Forced Immigrant by International Adoption

Written by Anonymous

Caution: This personal narrative demonstrates how my adoption, considered safe for children 3 and under by those who perpetuate its practice, contains violence, abuse, and illegal acts.

I have recreated my thoughts pre-adoption, from birth to 3 years old, as authentically as I can to give a voice to my actual experiences. I've renamed myself Magdalena, and share the journey aquí, acá, and allá.

Magdalena was born, possibly, in March in Medellín, Colombia. Her family didn’t have much money and her mom earned what she could by doing anything possible. She was likely a small baby born into poverty and not in a hospital. No records exist of her beginning of life but her life existed. She may have had siblings and not much else…  Most certainly, she had many thoughts and feelings about those in her life, her small world. Magdalena was beginning to learn and grow, without knowing it. 

Her life was her mamá who made too few pesos to feed herself and her new daughter, Magdalena. She gave as much time as she could to her precious daughter since she had very little else to give. Her parents, Magdalena’s grandparents, helped them get by with whatever they could offer.

Although work and worry often overcame her, her mother saved some energy to teach her daughter a beautiful lullabye and show her some of the world around them. 

At times life seemed to be a huge struggle, gray and bleak with difficulties. Other times life felt joyous with family and a special meal accompanied by rhythmic Colombian music to brighten any clouds. They were living their life where the colors of fruit were vibrant and noisy sounds prevailed.

One day, at approximately 3 years of age, Magdalena ended up in an adoption house in Bogota, Colombia, without her mom or family. Life didn’t make any sense to her. How did she get transported to this place alone? Magdalena just wanted her mom and the few things she knew that were familiar. All she recognized was her own body. She could intermittently bring herself a smidgen of comfort by sucking her index finger and grasping a piece of cloth as a makeshift blanket. Stoic, hysterical, heart broken, lost, confused and panicked, Magdalena understood nothing except deep loss, chaos, and trauma.

She was alone alongside numerous other unfamiliar sad, lost-looking children without parents. They cried, shrieked and wailed for their families who they were now incapable of summoning. The place was called an orphanage and the kids were orphans. It was run by rich, well-connected people who knew how to get richer through fraudulent transactions of children to families with money in other countries. Each child represented a sack of pesos and pats on the back. The adoptees were transacted between these saviors, heroes, and affluent do-gooders of adoption, and adoptive parents. They all benefitted, even the teary children with no voice, only whimpers. They would be shushed and told fairytales at another time.

Magdalena’s life was entirely ripped from her and her from it. It wasn’t just a single confusing moment for her. It was a “completely different life” without those that cared for her and knew her. Nothing was familiar: culture shock, people shock, ideas and things that were foreign were handed to her and these children while paperwork was created and processed on their behalf by unknown lawyers, judges, doctors, and officials all agreeing these children want and would benefit from new names, parents, languages, countries, clothes, homes, customs, and lives. The children will be told later that they are lucky, chosen, and special because of this.

She felt so much fear she hardly moved or ate. She became numb in the cold room with rows of beds . This was “trauma freeze.” It sprouted in her mind, body, and heart. If only she could go back to the people she knew and whose blood ran through her body it would melt away the trauma freeze. Instead she was repackaged with this place's expectations of appearing like a fresh, perfect specimen they would soon hand over to the next bidder to again form and rebrand her as they desired. Magdalena could be shined up despite being malnourished, having chicken pox, and an ear infection at the time. Someday she’ll hear how compliant she was through it all. They may say she seemed happy and quiet.

One day strange, different looking people appeared. They looked at her, touched her, picked her up, and never said a word she could understand.  Their mouths made sounds at her but none of them made sense. They took her to a hotel, stores, restaurants, and other places adults visit to do paperwork to say Magdalena would be their daughter. 

It is documented that at a restaurant the man tried to take her food from her plate because he assumed she couldn’t eat it all. She slapped his hand to stop him from stealing her food. She had lived without enough food for years. Why did he try to take it and then smile about it? Was he safe or not? Was anyone going to protect her?

Nothing was explained to Magdalena or understood by her. A lawyer THEY paid got to speak for her. So much new did not feel good. Magdalena wanted to understand what was happening and where her known family was. If the adoption process was explained to her, would she have been allowed to say “no” to it? Would they listen?

THEY didn’t even say Magdalena when they spoke to her. Everytime they looked at her, they used a different, unfamiliar name. Magdalena wondered: Did they take the wrong girl? Were they confused or crazy? Or didn’t they care who she was? “I am Magdalena and my mom is at work.” she said to them vehemently everyday. 

THEY never seemed to try to help her find her family. THEY weren’t worried and thanked people who did things for them or showed them around. After a week or two they all got on an airplane. Magdalena didn’t know what this place was, filled with rows of people in seats. Everything about life was unfamiliar. She didn’t want all these new experiences with people she didn’t know OR understand. She was completely traumatized.

When they got to Magdalena’s new home there were two boys already living there. Magdalena always loved other children and was friendly with them. There was also a black fluffy dog in the home that she learned was named April. 

