Where are you from?  This is a relatively simple question. The majority of people would respond to this question with their place of origin and move on to the next question without giving it much thought at all. For me this question was always complicated. When I replied with either “I am American” or said “I was from New York”, most people would look into my almond shaped eyes, gaze at my jet black hair, olive skin and some cases, look at my pale white skinned family and not be satisfied with this answer.  Their urge to stuff me in a box would get the best of them and the next question was always sure to follow. “Where is your family from, your heritage?” My response was usually long complex and confusing for them and myself.  In some cases it came off as too much information for the first encounter. I would first explain that I was born in Colombia and adopted into Jewish family, so I am a Colombian Jew, but my Grandmother is  from Czechoslovakia,  and I was born on St. Patricks day, so all in all I am a Colombian Czechoslovakian Irish Jewish American.

To some this might sound a little confusing.  For me when I looked at family pictures I felt like I was looking at one of the “Which one does not belong” activities. Compared to my pale White skinned, tall, overweight family my very dark features, olive skin and short stature was surely obvious that I was “different”.  I was also made to believe that I was a “white Jewish girl”.  I grew up hearing very insulting comments towards Latin people as well as black people.  This was very confusing to me because I wanted to be proud of being Colombian, but I was always told not to go out with Latino men and that I should bring home a “nice white Jewish boy”.  I always felt this strong pull to belong and be fully accepted for the Colombian girl that I was even if I was not able to put this in words, innately this loss of my true identity tugged at the strings of my inner soul.

I would find myself looking to the Latino cliques for acceptance, to only be met with rejection and jokes.  When Spanish was spoken, it was reviled that I was a “fraud” by my blank stare of confusion.  This rejection was something that I held onto unknowingly for years. I was so unsure of exactly who I was I would try everything and anything to fit in to be accepted and make friends.  Many times these behaviors were extremely self destructive mentally, physically, and spiritually.

After that long winded answer out of the way, I was usually bombarded with the typical follow up responses and questions. “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” To this I would respond what are you to be sorry for, I have a wonderful family who loves me.  If that was not one of the choice responses then 1 out of 3 times I would get the question, “Do you ever want to find your birth family?”  To this question most of my life the response to this question was “no”, I really never had any desire to.  To my surprise one day earlier this past year when asked this question by my shrink, I replied with confidence, “yes”.  For the first time I was truly contemplating the possibilities of carrying out the search.

At this time I was working as a Social Worker at a youth center in New York, I was enrolled in a Masters Program for Social Work, I had a decent apartment, wonderful friends, but I still felt an emptiness that would not go away. I had always a deep urge to understand and help people, which had led me to the field of Social Work, but I knew that in order to be the best Social Worker, best friend, girlfriend and best me that I could be I needed to help myself first. I finally realized that for me all of my insecurities, lack of self confidence, lies, trying so hard to be liked by everyone, and promiscuity all had a root that stemmed around not truly knowing who I was or where I came from.  My whole life I fantasized about who my birth family was, what they looked like, and the reasons why I was given up.  The time was finally right to put my mind, heart and soul to rest.

Now that the seed had been planted in my mind, this was something I was committed to,  no matter who told me that it was impossible, or that I was crazy, I was a runaway train that couldn’t be stopped until I found what I was searching for.  The only big problem was that I was searching for a needle in a haystack.  I only knew that I was adopted from Bogota, Colombia, my birth date March 17th, and my name Erica Brooke Asher. I went to the office of immigration and the women sitting across from me and my boyfriend uttered the words, “I have the name of your parent’s in my system, but I have a different name for you.” I glanced at my boyfriend with tear filled eyes as the lady passed a paper where she had scribbled the name “Graciela Tibaquira”, and said “this is your birth name”.  My heart was pounding from joy, we finally found the “needle”.

Now that we had the key to unlock my past we were able to move on to the next step, Colombia.  As I was sitting on the plane to Colombia, my stomach was in knots and I had a never vanishing smile across my face, I knew this was going to be successful.  I was scared, excited, amazed and determined.  I am so ever lucky to have shared this amazing experience with my boyfriend. When you are on the right path many times the circumstances and situations that would normally have been very complex ends up running extremely smooth.  This was the case for the next chain of events.

