When I was a baby, I was taken in by two loving people under the conditions of permanent custody. Permanent custody by law means that my birth parents no longer had custody of me: it meant that I was then the child of a loving couple, and not the child of what a courtroom and judge saw as unworthy parents. While growing up, my mother told me little by little, story by story, about the situation I was in before the permanent custody was settled. I was always comfortable talking about this with my mother, as she always made it known that if I had any questions I could always come to her. Just like any kid would, I asked a million questions. With those million questions came a million thoughts that raced through my head like, "Why wasn’t I wanted?" and, "Did I do something wrong?" I quickly learned that the decision had nothing to do with me, but rather the woman who gave birth to me.
Even though I had every right to be curious, asking questions was hard. I didn’t want to make my parents upset by asking. Although I didn’t fully understand what happened, and may not even understand fully now, at 21-years-old, asking questions about my situation has helped a lot. The topic of permanent custody will always be a part of me because it is my story -- a story that had good and bad in it. For the most part, I realize the good in the situation, but I will never forget the bad. I will never forget in fifth grade when kids taunted me, calling me a "foster freak" for hours as I cried. As I grow I learn to let go of those memories and realize the good, such as being welcomed into a loving, caring family that would do anything for me.
As I grew older, my friends started to ask the questions. They would ask me, “Well who is your real mom and dad?” or, “What happened that your real parents gave you up?” And then, “Do you wish to know your real parents?” Although I know they were just as curious as I was and meant no harm, I have always felt they just did not know how to properly address it. I never quite knew how to answer these questions as they were personal and would make me slightly uncomfortable. As I matured, I have come up with the ultimate answer to those questions. My real parents' names are Kim and Wayne. My real parents did not give me up. I know my real parents like I know the back of my hand. They are the people who took me into their loving arms and showed me the love and care that any child deserves.
To those of you who speak about adoption, permanent custody, etc., stop using the term real because real is not the word you are looking for. The term you are looking for is "birth" or "biological." Although I do not know my birth father, and am not involved with my birth mother, I have missed out on absolutely nothing. If anything, I have gained from this entire situation. I have gained a family who loves me unconditionally: a mom who would give the shirt off her own back for me and has supported me in every decision I have ever made; a dad who taught me how to shoot a gun and throw a softball; three amazing sisters that I wouldn’t trade for the world; a one-year-old niece who amazes me every single day; brothers-in-law who treat me as their own sister; grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins whom which I hold some of my fondest memories with. I don’t need a birth family to have a real family because I have known my real family for 21 years and will continue to know them forever.