This is where many people who believe adoption is a win for all declare , “And they lived happily ever after”!  Magically, a poor little Colombian girl comes to a white middle class home with new parents, maybe siblings, and is instantly called a lucky kid with many opportunities. The forced immigrant shall transform to a grateful, whitewashed international adoptee, responsible for her unseen and unacknowledged brown, tattered baggage. In her baggage is hidden her memories of her birth family and previous life, her fear/anger/sadness/confusion of abandonment, who she is, and being a person of color in their white dominated world.

How could this place be a comfortable home when Magdalena cried at bedtime and he, “dad”, told her, “If you don't stop crying we'll send you back to Colombia.”? Magdalena had only been there a short time and didn't know English but understood him enough to not cry at bedtime again. She would lay alone in the dark with her fear. She was told she was lucky to have her own room. She continued to suck her finger and find some solace with a blanket.

Magdalena’s new parents, often frustrated, yelled at her and her brothers, spanking them to get them to do as they wanted. Often the man shrieked “ You NO good worthless Cotton pickers!” during his fits of rage. Other threatening and degrading words were also aimed at them. Those were bad words that little kids aren’t allowed to say. He called them SOBs often. He didn’t let Magdalena cry or show any emotion when he hit her. He threatened that he could “really give her something to cry about!” Her name, voice, and emotions were silenced, not allowed to exist. They were forced to be stuffed inside her tattered baggage, and never come out. The lady never helped her children or stopped the man. An unspoken understanding existed that kids are undesirable and troublesome things in this home. The man’s abusive behavior was allowed. Magdalena was constantly fearful of his tantrums that exploded out of nowhere.

This older couple thought they had the skills to care for three toddlers, each from different parents. Nobody required them to show appropriate parenting skills, patience, or understanding for their children. They didn’t need to prove they were in good mental health either. As the parents they fed the kids, bathed them, and clothed them. They went to church on Sundays and sent the kids to school once they became old enough for preschool. Magdalena cried when she was four years old and again brought to a place with many children without parents, and left there, this time with her new brothers. Her body hadn’t recovered from the stress of abandonment just the year before.

Magdalena felt lost in the shuffle of her new life. She never could form a strong bond with any of these agitated people. Their troubles became her troubles along with the ones she already had from losing her first family and Colombia. Her baggage increased as her voice diminished.

The hardest things for Magdalena were the terror within her adoptive father and the silence of her adoptive mother. She was not protected at home and had to navigate violence in the home alone. He had frequent explosive outbursts usually directed at his three children. Magdalena didn’t yet speak English but understood he spoke extreme anger. One day when she knew enough English she asked him, “Why did you hit me?” 

In her head spun the terrorizing booms of THREATS! INTIMIDATION! SPANKINGS! SLAPS! BE GOOD KIDS, DO WHAT WE SAY!!

Magdalena’s adoptive mother was busy putting on a show for the world about her loving family and immaculate house. She was too focused on that to protect her children so they felt safe. Magdalena learned later this is called neglect or being a “bystander” in the presence of an abuser.

Violence, sadness, and fear were a part of Magdalena’s daily life. She knew she felt safe when just one adult protected her as her mother did in Colombia. She longed even more for the loving first mother she had who did anything she could to make Magdalena feel safe and loved, even if she couldn’t take away her hunger. 

Magdalena hungered only for unconditional love. She could hardly choke down the planned meals THEY provided her. Her stomach had constant aches and she didn’t know why or what was wrong with her. Neither did the doctors.  Her stomach was overloaded with too much violence, sadness, and fear. PTSD.

Soon those things fully filled her mind and heart. She felt very alone and lost in this home and “legal family.” She wanted to stay small and out of the way ...maybe disappear. Pleasing her parents is what she was trying her best to do although they rarely seemed pleased with her. Magdalena couldn’t enjoy life in constant family turmoil. 

One thing Magdalena had was a song in her heart from further back than she could possibly remember. She wondered if she was born with it. That would remain a mystery like so many things about who she was. The song was often a comfort for her when she was sad or scared. She sang it only to herself. The song was a gift from her family in Medellin, transmitted from calming voices in Colombia to her.

The song talked about coming home, although Magdalena didn’t know that until she was an adult. She is still trying to find her way back home to her family in Medellín, Colombia, that she’s missed for 50 years now. She wants to know about the Hebrew song they taught her, and any other things she may learn about her roots.

Author bio: 

I am reported to have been born in Medellín, Colombia in a “country home”. My records state I was relinquished to an orphanage on March 3rd and on March 17th was given to adoptive parents.  My adoptive mother recorded in a daily journal the events of my first year with them. The conversations are taken directly from the journal, along with surrounding context. My adoption wounds have been life long and continue to impact me. Trauma can take credit for my lifetime dedication to self-improvement and child welfare: as a volunteer in my former orphanage,  post adoptee support work, teaching in public schools for over 20 years, working with foster children and being a foster parent, but most importantly my careful parenting of my sons to minimize the effects of passing on my generational and situational trauma. It is likely that I will live in a “country home” again, in Colombia, upon retirement.