Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
I Bend But Do Not Break
By Fran Dichner
Oh yes, the past can hurt. But from the way I see it, you can either run from it, or learn from it.
– Rafiki in The Lion King
As a young adoptee, like other adoptees, I always felt like an outsider: different from others, lacking a true sense of belonging. I had learned at a young age that I was adopted from Greece in 1958, at the age of four.
After being ridiculed and bullied by some children in school who found out about my adoption status, I kept to myself a lot. I determined then that it was okay to go my own way, to follow my own path and not be ashamed of being adopted but, rather, to accept it and become the best person I could possibly be.
I learned that life was not fair but that, no matter what, I would be okay, because I was a survivor. I had overcome so much in my life and would be able to deal with any obstacles presented to me.
My adoption story starts when I was born in Athens, Greece, in 1954. I was “placed” in an orphanage near Plaka, located at the foot of the Acropolis, at the age of two. My earliest memories of that time are of being in a cold room full of girls of different ages. I recall often being hungry and being given canned sweetened (condensed) milk to drink instead of real milk.
We ate stale bread, burned toast, and thin soup. I remember stealing older girls’ food and dolls to play with, since all I had for a playmate was a small wooden animal toy. I also remember feeling unhappy but feeling no other emotions. The rest of my memories are like slivers of broken glass: always sharp, always painful, popping up to cut me when I least expect it. I remember not receiving any affection in the orphanage.
My first experience with kindness—the kindness of strangers— came when I was being carried in the protective arms of a relief worker (a Red Cross volunteer?). Perhaps due to a disaster in the area such as a fire or an earthquake—I am not sure what exactly happened. The next memory I have is of being in a monastery confined to a room by myself, with monks (priests) giving me food through a slot in the door.
There was no interaction with the priests or anyone else except when, once a week, I was taken out of the monastery by the priests and walked up a hill to attend church with other children. That was the only time I saw others and felt the sun on my face. I remember a feeling I had never experienced before … Joy.
Foster care was the next step in my orphan journey, and it is my last memory from Greece. I was placed in a home with a woman, a man, and an old lady, perhaps the mother of either one of them.
The couple was nice, but the old lady was mean. She used to tie me up with a rope and she locked me in a dark closet when I was “bad” (that is, when I cried). To this day, I am claustrophobic. A neighbor or a relative used to come to the house to “watch me” each week when the others left the house to go to church. It was during those times that he physically and sexually abused me. That abuse left me frightened of adults, and I avoided being around them whenever I could. I was four years old.
In 1958, I was adopted by a Greek American couple and put on a plane to go to America with other escorted adoptees. Our plane landed in New York, and I was met by my adoptive mother, who greeted me with the gift of a large doll. I was frightened and confused.
My new mother looked like no other woman I had ever seen. She was dressed in a stylish suit and wore a hat, and she smelled so nice. I took her hand and she guided me to an area of the airport where my new aunts and grandmother were waiting and waving.
I then was led to a car to be driven to my new home by my adoptive father and mother. I had never seen a car before, let alone been driven in one, and I was terrified but curious at the same time. Every experience was new and overwhelming to me. I kept saying to my new parents that I would only be staying for a few days and then I would be going back to Greece.
I could not grasp yet that these strangers were now my parents, so I thought of them as my new aunt and uncle. On the way home to Massachusetts, as I later learned, I was treated my first ice cream. The ice cream did the trick! I had never before tasted ice cream and I just loved it!
The story of the day of my arrival in the States, in August of 1958, ends with me meeting my grandmother and experiencing what real love felt like when I was in her arms. “Ya Ya” was so happy to see me. She had made Greek soup and some pastries, and my new parents were hugging and kissing me.
It was then that I knew that I was safe and was going to be loved and cared for by these adults. My orphan journey, my ordeal was over. I was going to my new “forever” home where there would be no more pain or sadness.
I wish I could say that my new forever home and adoption story had a happily-ever-after fairy tale ending. But that was not the case. In fact, it turned out to be somewhat of a nightmare.
When I first came from Greece, I spent a lot of time transitioning to my new environment and developing social skills. I did not know food was plentiful and things you wanted were bought not taken, so I stole food, candy and small toys.
I licked my plate after eating, picked fights with other children because I did not understand the concept of sharing, and I insisted on sleeping on the floor versus in my new bed. The bottom of the bed and inside my pillowcase is where I placed the “treasures” that I had stolen.
