home is a shell

i can't stop saying 'i want to go home'. i don't know where that is anymore. sometimes i wonder if that means that i'm giving up on this life. sometimes i wonder if that means i want to run away to be with my mother. a lot of times that means i feel like my heart will burst out of my chest at work, itching to get back to my apartment. and every time, no matter where i am, that feeling doesn't go away.

i don't know if i'm supposed to just live the rest of my life like this. i have this hole in me. i thought i could fill it with my mother. i thought i could fill it with God. i thought i could fill it if i packed my day full of things to do. i thought i could fill it if i laid in bed all day, trying to will it away. i'm afraid i might try to fill it with something i'll regret.

i don't know how i'm supposed to live as half a person.

I watched you watch him. It was different.

There's a feeling. When he was little I watched you. I watched you..watch him.

I saw you look at each other. It was different. I want that."

Then She Found Me - Eleanor Lipman

is it...denial? It has to be. In watching the movie Then She Found Me (which..the book kind of sucked. royally. but I love Bette Midler and felt it was my duty to endure..) there was a scene between the (adult) adopted daughter and her adoptive mother where she describes why she wants her "own" baby and doesn't want to adopt. I've had that very conversation with my own adoptive mother countless times. ...Only I didn't have the backbone to admit that I saw the difference. For her sake, I let her believe that I saw nothing.

A friend of mine just recently had a baby. Her third - a girl. I watched her watch her. I saw them look at each other. It was different. And I remembered when my mother brought my little brother home from the hospital. My brother (also adopted) and I watched her carry him in in her arms. And we both just turned to each other and stared. We knew. It was different. But we said nothing. We didn't need to.

As a mother -- as a mother who adopted twice and gave birth twice -- how can you not notice the difference? Is it denial?

It has to be.

we'll sleep when we're dead

I am exhausted in every sense of the word. The transition from Philadelphia back to Connecticut has been a bit difficult, and moreso, the transition from "student" to "unemployed". Moving in was a chore. Living here seems to be a chore as well. The neighbors don't seem to like us very much, and minus my paranoia, actually seem to have it out for us. I think their issue is that we are two young girls living in a community of families and seniors. Recently, our garbage was rumaged through by a giant, not-so-friendly racoon who frequents our back porch. He tipped the cans and tore open two bags of trash, spilling it into our yard. Instead of alerting us - the tenants - to this fact, an anonymous neighbor took photographs and sent them to our landlord and property manager. We received numerous phone calls from the landlord and a visit in person from the property manager telling us that we were "off to a rocky start". I can't help but feel that we are being treated like the roudy children on the block. Since then, no one has spoken to us. My roommate and I wave to those we see as we pull in/out only to receive a cold stare. For those of you who know me personally, you will understand that this affects me deeply. There is nothing I hate more than feeling that I have disappointed someone to the point of being ignored.  There is a bad vibe in this neighborhood and it feels as though we have disrupted some cosmic ebb and flow by moving in.  

Between the search for a job that will pay the rent while I struggle to get my fledgling business off the ground, the feeling of being constantly watched and hated, and maintaining some semblance of a social life (one that won't disturb the neighbors, that is), I have found that I simply do not have time to be adopted. As if life were no exhausting enough. I was driving home from my a-mom's house yesterday afternoon; the sun was shining, the trees are blooming, I'm getting ready to host a housewarming/graduation party...and I realized that I haven't spoken to S* since before I graduated. I haven't heard from her - and while I think of her every day in one way or another, I hadn't had the time to really think of her.

It is impossibly hard to maintain healthy relationships with your a-family, who live 15 minutes away, and your first family...who are a 5 hour plane ride away. It's unfair. And it leaves me wanting so much more. I want to be able to have a passing thought of my mother during the day and call her and invite her over for dinner, or for coffee, or to go shopping with me to help me pick out a dress for a Friday night on the town.  

My roommate and her mother are very close. She accompanies us almost every weekend when we go out for cocktails and dinner. She comes with us to coffee, the mall, the movies, Saturday afternoon bumming around the house and eating pancakes at 3pm and doing laundry and napping in the sun. I love it. And I'm jealous of it.

I just want my mom. And I just don't have time to be adopted.

yearning for the lost mother of childhood

Gradutaion is right around the corner. Three more days and I will no longer be considered a student! I will be saying goodbye to Philadelphia and 'hello' to Connecticut once again. I'm going to be a grown up! It's exciting and scary and sad and amazing and every emotion under the sun all rolled into one day.

