![]() by Alice Diver As an adoptee, this is the season to be careful – multiple triggers abound. various forms of ‘orphan’ or adoptee fiction seem popular this time of year (Elf, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Anne of Green Gables, The Little Match Girl, much of Dickens’ work, and many Disney films). Often, key aspects of such stories emphasise the value of ancestral connections, knowable identity, accurate histories, newly discovered kinships, and the need to preserve those near-sacred, shared traditions which serve to mark familial acceptance and shelter us from an onslaught of seasonal loneliness. The sanctity of the family hearth space – with or without a row of Christmas stockings or an abundance of candlelit embellishments – can itself be double-edged. It offers warmth and comfort but generally only to those who are in possession of a legitimate invite or an excuse to briefly intrude, armed with an appropriate gift. All others are in danger of remaining just that, an other, and somehow less than, trespassing upon close-guarded physical, emotional, and familial territories. – Small but significantly precious candle flames – with some lit only at set times and in the company of chosen, trusted fellows - tend to be glimpsed through windows that have been left deliberately (but temporarily) undrawn so that those outside can see them. These little ‘home fires’ speak as much of welcome as they do of warning, not least the consequences of kinship losses and familial estrangements: they call out to relatives and loved ones, marking religious or cultural commonalities, but can also easily serve to highlight differences and separations.
Lowry’s ambiguous closing vision in The Giver sums up the hopes, sorrows, and meanings of holiday lights glimpsed distantly through strange, far-off windows: ‘red, blue and yellow lights that twinkled from trees in places where families created and kept memories, where they celebrated love.’ Here, Jonas, the main character, is fleeing half-frozen through the snow with his infant foster sibling towards an unknown, mythical Elsewhere, escaping a colourless, emotion-free, medicated village where everyone is adopted (provided they were not deemed ‘Inadequate’ in infancy and quietly euthanised). There is much for adoptees to ‘unpack,’ here, in terms of navigating the difficulties of this particular season, with its enhanced, intense memories and emphasis upon family connections and, above all, reunions. For those adoptees seeking or surviving a reunion - or indeed perhaps coping with repeated rejection or quiet indifference (which can be much harder to endure in many ways) – this novel’s frozen landscape, fraught journey, and ambiguous ending are likely to resonate. The holiday season reminds us too that the very concept of a family tradition speaks to careful crafting and preservation of things, acts, and memories: holiday customs tend to be kept exclusively for those that we perceive as being closely bonded to us via the sanctioning of biological connection or close friendship, the long familiarity of being neighbours or workmates, or some form of lawful connection such as marriage. The passage of time - with the slow accumulation of shared remembrances – is often key, not least when it sparks or supports the human right to have one’s family life respected in court hearings, for example, in connection with the increasingly fragile right to apply for contact with a relinquished child post-adoption. The absence of communal, passed-down memories can compound the inherent difficulties already associated with making contact or achieving some form of reunion, especially if these are backdropped by the glittery swirls of reminiscences and deep emotions that certain ‘big’ holidays tend to evoke. Family holiday rituals can encompass both religious and non-religious beliefs. They can speak to a wide range of childhood experiences that might differ significantly from those of an adoptee tentatively undertaking reunion with new-found relatives. Added triggers can appear in the form of never-before-seen photographs and treasured items – things that were deliberately treasured and kept across and indeed for generations to come. Vulnerable, fragile heirlooms in torn, yellowing tissue paper, richly detailed reminiscences, and cursive-penned recipes from long-dead ancestors play a role in preserving familial histories, truths, and secrets. The sanctity of such jealously guarded objects or ceremonies is never more evident than at holiday times, offering a stark contrast to the losses and denials of relatedness that can serve to exclude and haunt adoptees, much like a relentless Dickensian ghost. Even in reunion, gift-giving can prove problematic. You will likely be unsure of what sizes your newfound relatives take, though you might well have similarly shaped ears, feet, or hands. (Try not to stare at them for too long, it can unnerve people). Likewise, you cannot glibly assume that they will share your taste in gifts, food, music, or alcohol: books might be unwelcome - or taken the wrong way - though flowers are generally a safe bet, despite or maybe because of their frequent association with apologies, gratitude, farewells, and funerals. My own relationship with Christmastime is coloured by various aspects, not least my early January birthday. Over the years it was hard to avoid thoughts of what my first/birth mother must have gone through. in December 1966 whilst exiled within an abusive Montreal maternity ‘home’ as she awaited my unwelcome arrival, alone and far removed from her own family, knowing she was set on immediate relinquishment of her baby. She neither saw nor held me, as was often the fashion back then for such unplanned births, in many jurisdictions. I would say the holiday season likely lost some of its shine for her after that. She kept many secrets and sorrows to herself for five long decades afterward. That same Christmas season saw my middle-aged adoptive parents nervously awaiting the birth of their first child (after twenty years of marriage) only for him to arrive prematurely in January – a few days before my birthday - and then sadly not survive. To their credit, they always celebrated Christmas as fully as they possibly could for me, with no shortage of costly presents or food. The following month was always blighted however by an annual day of sharp maternal mourning for the little son she had lost, which I could not help but feel guilty over: I had clearly survived—and usurped—the place of her rightful descendant, when they adopted me seven months later, to try and ease the pains of their bereavement. It did not always make for the easiest of relationships, though I know they did the best they could, given the scars of their own harsh upbringings and their failing health. The arrivals of my own four children made for new and joyous holiday memories. 