Surrealists tried to create meaning in a world made strange
and alien by the trauma of war.
The task for the adoptee is similar: to try to create
meaning in a world made strange and alien by the trauma of adoption.
Thus, imagining ‘putting your mother’s sofa up a tree’ to
explain that ‘this how you’ve always felt’ is a surreal attempt to make meaning
out of the strangeness and alienationwhich results from adoption trauma.
Is adoption a state of being which is impossible to explain
or understand with sole reference to the rational?
Or do one's feelings about adoption belong in the surrealist's ‘Kingdom of the
I find that they can often be explained by reference to the
"Everything is the
opposite of what it should be."
‘Go forth and multiply’ young married couples have always been exhorted to do. But who had the authority to say, ‘However, if that doesn’t
work: go forth and divide and then take away’?
Society created the equation (problem) which must be solved:
unmarried mother + baby = unacceptable.
The equation is solved by the division of the whole; the
division of the unit – baby and mother – into two fractions[i].
What you do on one side of the equation must be balanced out
on the other side: the subtraction of the baby from the mother is balanced by
the addition of the baby to the adoptive parents. However, once the division
has occurred, and the baby is subtracted from the whole, you are left with an
incomplete baby: what the adoptive parents get is not a whole child – they get
the fraction of a unit, which will grow up always feeling that sense of division/subtraction
from the mother and from the self.
Society sees and acknowledges only the ‘solution’ to the
infertile married couple[ii]
+ adopted baby = acceptable
This solution is given a big tick and marked by everyone (apart
from the mother and baby) as ‘Correct’. Society knows what division and
subtraction must have been involved in the solving of this equation, but prefers
not to acknowledge it; not to see the working out, which has been erased. Not
only does society only look at the
solution but it also celebrates the solution, and repeatedly demands – insists ad nauseam! – that the child feel
grateful for the solution and lucky that the solution happened.
The adopted child therefore inhabits a perverse reality in
which he is expected to feel grateful that he has been subtracted from his
mother, and lucky that the division between himself and his mother happened. But the loss of mother, and the incalculable damage
that loss inflicted upon the infant, should be acknowledged and mourned, not
Everything is the opposite of what it should be.
fractions which, if later added back together, do not add up to make the whole
unit again; their values having been changed by life’s calculations so that
they can no longer equal a ‘whole’ – which is a shock for most adoptees upon
finding their mothers: they do not find themselves, they find just another
stranger; the fantasy of being made complete upon meeting mother is just that –
[ii] or ‘saintly married
couple’ if they already have their own children and are adopting as a ‘good
deed’ (the ‘good deed’ adoption may also
mask secondary infertility, which can be erased along with the working out
of the equation).
To be Your children.(Are we your children? It’s always a possibility, I suppose. After all – we have to be somebody’s children, don’t we?)
We sing praises to Heaven! (Despite being denied access. Let’s face it – singing to it will probably be the closest any of us will ever get)
And Alleluias!(Alle-fucking-luias all the way, eh? Sorry for the profanity, although, we’re not that sorry; in fact, we’re not sorry at all, and may even say it again)
Oh, guide us, lead us and show us the way. (And then, if history is anything to go by, escort us off the premises)
We, Your Chosen People,(We’re being self-referentially ironic, here: we really wish you’d stop calling us ‘chosen’; it’s utter bollocks, and well you know it)
We humbly offer You our thanks: (Because you can’t be made to feel grateful often enough, ain’t that the truth? Can I get an ’Alleluia’? No? Right, move on) Glory! Glory! (Allulia! Or, perhaps, Alle-fucking-luia again. Sorry: #Sarcasm)
Although we are not worthy,(Actually, it’s bad enough feeling worthless without being made to say it out loud, week after week. Genuinely not funny)
Stop fucking about and tell us the truth already. (‘Nuff said)
Amen (To all that) ...and how it reads without the commentary... Psalm 42
Whilst I, astride some watery steed, charged forth
Towards that awful end that waits for all.
