Losing the Leotard and Learning to Love

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

It has been a while since my last blog and I just can’t dare let any more time pass.  I hate to admit it but aside from my job draining my brainpower over the last few months, I have been torn on how to approach this next one which deals with my first high school romance/love.  As I mentioned in my first blog, I am writing this blog to tell my story as an adoptee and how being adopted has affected my journey to true love.   In order to appropriately do that, I have to tell the story of my first “love”/boyfriend, as embarrassing and somewhat painful it is.  I will leave his name anonymous, of course, and will refer to him as “Evan.”In my last blog entry, I talked about what it was like growing up in the Deep South.  It was bittersweet in that I had a great childhood, with great memories, great friends and a loving family.  I escaped from the identity of being the adopted kid or the Colombian kid in town and developed the identity of being a gymnast.  That thankfully took the focus off me being adopted from Colombia.  But after experiencing the life of a Karolyi gymnast, I decided to hang up my grips and put away my leotards.  I quit gymnastics (for a year) after my sophomore year of high school due to extreme burn out and an overwhelming feeling that I was missing out on a normal teenage life.   I left Texas and went back to the friends I was missing in Louisiana.  I was tired of no social life and I wanted to be a normal teenager…whatever that meant.  So there I was back in my hometown.  Except this time, I was in high school.  The classmates I left behind after 8^thgrade looked different/older than when I left.  The boys were bigger and the girls were prettier and more grown up.  Not only that, there were new kids that had come from feeder schools in other nearby towns. It was weird going to school without having gymnastics practice before and/or after school and a life where I could sleep past 7 am on Saturdays.   What was I going to do with myself?   I looked around and I finally had the opportunity to live a normal life.  No more short haircuts, leotards, rips on my hands from uneven bars and heck, maybe I would grow some boobs as my time in gymnastics seemed to stunt my growth! ha ha!  It was great reconnecting with my friends.  I was one of those kids that had friends from all circles.  But I definitely was not on homecoming court or prom court.  Hey I could not run from the fact that I was still not a blonde haired blue eyed beauty.  I was a Colombian teenager in the south with braces and I no longer had gymnastics to hang on to.  I was very self conscious about how I looked, how dark I was and sort of felt inadequate.  Though I dared not tell anyone how I felt – neither my friends nor my family.  So now that gymnastics was over, what did I have to focus on?  Hmmm…what was I missing over the past several years of hard core gymnastics training?  Boys!

I finally got to hang with my friends and go to parties and meet boys.  I was finding my way in the young teenage romance world.  Looking back, I think I was terrible at romance but I guess you could say that I learned how to flirt.  But once I kept a guy’s interest, I sort of panicked.  They were all too good to be true and I was scared to death of whatever could happen after innocent flirting and kissing.   I was afraid of liking a boy too much or that he would want someone better than me so why bother.   I remember thinking they either didn’t really like me or they were only out for one thing.   A guy would compliment me on my eyes, my smile, my hair.  But I could smell their lines a mile away.  I had pretty good intuition and I was convinced that I was not as pretty as other “non-Colombian” girls and that those guys really were not interested in “me.”   Plus, for whatever reason, I always knew that at some point I would have to explain myself.  I would have to tell him that I was born in Colombia and that I was adopted.  I absolutely dreaded that moment and it was another reason I would panic when I got close to a guy.  To avoid that misery, I even went as far as lying and telling guys I was from Spain because Spain just sounded way more glamorous than Colombia.  But that got old after a while.  I was tired of the nonsense and I wanted to have a boyfriend. … someone to go to the movies, football games and dances with! 

So there was a guy in my trigonometry class, “Evan”.  He was a sophomore boy and was tall, dark, handsome, athletic and smart.  He was a football player his freshman year but his parents made him quit to focus on school…or so he said.  He was supposed to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a successful “doctor.”   He sat behind me and he used to pass notes to me and totally flirt.  I was always thinking “who is this guy?”  Does he like me?  I wasn’t really sure if he was just being funny or was he genuinely interested in me.  I remember he used to play with my long hair from the desk behind mine.   I played this flirting game with him for months.  Then one day he asked me out on a date.  Before I knew it, this guy ended up becoming my first real boyfriend.  He was very nice and cute.  He would write me love notes and hold my hand in the hallways.  He would take me to nice restaurants and his family loved me- especially his little sister who I adored.  Things were great from what I could tell.   We spent the summer hanging by the pool.  We watched MTV videos, played video games and listened to Garth Brooks.  We rode four wheelers in the woods and we babysat his little sister a lot.  During this time I had slowly told him about my background (as if it weren’t obvious) and being adopted.  I also told him that I hated talking about it so please don’t bring it up.  Things progressed and we had been together several months when I started to feel like something was missing in my life. 

