From the age of five, my adoptive parents were very dutiful about teaching me the difference between wants and needs. School clothes were either second-hand or off the clearance rack. To that point, I never questioned it. I always was left with the understanding that resources were limited. Birthdays and Christmas were modest with no high-end gifts. Coming from an impoverished background, it was a condition that I was used to.
When I hit junior high age, social pressure began to mount. Certain pieces of sports equipment costed and of course, there was a certain minimum standard when it came to clothing and hygiene; especially when it came to appealing to some of my female classmates that I found that I was suddenly attracted to. Still certain clothes were too expensive. Hair styles? My adoptive father was still cutting my hair with an amateur barber kit. He seemed to derive great joy in the bowl-cut style that he would impose upon me. Why not? He saved a couple of bucks, and he didn’t have to live with the ridicule. He always had money for the barber but would never take me with him when he went.
I remember the day my adoptive parents sat me down and told me that I was going to have an adopted baby sister. I had come from a large family and always liked having siblings. That was one of the features that I missed the most about my birth family.
I couldn’t help to notice though that the resources that were so scarce were no longer scarce when it came to my adoptive sister. Yes, there are a lot of expenses for a new baby, and I did understand that; however, as my sister began to grow, there were some very noticeable differences between how she was treated, and how I was treated.
Resources always seemed to be there for both her wants and needs; and more importantly was the discipline. Behaviors that resulted in physical punishment for me did not seem to apply to her, even when she was older. I did point this out after getting hit with a patten leather shoe when helping her clean her room.
“Well, your grandparents always felt that we were too tough on you, so we’re taking it easy on her”
If that was an apology, it certainly didn’t feel like one. Even worse, the stricter standards still applied to me though; even after that admission.
Reflection
I think that the most upsetting thing for me was that they knew how to be better parents; just not to me. They didn’t even try to hide it and allowed their adopted daughter who was 13 years younger to walk over me with impunity. Even to this day, she operates with a sense of entitlement and has the work ethic of melting ice cream. Still, despite multiple arrests, teen pregnancy, being a drug mule, and a stellar but brief career as an exotic dancer; she can do no wrong.
It makes my heart sick when I think about the things I could have achieved had I had even a shred of encouragement or support from them growing up. I guess they never owed it to me, but I still wanted to believe them on the rare occasion that they told me that they loved me; but I knew better. You see, my birth mother did not give me much as far material possessions, but she taught me how to love and be loved. From my adoptive parents, the words “I love you” were meaningless; as their actions and attitude proved their hollowness.
I thank God every day for that priceless lesson of love; especially from my birth mom, even for the brief time that I had with her. That is the same love that I have been able to give to my own daughter. It is the base foundation in every good and lasting relationship and is the one I value most.