Amidst the excitement, however, there will be a touch of longing. S*, my first mother, won't be in attendence. This is a fact I have been struggling with for a few months now. She has held an open invitation since the summer, but seems unable to take the time off of work. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I understand completely. Work is work. You have to go. There's some mountain lion trapped in resedential Las Vegas who needs her. But at the same time, I need her.

In 2006, when I was first reconnected with S*, one of the first trains (floods?) of thought I experienced was the instant excitement that she would see me graduate. What child doesn't want their mother present at their graduation? It's just something I always assumed would happen.. that she would be there.

There's not much else I can say, except that I will miss her on Friday; that I will carry her in my locket and it will have to suffice. And that I hope to God my a-mom and S* uphold their promise that the first time they meet will not be on my wedding day.

there must be a way to bring the two together...

I had my final class today; the last class ever. It was a Marketing and Promotions final critique: 12 judges sat in the classroom while we each presented our materials and portfolio and were then judged on our "packages". I went in confident and assured. I came out in tears.

They loved my commercial work; they hated my logo, but loved the photographs. We disagreed on individual images and their success, but everything was going smoothly...until someone mentioned the alternate postcard (which bore the image to the left). The text on the back of the card was rusted and weathered. It is a complete 180 from my commercial postcard. The consensus was that "any joe schmo off the street could have taken it." They claimed it was the token "first quarter" photograph that every amature needs to take to get it out of their system. I asked them to please refer to my provided artist's statement before commenting further. They did. It was silent.

The same judge who first noted the stark difference in images spoke up again. "So this is something separate from your commercial work?" I replied, "Absolutely. My fine art and my commercial work are two separate entities entirely. I work extremely hard to make sure they never cross." He asked why. I was thoroughly confused. I made a joke in asking him to please re-read the artist's statement. His reply was this: "So essentially you are two different people when you photograph." "I have to be," is all I said...and I began to cry.

I don't think that judge realized how his observation affected me. I tried my best to smile and blink back the tears that were fighting so hard to flow. I was failing miserably and no one understood why. For a brutal fifteen minutes we went back and forth: he insisted that I find the way to merge the two, because "surely, if a family with an adopted child realizes how passionate you are about this cause, they won't care either way and in the end will still hire you." I told him that he was, of course, entitled to his opinion but that it was perhaps naive and ill-informed.

How could anyone not affected by adoption ever fully realize: I am two different people entirely.

you're not even really my sister

A friend from Connecticut came to visit for the weekend. It was refreshing because it's been years since I have been able to play 'tourist' in this city. We set out toward Independence Mall to hop on a double decker tour bus. We bought our tickets and decided to go to the bathroom before we embarked on the hour and a half city tour.

In the terminal, I waited outside and held my friends purse while she went into the ladies room. I noticed that there were quite a few families there - typical of a warm weather weekend. One little girl caught my attention in particular: she couldn't have been older than five years, and she was an absolute doll. She was playing ring-around-the-rosie around her adoptive mother's legs (I knew instantly that she was adopted, being that the woman she called "mother" was white and she was asian). Nothing struck me as completely out of the ordinary until the rest of her family joined her.

I saw her husband and four young boys moving in a roudy pack toward them. I began to smirk as the apparent situation became clear in my mind: Nice young couple, four boys of "their own", who "hand picked" the little girl they never had. Inwardly, I was rolling my eyes. Again, I would have thought very little of it and it probably wouldn't have stuck with me... if it weren't for the next dialogue I heard.

One of the younger boys (maybe 6 or 7 y/o) who had already been punching his older brothers, moved to the little girl and pushed her quite hard and she fell at her mother's feet. She didn't cry; she just stood up, brushed herself off and frowned, pushing him back. I laughed a little at the spectacle of it all. But that smile was wiped clear off of my face. The little boy who had initiated the fight, once he realized she was pushing back, whimpered and cried and yelled at her, "You're not even my real sister!" The mother and father both repremanded him instantly, all the while looking over their shoulders to see who heard the boy's claim. My attention was completely on the little girl.

She was now hiding behind her mother's legs, her face buired in the back of her knee, hands balled into fists and clinging to her mother's pants. I literally bit my tongue to keep from saying or doing anything. I can't tell you how many times that very same scene played out in my own life. My brother, also adopted, used to pull that card every day when we were 10-15. I think we both said some things we regret. Our neighbor called me a bastard once; I burst into tears and ran home, unable to explain to my mother why I was so upset. My heart and my thoughts are with that little girl right now, wherever she is.

what do you mean i can't see you? i can always see you

you'll be in my heart

Now, I battled with myself in whether or not to admit that I was totally watching the Disney channel last night when Tarzan came on. But the reaction I had was too intense to NOT talk about.

