Becoming Norwegian
Changing identity through adoption
I was three years old when I became Norwegian. It was a strange process by which I shed my tiny backwoods dirt poor hillbilly skin in a courtroom and embraced a new name, new clothes, even a new haircut. It would never fit me quite right.
Fattigman and lefse, no matter how ceremoniously prepared, were never worth all the fuss to me. Reciting my new lineage felt fraudulent and made my tongue swell up and my face hot.
That’s what happens when we change a child’s identity through adoption, trying to change their heritage. We glue them as a leaf onto a different family tree, but sometimes it doesn’t quite stick.
Refusing to acknowledge genetic predisposition to disease was likely the largest downfall to my health. A diabetic monster ran amok through my biological family, one that my adoptive family had the luxury of knowing, but that the ostrich head in the sand attitude kept them from speaking about.
“We don’t air our dirty laundry”. Famous maternal words.
I had no choice. My friends often asked what was up with my parents being so old. I’d have to tell them. It was embarrassing. I was sure I was the only person in the world that was adopted. Funny thing, that. Nobody wants to talk about it. It’s such a shameful secret. I was in high school before I met another human willing to admit to the same status.
But once you’re out, you can’t go back. Years later, I would reconnect with my biological family, but they shut me out. My adoptive family would eventually shut me out too. So what do you do when you’re a throw-away kid — twice?
You find yourself. You find someone who loves the you that you find, and you make your own family with them.
You have your own children and you put more emphasis on personal accomplishments than you do on pedigree. You take careful note of your roots for medical purposes and you foster those relationships that help your children grow. You work to figure out what made all the adults do all the fucked up things they did and you do everything in your power to make sure your children never go through any of the heartache you did.
You make sure your doctor knows that you have some limited knowledge of your family history, and you breathe easier when he suggests that you submit for an ancestry-type swab to see what country your family originated from so that genetic diseases can be more accurately narrowed down.
Then you tell him for the first time ever, out loud, that you know for sure that you are NOT Norwegian.
If you are thinking of adopting, please consider your reasons. If it’s to make yourself feel better, don’t. If it’s so that others will think you’re a good person, don’t. The human you’re adopting already has a personality that needs to be honored and continued. If he or she already has a name, please don’t change it. If he or she already has a heritage, learn about it and incorporate it in your own life (who doesn’t like learning new crafts or foods?). Don’t try to eliminate or suppress what may be positive elements just because you are unfamiliar with them.
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