, bringing my grandmother into this world. She would never have another child, so my grandmother was an only child and an only grandchild. "It was lonely sometimes," she told me, "There is nothing like family."

My grandmother, on the right, in a 1936 picture with her friends.

Her parents loved her well, though, and she was happy. When she was fifteen years old, in 1929, her father (Paul Bissex, 1886-1973) helped build a house for the family on Chestnut Street in Haddonfield. Years later, my best friend and I spent hours upon hours playing in the woods at the end of this street. We both lived only a few blocks away. Sometimes in our games we would come upon the crumbling cement remains of an enormous swimming pool, surrounded by trees, and so reclaimed by the earth that you had to have great imagination to picture its original use. This was Mountwell Pool, created by a dam in 1913, a year before my grandmother's birth (the cement pool was added in 1937 as a public works project, and the whole thing was closed in 1971).  My grandmother spent her childhood days here. Later, as a teenager, she met my grandfather, Clarence Thomson (1911-1984), though everyone called him Tommy. "I still remember how he would run by me on his way to the pool, tap me on the head and say 'Hey shorty,' before jumping in," my grandmother told me several times, "It made me so mad! (my grandmother was especially tall). But he sure was handsome."


They married in 1938. Knowing how important family was to my grandmother, I can only imagine how she suffered as she tried to have a baby for nearly ten years. I am not sure how they came to consider adoption. She never talked about it. She only talked about how much she loved my mother and her brother, and how lucky she was to have them. That was her way. After my grandfather died suddenly, in 1984, my mom took her back to her house from the hospital. She was devastated. Still, she told my mom, "I am just going to go to bed and pretend that never happened." Years later, my mom told me this story and said, "Living that way worked for her, and I admire her for it. But it just never did for me."

But I will get to that later. For now, my grandmother. She taught first grade and was known as a "loving but firm" teacher. From what I have heard, that was her style as a mother, too. She relaxed as

"Window Box, 1995"

she aged. She loved beautiful things - her window box with its trailing vines, a collection of glass bottles in the sun, a view of the water -- and was overly proud of her family. My sister and I still laugh about the time my grandmother was in the hospital after having a stroke and a nurse walked in while my sister, a doctor, was visiting. "Nurse, this is my granddaughter," my grandmother proudly said, introducing Kate, "She's a doctor." When the nurse didn't react, my grandmother literally starting tugging on the lanyard around her neck. "Nurse! Nurse! Nurse! Did you hear me? She's a doctor!" It was embarrassing and heartwarming at the same time.

Nana was in her 80s then, and eventually it was another stroke that forced her to move from her Haddonfield home on Jefferson Avenue, where she and my grandfather had raised my mom and my uncle (and where she always had an oatmeal cookie for me, held in the canister above the refrigerator, when I biked over to visit her as a child). She didn't want to go, but she handled the move with her trademark cheer and stalwart heart. The most I ever heard her complain was, "This growing old isn't for the weak." Then she would laugh.

Nana died in April of 2003, a few months before my oldest daughter, named for her, was conceived.

Grace Elizabeth, named for my Nana, looks a lot like my mom's sister

It was that daughter's picture, slipped into a letter in 2013, that convinced my mom's sister that my mom was for real. "I saw that picture and I knew, I just knew," she said, "She looks just like me."

And that knowing led to some of the sweetest moments of my mom's life, even as she battled for her life. She learned she had a younger sister, too, and then the three of them started corresponding daily, catching up on a lifetime apart. Sixty-five years of separation.

"Selfishly, I wish my mom had kept your mother," my one aunt told me, earlier this year, as we reflected on how it all unfolded. There is such sadness in the years that were lost to secrecy, and how little time they had in the end. "Yet I know that then your mom wouldn't have had the good life she had. She and your dad would never have been married. You wouldn't be here. Your children wouldn't be here. And those are all good things." She paused, "I just wish I had gotten a letter when I turned 18 that I had a sister." We were both silent with this thought.

My grandmother and grandfather on their wedding day. 

All these thoughts, of course, bring me to my grandmother. She often spoke of how she couldn't begin to imagine life without my mom and her brother. Without all of us. She was extremely grateful, and she loved us well. I can hardly imagine an alternate life for her in which my mother and my uncle were not her children, for they belong to her and she belongs to them. It is love that cements that.

Yet when you are adopted, there are also others to whom you belong, and who belong to you, even if you never acknowledge them. When, at age 47, my mother let my grandmother know that she was searching, my grandmother supported her, though I know it was difficult for her (she had once told my mom, "I just like to think that you came right from me"). And I know that if Nana had known of the humiliation my mom had to suffer in searching--then pleading-- for the truth of her life, she would have done everything in her power to help her. If she had known what it would mean to my mom to know her sisters, she would have helped her. She loved her, after all.

