Happy 81st Year Day

Today is my father's 81st birthday. Because he and my mother are devout Jehovah's Witnesses, they don't celebrate birthdays. Ralph  reminds me every year when his birthday is coming, so I can be prepared. My job is to get chocolate cake (his favorite) and ice cream for everyone in their nursing home to enjoy after their supper. Just for fun, not for Ralph in particular. 
NOTICE: WE ARE NOT celebrating my dad's birthday. I am just being generous with his favorite treat. It could happen on any day of the year. (I hope this disclaimer covers me with the Jehovah's Witness Big Guy upstairs. I am not sure what the official procedure is regarding birthdays, but I want to make sure Ralph is in the clear with his God.) 

Ralph in all his 81st year glory.

Cake and ice cream for all!

If you asked him, Ralph would be the first to tell you that he has outlived both his parents ages when they passed, and that he is sort of surprised he made it this long. Not that he is afraid of dying, he isn't. As a religious man, he is comforted by his faith traditions and that is a gift when you live in a place where people slip quietly away, never to return to the dining hall again.

 If Ralph had his way he would be behind the wheel of a RV, living the life of an American wanderer. He isn't so much a tourist, as a visitor. He likes to try new places on for size, moving on when things get boring or annoying. I can relate, I inherited his itch for new sights and sounds. Nothing soothes my soul like a good day trip to see something interesting.

 It is hard for Ralph to be landlocked, without wheels to take him to freedom. The least I could do is bring him cake and ice cream on his most important 81st year day.

Adoption is a Trauma

                     

My brother Rex, with our birth parents, Ralph and Claudia, and Ralph's mother. 

I had a phone call from a woman who recently read Ezra and Hadassah: A Portrait of American Royalty. She wanted me to know she sat down to read it and didn't stop until she was done, 8 hours later. Besides complimenting my writing style, she told me she was an adoptive parent of two adult children, and that after years of struggle, she has come to the conclusion that adoption is a trauma.

 When she and her husband adopted their children years ago, there was no acknowledgement of the possibility that adoption could have long-term repercussions on a child, especially days old infants like their son and daughter. 

Mainstream science is just now beginning to acknowledge the impact of early childhood poverty, abuse and neglect on the physical health of adults. How stress hormones affect a pregnant woman who is contemplating adoption, while simultaneously growing a baby within herself, should be the next topic of scientific study. Along with maternal grief, fear and anxiety, it doesn't seem illogical to assume the central nervous system of the developing fetus would also be affected.

The caller told me that if she had known when she was handed her babies in the 1980's, that there could be long-term physical and emotional effects of adoption for her children, she would have sought out advice and assistance that could have helped with their healing. Her biggest sorrow in life is witnessing the struggles her adult children continue to have, recognizing they come from deep places involving genetics and feelings of loss that have nothing to do with her relationship to them.

Not every child feels so deeply the pain of separation from their mother of origin. Every human has their own unique way of absorbing stress. Just because there isn't overt pain for one child, does not mean that every child who experiences adoption should also emerge unscathed. Instead of assuming that adoption trauma is rare, adults should assume just the opposite. Healthy maturation without support, is what is rare.

 Acknowledging that adoption is a negative activity that results from the dissolution of the primal relationship of an infant to its parents, does not negate the healing power of second parenting. Adoption is not an either/or activity. Instead, the truth of adoption is that it is an action of also. I love my birth parents, and I ALSO love the other people in my life who love me.

The historical (and still common attitude) that adoption is the mere transfer of legal ownership, is to dismiss the reality of connection between all parents and their children.

Emelia Is Gone

My sister Emelia's birthday on January 11th.  My birthday is on August 11th. We are exactly 5 months apart in age.  We were introduced when we were both 7 years old, and we became sisters and roommates the same day we met. 

We are now both 48 years old. I am older, and because of the way school cut offs work, I was a year ahead of her in school. That made it easy for me to ignore her in public. We had different classes, different friends and led different lives. Even though we shared a bedroom for most of the years we lived at the same address, we were never close.