I roared my final words into the into the void,
Defiant and determined to be heard;
And as those words like giant storm clouds swirled –
me broke the wave.
I’m not sure where it
goes from here. I wasn’t particularly pleased with it: there’s plenty of energy
in it, but it seems dated and melodramatic (which I suppose complements the
image: sea see below).
The final appearance of
the refrain, at the end of the poem, is written in my notebook: ‘Around me
crashed the wave’, so perhaps there was an unconscious reason to comply with
Paul Valery’s notion that ‘Poems are never finished, only abandoned...’
I walk into a room where everyone is made of triangles
and recite a poem which I compose off the top of my head:
A good triangle is
hard to find these days.
But why you do insist
on punching holes
in radiators? Surely
no one knows.
I can’t think why you’d
want to punch those holes;
it smacks of pointless
We are the Kings and
Queens of all we see,
which wouldn’t seem so
splendid were it not
for one sad fact: yes,
all of us are blind.
Everyone pauses from their act of punching holes in
radiators to offer their applause. I see that I am now finding it difficult to
talk in prose; like that time we went on a bungee jumping holiday; finding
places of outstanding natural boredom; celebrating our arrivals by dousing everything
in petrol before we hid in expectation of surprising any passing ramblers who
threw their fag ends to the ground. There are worse things to do than punching
Everyone coughs nervously as I realise that I’ve just said
all of that out loud and not simply written it while lying on my bed, as I had
supposed to be the case.
‘Fucking triangles,’ I say, and punch a radiator on my way
For my 11th Birthday, dearest Mama sent me a pair
of sarcastic socks. Inside was a Snoopy card in which she had written:
There’s no need to be
so upset. Other people have to put up with far worse.
We will see you in a
couple of months,
p.s. Your father is
furious with you
For my 12th Birthday, I received an irate face
from Matron, interrupting my rubbery toast birthday breakfast. Your
mother phoned and is very angry. She wants to know why you haven’t sent her a
thank you letter yet. Before I’d had a chance to ask for further
clarification – thanking her for what, etc. – I was given 100 lines: I must write thank you letters to my
parents. I did write 100 lines but can’t say what the line was for fear of
offending the sensitive reader, but it might have been something along the
lines of Matron is a paedophile enabling
cunt. Fortunately, Matron did not ask for the lines as she was very
forgetful, a serendipitous side-effect of her raging and impressive alcoholism.
For my 13th Birthday, I was in hospital after a
freak accident severed two of the fingers on my right-hand. 23 stitches, two
weeks, and no visits later I was sent back to school, where I was given a
letter from my mother.
Still no thank you
letter. There’s nothing wrong with your left hand, though, is there?
For my 14th Birthday, I received a parcel wrapped
in crumpled festive paper. A message was written on it: To Evelyn, Happy Christmas! Lots of love from ..... and........... x
You don’t mind
second-hand wrapping paper, do you? said M when I saw her a couple of
months later. She then commanded me to kneel down while she asked me why I
hadn’t written a thank you letter to her brother. The next bit’s somewhat
pretentious, so if you skip ahead to my 15th Birthday I won’t be
offended. A flower blossomed behind my eyes. It was a weird little flower:
small and clear and weird. Very much like a teardrop. Teardrops weren’t
allowed, though, so it must have been a flower. See what I mean? Pretentious.
For my 15th birthday, I forget her name, but she sent
me a broken tape-recorder. In a cardboard box. The card read:
Things don’t always
have to be perfect, you know, and some of us are too busy buying houses to wrap
We will see you in two
p.s. Your father is
very upset with you
For my 16th Birthday, I received a telephone call
from my father, which I took in Fr Paedophile’s unventilated study, cosy with
the smell of old vests and stale paedophile farts. Welcome to the capitalist society, he said. I have opened a Lloyds Bank account for you. I told him to fuck
off, and left the telephone dangling.
It was unnecessarily
rude of you to be so ungrateful he said when I saw him a couple of months
I don’t know where he
gets it from chipped in the other one.
It’s always the way
with adopted children, isn’t it? they said. We should have realised.