I was really missing gymnastics.  I was thinking more about college, my future and wishing I had not quit when I did.  Especially given the fact that some great colleges had been recruiting me when I was in Texas.  But I missed my window.   I had contacted those schools and they had all committed to other gymnasts.  Plus, I had been out of the sport for over a year.  In the sport of gymnastics, a year is forever!  It is bad when you miss a week of practice much less a year!  I had a lot of catching up to do.  But I decided that I was going to do whatever it took to get back in shape and be a collegiate gymnast.  So I went back to my very first gym in my hometown and started training my butt off.   It was not as intense as Karolyi’s but nonetheless it was back to the grind. 

That is when things started to change with my boyfriend.  The nice guy that I had grown to care deeply for started changing.    We spent less time together because I had to practice.    He started becoming controlling and possessive.  I used to perform exhibition gymnastics routines at football pep rallies and football halftimes.  He hated that because he despised that other guys saw me in a leotard. 

He was no longer nice to me.  He started saying really cruel things once he sensed I was losing interest.  I knew deep down inside that I should not stay with Evan.  But I was so attached and I just could not let go.  No matter how he treated me.  (Hard to believe now for those people who know me now because I am definitely one to stand up for myself and not put up with crap).  Anyway, he said horrible things that got at my biggest insecurities.  He took advantage of my weakness.  My weakness was that monkey on my back of being a Colombian adoptee.  I have no idea why I put up with it.  Somehow I let this guy get to me and I believed him.  He started saying things like, “you know I am the only guy that accepts that you are adopted and Colombian.  No one else will.”  He even got in a fist fight with a boy on the football team who he heard flirted with me on the senior trip.  Funny thing is, “Evan” got his butt kicked.  Even though I laugh about that now, I felt sorry for him at the time.  He would tell me that he heard football players say things about me that eluded to how dark complected I was and how I looked and not knowing “what I was.”  One time he even used the word, “bastard.”  I will NEVER forget that.  It hurt so badly.  He told me other boys would think that about me.  He also told me that all the other boys would only want one thing from me…especially since I was a gymnast.  This was ridiculous as many of them were my friends so I knew that it couldn’t be true.  I started to stay out of the sun in fear of getting darker or I would wear a one piece with a t-shirt of cover up or loaded up with sunscreen.   I used to love wearing bikinis when I was younger.   But that was no longer the case, only a one piece for me!   We had a pool growing up and I didn’t use it much.  Maybe a pool party or two but I did not partake in the sun. 

That year Ms. Colombia was the first runner up of Ms. Universe and I remember being so proud.  I told him all about it and his response was, “That is great but you are not her.”    He completely burst my bubble.  For once I had something positive to say about Colombia and he had to twist it and break me down.  To spite him, out of a dare, I entered the Ms. Hot Legs contest at school (sort of hard to believe they had such a contest in schools).  They cover the contestants from the upper thighs up so all that could be seen were our legs in high heels.  Guess who won?  Yours truly.  I showed him!  I may not be Ms. Colombia but I was Ms. Hot Legs that year!!  It seemed I was trying to prove to him that others did find me cute even though I was Colombian.    I was always trying to prove my worthiness and seeking approval of others.  This is yet another trait of many adoptees. 

Unfortunately, despite my efforts, “Evan” eventually convinced me he was the only one who would love me.  I was attached, couldn’t bear to break up with him and was brainwashed.   I was afraid to break up with him and not have a boyfriend.  It is hard to really think back and properly describe the feelings of a 16 year old – 20 years later.  I just know that I was experiencing my first experiences with attachment issues and separation anxiety from a romantic relationship perspective.   It is almost humiliating to write this and when I re-read it, it is embarrassing to think I stayed with the jackass.  But I did.  What can I say?  I was a child.  He was my first boyfriend and I didn’t have much experience with boys thanks to my strict life as a gymnast.   Plus, I did not know there could have been a reason for what I was putting myself through.  I think my Mom was beginning to sense that something was wrong when it came to Evan.  Again, I kept a lot of things from my parents.  I was very private about these things.  Even my little brother sensed something.  I remember him telling me he wanted to beat Evan up.   Had I been more open with my parents and perhaps had there been more of an awareness at that time of some of the issues that young adoptees may go through as they develop their identity, some of it could have been prevented.  Who knows?   I am not saying that to place any blame on my parents. They did the best they could.  I was just so private about this stuff.  But even if they did know, I am not sure they would have related some of my fears with adoption issues.  Nonetheless, that little part of me that was deep inside and ashamed of being adopted from Colombia began to come out in full force.   He had affected me so much yet I felt like I could not bear to be without him. 