Yet she didn't know (perhaps because she didn't want to know, but whatever the reason, she didn't know). There is nothing that can be done about this now, because she has died. My mom has died. Time beats on. Still, those of us who are still living are left to speak for those of us who are not (and those of us who cannot speak up). The stories matter. Right now, both New York and Pennsylvania (and I'm sure others, though those are the states I know of) are fighting to change laws that seal adoptees' birth certificates from them forever. They are not having an easy time of it. Over the years, justification for sealing records have ranged from "It protects the adoptee from the stigma of being born out of wedlock" to "It protects the adoptive parents from interference from the birth mother." The current justification is that "It protects the birth mother."

I've read enough of these arguments and learned enough about adoption over the years to believe none of these. I've learned that there are other, terrible reasons behind sealed records. Sometimes, adoptive parents even side with the opposition (though to be fair, there are also many adoptive parents who support adoptee rights). I imagine those fighting for sealed records are motivated by the same fear my grandmother had; or perhaps it is a desire. "I just want to pretend you came right from me," she told my mom. And my mom loved her, so she listened, and she tried. This hurt her. In the end it may have cost her life, though of course we'll never know for sure.

I know this would have been terribly upsetting to my grandmother. It is tough now even to write it. But I also know that had the laws been different -- had society been different -- my grandmother would have followed suit. She would have done what was right. She was a good person. And perhaps then my mom would have met her sisters in her 20s, and they would have known and loved my grandmother, and she them. I would have grown up knowing my aunts and my cousins, and I would have met my uncle, instead of just hearing about what a wonderful man he was. Perhaps my mom would have learned about the family history for melanoma and been diagnosed sooner, and saved. Perhaps. For now, I'll take a page from my grandmother's book and just make the best of what I have, which is a lot. But for those adoptees still living, and for those future adoptees, there is a better way. I hope all those involved in adoption can overcome their fears, and their pain, to do the right thing and make it happen.

My Nana's parents - Josephine Hinchman Bissex (1884-1971) and Paul Bissex (1886-1973) with my uncle soon after he was adopted. Haddonfield, NJ (1949?).

A postcard from my grandmother to her parents at 312 Chestnut Street in Haddonfield (August, 1937). She was on a cross-country train trip with her friends. It reads, "Just had breakfast at Williams, Arizona. Last night as we went to sleep we were in the flat prairies. This morning we awakened in the mountains. It's beautiful. - Betty"

And Yet It Moves - In Support of HB 162

Another post by Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away on April 7th, 2014, eight months after being diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and seven months after being reunited with her two biological sisters. 

My mom, dad, me and family, a month before her diagnosis

And yet it moves. Eppur si muove. These were the rebellious words uttered by Galileo from prison after he was condemned by the Catholic church for continuing to insist that the earth was not the center of the universe, that it moved around the sun. Many intellectuals of the day also condemned him, so attached were they to their own world views. Galileo, a devout Roman Catholic and an intellectual, cared both about his faith and scientific truth, and it is exactly because of this that he could not be silent in the face of what he knew to be true. And yet it moves. 

My mom, an adoptee, passed away in April of 2014. There are two truths about her death, and I cannot be silent about them. First, she died from melanoma, a (censored) disease that not even the most wonderful oncologist in the world, with the highest level of training, was able to stop. She was diagnosed in July, still feeling wonderful, after finding a small lump in her leg. A week later, knowing what lie ahead but still feeling healthy, she awoke one beautiful Saturday morning at the beach to see that two dark, ugly spots of melanoma had now appeared, one on her toe and one on her face. It was confirmation that this (censored) disease was now coursing through her, maliciously and aggressively. It was horrible. Good people fought valiantly on her behalf. My mom fought valiantly. But in the end, it was not enough.  We lost her. 

My mom also perhaps died, and certainly suffered needlessly, because she was an adoptee. She was blocked by the state (in this case New Jersey) from seeing her original birth certificate because of an antiquated law (now changed), and thus she was blocked from her true and complete medical history (the information the adoption agency released to her was flawed, at best).  She was also blocked from being able to communicate directly with her biological family, and thus from knowing two wonderful sisters for the last 16 years of her life. Not knowing that melanoma was present in her biological family likely contributed to her physician missing the melanoma when her symptoms first occurred.  As with all cancers, timely diagnosis and treatment is crucial for survival.  When she looked into going to court to have her birth certificate unsealed, the lawyer with whom she consulted let her know that she had little chance of winning because she "already had cancer." 

Because of this -- because having her original birth certificate sealed from her was perhaps as responsible for her death as the melanoma itself, and certainly responsible for much unneeded suffering -- it is difficult for me to read about the testimony of the Pennsylvania Catholic Conference and the Administrator of Orphans' Court Services against Pennsylvania House Bill 162, which was passed unanimously by the House in October 2013, then stalled in the Senate without a vote prior to the end of the 2014 term. HB 162 would allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates. The ACLU also sent a letter opposing the bill, which was equally difficult for me to read. 