That is the nature of living in an abusive, Hunger Games kind of family. We kids were pitted against each other, being rewarded with extra food and privileges when we ratted out each other's sins. I quickly learned to never tell my new sister anything. It was too dangerous. 

 As adults, Emelia stayed close to our adoptive parents and I couldn't leave fast enough. We tried on and off, for almost 30 years, to close the gap between us. Especially after Harley and Virginia died, it seemed like we would finally have the sisterhood relationship we both said we wanted. But it wasn't meant to be. The traumas of our childhood kept us apart, unable to break through the wall that separated us.

Emelia suffered in silence a much heavier burden than I did. She was sexually abused by a man our adopted parents invited into our home and claimed as an adult son. She suffered mental abuse that I was able to find solace in others from. She didn't have teachers and friends who rescued her. She didn't get the breaks in life that I did.

Emelia took her own life last Saturday. She will be 48 forever. My heart breaks for the physical and emotional pain I know she suffered. My heart breaks for her husband, children and grandchildren she left behind.

Life is hard. Be kind to one another. 

(from top left): Rex, Matthew, Emelia and Me on the first day of school in our new adoptive family.

Not all of our family, there were  older siblings that no longer lived at home by the time Rex and I arrived. 

Emelia and me, with Harley at a Daddy Daughter program at church. 

Emelia and me with our little sisters/ nieces. We were responsible for  the day- to- day care of the little girls. I washed their laundry and Emelia did their hair. She waa always better at the beauty stuff than me. 

Emelia in high school. I remember arguing over that sweater shirt. It looked better on her. 

Why I Am Voting For Bernie Sanders

Our Crew

I am voting for Bernie Sanders in the upcoming Iowa Caucus because I am wiped out. I am so freaking tired I am willing to publicly admit I can't keep doing this. I need help, and I need it to be real, substantial help, not just an offer of prayer on my behalf or a word of encouragement.

My family may be a tad bit unique in our life struggle, but I do not believe we are that far from the norm. I think we are one family in a large silent and suffering nation of families on the verge of crisis.

 Rob and I are responsible for 3 generations of our family with special needs. Our elderly parents with physical and mental disabilities, our 3 young adult children who each have Usher Syndrome, which causes hearing loss from birth and gradual vision loss, and our granddaughter who has autism. Rob and I are walking, talking encyclopedias on the emotional, financial and physical sacrifices that must be made to meet the needs of people who can't take care of themselves. We are constantly researching resources and treatments, trying to help our loved ones have decent qualities of life. Rob and I do not enjoy financial security ourselves because all of our resources go to keeping our fragile family ship afloat on the wicked seas of ever-shrinking federal and state programs for the poor and disabled.

I laughed so hard a few months ago when presidential candidate Jeb Bush suggested the way to improve the economy was for people to work more hours. Um, Mr. Bush, can I talk to you for a minute? Yeah, we need to discuss how Rob and I are supposed to work more than our full-time jobs, plus take care of the 7 people who are doing the best they can with what God gave them. You cannot accuse Rob or I of being slackers. We put ourselves through college by working, going to school and raising a family at the same time. The only official vacation we have ever taken was 23 years ago, when a charity for special needs children gave us the gift of a 5 day trip to Disney World. You know your family is officially under stress when strangers are willing to pay for you to meet Mickey Mouse.

I am voting for Bernie Sanders for President of the United States of America because he is the only politician I have ever heard who acknowledges that social and health care programs for the disabled and disadvantaged are necessary. As the Bible says, there will always be the poor among us. There will always be people born with special needs, there will always be illness, car accidents and random things that happen to good people everywhere. What America desperately needs now is politicians who understand this fact of life and are willing to act on it.

I hope you and your family enjoy lifetimes of excellent physical and mental health. I also hope that if you don't have that gift, there are supports to help you. Our family is doing everything we can to ensure you will have a safe place to land in the event of hardship. Won't you do the same for your fellow man? 

