How the Bigfoot legend helped me reconcile unanswered questions about my adoption
I don’t know when I was born. I’ve stopped pretending that I do.
If all adoptees felt not only safe, but empowered in their families and their communities, I would feel better—but not lucky.
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.
Adoption didn’t give me a forever mother. Being in reunion with my birth mother did not make me wholly mothered, either.
This folder contained memories I did not have, information about a family I did not know.
In which the earliest memories document a farewell to innocence.
Adoption is one of those forks in the road where many of us try to glimpse through the trees to the other path, the other world.