In past years Pennsylvania Catholic Charities has testified -- without any facts to support their arguments -- that unsealing birth certificates would lead to more abortions. The facts support the opposite. Abortion rates in states where records have been unsealed have actually decreased slightly. This year, perhaps recognizing this, the Pennsylvania Catholic Charities' testimony centers more around its "concern" for birthparent privacy. As a Catholic, I find this testimony particularly upsetting, and misleading. Many birthparents have testified in support of this law (and Catholic Charities in other states has actually reversed its position and supported similar laws). Birthparents have a right to privacy from prying public eyes, yes, and from harassment. We all do. This law provides for privacy. It just does not allow for secrecy. Adoptees, on the other hand, currently have to share the most intimate details of their life just to possibly get their birth certificates (by going through an intermediary, or petitioning the court). I have one adopted friend who has never searched simply because when she learned everything she had to go through (for the mutual consent registry), she found it all too daunting. There are many adoptees, and birthparents, like her. 

The Administrator for Orphans' Court Services speaks of "profound and grave consequences" for birthparents if this law is passed based on her "many years of experience doing search services." One only need to look at the many states that have already enacted similar legislation -- where there have been no "profound and grave consequences" -- to realize that this is not the case. As a side note, when I searched on Google for this administrator's name, to learn more about her (why would anyone, especially someone involved in adoption and claiming to care deeply about the welfare of all involved, oppose this law?), the first link that appeared was one detailing the fees charged for "Adoption Search Inquiries" ($50 for non-identifying information, $150 if you want more -- and this is only after the court approves your petition). As a non-adoptee, I could get my birth certificate easily for $20. 

And the ACLU? Andy Hoover, ACLU of Pennsylvania legislative director, said in an open letter earlier this month: "HB 162 upends the respect for privacy in adoption procedures. Pennsylvania law already allows adoptees' access to important medical and social information of their biological parents without disrupting the privacy of the birth parents' identifying information." No, it does not. Adoptees are suffering, and yes, even dying, because the current system does not work for them. Many, many adoptees, birthparents, and adoptive parents have testified to this. I lived it with my mom. So let me say it again, emphatically: the current system (registries, mutual consent, etc) does not work. And the law now being considered does allow for birth parent privacy (with the contact preference form). I have not once heard of an adoptee taking out a billboard to reveal to the world the identity of her biological parents. We are talking about a person's right to know his or her true identity. It is a human right, and the ACLU should know that. Instead, they defend sealed records as an extension of a woman's right to reproductive health, equating an adoptee to an abortion. I may not have a law degree, but I can see the glaring fallacies in this argument from afar. 

So shame on you, Pennsylvania Catholic Conference, Orphans' Court Services, and Pennsylvania ACLU. You may talk and talk about the need for sealed records despite mountains of evidence to the contrary -- you may even believe in the sanctity of your cause --  but those who know the truth, who care about life (ALL life) and liberty (ALL liberty) will not be silent. I support them. In time, I believe everyone will.  And yet it moves. Eppur si muove. 

DEAR PENNSYLVANIA FRIENDS, HB 162 WILL BE VOTED ON THIS MONTH OR NEXT. PLEASE, IF YOU CAN, CALL THE MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE COMMITTEE ON CHILDREN AND YOUTH (ESPECIALLY IF IN YOUR DISTRICT - I'VE LISTED LINKS TO OUR AREA BELOW) AND EXPRESS YOUR SUPPORT FOR THE BILL. IF YOU KNEW MY MOM, OR KNOW ME, YOU CAN DO SO IN HER MEMORY. SHE KEPT FIGHTING FOR THIS LAW, EVEN AFTER SHE HAD HER OWN INFORMATION, BECAUSE SHE SO BELIEVED IN ITS IMPORTANCE FOR ALL OTHERS. I BELIEVE IN IT TOO. THANK YOU! -Jenn

Acosta, Leslie (Philadelphia County, District 197)

717-772-2004

Brownlee, Michelle (Philadelphia County, District 195)

717-787-3480

Conklin, Scott, Minority Chair

717-787-9473

DeLissio, Pamela (Philadelphia County -- offices on Ridge Ave!)

717-783-4945

Greiner, Keith

717-783-6422

Hill, Kristin

717-783-8389

Keller, Fred

717-787-3443

Kim, Patty

717-783-9342

Kinsey, Stephen (Philadelphia, 201st District, went to Germantown HS)

717-787-3181

Klunk, Kate

717-787-4790

Lewis, Harry (Chester County)

717-787-1806

Maloney, David (Berks County)

717-260-6161

McCarter, Stephen (Montgomery County)

717-783-1079

Miller, Brett

717-705-7161

Miller, Dan

717-783-1850

Moul, Dan, Vice Chair

717-783-5217

Nesbitt, Tedd

717-783-6438

Parker, David

717-787-3364

Rader, Jack

717-787-7732

Ravenstahl, Adam

717-787-5470

Rozzi, Mark (Berks County)

717-783-3290

Saccone, Rick

717-260-6122

Santarsiero, Steven (Bucks County)

717-787-5475

Santora, James (grew up in Drexel Hill!)