I was still scared of confined spaces and men. They needed to approach me gradually; otherwise, I would scream and start hitting them like an angry feral cat.
I spent a lot of time being tutored by my new adopted father. My new father was kind, patient, funny and affectionate and taught me how to love. He took me everywhere with him. With all this mentoring, I was a good student, did very well in school and with his encouragement, I aspired to be a teacher.
During this time, my mother began to resent all the attention I was receiving from my father and she would be mean to me, yelling and threatening to send me back to the orphanage when my father was not around. Eventually, I told my father and he explained it as the “change” (early menopause) my mother was going through. I did not understand any of this and kept looking for the change.
When I turned eight, my father took my mother and me on a cross country road trip to California along the old Route 66 to visit our relatives. On the way back, we took the Santa Fe Big Chief train. That was the most memorable and happiest memory of my young life. I saw and learned so much on that trip and found riding on a train for the first time was very exciting.
My happiness then came to a traumatic end. I experience the worst day of my young life when I was ten years old. My father died of a massive heart attack in front of me. The EMTs worked on him and took him away in an ambulance. I never saw him again. He was dead when they arrived at the hospital. The shock and pain of this loss was indescribable. I knew my life was going to change forever and never be the same; and it never was.
My mother had an emotional breakdown when my father died and fell into a depression. I was now in the sixth grade and felt alone once again. I did not have a lot of friends, and I survived the ordeal by becoming my own best friend. I drew strength from the comfort I gave myself, just like I did when I was in the orphanage. I became somewhat of an introvert and would listen to music, read and write stories to get through this difficult time.
I took a job babysitting at the age of thirteen and then began working at a retail store at the age of fourteen so that I would not have to interact with my mother that much. I graduated from high school and attended college, where I really blossomed socially and started to find myself.
I entered into an early marriage at the age of twenty and that marriage ended in divorce seven years later. A few years after that divorce, I dated and eventually married the man I am married to now — my husband, Al, of thirty-four years.
There were other heartaches. I was unable to have children and an attempt to adopt did not move forward due to health issues. I have overcome a lot of challenges due to being adopted, but I have remained strong like a willow tree.
I bend but do not break. I believe my adoption and the love I received from my father and my husband have helped make me the strong woman I am today. I have learned how to turn personal trauma into a life full of purpose.
As my Lion King quote states; “You can run from your past or you can learn from it”. I chose to take what I experienced in my life and turn it into a life lesson. In the last twenty years, I have owned, built and helped to grow a business all the while mentoring and helping others which, in essence, I discovered is my true life purpose.
A few years ago, I was curious and did a Google search looking for Greek orphanages and Greek adoptions. My elderly mother had died, and she had left me with a steel box containing my adoption papers. I poured through these papers and discovered my adoption information, including my birth mother’s name and the name of the attorney who had handled my adoption.
I went on the internet and, through Google, found information that matched up with my adoption records: it indicated that the attorney involved in my adoption had been found guilty of organizing illegal adoptions for money.
It was then that I realized that I may have been a black-market baby, stolen and sold or taken from a desperate mother, or removed from a mother coerced into giving up her baby. I had been whisked out of Greece and given to unsuspecting parents in America for a steep fee.
This was a widespread scandal involving hundreds of children from Greece, an impoverished country that had endured the war-torn decade of the 1940’s and its aftermath. I then discovered a Facebook page that was set up for Greek adoptees and discovered even more relevant information.
The truth, as they say, shall set you free. I found comfort in knowing that I was no longer alone. There were others who had similar adoption stories and others who had experienced what I had been through.
I was sad for all of us but felt a sense of relief at the same time. The pieces of the puzzle were finally falling into place. Questions were being answered. I have not yet determined if I was indeed a stolen baby, but I do know that my innocence and identity had been “stolen” from me when I was placed in an orphanage and in a foster home.
I plan to go to Greece next year to find more answers to the many questions that my adoption has raised and also to find birth relatives or my parents, or both. Only then will my adoption adventure leave me with a sense of closure and peace.
Fran Dichner is a Greek American adoptee that came here unable to speak, understand, read or write English. Sixty-one years later, she has gone to college and had a professional career path including owning her own business. Her journey will be “the circle of life” as they say in the Lion King, when she returns to Greece and attempts to find her roots.
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Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie’s blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and Twitter
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