I realized a month into our stay in Colombia that my passport was about to expire.  The city that we were in, Medellin, did not have an American embassy so as life would have it, we were forced to go to Bogota. We had a friend of ours named Lenin that lived there and worked for the government. He was more than willing to help us as much as he could, and help he did. Lenin was able to lead me to the paper trail of my birth certificate, where I found my mother’s name, Emilce Tibaquira. This information in turn led me to find out that my mother was living on the streets, the last two addresses of where she was arrested, and a small black and white picture of her.  Needless to say I was so amazed that we had gotten this close this fast.  We decided to take our search to the streets. For the next 3 days we walked in the freezing rain and cold through some of the worst drug infested places I have ever been before handing out homemade flyers, but we were really not getting anywhere. Just as we thought we were hitting a brick wall we found the opening we needed to complete the puzzle.  A young girl about the age of 18 told us that she knew who my mother was and was willing to take us to her.  She led us down town to another drug spot. Her mother turned out to be the drug dealer of this area. She explained to her who I was and then disappeared into a run-down crack house and reappeared with a small fragile looking women who had a slight confident swagger to her step. As she approached me, my boyfriend whispered into my ear, “here comes your mother”.  I had chills run up and down my arms. My mother asked me in Spanish, “Usted es Jenny?” I replied, “No, yo soy Graciela”. Instantly she burst out in tears and grabbed me close to embrace me.

This moment was amazing.  After 29 years, I was reunited with the women who brought me into this world. I gazed into her eyes and saw apart of myself for the first time in my life.

Now the answer I have been wondering about my whole life could finally be answered.  How did I end up in America?  I found out that my mother had runaway with a boyfriend of hers from her house in Cali when she was 14 years old.  Her boyfriend unfortunately led her into the life of drugs.   My father was named Edgar, he had been shot and killed by gangsters many years before. When my mother became pregnant with me she had me living in a very horrible bad drug spot in the 80’s known as “Cartucho”, where I was raised for the first three months of my life.  I was taken away from my mother by the police since this was not any environment to raise a child in.  My mother frantically called my grandmother in Cali to come and rescue her daughter. My grandmother got on the first bus that she could heading to Bogota with all intentions of raising me since my mother was not in shape to do so herself at this time.  To her tragic disappointment, she was faced with the fact that her granddaughter, had been taken away two days prior to the United States by a family who wanted a child to raise and call their own.  She was two days too late.

The truth is not always pretty, but now I know.  There is no more asking maybe this happened or that happened I know where I came from how I got where I am and now I can finally move on and go to where I need to be.  Everyone who has been adopted has many different feelings about this, but for me this is what I needed to do.  THE TRUTH HAS SET ME FREE!!

Love reunites the adopted soul.

I’ll always remember the first time I saw my green card.  My mother, who was always very forthcoming about my adoption, casually handed me my green card while going through her desk files one day.  Without explanation, she presented it as if were any other baby picture — I didn’t ask any questions.

For years to come, a combination of curiosity and confusion would draw me back to my mom’s desk — secretly searching for answers about the baby named Elia Maria Ochoa.   Who are her parents?  What did they look like?  Why was she given up?  A lifetime of questions remained unanswered.

Looking back, I’m amazed by the blissful innocence of youth.  Childhood was a wonderful distraction to the inevitable feelings of loss that would soon fill my heart, antagonizing my soul.  As a child, I was adopted and that was that — life was no mystery.  Adoption was my identity and I was proud to share my story with anyone.

As an adult, adoption became more complicated.  The unanswered questions about adoption and identity were no longer dormant — manifesting as fear, anxiety, and depression.  I’d soon learn that these emotions were not atypical of adoptees.  I became a people-pleaser — constantly searching for identity, completion, love — but would prematurely end relationships to avoid potential rejection or loss.  A vicious cycle.

The cycle ended shortly after my 24th birthday.   Relieved that my lifelong search for love was over, I was unaware that it had just begun.  I married my best friend at the time, bought a house, had a baby — but remained incomplete. After the divorce I emerged a single mother — feeling more isolated than ever before.

Ironically, the isolation of divorce fueled my soul’s evolution as I soon began to discover who I was and my feelings about adoption, life and love.  My search for true love would soon continue — I was on a mission to find a love that would overcome the internal emptiness.  Love, it is said, is the most powerful force in the world…I can attest.  After years of disappointment and despair, love led me to my soul’s twin flame who I married on August 27, 2010.