I hadn't seen this movie since it came out in theaters way back when. It struck me as odd the other night, because I remember having no reaction whatsoever to the movie when I was.. 12, or however old I was when I first saw it. Needless to say, at 22, it was almost comical - and I would have laughed at myself - were I not too busy crying and hanging on every word spoken in the movie.

You know (Disney version of) the story: Boy raised by gorrilas. But he has this scene where he causes some rukus and sends the elephants into a tizzy. "Kayla", the mother figure to Tarzan, defends him to her husband, saying that he's just a little boy and he meant no harm. "Kerchak", the hubby, replies with, "Give him a chance?! Kayla! Look at him!" Little Tarzan then runs off and mopes, sitting by a little pool of water. He stares at his reflection and tries to understand why he doesn't look like everyone else in the group. I almost threw up.

I just spent the better part of 12 weeks photographing a series that deals with just that feeling. At 22 years old, alone in my empty apartment, I was weeping in front of my 24 inch TV set.

to flirt with rescue when one has no intention of being saved

You know you're adopted when: You can't even listen to Dame Judi Dench sing 'Send in the Clowns' without finding the parallels to your own adoption experience. Hearing the line "I thought that you'd want what I want, sorry, my dear," I immediately thought of my adoptive mother - the day I tried to explain to her that adoption is not all roses and lollipops (Gypsy!), counter to her beliefs. I begged her to understand that I was someone else before she .. got me. I begged her to realize/accept/acknowledge that before I was in her arms I was in another woman's body. And I was floored when upon saying, "You're my mother. You should want to understand this. You should wantto help me in this," she replied with, "I really don't see what you're so worked up about. It's not as if you were two or three and have memories of this.."

I'm one of those obnoxious kids who was 'raised on the stage' - not at all by my mother's design, mind you. You can hardly drag that woman out of her front door, let alone into a spotlight. I've been in theater since.. forever. I think I did my first play when I was 4. And looking back, every major play I did - i.e. every play I had a lead in - had a somewhat common thread.. or maybe it's just that I make it common.

For whatever reason, I've been pulling out all of my old broadway soundtracks lately - specifically the plays that I have been involved in. And perhaps it's only my current state of mind.. but each one touches that sensitive little 'adoption spot' in me. Even if it's theme is completely unrelated, I manage to pull pieces from each one and make it applicable. Maybe that's why I kept doing theater.. and maybe that's why I rocked at it (sorry, no modesty this morning).

Into The Woods: I remember seeing this play when I was little - maybe four or five. And I remember some woman ignoring my presence there at her knee and complaining to my mother that she couldn't understand why she had brought me. The tickets were expensive and there was no way someone my age could follow such a 'complex character study'. I then proceeded to relay the entire plot, scene for scene, and my interpretation of the moral of the story. Many many years later I was lucky enough to be a part of a production of this play. I was first cast as the Baker's Wife and later on as the Witch. As the Baker's Wife, the character wants nothing more than to have a child. She and her husband try everything possible and eventually end up striking a deal with the Witch, who gives them a magic potion and voila! Baby is born. ..And I remember thinking to myself that I would play the part with the desperation I saw in my adoptive mother...

Later, when I played the Witch - who is Rapunzel's captor/adoptive mother, I remember being elated because a) it was an amazing part to play with amazing songs and b) because I could put a little something extra into it. I knew how Rapunzel felt. I know what it's like to be locked away in a high tower without any chance of rescue - this was her lot in life and she had to accept it. And later on in the story, when Rapunzel dies at the hand of the Giant, while her mother, the Witch, looks on in despair and disgust and utter helplessness - I remember trying to imagine my first mother (though I knew nothing of her at the time). I remember trying to imagine how it must feel to loose your only child to some 'greater force' that you have little-to-no control over.

Les Miserables: I played Fantine once. A single mother who loses her child to a villainous couple because she cannot afford to keep her. She works at a factory to scrape together money to send to her, and when that isn't enough, she sells everything; her hair, her jewelry, her body. She gets sick and knows that she is going to die. And she sings this lovely ballad to her daughter from her deathbed. Again, as I was performing this, my mind was with my first mother: with no choice but to turn her daughter over to another so that they would have everything she could not give her.

