"I watched you..watch him. It was different. I want that."

There's a feeling. When he was little I watched you. I watched you..watch him.

I saw you look at each other. It was different. I want that."

Then She Found Me - Eleanor Lipman

is it...denial? It has to be. In watching the movie Then She Found Me (which..the book kind of sucked. royally. but I love Bette Midler and felt it was my duty to endure..) there was a scene between the (adult) adopted daughter and her adoptive mother where she describes why she wants her "own" baby and doesn't want to adopt. I've had that very conversation with my own adoptive mother countless times. ...Only I didn't have the backbone to admit that I saw the difference. For her sake, I let her believe that I saw nothing.

A friend of mine just recently had a baby. Her third - a girl. I watched her watch her. I saw them look at each other. It was different. And I remembered when my mother brought my little brother home from the hospital. My brother (also adopted) and I watched her carry him in in her arms. And we both just turned to each other and stared. We knew. It was different. But we said nothing. We didn't need to.

As a mother -- as a mother who adopted twice and gave birth twice -- how can you not notice the difference? Is it denial?

It has to be.

"We'll sleep when we're dead."

I am exhausted in every sense of the word. The transition from Philadelphia back to Connecticut has been a bit difficult, and moreso, the transition from "student" to "unemployed". Moving in was a chore. Living here seems to be a chore as well. The neighbors don't seem to like us very much, and minus my paranoia, actually seem to have it out for us. I think their issue is that we are two young girls living in a community of families and seniors. Recently, our garbage was rumaged through by a giant, not-so-friendly racoon who frequents our back porch. He tipped the cans and tore open two bags of trash, spilling it into our yard. Instead of alerting us - the tenants - to this fact, an anonymous neighbor took photographs and sent them to our landlord and property manager. We received numerous phone calls from the landlord and a visit in person from the property manager telling us that we were "off to a rocky start". I can't help but feel that we are being treated like the roudy children on the block. Since then, no one has spoken to us. My roommate and I wave to those we see as we pull in/out only to receive a cold stare. For those of you who know me personally, you will understand that this affects me deeply. There is nothing I hate more than feeling that I have disappointed someone to the point of being ignored. There is a bad vibe in this neighborhood and it feels as though we have disrupted some cosmic ebb and flow by moving in.

Between the search for a job that will pay the rent while I struggle to get my fledgling business off the ground, the feeling of being constantly watched and hated, and maintaining some semblance of a social life (one that won't disturb the neighbors, that is), I have found that I simply do not have time to be adopted. As if life were no exhausting enough. I was driving home from my a-mom's house yesterday afternoon; the sun was shining, the trees are blooming, I'm getting ready to host a housewarming/graduation party...and I realized that I haven't spoken to S* since before I graduated. I haven't heard from her - and while I think of her every day in one way or another, I hadn't had the time to really think of her.

It is impossibly hard to maintain healthy relationships with your a-family, who live 15 minutes away, and your first family...who are a 5 hour plane ride away. It's unfair. And it leaves me wanting so much more. I want to be able to have a passing thought of my mother during the day and call her and invite her over for dinner, or for coffee, or to go shopping with me to help me pick out a dress for a Friday night on the town.

My roommate and her mother are very close. She accompanies us almost every weekend when we go out for cocktails and dinner. She comes with us to coffee, the mall, the movies, Saturday afternoon bumming around the house and eating pancakes at 3pm and doing laundry and napping in the sun. I love it. And I'm jealous of it.

I just want my mom. And I just don't have time to be adopted.

little Joanna with the big blue eyes?

Gradutaion is right around the corner. Three more days and I will no longer be considered a student! I will be saying goodbye to Philadelphia and 'hello' to Connecticut once again. I'm going to be a grown up! It's exciting and scary and sad and amazing and every emotion under the sun all rolled into one day.

Amidst the excitement, however, there will be a touch of longing. S*, my first mother, won't be in attendence. This is a fact I have been struggling with for a few months now. She has held an open invitation since the summer, but seems unable to take the time off of work. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it. On one hand, I understand completely. Work is work. You have to go. There's some mountain lion trapped in resedential Las Vegas who needs her. But at the same time, I need her.

In 2006, when I was first reconnected with S*, one of the first trains (floods?) of thought I experienced was the instant excitement that she would see me graduate. What child doesn't want their mother present at their graduation? It's just something I always assumed would happen.. that she would be there.

There's not much else I can say, except that I will miss her on Friday; that I will carry her in my locket and it will have to suffice. And that I hope to God my a-mom and S* uphold their promise that the first time they meet will not be on my wedding day.

there must be a way to bring the two together;;

I had my final class today; the last class ever. It was a Marketing and Promotions final critique: 12 judges sat in the classroom while we each presented our materials and portfolio and were then judged on our "packages". I went in confident and assured. I came out in tears.

They loved my commercial work; they hated my logo, but loved the photographs. We disagreed on individual images and their success, but everything was going smoothly...until someone mentioned the alternate postcard (which bore the image to the left). The text on the back of the card was rusted and weathered. It is a complete 180 from my commercial postcard. The consensus was that "any joe schmo off the street could have taken it." They claimed it was the token "first quarter" photograph that every amature needs to take to get it out of their system. I asked them to please refer to my provided artist's statement before commenting further. They did. It was silent.

