River Full of Stars

SARA STREETER

River Full of Stars BY SARA STREETER Years before we exchanged late night texts or shared a kiss at my Richmond apartment, we were friends. Somehow, you convinced me to go out to the creek with you the summer after my junior year of college. You told me you had a boat. Well, you said, it was technically a boat. Made of thick blue plastic, it was larger than a canoe, probably more like

Maraschino Cherries at Church

AKARA SKYE

Maraschino Cherries at Church BY AKARA SKYE Trigger Warning: Mention of childhood sexual molestation My father was quite religious in an unassuming way and was dedicated to the Episcopal church. My mother replicated his dedication so as to not disrupt the family dynamic. It was her place to support her husband, including his desire to adopt a baby—a girl, specifically. In 1960, I was delivered to their doorstep, four weeks old, four pounds, bald head taped with a pink bow. My

Blackout Drunk

ANONYMOUS

Blackout Drunk BY ANONYMOUS I used to get blackout drunk. One drink would lead to two. Two would slosh into seven. I passed out on subway cars. Lost wallets in bodegas. Destroyed many an outfit with my own sick. Once, I slapped a dear friend hard across the face because he dared to mention Reaganomics. I did all these things with no memory of it. As if I were a werewolf who wakes up the next day, naked in a forest, wondering why her clothes are in shreds.

Toothless

JULIE MAE PIGOTT

Toothless BY JULIE MAE PIGOTT In the attic of our sage green, 850-square-foot house on West 12th Street in Juneau, Alaska, Ben found four things: An old wicker baby stroller A hatbox with a fancy brown ladies dress hat A dark grey hand muff edged in fur A partial gold denture made with real teeth Ben showed me the hat and hand muff. He told me about the stroller we couldn’t bring down because of an old remodel job that made the attic opening too small.

Reunion Journey

DANIELLE ORR

Reunion Journey BY DANIELLE ORR I heard it before I saw it, flying just alongside the ferry to Victoria, British Columbia: one lone, Canadian goose heading back to somewhere unknown—just like me. The goose reminds me of the first and last time I had been with my father. A gaggle had flown overhead, making us both look up and smile at each other. The significance then, and now, isn’t lost on me and gives me the courage I need for this journey to my biological sister’s new house.

Puzzling

ZHEN E RAMMELSBERG

Puzzling BY ZHEN E RAMMELSBERG Trigger Warning: Mention of childhood sexual assault/rape Among all of the (sometimes invasive or rude) questions that I feel compelled to answer to make others feel comfortable, one of the most frequent ones is what my adoption journey has been like. Or, what it feels like being an adoptee—or, more accurately, a transracial, transnational Korean adoptee. That is obviously a loaded and complex

These Waters

REBECCA CHEEK

These Waters BY REBECCA CHEEK Back to the start, where I began. Swimming In my mother’s womb, In her protective waters. Where it was She and Me. Nurtured by the sounds of her breath and heartbeat. The cadence

READ THE FULL POEM

Friends in Writing

AUDREY B

Friends in Writing BY AUDREY B Yesterday I received a social media message from a virtual friend. “Hi, this is ridiculously short notice, but I am in town, wondering if you’d like to meet up for coffee. What do you think?” I replied, ”You are ridiculous. So am I. Call me.” We connected later that same day, getting together and talking for hours about friends, family, and writing. We had been introduced through an online writing class specifically for

What Sparks Joy?

HEATHER LEWIS

What Sparks Joy? BY HEATHER LEWIS A few years ago, Marie Kondo exploded onto the scene with her five-step method of decluttering. The main point was to only keep that which sparks joy. In theory, this was great advice for cleaning out a closet. But the things that bring one joy can change throughout the years. As we grow, so do our needs and wants. When I was younger, I thought that having a boyfriend would make my heart sing.

Heart Song

JULIAN WASHIO-COLLETTE

Heart Song BY JULIAN WASHIO-COLLETTE My heart sang the day I realized that I am truly in love with my wife and she is in love with me, that our love has a tangible stability and density to it that I can trust. This happened two months ago, even though we’ve been married for almost eight years now. Bear with me, I’m adopted. My therapist and I recently experienced a crisis that touched us both.