Bowling Adventures

 It seemed so simple in my head. An afternoon at the local bowling alley. Not being familiar with bowling beyond the occasional bad date as a teenager, I had no idea that Saturdays are the big bowling leagues day. I also had no idea that just randomly showing up at a bowling alley on Saturday without a lane reserved, is a fool-hardy thing to do.

After wrangling my parents from the nursing home and convincing Jennifer, Elise, Grandbaby Eleanor and Elise's boyfriend Pat to come along for the fun! fun! fun! no way were Rob and I going to cancel our afternoon of family togetherness just because we had to crawl over the laps of the people in the neighboring lane to get to our seats. We are friendly people, not opposed to sharing space for limited amounts of time. It's fine, really. It didn't matter we couldn't hear each other over the thumping music, balls smashing and people talking. This is bowling in America and bowling is fun, dang nabbit.   

As everyone began taking their turns bowling, it became painfully obvious we aren't very good at this game. We had put up the child bumpers for the benefit of Grandbaby Eleanor and left them up because the rest of us needed them if we ever hoped to throw anything other than gutter balls. What really turned the afternoon from a chaotic adventure in humanity, into an endurance race of our good humor, was this innocent looking contraption:

A bowling ramp

Grandbaby Eleanor uses a bowling ramp all the time when she goes bowling with her young adult friends from The Village (a program for children with special needs.) You set the ball at the top of the ramp and push it off, thereby easing the hardship of swinging the heavy ball. It is genius in my opinion. Eleanor used it when it was her turn with no problem. She needed Pat to help her carry the heavy ball and her aunt Jennifer to help block out the other bowlers, but she did just fine. Autism makes crowds and noise super hard, so it was a major thing for Eleanor to handle it so well. Rob and I did silent high fives ourselves. We expected if there was going to be trouble, it would be for Eleanor. Not so, she was a champ.

Pat, Eleanor, Jennifer and the bowling ramp

High fives and congratulations all around 

Grandbaby Eleanor, her mom Elise and Pat

Aren't they cute? 

 After Jennifer, Eleanor, Elise, and Pat bowled, it was Rob's and then my turn. Rob and I used the bowling ramp because Rob couldn't find a ball that fit his large fingers and I didn't care to throw my back out swinging a ball for 10 frames. Being close to 50 years old and not in world class shape, makes me think, "Is this worth a trip to the ER, pain killers and meeting my insurance deductible?" I am telling you, bowling ramps are one sweet item. I actually got two strikes off the thing and I don't know jack about bowling. 

Rob doing his bowling swagger 

Jennifer showing how it is done. 

My parents finished out the bowling line up. What Rob and I didn't predict, is how offensive Ralph and Claudia would find the bowling ramp. Where Rob and I were fine with using it, my folks had major issues with it. They knew how to bowl and did not need any help from a silly bowling ramp, thank-you-very-much. The thing about it is that Ralph is in his early 80's, Claudia is in her 70's and I did not want to see either of them hurt themselves throwing balls. So as they voiced their resistance, I pulled my Daughter-Knows-Best card and told them that bowling without the ramp was not an option. Ramp or nothing, so get over it. I thought that would be the end of it. It should have been, right? 

No.
It was not the end.

I had every right to set the rules of safety, but my parents didn't have to like it. I quickly realized I was in over my head with them after the first frame of bowling. Claudia, then Ralph argued they didn't need the bowling ramp, I replied they did. They each threw two balls using the dreadful ramp, every time making the same complaint and argument. The math of it looks like this:

Claudia - 2 balls thrown + 2 complaints = 4 complaints per frame.
Ralph - 2 balls thrown + 2 complaints = 4 complaints per frame.
10 frames x 4 complaints per frame = 40 complaints per person.
Ralph 40 complaints + Claudia 40 complaints = 80 complaints in 2 1/2 hours of bowling fun.