The same judge who first noted the stark difference in images spoke up again. "So this is something separate from your commercial work?" I replied, "Absolutely. My fine art and my commercial work are two separate entities entirely. I work extremely hard to make sure they never cross." He asked why. I was thoroughly confused. I made a joke in asking him to please re-read the artist's statement. His reply was this: "So essentially you are two different people when you photograph." "I have to be," is all I said...and I began to cry.

I don't think that judge realized how his observation affected me. I tried my best to smile and blink back the tears that were fighting so hard to flow. I was failing miserably and no one understood why. For a brutal fifteen minutes we went back and forth: he insisted that I find the way to merge the two, because "surely, if a family with an adopted child realizes how passionate you are about this cause, they won't care either way and in the end will still hire you." I told him that he was, of course, entitled to his opinion but that it was perhaps naive and ill-informed.

How could anyone not affected by adoption ever fully realize: I am two different people entirely.

you're not even really my sister;;

A friend from Connecticut came to visit for the weekend. It was refreshing because it's been years since I have been able to play 'tourist' in this city. We set out toward Independence Mall to hop on a double decker tour bus. We bought our tickets and decided to go to the bathroom before we embarked on the hour and a half city tour.

In the terminal, I waited outside and held my friends purse while she went into the ladies room. I noticed that there were quite a few families there - typical of a warm weather weekend. One little girl caught my attention in particular: she couldn't have been older than five years, and she was an absolute doll. She was playing ring-around-the-rosie around her adoptive mother's legs (I knew instantly that she was adopted, being that the woman she called "mother" was white and she was asian). Nothing struck me as completely out of the ordinary until the rest of her family joined her.

I saw her husband and four young boys moving in a roudy pack toward them. I began to smirk as the apparent situation became clear in my mind: Nice young couple, four boys of "their own", who "hand picked" the little girl they never had. Inwardly, I was rolling my eyes. Again, I would have thought very little of it and it probably wouldn't have stuck with me... if it weren't for the next dialogue I heard.

One of the younger boys (maybe 6 or 7 y/o) who had already been punching his older brothers, moved to the little girl and pushed her quite hard and she fell at her mother's feet. She didn't cry; she just stood up, brushed herself off and frowned, pushing him back. I laughed a little at the spectacle of it all. But that smile was wiped clear off of my face. The little boy who had initiated the fight, once he realized she was pushing back, whimpered and cried and yelled at her, "You're not even my real sister!" The mother and father both repremanded him instantly, all the while looking over their shoulders to see who heard the boy's claim. My attention was completely on the little girl.

She was now hiding behind her mother's legs, her face buired in the back of her knee, hands balled into fists and clinging to her mother's pants. I literally bit my tongue to keep from saying or doing anything. I can't tell you how many times that very same scene played out in my own life. My brother, also adopted, used to pull that card every day when we were 10-15. I think we both said some things we regret. Our neighbor called me a bastard once; I burst into tears and ran home, unable to explain to my mother why I was so upset. My heart and my thoughts are with that little girl right now, wherever she is.

yearning for the lost mother of childhood;

..I seem to have lost all the words for this post..

what do you mean i can't see you; i can always see you;;

So, like. Does Disney have some inherent need to make every mother character leave the child? Truth be told, I cried even just capping the Land Before Time picture. I haven't seen that movie in years because every time I've watched it, I just turn into a mess. So...now I'm projecting my 'mommy issues' onto cartoon characters? This can't be a good sign.

you'll be in my heart;;

Dear Poor, Neglected Blog;
I'm here now. With a renewed sense of my adopted self.
Thanks for your patience.
Love,
Joanna.


This week (wait..it's only Tuesday) has been strangely packed with...triggers. All of them in the most unlikely of places. Or maybe not so unlikely. In any case, it has spawned the idea for a PICSPAM! SO. Introducing: "Adopted, Still: A Picspam".

Now, I battled with myself in whether or not to admit that I was totally watching the Disney channel last night when Tarzan came on. But the reaction I had was too intense to NOT talk about.

I hadn't seen this movie since it came out in theaters way back when. It struck me as odd the other night, because I remember having no reaction whatsoever to the movie when I was.. 12, or however old I was when I first saw it. Needless to say, at 22, it was almost comical - and I would have laughed at myself - were I not too busy crying and hanging on every word spoken in the movie.

You know (Disney version of) the story: Boy raised by gorrilas. But he has this scene where he causes some rukus and sends the elephants into a tizzy. "Kayla", the mother figure to Tarzan, defends him to her husband, saying that he's just a little boy and he meant no harm. "Kerchak", the hubby, replies with, "Give him a chance?! Kayla! Look at him!" Little Tarzan then runs off and mopes, sitting by a little pool of water. He stares at his reflection and tries to understand why he doesn't look like everyone else in the group. I almost threw up.

I just spent the better part of 12 weeks photographing a series that deals with just that feeling. At 22 years old, alone in my empty apartment, I was weeping in front of my 24 inch TV set.

Welcome to the trigger Picspam. MUCH more to come.