1994 was extremely notable—and happy—for the high-speed, drama-filled arrival of my middle daughter, still a lively creature, born during an eery, freezing fog, a few days before Christmas. Seven years ago, another Christmas drama unfolded, through the wonders of DNA testing. I matched in mid-December with a kindly aunt, several years my junior, who immediately accepted me and then tried for weeks to persuade her panicked, resolute older sister that I was not a danger. Again, thanks to social media, I was able to surreptitiously see what my half-siblings looked like, and could also watch as they, oblivious and untroubled by my existence, posted the usual happy holiday updates. These seemed richly defiant, with unfamiliar traditions and foodstuffs, peppered with old photographs of their relatives and ancestors. Much like The Little Match Girl, I watched and memorised as much as I could through the cool glass of a computer screen, figuring that soon the chances to glimpse these ‘match-lit’ images would run out if they discovered me and hit the block button. After a long, and far from festive, six weeks, I had in the meantime turned fifty, and become resigned to a third maternal rejection (an earlier attempt at anonymous contact with her via a confidential intermediary had also been refused in 1991, such was her fear of me). I had set my DNA results to ‘private.’ I tried to convince myself that I was lucky to have at least seen the faces and names of my half-siblings, when a tentative message arrived from her. My birth mother was willing to chat to me and see how things went, with a view to perhaps someday telling her family that I existed. Belated Christmas and birthday wishes, indeed. To her credit, she told everyone about me over the next few weeks, and has not missed a day’s messaging in the seven years that we have now been in reunion (morning and evening, regular as clockwork). In keeping with familial norms, many and varied tales, recipes, and keepsakes have since been exchanged. Most days now I wear a pair of earrings that she sent to me early on in the reunion. Adoptees will appreciate the significance of such small acts - and the passing of on objects - as markers of acceptance. These should never be taken for granted. (Why are the kept sometimes so keen to rid themselves of the things that their ancestors so painstakingly collected? I will never understand this). This year sees more holiday upheaval with the happy arrival of my first grandchild. She is too young yet to perceive that her birthday falls during the holiday season and that she will be celebrating it in the future always backdropped by tinsel decorations and overplayed Christmas songs. Thankfully, she will grow up blissfully unaware of just how lucky she is to have been born into a large, slightly deranged family where she was profoundly welcomed and very much wanted. As I write she is being held and cherished by a multitude of doting relatives. She is surrounded by gifts, and twinkling Christmas lights, which she seems indifferent to or fascinated by depending on her mood. She will be able to see exactly where her big dark eyes and (slightly alarming) shock of black hair originate from. Photos and keepsakes are already piling up for her, for my daughter-in-law knows well the value of preserving precious memories for posterity. This child will have more stories told to her than she will perhaps possibly remember. Her untroubled Christmas ghosts will be those of the ‘muppet Dickens’ rather than some unknown, faceless ancestors, though she may have to listen – repeatedly - to her Granny’s laments as to why Elf is a bit problematic in places. She will also, in time, be able to enjoy the various orphan stories of the season as generally heartwarming heroic tales without wondering who or where her own forebears are, or being afraid for how they might be doing. I could not wish for more. Alice Diver is a Montreal-born adoptee, of Newfoundland Irish, and Indigenous descent who has been living in Northern Ireland since the 1970s. She is a lecturer in Family Law at Queen’s University, Belfast, a long-suffering wife, mother of four, and recent recruit to grandmotherhood. After a slightly bumpy start, she has been in reunion with the maternal side of her first/birth family since 2017. To read more of her work or follow her on Facebook: https://pure.qub.ac.uk/en/persons/alice-diver/publications/ https://www.facebook.com/alice.diver.7 AKA invites you to hear from members of the extended family of adoption and the surrounding community. While we take great care in curating the content please know:
2 Comments
Kimberly
1/17/2024 12:26:44 pm
This post could not have come at more perfect time when I was trying to unpack all the emotions around the lack of connection and traditions in my own family holidays. You distilled and elaborated so eloquently on the challenges of the heart and especially the adoptee heart during the holidays. Thank you for your insightful and beneficial commentary and for sharing your beautiful stories of your journey. I see you. I hear you. You are understood!
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Alice Diver
1/27/2024 10:07:34 am
Thank you so much!
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