Time marched on and along came the time when I had to decide where I was going to go to college.  I had gotten myself almost back in gymnastics shape to where I was before I quit.   Though I still had a ways to go! I had two choices, LSU or a small college in Missouri.  I wanted so badly to go to LSU because that is where Evan wanted to go.  But my Mom put her foot down, thankfully.  She said, “No you are not going to LSU.  You are going away to school! “I remember her saying “wouldn’t you rather be a big fish in a small pond than a small fish in a big pond?”  I remember telling her I did not care about the small pond because Evan would be in the big pond.   Thanks to my Mom, it was not an option for me.  I was going away to college in Missouri whether I liked it or not.  

I “met” my roommate, also on the gymnastics team, over the phone that summer.  We exchanged pictures of each other.  And wouldn’t you know it; she was a gorgeous blonde from Tennessee aka my worst nightmare.  I had already started picturing feelings of inadequacy in college living with her.  I was dreading going away to school.  It was a rough summer but gymnastics got me through.  The day finally came when I left for college and I said my goodbyes to Evan (though we remained a “couple”).   I think I cried the entire 8 hour drive to college that fall.  I felt this ache in my heart.  After all, we had been together for over a year. Even though Evan and I were still together, I did not want to be so far away from him.   Little did I know, that was the beginning of a detachment that I needed.

Writing this blog entry forced me to reflect on my first experience of love and remember how warped it was.   I know that all of us have had bad relationships and even relationships we may be ashamed to admit we were in.  Well this was definitely one of them.  It wasn’t exactly the ideal first boyfriend experience for a teenager much less an adopted Colombian teenager who clearly wasn’t sure of herself.  The last several months with him were very unhealthy.  He belittled me, treated me like crap and convinced me of things I should never have been convinced of.  He supposedly “loved me.”   I think deep down I knew that I could have done better than Evan.  But then this other insecure part of me would always believe him.  One day the strong Alicia that was always inside of me had the strength and the sense to finally dump him during my freshman year. 

As I have mentioned in previous blogs, I have known countless adoptees.  Many of them I have become very close to and we have shared the most personal of experiences.  One thing I have always noticed from these adoptees is that many of them have struggled at one time or another in the relationship department.  This is obviously not unique to adoptees.  However, I am aware that there are common themes in the issues and struggles of adoptees.  I am not exempt from this either.  Many of us have had issues with attachment, separation, abandonment and maybe even at times a combination of all of the above.  Some of the behaviors we may have exhibited in relationships may have been learned but some of them may have been instinctual. 

I did not know about these things when I was a teenager.  I didn’t know that some of the feelings, fears, and insecurities I would experience could be related to my being adopted.   Instead, I put up with things in order to prevent other feelings that seemed so scary to me.  Now as an adult it is somewhat embarrassing but at the same time I realize and accept that I was in a different place then and was only beginning to become the woman I am today.  In fact, writing this blog was the first time in a really long time I have even thought of Evan or that time in my life.  It is such a distant and insignificant memory for me now.

Perhaps this part of my story will help young adoptees who are going through something similar now.  Perhaps other adoptees who read this will relate in a way they never imagined.  Perhaps a parent of a young adoptee will read this and be prepared for what could be for their child as he or she navigates through the rough waters of teen angst.  One thing I know for sure, my Mom did the right thing in making me go away to school in another state.  I will always be grateful to her for forcing me to jump in the small pond.  Moms are supposed to know best, right?   In this case, she DID!   When my Mom dropped me off that day at the dorms, I had a lot of baggage both literally and figuratively.   I had no idea what was to come and how my life would change now that I was in college and not in a small town in the south anymore.   The person I saw in the mirror began to change as well.  Stay tuned!!