717-783-8808

Stephens, Todd

717-260-6163

Toohil, Tarah

717-260-6136

Watson, Katharine, Chair (Bucks County - went to UPenn)

717-787-5452

Adoption Lawyers Who Oppose Adoptee Rights

Another post by Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away on April 7th after an 8 month battle with Stage IV melanoma.

One afternoon this past August, while vacationing with Anthony and the kids at The Homestead in Virginia, I discovered The Private Adoption Handbook, by Stanley B. Michelman and Meg Schneider, on the bookshelf outside our room (a bookshelf populated with old hardcovers for purely decorative purposes). We had just gotten back from the pool and were waiting for Joseph, four years old, to open the door (which he insisted on doing), when the word "Adoption" on the book's spine caught my eye. I took the book down and began to read. The book, with chapters like "How to

The Homestead Resort, in Virginia.

Choose a Lawyer," "Placing the Ads [for a pregnant mother]," and "Choosing Your Baby," was the collaboration between a private adoption lawyer and an adoptive mother. I could not stop reading. For someone who ten years ago knew, like most of the American public, very little about how adoption really worked (despite having a mom who had been adopted), and who had recently been awakened to some of the incredible injustices tied in with adoption, the book was a window into a hidden world. Meg Schneider, the book's co-author, clearly wrote the book in order to help other couples who were dealing with infertility and seeking to adopt. It was a resource guide on how to do so. In the book, she is incredibly open about the pain she suffered because of her inability to have a biological child, and she also is open about the fierce love she feels for her adoptive children. At one point, she shares the story of how she and her husband finally adopted through the law firm of Stanley Michelman, the lawyer with whom she co-wrote the book:

"...I underwent the last surgical procedure. The news was bleak. It left us little hope of ever having our own biological child. I was surprised and horrified when the doctor told me the results of the exploratory surgery, as I had been led to believe, up until then, that I would probably be able to conceive and carry a baby to term. We were both very distressed, and I, in particular, felt miserably lost. Neal, however, who is always wonderful in a crisis and never one to let bad times do him in, called Stanley's office from a hospital phone booth before I even woke up from the anesthetic. 'I'm not going to wake Meg up with nothing but bad news,' he told an attorney working for Stanley. 'I want to tell her we're going to have a baby soon.' ... Stanley's assistant was comforting and positive. Basically she said, 'We'll help you out of this, and soon.' Three days after I got home from the hospital, I found out she was a lady of her word."

A page later, she writes, "That night Neil and I talked about the situation. We really couldn't find anything we didn't like about it. The only problem was a superficial one: The baby would probably not look like us. The builds and colorings of both birth parents seemed to preclude that possibility. Then we reminded ourselves that though I'm a brunette, my mother is a blonde and my grandfather was a carrot top. If we had conceived a child, anything could have happened..."

As I said, I could not put the book down, so each night once the kids went to bed I stayed up late reading, by the light of my phone, story after heartbreaking story of couples who were devastated when they could not have children of their own, and whose dreams then came true because of the law office of Stanley Michelman.

But all I could think about were all those adopted children. Children, like my mom, who became adults and deserved the right to be able to search out their history. I was astonished throughout the book at the casual way in which this need was dismissed, not even discussed. Or, if it was discussed, it was done so with only the needs of the parents in mind: "I have a photograph of her [her son's birth mother], but I would have liked to be able to tell our son about her voice and her words as well. Everyone has a history, and I know that a part of who he is has been left behind with his birth mother. Speaking with her would have given me yet another sense of him and where he came from, even though I know it couldn't make me feel any closer to him."

Oh, Stanley and Meg, how could you not have written here, after this clearly caring mother's story, about how that little boy would grow up and very well might need to search out that "part of him that was left behind with his birth mother"? How could you not have discussed legislation allowing adult adoptees access to their birth records? And, Stanley Michelman, how could you, with all of your years of adoption experience, not have supported such legislation? How could any adoption lawyer not support such legislation, when it is SO CLEARLY the best thing for adoptees? The book was published in 1988, after all. The information was out there.

When I got home from vacation, the book finished, I looked up Stanley Michelman, the adoption lawyer. He passed away in 2009, and I found myself feeling so conflicted as I read his obituary, which described him as a loving father and grandfather who, after losing a grandson, had become incredibly active in supporting research on childhood genetic diseases (irony of adoptees being blocked from knowledge of own genetic histories not lost on me). It also stated that he had finalized more than 5,000 adoptions. Next, I found his name on many, many posts on adoption.com. Birth mothers were looking for their children they had given up, and adoptees were looking for their original parents. Some were looking for siblings.