Annie: Even though I did this play when I was younger, you can imagine what was going through my mind. 'Little Orphan Annie', trying desperately to find her birth parents - only to be taken advantage of by three unlikely criminals. For months after this production, I felt uneasy. It could be argued that 'Daddy Warbucks' represents every set of wealthy adoptive parents..appealing to every child. Who wouldn't want to go live in a mansion and have everything you could ever ask for (except for your first parents)? When fellow cast members, audience members, friends at school, etc. would realize that I was adopted, they came to the strangest conclusions. The adults in the play forced the idea that it was a cathargic experience for me. My peers in the play as well as classmates at school assumed that this was natural for me - that like Annie, I had a ton of friends at 'my orphanage' and how much fun that must have been! Kids have such a warped view of what adoption is.. 

The Baker's Wife: Yes, it was a play separate from Into the Woods, but the same character - different situation. I played the Baker's Wife. As a young woman she falls in love with a man who asks her to pick up and leave and begin a new life with him, but she declines, insisting that it is irrational and there is far too much grounding her in her town. She winds up in a loveless marriage - and at one point, sings this beautiful song called Meadowlark, which essentially is the story of her life. I got a lot of crap when performing this song - I was told my emotion was 'too forced'. What those critics failed to realize was that in a way, this was my own story. Certainly, I was never asked to run away with any man.. nor did my relation to the song have anything to do with any man.

I did, however, relate to the Meadowlark in that she was 'rescued' by the King.. he gave her everything she could ever want or need and she was his most prized possession (and I don't use that term lightly). The Meadowlark loved him for everything he had done for her. Along comes the Sun God...one whom the Meadowlark belongs with. Her place was with him. They could have soared high above the beaches together, living side by side in complete bliss. But the Meadowlark refuses to leave the King. She is endebted to him for all he has done for her. She doesn't want to hurt his pride.

So, thank you, theater, for allowing me to act and sing what I wasn't allowed to feel.. Into The Woods and The Baker's Wife are on DVD.. and I would strongly recommend that you watch them if you have any interest in musical theater at all. They're brilliant plays with brilliant music that will undoubtedly move you. Especially in light of what I have written here this morning.

i'm not really like this; i'm probably plightless

It's kind of funny how even the smallest things - things that in any other case, to any other person - would be so menial...can trigger the deepest hurt. I've always loved this photograph. This is the photograph that made me fall in love with Annie Leibovitz. It follows me everywhere. Without fail, every semester, someone shows this photograph. And every time, without fail, I feel a little sick. That...kind of tightening in your stomach..that's somewhere between butterflies and nausea...that makes your heart beat strangely and your eyes burn.

Stacey and I have missed the opportunity to ever be like this. 20 years without seeing her face; without ever hearing her voice. Hugs at the airport are awkward. And I've stopped wondering if that will ever go away. It won't. We'll never have a photograph like this. I'll never be in her lap and she'll never have her arms around me. I'll never feel safe enough to just stare at her face and search for the similarities in her features. The best I can hope for is a chunk of time in the afternoon where I can be let to pour over photographs of her when she was little. Somehow it feels so safe to look at pictures of her before she gave birth to me. Maybe because in those photographs - for that split second - there is a fleeting chance that she won't give me away. A fleeting look in her eyes that maybe - maybe she'll keep me. And maybe we'll have this photograph together.

We have the same hair; the same eyes; the same hands. We have the same laugh; we get hiccups when we're hungry; we have the same toes. Our handwriting is impossibly hard to differenciate. And for 20 years I missed it. She made me miss it. I spent 20 years wondering why my hair never fell straight around my face like my family's. 20 years wondering why I could draw and paint and dance - and they could calculate and solve and manage. 20 years of adjusting my laugh to match those of my parents and their families. 20 years of hiding and adjusting and trying to figure out what it was that I had done wrong.

I wanted so badly to look like them; to fit in around them. I thought that when I found Stacey I would finally be complete. That she would scoop me in her arms like I was still a child and she would hold me and rock me and cry with me and laugh with me; and she would be my mirror - and I would finally look like someone and laugh like someone and fit in with someone. I would have forgiven her everything. I would have shown her the endless pages I drew as a child, filled with her eyes and her smile: a child's desperate attempt to find her place. I would have told her that everything was okay; that we found each other and now we would both be okay. We both found our place.

