If a mother walked down the street carrying her infant, and a stranger came up to her, took her child, and told her, “You will never see your child again – he’ll be okay so just forget him and get on with your life,” most people would naturally assume she would feel fear, desperation, loss, pain, anger, and grief. We would know that she would not easily “get over it.” Taking away her child without her consent would be considered an inhuman act. Keeping her ignorant of her child’s welfare -- wondering whether her child was alive or dead -- would be considered cruel beyond belief.
As this hypothetical child grows up somewhere far away, no one would deny that that the mother/child bond and love will endure despite the separation. We would naturally assume that the mother’s grief would be unresolvable, in a situation of loss with no closure. Yet, in surrendering their children to adoption, somehow natural mothers* are presumed to have lost those feelings and connection with their beloved children. This is a falsehood of tragic proportions. How can it be assumed that any mother would “just get over” the loss of her child? But every day, mothers exiled from their babies by adoption are told, “Put it behind you,” “Get over it,” and “Get on with your life.” Agency websites say they feel “satisfaction” and will “heal.” Why are we considered to be so different from the hypothetical mother mentioned above?
It is a barrier of shame and fear that keeps many mothers of the “closed adoption era” silenced. Unheard and invisible, we are the ghosts behind every adoption (except in ongoing-contact “open adoptions”). Rejected by our families and society when we became pregnant, sent away so we would not shame our families’ names, assigned aliases in maternity “homes,” released as “born again virgins,” and warned to tell no-one of our shame, the industry effectively silenced us, ensuring we wouldn’t speak out about our treatment.
But there must be more to it, because society has obviously changed to the point where single motherhood is no longer a matter of shame. So, why the shame that still chains us even 20, 30 or 40 years after separation? This is something I have pondered since reuniting with my son, when I found myself still hesitant to speak to friends and family about the adoption. I think I have now found the answer in another involuntary experience. A year after my son was surrendered, I was raped. Looking back, I now realize what caused the “shame of surrender” that I felt in losing him: it was the shame of rape. It was a shame that came from feeling violated, having had something precious taken without my consent, and being powerless to fight back. A shame that kept me silent about him for 22 years, fearing rejection from all I loved.
Thirty years ago, rape victims were routinely blamed for the crimes against them. They were often told, “You must’ve wanted it” and “You did something to deserve it.” Similarly, mothers who have lost children to adoption hear the same thing, to the point where many believe it. Yes, we often signed the forms (as well, many didn’t), but most of us had no other viable options available, and hence no choice. Was there any decision or choice when only one option (adoption) was given to us? When no social or financial support existed? Or when, as minors, all adults around us said we must sign “for the sake of our babies,” until in utter defeat we saw no recourse but to obey? A U.K. organization, Trackers International, completed a survey of 1000 former unwed mothers: 98.9% had been forced or pressured to surrender their babies for adoption. This same system was in place in Canada and the United States.
But just as rape victims have campaigned to change public perception and laws blaming them for being raped, so can us mothers who were raped of our babies. Instead of remaining submissive and passive — feeling lucky if our children actually find us (assuming they even know they were adopted) — we can let the world know that we have always loved our children and we WANT to reunite with them, by demanding open records for ourselves as well as for adoptees.
Opening records for natural parents, allowing us to obtain the adoptive names of our lost children and vice-versa, is not a new or radical idea. This system has been in place since 1996 in British Columbia where I live, and enabled me to find my son when he was 19. Records have been opened to both parties in Australia, the U.K., and two other provinces in Canada. In France, Finland, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Norway, and Israel, adoption records have never been closed. Despite how the pro-industry lobby tries to portray it, an open records system does not mean open to the public. Nor does it mean that adoption files are opened for all to see: the only records affected are the original and amended birth certificates (or registration of live birth).