New York State, where Mr. Michelman practiced for years, could perhaps be the next state to allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates. The law pending, which has 90 sponsors out of 150 members in the NY State Assembly, would finally give adoptees, whose rights have been denied for so long, the right to search out that history, that "part ... left behind." So who's fighting against it? One group, and a powerful one, consists of lawyers just like Mr. Michelman. And people who have not taken the time to listen to adult adoptees' stories, stories every bit as important as those of adoptive parents, and those of birth mothers (and, dare I say, maybe, maybe, even just a little more important, if adoption exists, as everyone claims, truly for the benefit of the child, of the adoptee), are easily swayed.

May we only be swayed by the truth. May adoptive parents and adoption lawyers who do not yet realize the importance of this law open their eyes, and find their voice, and speak up for the adopted children they raised, or placed, who have now grown up and need this right. May people finally, finally listen to adoptees and hear what it was like to be adopted, and try to understand. May that understanding lead to action. That is my wish, and I know it was the wish of my mom. Truth and love. There is nothing greater, or more important.

-----------
One more thing:

Just tonight I came across an article online, "Birth mother privacy a concern as adoption bill moves forward" (http://wishtv.com/2015/02/12/birth-record-privacy-a-concern-as-adoption-bill-moves-forward/), an article about Indiana's pending legislation. The "expert" on adoption quoted in the article (and opposing adoptees' access to their original birth certificate) is another adoption lawyer whose wesbite, http://www.indianaadoption.com/, reminds me eerily of Stanley Michelman's book. I do not know why I continue to be astonished, but I am. How could this lawyer possibly believe that sealing records is best practice? How could he? Below is the comment I left:

My mom, an adoptee, had to use an "intermediary" like Mr. Kirsh mentions in order to attempt to find her birth mother 15 years ago. I hope Mr. Kirsh and his colleagues at Kirsh and Kirsh realize how insulting and demeaning it it for a grown woman to have to PAY and essentially beg another person, a stranger, for personal information. This should never be the case (and I have to imagine that Mr. Kirsh's opposition to laws allowing adoptees access to their original birth certificates --something that the American Academy of Pediatrics endorses -- has a lot to do with his profits from adoption and very little to do with his true concern for birth mothers, whether he realizes it or not). My mom's birth mother, when contacted by the intermediary, was one of those few who said she did not want contact. "She seemed like she was holding something back," the intermediary told my mom. Then she told her the case was closed and she could/would do nothing else. One phone call from a stranger and it was over. That is how these intermediaries (paid for their services) work. My mom, facing health issues at the time and also realizing, for the first time in her life, that it was her RIGHT to find her birth mother, and for the two of them to decide like the grown adults that they were whether or not they would have a relationship, found her mother on her own (and at great expense). She wrote her a letter in her OWN voice and sent it via certified mail. Though she and her birth mother did not go on to have a relationship, the interaction they had because of that letter was incredibly helpful to my mom, both medically and personally. It also helped her realize how ridiculous our current adoption laws are (that do not allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates). She became an advocate for adoptee rights and began to REALLY learn about the reasons the system is the way it is (lawyers who profit big time being one of them). Late in 2013, my mom was (somewhat miraculously) reunited with her two birth sisters (who happened to be desperately searching for her). What she learned revealed a mother who was both scared and scarred by the secrets she carried. "They kept it secret. That's how they came to peace with their decision," says Mr. Kirsh. He could not be farther from the truth, and if he truly cared about birth mothers, or adoptees, he would have to acknowledge that. Secrets will never lead to true peace. Only truth can do that. My mom wrote about this on her blog in July of 2013, right after she was diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and right before she was reunited with her sisters:http://nanadays.blogspot.com/2....

After an 8 month battle with melanoma, my mom died last April, right before NJ's law allowing adult adoptees access to their birth certificates (beginning in 2017) was signed. I wish she could have seen it, but she did always say that "Change will come. I don't know if it will be in my lifetime, but change will come."

To the author of this article, I thank you for covering adoption and hope that you continue to do so. I feel strongly that, had you known, as a responsible journalist you should have revealed Mr. Kirsh's financial interest in promoting the status quo of closed adoption records when quoting him in this article. A brief visit to his firm's website confirmed that for me. The birth mother that his firm found for you was most likely "scared and scarred" like my mom's birth mother had been. Under Indiana's proposed law allowing adult adoptees access to their birth certificates, she would still have her privacy (the birth certificates do not become public record, after all). Someone with her best interests in mind would explain that to her (and, perhaps, gently encourage her to begin working towards true peace in her life, through the truth).

All Souls Day and My Mom

Another post by Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away in April of 2014 eight months after being diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma and seven months after reuniting with her biological sisters.