But everything was ruined. An emotionless, awkward hug - one you might give to that distant cousin, who married your uncle's granfather's sister-in-law - where you lean in and wince and already you wait for it to be over. And it's all elbows and crashing cheeks and you hold the rest of you back, careful not to touch, so your just standing a pace back from where your upper bodies meet. And then it's over. And she turns and says, "the car's this way," and you're just kind of standing there, confused, staring at her back as she starts walking away. And you realize you've seen this once before. And your breath gets trapped in your lungs and your eyes sting and you realize you've been dreaming of this - you've been dreaming of her back as she walks away - for your whole life. And all you want to do is sink to the floor like the bones in your legs have just suddenly disappeared. And you just want to be left alone.

You don't care about your similarities anymore. You don't care that when you look at her you're looking in a mirror. You don't want to hear her laugh or play with her hair. You don't want her to hold you while you stare into each other's eyes and let silent regrets swirl around you like the air you're breathing. You want the air to be still. You want to stop breathing.  And you want Annie Leibovitz to take her photograph and shove it up her ass.

sometimes a great notion

I finally settled on a topic for my portfolio grad show...and - shocker - it's adoption related. The whole purpose, I realized, of my going on such a scientific tangent of ideas..was to get as far away from the subject of adoption as possible. And what could be LESS emotional than Quantam Optics? Not much.

Out of respect to my a-parents, I wanted to steer clear of the whole subject...but it seems to follow me whenever I take a photograph. There's just no escaping it. So, I rolled over and let it happen. And it's amazing. You should come see them at the end of March. I even worked it out with the professors so I don't have to display an artist's statement along with the work, just to avoid a repeat of the events that took place with the first adoption project. More to come on that...

it's not some cosmic vending machine

Still no word from Stacey. I was sneaky and checked to see if she read my message - which she did - but it's been a few days with no response. Sometimes I don't know what to make of our relationship. There are some days when I just crave time with her, and I feel like the distance between Vegas and Philly may as well be an entire universe. And then I have days like today, when I feel like lifting a very large middle finger to the west and cutting my losses. I'm sick of the childish way she's handling everything...I'm tired of hearing about how she convieniently forgot the dates of the trips she was supposed to make out here for a vist. And frankly, I'm angry at her for making me feel like a prize fool. I've been talking to the whole family and all of my friends about how Stacey was finally going to come out here for my birthday and how amazing it will be. It's embarassing to have to explain that she says she forgot the date and won't be coming.

Depressing, really.

mama mia

HERE is what I have been DYING to get off my chest since October. I would LOVE feedback, because frankly, I am livid. And of course, wondering if I have the right to be. I think this goes back as far as last year.. though I can't be entirely sure. Anyway, my first mother invited me to go on a cruise.. just me and her. A mother-daughter bonding trip on a boat, if you will. I was thrilled beyond words. I, of course, said yes. In a heartbeat. What could possibly be more fun? We needed the time alone. Every trip I have made out to Vegas has been hectic and impossible to have a moment alone. Her friends, her mother, her job always got in the way of having any meaningful conversations. This was the perfect solution.

Then, in October - right around my birthday - she sends me a message, wishing me a happy birthday.. and just below that, there was a little "PS" message which read, "M* is so excited for the cruise! She's never been on one before! Neither has her daughter, M*. S* and N* have been before, though, but they're still excited!" And then I wanted to die. It's the same as always. I'm going to be alone on a cruise with my mother and her friends. The odd man out. She's got her posse with her, and I've got.. my cabin. And hopefully a working cell phone.

Naturally, I've said nothing. Only that I'm no longer sure I can go because of the timing with graduation/getting a job/fill in the blank. I just.. can't believe it went from mother-daughter bonding to mother-friends-daughter-in-the-room-wishing-she-hadn't-gone without any warning. I'm speechless.

And to display the depth of my patheticness, I watched Mamma Mia! over the break. A ridiculous, fun, nonsense musical that should have elicited every reaction in the world except the one that I had. During the scene where the mother is helping the daughter get ready for her wedding - (below)

she's sitting in her mother's lap while her mother paints her toes. It was the most chill scene ever. And I couldn't stop crying. I want that. I want to sit in my mother's lap while she paints my toes and I want it to be the most natural thing ever. But it's becoming increasingly clear that this will never be the case. Nothing will ever be 'natural'. I would never feel natural doing this with either of my mothers. Nothing close. I feel like I got jipped.