The thing that I am constantly reminded of by my folks, is that once they get an idea in their head, there is no moving them off of it. They may go along with another approach, but that doesn't mean they agree. It just means they realize they can't win that battle. In the end, they WILL win the war. I didn't know what the big deal was, Claudia was beating all of us. How could the winner complain that the game rigged? If it was rigged, it was to her favor. 

The good news is Grandbaby Eleanor had a stellar time at the bowling alley and we all left in one exhausted bunch. On the way home, I told Ralph and Claudia that we wouldn't go bowling again because I had no intention of listening to that level of whining ever again. If you don't know my parents, you might think I was harsh with them. If you do know my parents, you know the best way to communicate with them is 100% straight forward, with no fluffing the edges. The funniest part of our conversation was my parents response to my declaration of  "Never Again!" They totally agreed with me. As Claudia put it so well, "Miniature golf is so much better anyway."

Amen, Momma.
A-men.

My mother, Claudia getting the job done

My father Ralph, and mother, Claudia waiting their turns to bowl.

No More Trash Bags

I've been searching for a while to find a way to help readers who tell me that after reading my book, they are touched and want to do something to help children in foster care. It has taken a while, but I found a way. 

Together We Rise is a non-profit organization that improves the lives of kids in foster care. They do fundraising to purchase suitcases so no foster care kid has to move their belongings in trash bags, and they buy bikes so foster kids can know the pride of ownership. I am sponsoring a 15 day challenge to raise $1000. to purchase suitcases for foster kids.

As you know from my book, this is a reality that is near to my heart.

"That summer a new social worker showed up and instead of talking to us, he told us to gather our clothes and put them in his car. We didn't have suitcases so our clothes were folded by Dorothy (our foster mother) and put into brown paper grocery sacks. Besides our clothes, we were told to choose only three personal things to take, nothing else. The rest of our belongings were to stay with the other foster kids." 

The three things I picked to take were a record and storybook combo from the Disney movie "Bedknobs and Broomsticks," a hand-me-down white vinyl purse my mother gave me that had their address printed on the inside flap, and my beloved Mrs. Beasley doll with granny glasses, a polka dotted dress and a string in her side that made her talk when I pulled it. That was it. That was the sum of the first 7 years of my life, in a paper bag that my foster mother saved to put the household trash in. 

Please consider giving a gift to purchase a suitcase for a foster child who needs to know they are loved and not disposable like the trash. 

Go to this link to make your donation. My brother and I and thousands of other foster kids who know what it feels like to carry your life in a trash bag, thank you.

Together We Rise Suitcases 

http://www.togetherwerise.org/fundraise/ezraandhadassah.blogspot.com

A New Review Rolls In

The Association for Mormon Letters, which is a group of academic, smart-type folks in the Mormon community, reviewed my book.

Here is the link to their site and my review.

Association for Mormon Letters

Oh heck, I'm just going to copy it here, too.
I'm glad the reviewer made a point of commenting on the one thing I have run into over and over with my book, and can't fix. People are reluctant to read it because it might be sad. Which it is.
But it is also funny, hopeful and in the end, peaceful.
What else can I say?

Anyway, here is what the Association for Mormon Letters had to say:

Young, “Ezra and Hadassah, a Portrait of American Royalty” (reviewed by Jaymie Reynolds)

Review
======

Title: Ezra and Hadassah, a Portrait of American Royalty
Author:Heather Young
Publisher: CreateSpace (https://www.createspace.com/4522786)
Genre: Non-fiction
Year: 2013
Pages: 240
Binding: Paperback
ISBN-13: 9781494311162
Price: $14.00 (Kindle edition also available)

Reviewed by Jaymie Reynolds for the Association for Mormon Letters

“My first memory of life doesn’t begin with my biological parents. My memory begins at the foster home … ” A somewhat innocuous beginning to a story riddled with hard topics. As a reviewer, I almost passed this book by. I was rather hesitant to read a book that centered around the content I knew this book contained. Stories of child abuse, even when told by a survivor of such, are rarely uplifting or positive in any way. They may be cathartic, but they are, more often, rooted in anger and frustration that passes easily from the words of the author to the heart of the reader. That being said, Heather Young’s book, “Ezra and Hadassah, a Portrait of American Royalty,” is a surprising find.