The Ugly Duckling Grows Up in the Swamp: My experience growing up as a Colombian adoptee in the south

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Those who know me, know that I pretty much grew up in the South.  The deep south in southeastern Louisiana about 45 miles north of New Orleans.  I drank lots of sweet tea and have been to more crawfish boils than I can count.  Now I cannot even look at crawfish without cringing yet at the same time I cannot live without my sweet tea.  I used to have a southern accent and I have lost it over the years.  But it comes out every now and then, especially when I go home or after I have had some yummy amaretto sours.   I grew up listening to Kenny Rogers and jazz that my parents played on their high-fi.  I also went to many jazz fests and Mardi Gras parades.  I still love jazz and frequent a local Cajun restaurant in old town San Diego when I need my gumbo or jambalaya fix.  And of course, I love love love the New Orleans Saints.  Who dat!  Yes, I am Colombian on the outside, but I am a southern girl at heart.

We moved there when my Dad got transferred with his job from Rochester, New York when I was 3 years old.  Looking back, overall, it was a great childhood.  We had a nice house on about three acres.  There was a river, called the Bogue Falaya, close by and lots of woods to explore.  My little brother and I have lots of memories of adventures in the woods on that river.  Some included snakes swimming in the river next to us as we pretended to be statues.  We also had a swimming pool, so we became fish for much of each summer.  This also meant that he and I always sported a dark tan from spending so much time in the sun.  We were beyond DARK.  I consider myself fortunate that my parents still live in the same house I grew up in -even though my room no longer looks like my room since my Mom turned it into her “creative room”.  They gave us a great life, one that I am quite certain I would not have had in Colombia. 

For those of you from the south, this may sound all too familiar.  For those of you not from the south, some of this may not surprise you.  For my friends who grew up with me, some of this may be news to you as I was not so open about a lot of this as a child. 

Although my good and great memories far outweigh the bad, some of the bad ones certainly had an impact on who I am today and even some of the choices I have made in my life, particularly when it came to love.  When I let you in on some of things, do not fret or worry, I am not a bitter person nor do I have any unhealed wounds that have been festering as a result.  No violins playing in the background or anything.  In fact, all of these things shaped who I am and in many ways made me a stronger person.  But as the title suggests, I could relate so much to the Ugly Duckling Story.  

Where shall I start……..hmmmm… well, I guess as far back as I can remember.

I probably experienced my first moment of sensing that I was “different” was when I was in kindergarten.  I went to a private school in kindergarten and I was the only non-white kid in the class.  I think I started figuring that one out when we had our class pictures taken and I was clearly the darkest kid in the class.  That is when I first started asking my Mom questions about why my skin was brown and her’s was white.  The dreaded question an adoptee like me will eventually ask her parent.  She had such a sweet answer that she recalls telling me. She said that she told me, “You know how in our garden there are all different colors of flowers?”  I said, “Yes.”  She said “well God thought the world would be boring with just white flowers so that is why he made flowers of all different colors, well it is the same with people!”  I just accepted her answer and moved on, clearly still too young to really understand the true differences.  Other than that, I just always knew I was adopted.  I don’t even recall when my parents told me but I just always knew.  I do have a vague memory of my Mom telling me that parents become parents in two ways.  Giving birth and adopting. I recall her telling me I was born out of another lady but that she was unable to take care of me so my Mom then adopted me.  Anyway, my Mom said she wondered if something happened at school that made me ask her why I looked different.  She came to the conclusion that sending me to an all white private school was probably not the best idea.  So she made other arrangements for first grade.

I actually went to the first grade in the French Quarter of all places. This was because my parents bought a place there and we lived in it during the week while they renovated it.  Living in the French Quarter as a little girl was quite an experience.  I saw a lot of things that most little girls my age probably wouldn’t see.  I saw a version of Peter Pan that was far from Walt Disney’s rendition.  I will leave it at that.  It was fun though, getting cotton candy and pulled taffy from City Park, walks along the Mississippi River front, Christmas caroling in Jackson Square, hamburgers at the Fatted Calf, more Central Grocery muffalettas than I can count, and hot chocolate with beignets from Café du Monde.  Oh and I cannot forget all the used book stores and antique shops I would go to with my Mom.  I remember loving my school and my teacher, Mrs. Brown.  We had a garden that our class made outside in front of the school and I even had a book “published” called The Adventures of a Little Girl in the French Quarter.  I got to dress up for Mardi Gras and went to so many parades.  And the king cakes, oh the king cakes! When I think about my year in the French Quarter, I really do not remember feeling different there.  I am not sure why.  I just have flashes of memories that year. 

