When my mom sent me a CNN article on Friday evening, her message underneath the link was simple: “I love you.”
The article announced that China ended its foreign adoption, leaving hundreds of American families trying to adopt Chinese children in limbo.
I immediately burst into tears, but I wasn’t exactly sure why. My cascade of emotions was grief mixed with shock, gratefulness, and even a fragment of relief.
According to Chinese officials, the policy change was made to stay “in line” with international trends. The rapidly declining birth rate in China is also a huge factor in the decision. Simple enough, from a public policy standpoint – but the legacy of Chinese adoption is anything but simple.
I belong to a cohort of 82,674 Chinese children–primarily girls–adopted from China by American parents since China opened its international adoption in 1992. I was born under the one-child policy that was Chinese law from 1980 to 2016. I’m from Guilin, a city in southern China, that I haven’t been to since I was adopted in 2003.
Like many others, I was adopted by American parents at 13 months old and brought to the United States to begin my life in Pittsburgh. All I know of my year in Guilin is through pictures provided to my family by my orphanage nurses.
I was abandoned when I was two months old, an age actually much older than the norm, left on the side of a busy road so that someone would find me. A note was left with my birthday on it.
It sounds harsh, but ask any other Chinese adoptee, and you’ll get a similar story. Some adoptees don’t even know their real birthday, just an estimate. Chinese adoptees have three main documents that offer insight into their early lives: a certificate of adoption, a certificate of birth, and a certificate of abandonment. These three documents contain information such as the date of “abandonment,” adoptees’ approximate age or exact birthday, who found them, what family adopted them, and when they were adopted.
These three documents were the only things that defined me–everything else, I had to discover on my own.
I grew up being unable to trace any of my facial features to my parents or family members, pausing when doctors would ask “Any family history of [X]?” Instead of bedtime stories as a child, I would ask my parents to tell me my adoption story, and they would, without hesitation, for what I’m sure was over 100 times. In addition to birthdays and holidays, we celebrate my adoption anniversary: September 12, 2003. Growing up, I always knew that I was adopted, but the true meaning of my situation is something that I still grapple with, even at 22 years old.
Throughout the years, I’ve heard it all–all of the questions people somehow feel comfortable asking: “Do you know your real parents?” to “Don’t you want to meet your real parents?” to “Do you remember anything from China?” And there are the accusations: “Well, your real parents must not have loved you.” But my least favorite are the people who view Chinese adoption as nothing more than a transaction of goods.
I vividly remember a moment at 10 years old when a customs agent at the airport asked me if the people I was traveling with were my “real parents.”
The use of the adjective real as a means of differentiating my family from a purely biological one has always deeply unsettled me–sure, my family may look different, but that doesn’t disparage the love we have for each other in any way.
It’s easy to forget that I don’t look like my parents, in the same way that anyone with biological parents doesn’t think about resemblance constantly. But in circumstances when I hear “real parents” as an othering term, I remember very quickly.
Being an adoptee, especially to parents of a different race, is an incredibly specific cultural identity crisis: a balancing act of the American culture that I was raised in and the Chinese culture that I am only partially a member of. It’s the external assumption that I intrinsically understand–and belong to–Chinese culture.
Accusations of being a “whitewashed Asian” have always bothered me – are we not all a product of the culture in which we were raised, in one way or another?
That’s not to say that my parents didn’t try to help me connect with my heritage; I participated in traditional Chinese dance for seven years of my life, my parents read me Chinese and American children’s stories in equal measures, and my mom attempted to introduce me to Chinese school at six years old–to no avail. (Sorry, Mom.) My parents always gave me personal agency in terms of connecting to Chinese culture, and for the most part, I accepted the blend of cultures.
However, the true heart of being a Chinese adoptee lies in the unanswered questions that are an inherent part of the situation: wondering why your birth parents abandoned you, if they are still alive, what they look like, if you have a sibling, and how differently your life could have been had it not been for that one decision on that one day. It’s a life spent wondering how to balance your two identities, and if you are even a true part of either one.
The New York Times defined China’s three decades of international adoption as a means of population control as “complicated.” I think that’s the most all-encompassing, while simplistic, word to describe it.
Chinese adoption was a gift–a miracle–for my family, for many families in America, and worldwide. It was a gift made possible by an archaic government policy, at the expense of decades of generations of Chinese boys and girls who will spend the rest of their lives asking questions that, in all likelihood, won’t be answered. But still a gift, nonetheless–at least in my situation. But I am just one of hundreds of thousands–each adoptee has their own unique experience.
When I think of the sacrifice made by my birth parents that made my life possible and the anguish that it may have caused them, it makes me infinitely more grateful for my life. I cannot fathom spending two months with your child to give them up, either due to the one-child policy or other circumstances that I’ll never know. The sacrifice of my birth parents–and the love that my parents have for me–guides me in everything that I do.
My parents have always called me their “miracle baby.” After years of infertility and an extra six months in their adoption journey–thanks to the 2002-2004 SARS outbreak – it’s easy to understand why.
My mom’s affirmation has always been: “I couldn’t love you more than I do, regardless of if I gave birth to you or not.” It’s an affirmation that I’ve heard for the past 21 years, and one that every adoptee deserves to hear.
My identity as a Chinese adoptee has defined my life; it has instilled my inherent sense of curiosity, given me a unique blend of cultural perspectives, and has taught me that the true meaning of family derives from love, not from blood relation. It’s the reason that I have the life that I do, and a wonderful one at that.
As this chapter of Chinese history closes, I hope that more Chinese adoptees continue to share their stories so that we can find each other. I hope that more adoptees continue to ask questions so that we may share in the discomfort of our unknown and connect with one another. We are a uniquely fixed group of individuals who have everything to gain by meeting each other.
So, why did I cry when I heard that China was ending international adoption? The same reason that I feel overwhelming heartache when I think of my birth parents and the unknowable parts of my story, and the same reason that I feel overwhelming gratitude for my incredible parents every day. Articulating my emotions and experiences is an ongoing process, one that will probably take my entire life. But this article is a starting point, one that I can only hope encourages others to share their stories as well.