Within the pages of this book, one finds the expected elements of a horrible, abuse-filled childhood. What is missing from the pages for the most part is the vituperative anger one so often hears in this type of memoir. Young’s voice is, in general, pragmatic and, at times, even positive. She strikes a nice balance in telling her tale — giving enough detail to help readers understand and sympathize, while avoiding the graphic descriptions so common in this field of content. Child abuse is a tragic reality in the world today, and Young promotes awareness of it in a way that is heartfelt and non-abrasive.

Young and her brother are the key players within this book. Somehow, despite all odds, each child grew into an adult who found something better than they’d known. Each of them found peace in their own way. Young is very honest about both of their journeys and the steps that led them to their adult selves. Surprisingly, even the most painful parts of Young’s work are presented in a way that still seems to encapsulate a glimmer of hope. This book is lacking the overall negative mood that so many of its contemporaries encapsulate. That’s not to say Young glosses over critical details or tries to pretty up ideas and events that cannot be made beautiful regardless of how they’re presented; rather, she manages to discuss difficult things in a way that invites readers to empathize and want to read on.

The target audience for this novel is at once both extremely broad and exceptionally narrow. Young doesn’t seem to be speaking to a specific demographic. Child abuse and systematic failures to protect little ones are topics that crave awareness within all venues. At this time in history, advocacy is not limited to specific readers. However, the audience that will seek out such writing may be more narrow, especially within the LDS community. The topics that are built into Young’s life experience are challenging to digest, and many may choose to avoid related works in order to focus on things they find joy in.

Latter-day Saint readers will likely be comforted at Young’s tone. Her feelings about her experiences and their aftereffects are clear, but she avoids most of the verbal landmines that may rile or upset readers. These readers may be somewhat startled to find that this story is presented in a way that invites them to support the author and hope for her success rather than in a way that would prompt them to feel attacked. Even though the role of some members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints factors negatively in Young’s life, she is fair in her presentation of both the positive and negative examples she’s seen within the Church. She presents her tale in a way that recognizes the fallacy of human nature and the infinite good that can as easily be found within the hearts of other people all within one community or religion.

While Latter-day Saint readers will likely be pleasantly surprised at how Young presents her story, there are a few small elements that may be uncomfortable for some readers. Aside from the inherent painfulness of the topics Young has been forced to confront in her life, she does use a few, small swear words in her descriptions. Within context and based on her experiences, these words do not detract from her work, but they may upset sensitive readers. In addition, some LDS readers may be uncomfortable with small discrepancies as Young explains basic LDS doctrines. Overall, Young does a fantastic job giving LDS and non-LDS readers sufficient, accurate details in order to understand religious and doctrinal references. One that readers may take exception to, however, is Young’s explanation of the Word of Wisdom. This elucidation comes as Young tells of buying marijuana as a means of helping her terminally ill brother with chronic pain. She explains that she knew he would not smoke it because the Word of Wisdom “forbids smoking, drinking coffee, caffeinated tea, and alcohol.” She fails to mention illegal drugs.

In spite of small discomforts and inherently painful topic matter, taken as a whole, Young’s memoir is both well-written and is smoothly read. Perhaps what makes Young’s offering so valuable to readers is the triumph that is found in the ashes of many fiery challenges. These pages are riddled with sorrow and pain and still manage to convey hope and pull readers along to a place of peace and victory. As one who picked up this book with some hesitation, I would not hesitate to recommend that Young’s tale be added to the field where advocacy and change grow. Ezra and Hadassah is not an easy read, but it is a positive one.

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