This morning, on All Souls Day, a day the Catholic Church has traditionally recognized as one to remember and pray for our loved ones who have died, I cleaned out my dresser and put it out on the curb. Our house was burglarized two weeks ago (You can read about it HERE), and the robbers, in their rush to pull out all the drawers and look for treasures, actually broke them (the dresser was an inexpensive Ikea piece that I bought 12 years ago, when I first got married, so no surprise there, just some annoyance). Among my clothes I found some folded pieces of paper, and I discovered, when I opened them, that they were journal entries from last fall, scribbled just after my mom's diagnosis. I wish I could have kept a journal of every day, of everything that happened and everything that we said to each other from her diagnosis in late July to her death in early April, but even now I know that it was impossible. These scraps of paper are all that I could do. Finding them today, it was enough. Here is the first one, from September 4th, two days before I sent a letter to Carol, her biological sister, and five days before she, Carol, and Joanne, her two sisters, were reunited:

I know I wrote "too" wrong in "Because I asked her to(o)!" That is just a reminder of how crazy last year was, trying to be there for my mom, my own children, and my students. "The whole thing cut me to the core." Yes, it did. 

When my mom's diagnosis was still new, I felt like I couldn't breathe. Sometimes at night I would have to get out of bed and go sit on the front porch to stare at the stars and wonder how we could get out of this. Please, please, please, I would pray. Not my mom. It was during this time that I asked my mom's blessing to write her sister, who didn't know about her (or so we thought). My mom had known about this sister for a few years but hadn't written for many reasons. Her original mother, when my mom had finally found her years before, had told my mom that she was a secret from everyone, even her own daughter, and asked her not to make trouble. My mom was not a trouble maker. Neither was I, really, but the only answer I could discern from all my fervent praying for my mom was Send the letter. It didn't make sense, really, when there were so many other things to be worrying about, but that inner voice, Send the letter, just wouldn't go away. So I sat down late one Thursday night and wrote a letter to my mom's older sister. I tucked in two pictures, one of each of my daughters, to help soften what I imagined would be quite a shock, and included a letter my mom had written herself, several years before, but never sent. I mailed it the next day.

It is strange for me to read "half sister" here, since my mom's older sister, once reunited with her, became a "full sister" in every way, as did her younger sister. 

That weekend, my mom got really sick. My dad called me when I was on the way home from my sister's and asked if I would come over. I did. My mom and I lay in her bed together, the full weight of what she was facing upon us both. We cried a bit, and we laughed, too. Please, please, please, I prayed, Not my mom. I wasn't thinking at all about the letter I had written to her sister. I was thinking about her, and how I wasn't really sure if I could live without her.

This was written two days before talking with my mom's older sister for the first time. "We've been desperately searching for her," my mom's sister told me, when we did talk, explaining that they had found a birth record two weeks before.

Monday was my first day back at school with students, and my first day ever taking Joseph, my then two-year-old, to day care. I had no idea how I was going to get through the day, let alone the week, or the year. And it was at the end of that day, right after I picked up Joseph, that I received the phone call from my mom's older sister (I've written about this day in a previous post -- Click HERE to read). I might as well have had an actual angel come sit down beside me in the car, I felt so comforted. I knew that this was a miracle, and I think that my mom and her sisters did too. They had found each other, despite everything. They had found each other.

The miracle of my mom's reunion with her sisters helped lift my heart, and my mom's heart, at a time when it was needed most. To this day, it helps me keep my faith in a God who is loving and merciful, one who held my mom (and her siblings) in the palm of His hand, and holds her (and them) still. 

My mom was soon speaking with her sisters herself, and they were making the drive down to see her as often as possible. They e-mailed her, too, every single day, with little funny stories, words of encouragement, and words of love. They were my mom's angels. They were mine, too. And I need to hold on to this goodness, this reminder, when I am made crazy by everything else.

Today, on All Souls Day, I did not go to church. I simply couldn't. The Catholic Church has been so adamant in its opposition to allowing adoptees access to their original birth certificates, and so disingenuous in its arguing, that I find it currently impossible to attend, despite the goodness of so many I know who do attend (and usually know nothing about this scandal). Instead, my husband and I ourselves read the story of Mary and Martha mourning the death of their brother Lazarus to our children, and we prayed for the souls of those we have loved. I do not know what we'll do going forward. I can only follow my heart, and my earnest prayers, and do what I believe to be right.

After all of the press about my mom and adoption last year, I have been approached by so many in the adoption triad who have shared their stories with me. I listen very, very carefully. And what I have learned is that most of us would not even survive what birth (original) mothers were made to go through. The very Catholic church that is now using birth mothers as an argument for not allowing adoptees access to their original birth certificates is the one that shamed them (birth mothers) into giving up their children, telling them to "forget about them," in the first place. Women had to pay room and board, and often work, in exchange for their medical care, and then their babies were given away (at a high price) before they ever had a chance to hold them. I cannot begin to imagine the grief.

