Adopted the Comic

"I’m a transracial, bi-cultural, lost and found adopted person just trying to find my way through this mess of life.

Like all of you, like each of you, like all of us in this together.

But then not quite, not quite cause I’m always reminded of how different I am and how I lack a real family or real parents or don’t know my beginnings or how I was adopted or where I came from or why I was abandoned - no scratch that - relinquished.

That’s the official term.

Relinquished. Like relish on a hamburger. A difference. In the middle. Like parents who are the white buns, and I’m the green veggie in the middle, smeared on from the outside, placed in the middle, made to look like I fit like everything else.

But I don’t, cause I’m not the same colour, or texture, or from the same place.

I’m just me. An adoptee. Like all of you. But like none of you. Like none of you can understand. Trying to find an identity I’ll never have and living with the identity I do have. But not understanding.

The pain. The hurt. The anger.

They call me bitter. Pill. Can’t swallow it. Aren’t you lucky? they ask. Aren’t you grateful? they ask?

Grateful Dead. Jerry Garcia. Now an ice cream for you younger folks. Cool. I’m an attraction. Tell me your story, they beg. You’re adopted? What’s that like?

Dead. Back to the dead. Maybe I am, cause I’m not seen, I’m not noticed, I’m not acknowledged. My parents don’t see me. My birth culture doesn’t see me. My adopted culture doesn’t see me. I don’t know what I see when I look in the mirror, cause I see so many things.

White. Yellow. Black. Grayish brownish whitish. Something in between.

Race. That’s me. A race. Which race? The one to win. The one I can check off on all those damn forms. The one that tells me who I am. Cause I’m not one, I’m the other. But then I’m not the other, I’m that one.

Or is it culture. Am I in a third space? Or a fourth space? Outer space? An alien?

Yeah, that’s it. An alien from another planet coming only to visit for a little while and see what it’s like to feel out of place for this lifetime and told I’m not out of place because people don’t see me and don’t get it and it hurts and I’m angry.

And yes, my parents are in this category. Both sets. Ouch, that hurts.

I am like you. I started out that way. Born. With a mom and a dad and a place and a time. But no papers. Story lost. Never found. Still looking. Some records the government won’t let me have.

Still searching . . . for Eye. Dent. A. Tea.

Like an optometrist. Eye. Like a junker car. Dent. Like in Britain. Tea. Metaphors all for me. To describe me. To tell me who I am. To find my Eye. Dent. A. Tea. Outside though. Not inside.

There’s nothing inside. Only a story. A story I only have pieces for.

That’s all. Pieces. Put them together. Like a puzzle. See some missing. Gone. How do I get them back. What do I do now? They’re on the floor. Put them together. Just do it.

Are you relating now?

I hear love echo in the room. A whisper. But what is love. Baby, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me no more. What is love. Good question. My birth parents, so they say. My adoptive parents, so they say.

No wonder I struggle and don’t know.

Hole. In heart. It’s there. But. Gotta move on. Pain is part of me, part of my life, part of my Eye. Dent. A. Tea.

Adopted. That’s me. Used to be. I hope. Put pieces together. Not a full picture. But a picture.

Like you. Like me. See. We’re not that different.

Similar journeys in life. Pain. Struggle. Hope. Loss. Love. Take it one day at a time.

I am grateful. Life. That’s Grateful Life, not Grateful Dead. Not grateful for adoption. Grateful to be.

Shouldn’t we all be. Grateful. For life that is. For Eye. Dent. A. Tea. Optometrist. Junker car. Britain. Be grateful.

Don’t know story, but it’s a place to begin. My story may have holes. Parts missing.

That’s okay. A story’s a story. I’m glad I have one. I’m glad I have life. Not lucky. Not a gracious heart. Just . . . glad.

Adopted. That’s me. Used to be. Now I’m just me."