As an adoptee, I continue to find inspiration in the power of love.  My birthmother, empowered by love, gave me up for adoption at a very young age.  Love fueled a very long and difficult journey for both me and my husband Alex — our souls are now complete.  The next step of this journey — the search for my birthparents — will put the power of love to the greatest test.  Fortunately, love never fails.

What it feels like to be adopted

Another small piece of my story.

Whenever I tell people I’m adopted in person: they often fail to mask their nervousness about what to say next. It’s either “I think that’s cool!” or “That’s amazing!” or sometimes “how do you feel about that?”.  The latter is usually finished with “oh god I’m being too forward! Sorry, you don’t have to answer!”.

We live in a society where, I feel particularly among men, the idea of asking how someone truly feels about something in their life is perceived as too personal.

My story has changed. But I remember for years:

• avoiding the question
• pretending it ‘didn’t bother me’
• and to a point ‘yeah I’m okay with it’

It wasn’t until much later, when I had experienced so much more, that I started answering (and sometimes just internally) – I have no idea how I feel about it.

I had learned over 23 years to surpress feeling anything about it – or so I thought. It wasn’t until this year I’d fully come to accept exactly how the event of being adopted, separated from my birth parents and living a life in a new country, could actually shape the person I am, and shape the life I lead.  Personally, it came down to masking my emotions and feelings (internally and externally) in a variety of different ways.

For adoptees, the question “how do we feel about it” seems to beg for a definite answer. It took me this long to accept that it doesn’t – because we truly haven’t known any different.  It’s the life we’ve had, and we don’t really know how to live any other.

When we look at our parents, we don’t see ourselves looking back.  When we look at ourselves in the mirror, we can feeling terribly alone. We are, who we know we are – yet there’s always a piece missing.

Loss

For me, and I feel for others – it comes down to acceptance.  I had never fully accepted the fact I had, in some way, lost some part of me and my life.  I needed to grieve, and actually allow myself to feel.  With out – the surpression would have eventually spread worse.

The journey, wasn’t linear, and it wasn’t easy.  But I’m getting there.  Today, I give thanks to the fact I know my birth family, but I accept who I am and the situation I live in.

RUOK? Day

It’s the day when we’re all encouraged to ask someone whether they are ok. This simple act can help reduce the chance of suicide or from spiralling out and becoming someone, or being somewhere, they don’t want to be.

Please – today, ask someone you know (work colleague, friend, relative) – are they okay, and don’t be afraid.

What I DID learn from my own mistakes was that it’s hard owning yourself. It’s hard being responsible for your own actions, your own health and the impact you make on others. It’s hard to find a place where you belong and difficult to commit to relationships with others who are also struggling to do the same. In the process we often confuse power with love without realising they diametrically opposed. We hurt others or are hurt by them as we wheel from one experience to another – and slowly (if we are lucky) we accumulate a sobering wisdom, or are drawn in upon ourselves, falling into depression, or loneliness or an abundant narcissism.

I’ve done a lot of awful things in my life. But I finally think I’m coming to grips with them all. Forgiveness and acceptance.

Thanks Gavin.

It’s been a slow start, but many more people are taking interest in sharing their stories.  Like me, it takes a long time – for lots of reasons – to get a piece together. Especially when some haven’t considered it until recently.  Please – if you know someone – ask them to consider sharing their story of adoption.

The date of our birth

And it’s a day I feel this amazing amount of sadness and happiness. Over and over again. Oscillating between two emotions – not over days, but over minutes.

I think it’s only something that children who do not know their parents feel.  It’s something I’ve always felt since I was very young. My mother too, has always been sad on this day.

For the past 3 years (including today) however, it’s been a little different.  My birth mother knows where I am, and who I am.

A part of me is at piece.

Originally posted at A Digital Perspective

Going back to Colombia

ManWeek is an initiative by ReachOut – a valuable step forward encouraging young men to share their thoughts about being a guy.

Without a doubt this is something I’d never thought I’d share across a blog. 20 something years ago I was adopted from an orphanage in Bogota, Colombia. It’s something I live with. Something I think about every day. It’s everything and nothing to me. It’s taken me, and is still taking me, most of my life so far, to accept that it is just something a part of me, but that there is so much more.