The Perfect Eyes

LORA K. JOY

The Perfect Eyes BY LORA K. JOY As a little girl I searched for a specific pair of eyes. My adoptive mother’s eyes were not right; they were green and did not really see me. No, the eyes I needed were a special shape and shade of blue. Longingly, I scanned the faces of strangers walking down the street, hoping one of them would recognize me as their own.

Please Hold While We Connect You

LUCIA BLACKWELL

Please Hold While We Connect You BY LUCIA BLACKWELL I left home at the age of one hour, give or take. I was given, or taken, from my birth mother, and my quest began. I spent a month in the care of a foster family. Then I journeyed on, in the care of the man and woman who adopted me. The fable of my life story begins then, at least in their telling of it.

Silence

MARTHA S. BACHE-WIIG

Silence BY MARTHA S. BACHE-WIIG How do you break through a Silence you have been taught does not exist? My two elder siblings were adopted like me, so in our family, adoption was the norm. When our little brother was born—my parents’ first and only biological child—we joked that he was the odd man out, even though we all knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. We

Visible Invisibility

HAIKU KWON

Visible Invisibility (aka The Asian American Experience) BY HAIKU KWON Invisibility driving hyper-visibility A strange stranger A foreign intruder An unrelatable alien An easy target

READ THE FULL POEM

Sucker Punch

REBECCA COHEN

Sucker Punch BY REBECCA COHEN Trigger Warning: Mention of incest/genetic sexual attraction The summer before eighth grade—the summer after mom married the boyfriend who’d moved in six years before—I’d escaped their house to live with my dad, his third wife, and her daughter. Toward the end of my ninth-grade year, he took a job in California and they announced they would be moving

Voiceless to Boisterous

JD GLIENNA

Voiceless to Boisterous BY JD GLIENNA Previous Next Child Dominated. Externally muted. Trying to hold on. Internally weeping. Sade “Soldier of Love.” Adolescence Lost control. Externally angry. Fighting the entire world. Internally confused. Breakfast Club Allison Reynolds. Young Adult Stepped aside. Externally wild. Trying to establish a foothold in this life. Internally in turmoil. Lindsey Lohan – I Live Without Regrets. Now Respects.

When in the Pit

SHAE LEE

When in the Pit BY SHAE LEE on the days you feel invisible/left behind/again precisely those days scoop up your wailing infant self secure dignity in the crook of your capable embrace

READ THE FULL POEM

LETTER FROM THE FACILITATORS

Body. (Em-Body-Meant)

After 26 hours of labor, my wife pushed out a blue-eyed, red-haired lad. I held him after some momma skin-time and I could not break my gaze. He laid there in my hands, squirming slightly, a little baby burrito that entirely captivated me. This continued for many, many years.

In his infancy as he napped in the crook of my arm, I’d fall asleep watching him. At times, I’d sneak into his room after he fell asleep to watch his chest rise and fall and look at the shape of his slumbering face.

While my red hair had eventually turned auburn, to brown, to gone, I could see my self in him. Mirroring, it’s called. But unlike looking in the mirror, where only the mirror has solidity, what I actually saw was embodiment. My looks embodied within his form.

At times, I felt silly. I mean, isn’t this just fathers loving their children? Why did it draw me so, so often, so long, and to such a depth?

My fascination finally landed in a sensical world, when I discovered this child was the only genetic relative I’d ever watched grow. As he turned nine, I found out my childhood family had adopted me, but never told me. I grew up believing I had no mirrors in the world. I felt only disembodied, as if I existed as an apparition from some long-forgotten battle, left only to hover as a memory.

So here was the only genetic connection I’d ever lived with. And my eyes opened to all of the ways I never had embodied words, ideas, characteristics, and features. As I read adoptees’ and late-discovery adoptees’ words, I finally started to settle into myself. To find my words. To find my body. To embody meant to extract my ghost from the air and root inside. To fit and to inspire. To find wholeness.

Herein, we have adoptee writers embodying their lives, their words, their community, and their experiences. Sharing the words they can in-body, embody—and in so doing, create their own body of work. Some talk about bodies of water. Some talk about their own sacred bodies. Some share how their bodies were violated. We sit. We witness. We nod and share our own bodies’ experiences and feel embodied with one another. I hope you do, too.

—Ridghaus with Sara, Alice, Jennifer, and Kate