Personhood

Everyone has a birthday. We have one every year; the day we were born; our birth date. For most this day, our birth day, was anticipated, celebrated, and met with great joy. For me, this simply wasn’t the case.

I have imagined the scenario over and over again in my mind. It’s February, probably around Valentine’s Day. A young woman is picked up for a date; a night on the town. Her boyfriend is handsome, charming, persuasive. The night was going well, but then things took a turn for the worse. They called it date rape. And nine months later, here I was. Born to a woman who didn’t want me, didn’t plan me, didn’t want to know if I was a girl or boy. Unplanned, unwanted, and yet saved from the unthinkable, yet socially acceptable—an abortion. 

I’ve always known I was adopted. I remember my parents sitting me down and explaining it to me. I remember the rejection I felt, the hurt. They loved me so much and wanted to help me deal with this flood of emotions, but they didn’t know how it felt. They couldn’t. They knew where they came from. I didn’t. This internal struggle continued for years. Little did I know that I only knew part of the story…