Being a guy I’ve always felt the need to be hard. To be ruthless with feeling. To be self assured. The same feelings that I felt gave me strength, left me feeling totally isolated. I learned to live a different life. I still don’t let anyone too close too quickly.

The photo above is me sitting in La Ciudad Perdida (The Lost City) after trekking for 3 days into the Colombian jungle

I spoke to Marky P about this. Massive inspiration across so many different levels – this post really belongs to his blog.

Life before knowing I was adopted

I’ve known since birth. My brother is blonde, white with green eyes – so I was reminded from when I was young. It was a really hard thing to explain to people when you’re 5 years old why you and your brothers are different ‘colours’. I remember lying about itonce. At 5 years old, I’d never felt so guilty before. I’ve never lied about it again.

Experience: The judgment of others, and the judgement of myself.

How I found out I was adopted

Parents always discussed it with me. “Where do babies come from” was a very different conversation with me. I think I would have only been 18 months (or whenever babies start to talk) that they started showing me where I was from. You might have had a “Where do babies come from book” – you know those books for babies? – I had one called “Why was I adopted” which was also for infants.

Experience: That I experienced birth like none other I knew (at that time).

How I felt

Confused. My whole outlook was always up and down. It’s hard to tell if I was naturally emotional or if that this made me emotional because I went through so many different feelings. I once went to a doctor and was asked to fill out medical history (of family) to which I wrote ‘N/A’ and the doctor looked at me coldly and said “What? Is your whole family dead?” I said “They could be, I really have no idea.”

It becomes a search for ‘truth’ – whatever that is, to answer questions of why.

Experience: Blame. It’s weird, there’s no real blame anywhere. Yet I felt like I needed to put some on someone.

Highschool

Highschool – where you think you know who you are, by trying to be everyone else. Having felt alone for so long – you look to feel a part of something all over again. You tell yourself you don’t give a shit; that you’re a guy and that none of this matters to guys. That I should get back to chasing girls.

After the first 4 years of highschool, running around with different crowds, I gave in. I let go of caring about the judgement views of others and starting doing my own thing. I still continued to perform with different bands; kept playing soccer; continued enjoying the company of my closest friends. I just wanted to be whatever I wanted. And that was fine. I started to feel happy.

People think I’m gay; straight; happy; sad; too old; too young; too busy; lazy blah bah. But I just wanted to be me. And that’s what happened. And again, I learned acceptance.

Experience: Life is what you want it to be. You have that control and will to bend, twist and craft whatever you want.

Thinking about finding my biological family

Talk to any adopted child and they’ll have a different perspective. In fact, I think while you’re growing up it changes over time. Sometimes you want to more than anything; sometimes the thought tears you apart; and at other times it seems as a nice to know.

Experience: Acceptance. That everything happens. And it will happen. We are everything that we want to be.

Doing it

Hard. I procrastinated for so long. It ended up being over the internet, followed by a letter, to which I received an email reply (after leaving an email address). 12 months later I went over with 5 mates who would share one of the pinnacle moments of my life with me. I wrote every day, and still have not published any of this, nor read it again.

Meeting my mother, my 3 sisters, and my half brother and half sister, two nieces and nephew was incredible, I’m still never sure how to explain the feeling. I now know every circumstance I was adopted under.

Experience: Reborn. My life started again.

The journey: is a search for truth, and answers

It felt like it feels to SCUBA diving at night with sharks. Honestly. You jump into the water, swallow all your pride, and decide that it’s worth everything to be here, if I don’t make it out alive, at least I did something that might mean something one day.

Then you jump.

Thoughts now

Best thing I’ve ever done. That’s all you need to know.

It’s a fuel. A fuel for self-destruction, a fuel for strength, a fuel for emotion, a fuel for apathy. It is measure of value, fortune and gratitude.

Some thoughts for adopted men

1. You are not alone
2. Your parents are the ones who raised you, your family is who you make it
3. It’s OK to care about your parents, it’s OK to give a fuck
4. The decision is yours. You never have to find out, you’re not succeeding or failing at anything you don’t set out to do

What I’ve learned

1. I have a strong connection with my family
2. I have a strong connection with children
3. Adopted children share an experience which bonds them, no story is the same
4. That I am incredibly fortunate to be where I am, and know the people I know
5. I haved lived in too much fear, guilt and anger

What I want to be

1. A father. A good father.
2. To support and be there for any other adoptee (working on something at the moment)