But we went back to our small town once the renovations were completed and I began the second grade at our local public elementary school.  However, I was not in that class long.  In fact, just as I started getting to know some fellow second graders, my world was turned upside down.   One day, I was sitting in my chair and the Principal came in to talk to the teacher.  He was talking to her softly at the front of the class and then they pointed and looked at me.  He smiled and she said, “Alicia, please come to my desk and bring your book bag.”  I gathered my things and I wondered if I was in trouble.  I was the most shy and quiet little girl you ever did meet.  So I surely was not in trouble.  I walked up to the front and they told me that I was being moved to another class and that I should not be in this class.  I was a little confused.  But I went along.  The Principal took my hand and walked me out of the class as he told the class to tell me goodbye.  They all waved and out the door I went.  It is so interesting to me how well I remember this.  He walked me down the hall past the other second grade classrooms.  We passed them by.  I was even more confused now.  Then we turned and went into a whole different part of the school.  The third grade hall/wing.  Then we approached an open door and I could hear kids talking.  We went into the class of third graders and the teacher told the kids to be quiet.  Many of them turned and looked at me and it was like the record player in a diner stopping.  The Principal proceeded to introduce me to these kids as the new kids in the class.  What?  Me?  The third grade?  But I just started the 2^nd grade.  There must have been some mistake.  These are the thoughts going through my head.  But no mistake at all.  Turns out my academic level was actually at a higher level and after they told my Mom I should go to the 4^th grade, my Mom talked them down to the 3^rd.  Anyway, the kids just stared at me.  It was horrible.  It was definitely one of my turtleshell moments.  They did not smile at all, at least the kids in the front.  I remember thinking they were the big kids because our school only went up to third grade.  I felt like they were staring at me and my outfit.  You see, my Mom just loved dressing me up in these girly dresses.  She thought they were adorable and I thought they were horrible!  I felt like they were staring at me because of what I looked like and it wasn’t pretty.  So anyway, the teacher led me to my desk and I sat down.  I had no idea what was going on.  I keep wondering why was I now in the third grade.  I had barely started the second grade!  Then the teacher went to the front and asked the class who would like to show me where the girls’ bathroom was.  One girl in the back raised her hand immediately.  I will never forget her.  She had on yellow pants and a yellow t-shirt with an iron-on on the front.  More significantly, she looked sort of like me.  She had long dark hair and she was as tan as me.  Needless to say, nearly 29 years later, we are still best friends.  We became inseparable and joined at the hip.  Her mother was Japanese/Hawaiian and her dad was white.  So she turned out to look a lot like me, except she did have beautiful Asian features.  But she was the closest there was in the whole town, the whole Parrish and quite possible the whole state to me. Where I grew up you were either Caucasian or African-American.  There was nothing in between until my little brother and I came along (and my new friend and her family). 

Anyway, it was great having her as my friend.  Kids would ask all the time if we were sisters.  Sometimes we would say yes.  We stuck together!  I recall being teased right along with her on the playground.  I remember swinging with her on the swings and kids chanting out loud, “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these!” and then running off.  We always got the kids who would stare at us and take their hands and pull their eyes slanty and then run off.  One year every day when it was my stop for the school bus, a kid would announce my stop by saying, “Next stop, China!”  That got real old.  We got used to it.  I got used to it.  Even when I was not with her, I would be called Chinese.  I think it was because I hard long dark straight hair and was tan.  Looking back, I think about how kids in the south had not been exposed to people from other cultures so I think in their minds, I really was Chinese!  Nevertheless, my friend and I had each other.  Of course, at the time, I think I was too young to really understand what was going on but now that I look back, I can see how and why we made such an immediate connection.  