There is great grief, too, for adoptees, blocked forever from knowing who this mother was. I saw this clearly enough with my own mom, even as she loved and cherished her own adoptive parents. And I know that there is often grief for adoptive parents, before the adoption, as they deal with the excruciating pain of miscarriages and infertility. Please, please, please, we have all prayed at one time, our hearts filled with grief. Sometimes, it feels as if there is no answer. Sometimes, we wonder where God could be. I do too. But I have had it confirmed in my heart, in the deepest seat of my soul, that a God of mercy, and tenderness, and love, and TRUTH, does exist beneath the madness, of which I can still make no sense. In the face of great grief, love and truth are the only answer. Secrecy, shame, and fear are not. Don't you agree, dear Catholic Church? For you are worth so much more to me than an Ikea bedroom dresser, and I would rather not take you to the curb. But if I must choose between Love and Truth and you, I will choose Love and Truth, for that, of course, is God.

My Ikea dresser on the curb

Please Do What's Right: PA HB 162

Another post from Jenn, Susan's daughter. Susan passed away on April 7th, 2014.

The vote is Tuesday. Two days from now, Pennsylvania's Senate Committee on Aging and Youth will consider PA HB 162, which would allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates. I think my mom's voice, below, eloquently states the case for why this is a loving and just bill. If they vote no, it might be another 10 years before similar legislation even has a chance. Please, please consider calling the members of the Senate Committee tomorrow, especially if you live in Pennsylvania and are an adoptee, adoptive parent, or birth/original mother. I have spoken with SO many of you from this triad who understand the urgency of this bill, but I am not sure that yours are the voices the legislators are hearing. They are hearing from lobbyists for the adoption industry and those with a political agenda. For me, it comes down to this:

1) Adoptees are fully human and therefore deserving of all the rights ever other human being enjoys in this country.

2) Knowing who you are, and having access to your original birth certificate, is a right. Most people don't ever have to think about this.

3) No other group of people is denied its rights with the justification, "Just feel lucky you are alive" (i.e. that you were not an abortion). We are all lucky to be alive. And study after study after study has shown that open access laws either DO NOT impact abortion rates or LOWER them. And I find the PA ACLU's argument that denying adoptees access to their original birth certificates is part of "a woman's reproductive freedom" ridiculous, and I hope any thinking adult would as well (as much as I respect the ACLU on other issues). Once again, adoptees are REAL people, and should have the same rights as everyone else under the law.

4) This is thus a civil rights issue -- an issue of giving everyone equal treatment under the law. To repeat myself, it is loving, and it is just. Please call! (phone numbers of Senate Committee Members after my mom's post)


Facing a Life-Threatening Illness and Thinking About Adoption (originally posted by my mom in July, 2013, one week after her Stage IV melanoma diagnosis)

This past week has been the most difficult one I have ever endured.  I  had just returned from Spain, where I felt great and walked at least five miles every day.  I noticed a little bump on my thigh and had my friend, a surgeon, take a look at it.  He thought it was vascular, but scheduled an ultrasound just to be sure.  The results were concerning, so the next day I went in for a PET scan.  That day I got the devastating news that the melanoma that I had 16 years ago has returned and metastasized.

It is surreal to go from feeling just fine one day to being told that you have stage 4 melanoma the next.  I vacillate from feeling as if I am an actor in a play to feeling sick at my stomach as I contemplate what I am facing.  On the bright side, I have the best husband, daughters and extended family in the world, and I have been surrounded by caring and love every minute of every day.  My best friend can keep me laughing no matter what the circumstance.

Part of my beautiful support team -- granddaughter Grace and daughter Jenn in Spain


My physician daughter was able to schedule an appointment for me with one of the best melanoma doctors in the world within the week.  There is hope, and I am going to try to hold onto it with all my might.  As she explained to me, we don't talk of curing melanoma at this stage, but in ongoing clinical trials at Penn, they are seeing partial and complete remissions in a number of patients through a combination of standard and immunology therapy.  I qualify for the trial, and after several more procedures this week and next, will be getting started.

I welcome prayers from those who pray, positive energy from those who meditate, and good wishes from one and all.  I am working hard on mindfulness exercises, as I can see already that a major challenge in all of this will be letting go, living in the moment, and controlling the racing of my mind.

As my thoughts and emotions have careened all over the place this past week, I have been thinking about why I have been so dedicated to adoption reform and adoptee rights over these past 16 years.  I was blessed with loving adoptive parents, and I found myself feeling so very close to them this past week, as I sat on a bench looking out over a beautiful cove where I had grown up sailing and water-skiing with my parents and brother.

