Eunice Anderson
You people. Our kids.. Pronouns aimed at me. An adoptive talkative mother. On an airplane. Let me explain.
Today’s flight was a short one so after stuffing my overnight baggage in the upper compartment I greet my 30sh first-class business suited seat companion. He busies himself on his computer so I gladly grab an in flight magazine, also signaling to him that I, a gray haired passenger, will also not be chatty. Because, what could we possibly have in common?“Would you like something to drink before our meal?” Shortly after the curtain closed to the back seat passengers, the stewardess offers free drinks. I suggest a Bloody Mary. He takes a Coke. He soon stows his laptop away and starts chatting. Searching for an ice breaker topic to continue I mention the airline magazine story I was reading about heredity. And how meaningful it was to me.
“I am now helping my adopted son search for his birth family for many reasons. I am sure we will find his alcoholism in that genetic track”.
He choked on his salad before turning to me to flatly deny that that could be a cause of my son’s alcoholism.
Wow. How could this young man know that was true when even geneticists today document this as an inherited gene? Not to be depreciated I share my experience that the search and reunions for my other two children did reveal that genetics played a big part in who they were. Plus, I quickly added how glad the birth families were to meet their birth child.
Another big sip of his Coke before he continuing lecturing me that no way could genetics be linked to anything. Now my turn to choke on my salad so another Bloody Mary sip. Stunned at the veracity of this young man’s ‘knowledge’ and his not acknowledging my experiences with two of my happily reunited children, make me more affirmative. Nevertheless he kept exposing on any possible genetic links in adoption.
Did I again emphasize that their birth families were as happy to reunite with them as they with them before his laptop was in place again? I grabbed another magazine. We conversed no more until we deplaned. He was now a few feet ahead of me (why was he ahead of me as I deplaned first?) he screamed back at me.
“If you did your job right, our kids would not have to come looking for us.”
What did he just say? You people. Okay. That is me. An adoptive parent. But yourjob. Did he just accuse me of not being a good parent? He did. But I did my job well, except I could not fix my young kids longing to know their genetic background. Because it was locked up. Sealed.
Did he also just say our kids?. You mean,you are a birth father?
I am now trailing him about ten feet. Stunned with his angry words. But, evidently he has more words as he stops and yells back his parting shot.
“My daughter better never come knocking at my door.”
Your daughter? Your door? Now I get it. So he must have learned that adoptive children, in general, search as their need to know their lineage is overwhelming. But not his daughter? So it only villains like me who wrongfully assist our kids to knock on birth families doors.
Did I tell him that they thanked me for doing a good job?
His pronouns words lingered. I goggled pronouns. One psychologist described them as the ‘canaries’ in the coal mine of conflict. The use of a lot of first person pronouns like “I” or “we” is a sign of a healthy relationship; whereas using you as in: “You always say that”or “You never do this” indicates poor problem solving.
Hopefully his birth daughter will reunite with him someday so his pronouns will change. In the meantime a special Happy Birth Father’s Day to all first fathers.
No comments:
Post a Comment