it's getting weird

on how not to talk about adoption

When Marie Kondo said “I love mess,” I felt that. My favorite quarantine activity was blowing through approximately 159 hours of Love Island UK. If trivia night includes a Bravo category, I am literally Mbappé. There will be a watch party and multiple group chats for the Vanderpump Rules reunion. Mess is fun—especially when it’s happening between people we don’t know.

But unfortunately, it needs to be said: the story of my adoption is not hot goss. It isn’t a limited drama series for you to sink your teeth into. Yet every adoptee I’ve spoken with reports similar experiences. People find out about our adoption and immediately start asking invasive questions: How old were you? Do you know who your real* parents are? Was it open or closed? Where were you born? Did you go into foster care? Do you look like your family? When did your parents tell you? Why did they adopt? Do you have any siblings? How old are they? Did they keep any of them? Do you want to find your real family? Why or why not? Do you have photos? Are you happy you were adopted? Aren’t you grateful?

Because of this, I didn’t talk about being an adoptee for a long time. Anyone who looks remotely not-white can can attest to the frequency at which we’re asked invasive questions about our backgrounds. When I worked in the service industry, I’d get “What are you?” roughly 5 times a shift. Not dehumanizing at all! 

More often than not, I would lie. I learned that Dominican and Brazilian rarely led to follow up questions (my dad did live in Brazil for many years and speaks fluent Portuguese, being conversational saved me a few times when the questioner was Brazilian). But if I said Black, the dreaded, “What are you mixed with?” would follow. And then, “Is your mom or dad Black?” Uh, neither. All roads lead back to questions about my adoption. More often than not, from a person I’ve never met before and likely will never see again. Being evasive saved me from unnecessary emotional labor—something transracial adoptees are socialized to do way more than their fair share of.

Thanks to DNA testing and years of therapy with a Black psychologist, I have more clarity. When people ask, I tell them I’m Black, but don’t know much more because I was adopted at birth. I allow them to sit with any discomfort—it’s theirs, not mine. If they ask follow up questions, I gauge whether I have the bandwidth at that moment, for that person, and respond accordingly. Being Black in predominantly white spaces makes you an un-appointed ambassador. Being a transracial adoptee multiplies that expectation. 

Don’t let the clickbait fool you. Adoption is traumatic, even in the best of cases. Psychological Trauma is the result of “extreme stress that overwhelms a person’s ability to cope.” Separating an infant from the person who gave birth to them, their biological family, and culture certainly meets that criteria. No matter how loving their adoptive family is.

A knot settles in the pit of my stomach when I see viral videos like the one recently circulating of a little Black boy who invited his whole kindergarden class to the finalization of his transracial adoption. The overwhelming majority of people in that courtroom were white. It has taken a long time for me to unpack my own internalized anti-Blackness, I wonder if would have been as difficult had I not been steeped in predominately white spaces. Not to mention the combination of complete social failures that result in many children being placed for adoption or in foster care, in the first place.

And, at the same time, adoption can be beautiful. Not me trying to bring nuance to the internet! I’m happy with my adoption. My adoptive parents did their best and, more importantly, continue to grow with me - something I will never take for granted. Being an adoptee has taught me that love is an action.

I understand why folks are curious, especially as I enter my 30s and friends are evaluating different methods of creating a family. I just hope that we can all be a little more thoughtful about our questions and respectful of each other’s boundaries. Adoptees are human beings, not rare birds. Even prefacing a question with “if you don’t mind talking about it” goes a long way. In the words of The Countess: “Be cool. Don’t be all like… uncool.”

*Please never say this to someone. My real parents are the people who raised me. The word you’re looking for is biological (or birth parents).