But like many adopted people, I feel connections to other people as well.  Neither I, nor any adoptee, should ever be forced into an either-or kind of thinking, in which one set of parents is recognized and validated, and one set is not.  Having experienced the paradoxes and willful mistruths of the adoption system, I myself have no tolerance for half truths and the masking of deep truths.

Throughout my life, I have learned that the road to peace is never through falsehood, and I think that is the reason I have always felt so devoted to truth, fairness and social justice.

It is truly misguided and so very wrong for the state to attempt to block two grown adults from knowing the truth about each other's identity -- especially when those adults share such a deep, primal connection.  We cannot and should not ever block a human being's path to truth, peace, forgiveness and love.

I was told through the agency that placed me that my original mother did not want any contact with me.    With help from several enlightened souls, I found her on my own and sent her a sensitive and compassionate certified letter, asking her also for medical history.  As a human being facing a medical crisis 16 years ago, I felt that I was worthy enough to at least ask for information.  I received it, and eventually my original mother told me over the telephone that she had always loved me "in her heart."  Not every adopted person will seek out her original parents or get even that far in the journey.  Some will get further.

But how dare the state block the possibility for that love to be expressed?  How dare they?  Let people -- adults with minds and souls of their own -- find their own way.  Facing a critical illness at the moment, I can tell you with certainty that there is nothing that is more important than love.  Nothing.  Please, let's let the light, the truth and the love overcome the misguided fears and the ideology.

There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer,
no disease that enough love will not heal;
no door that enough love will not open;
no gulf that enough love will not bridge;
no wall that enough love will not throw down;
no sin that enough love will not redeem ....
It makes no difference how deeply seated
may be the trouble; how hopeless the outlook;
how muddled the tangle; how great the mistake.
A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all.
If only you could love enough you would be the happiest
and most powerful being in the world.

Emmet Fox

SENATE COMMITTEE ON AGING & YOUTH

(Please, if you can, call them and urge them to vote yes on HB 162, which would allow adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates. Calls are probably more effective at this point. If you prefer to email, the email addresses are in the previous blog post)

CHAIR:

Senator Randy Vulakovich
Senate Box 203040
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3040
(717) 787-6538
FAX: (717) 787-8625

1407 Mt. Royal Blvd.
Glenshaw, PA 15116
(412) 487-6600
FAX: (412) 487-6607

VICE CHAIR:

Senator Scott Wagner
Senate Box 203028
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3028
Room: Room 460 Main Capitol
(717) 787-3817
FAX: (717) 783-1900

218 North George Street
York, PA 17401
(717) 846-2828
FAX: (717) 852-8478

MINORITY CHAIR:

Senator Sean Wiley
Senate Box 203049
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3049
(717) 787-8927
FAX: (717) 772-1588

1314 Griswold Plaza, S. 100
Erie, PA 16501
(814) 453-2515
FAX: (814) 871-4640

MAJORITY MEMBERS (Republican)

Senator Joseph Scarnati III   (Ex-Officio)
Senate Box 203025
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3025
(717) 787-7084
FAX: (717) 772-2755

410 Main Street
Brockway, PA 15824
(814) 265-2030
FAX: (814) 265-2040

Senator David Argall
Senate Box 203029
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3029
(717) 787-2637
FAX: (717) 783-8657

One West Centre Street
P.O. Box 150
Mahanoy City, PA 17948
(570) 773-0891
FAX: (570) 773-1675

Senator Lisa Baker
Senate Box 203020
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3020
(717) 787-7428
FAX: (717) 787-9242

2512 Route 6
Hawley, PA 18428
(570) 226-5960
FAX: (570) 226-5964

Senator Bob Mensch
Senate Box 203024
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3024
(717) 787-3110
FAX: (717) 787-8004

Senator Bob Mensch
404 Main Street, Suite A
Pennsburg, PA 18073
(215) 541-2388
FAX: (215) 541-2387

Senator Elder Vogel Jr.
Senate Box 203047
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3047
(717) 787-3076
FAX: (717) 772-2756

488 Adams Street
Rochester, PA 15074
(724) 774-0444
FAX: (724) 773-7384

MINORITY MEMBERS (Democrats)

Senator Judith Schwank
Senate Box 203011
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3011
(717) 787-8925
FAX: (717) 772-0578

210 George Street, S. 201
Reading, PA 19605
(610) 929-2151
FAX: (610) 929-2576

Senator Michael Stack
Senate Box 203005
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3005
(717) 787-9608
FAX: (717) 772-2162

12361 Academy Road
Philadelphia, PA 19154-1927
(215) 281-2539
FAX: (215) 281-2798

Senator John Yudichak
Senate Box 203014
Harrisburg, PA 17120-3014
(717) 787-7105
FAX: (717) 783-4141

1701 Wyoming Ave.
Exeter, PA 18643
(570) 883-4690
FAX: (570) 883-4694