But still, I was the adopted kid.  Actually, my little brother and I both were known as the adopted kids or the tan kids.  It sort of got old.  It seemed that everywhere I turned, that would come up.  Especially when we were in line anywhere with our parents or our older brothers, the looks of confusion and the questions would come.  We could be at line at the movies, the grocery store, the post office, the doctor’s office waiting room, you name it.  When I wanted to run and hide every time someone asked my Mom about me, my Mom was so proud and loved telling everybody everything.  She always seemed to draw a captive audience.  And I was the unwilling star of her show.  She got creative though.   She would say things like, “I can brag about her because I did not make her.”  Or the best was when a lady at the grocery store just stared at my little brother and me and asked my mom, “Your husband must be really dark?”  My Mom said, “No, but their father is.”  My Mom must have gotten sick of it too at times.  All I know is my being adopted from Colombia or South America seemed to be on the forefront of my life.  I may as well have a tattoo on my forehead or a t-shirt to explain!  That would have been easier. The few times I did mention to my mom or hint to some of my insecurities of how looked, she would try to convince me that one day I would see that others would view me as exotic and beautiful.  She would try to convince me that I did not want to be or look like everyone else or be average.  I would tell her, “but I want to be average!”  She would tell me how cute I was and how beautiful I would be one day.  I clearly did not believe her.  She was just being a Mom.  She was biased, right?

But then something happened that changed my life for the better, at least in some ways.  After over two years of nagging my parents and somehow escaping serious injury on the playground, I convinced them to let me take gymnastics classes.  I was one determined little girl and wanted so badly to be like Nadia Comaneci and Mary Lou Retton.  It was all I could think about, talk about and dream about.  So finally when I was in 5^th grade, they let me do gymnastics.  Most start when they are as young as five years old.  I progressed very quickly as I guess you could say I was a natural.  I started winning state titles and was even in our local newspaper’s sports section.  What’s this?  Alicia the “gymnast?”  Yes!  I was not just the adopted kid.  I was the gymnast!  That became my identity.  It did not matter what I looked like or where I was from when I was up on the balance beam and on the uneven bars.  Gymnastics literally became my life and I loved it!

Then at some point, I started understanding things a little differently as I entered middle school.  I had wonderful friends who I can proudly say are still friends of mine to this day!  I don’t know what I would have done without them.  Towards the end of middle school and early junior high, I started to feel different in a different way.  It was not just that I did not look like anyone; it was that I could not relate to my friends the way I wished.  I was a late bloomer and they were starting to go through the changes of life you experience as an adolescent.  I remember them talking about and comparing themselves to their mothers.  They would talk about what bra size they would be and how they would look with make up on and all kinds of things of that nature.  But I could not talk about that and I felt so left out.  Even my friend from 3^rd grade who looked sort of like me, I could not relate at all because she could still relate with those conversations.  At least you could tell her Mom was her Mom.  In fact, I was such a shy little girl I did not even want to talk about that stuff with my parents.  Not to mention the fact that I was seriously a late bloomer and gymnastics did not help in the “growth” department.    That was a time in my life when I really felt something about not knowing anything about my birthmother.  I had no idea what I was going to look like, what bra size I would be, how tall I would get or what kind of woman I would one day grow into.  And quite frankly, I had a pixie like short hair cut that all my teammates had which was easy to maintain for gymnastics.  I developed quite the little muscular body and I felt far from attractive.  The Ugly Duckling perception I had was in full force at this stage.  I did not tell anyone I felt this way but deep inside I did.  Yes, I was a great gymnast and people would tell me how “cute” I was.  But I did not feel this way at all.  Add to that getting braces in 6^th grade.  Wonderful.  The dark tan Colombian girl with no boobs and braces.  That is how I felt deep down inside.  But I kept it all in.  Instead, I focused on my gymnastics and before you knew it, my family was moving to Houston, Texas so that I could train at the famous Bela Karolyi’s Gymnastics.  I had gone to a summer intensive program the summers after 6^th and 7^th grade and while I was there they recruited me to be on one of their teams.  It was so cool living there in a house full of other gymnasts from across the country.  Some of them were in “Bela’s group.”  I actually lived with one of the top gymnasts in the world who I idolized.  It was great, there was even a beam in the living room and we all fought for who got to play on that beam on off time.  I got a taste of what life would be like at Karolyi’s gym but was not quite ready for that yet so I went back home to Louisiana.  After the 8^th grade, I left my favorite coach, Ms. Judy, and my family made the move to Texas so that I could join the Karolyi Team.  It was intense and life changing.  We practiced 6 days per week some days twice per day.  We were excused from our electives and did not go to school for the entire day.  All of the Karolyi girls stuck together.  It was like we were our own clique at school.  We even had our lunch table in the cafeteria.  It was practice, practice, practice.  I lived, ate and breathed gymnastics with hopes of making it big.  Social life?  Forget it.  Here I was freshman and sophomore years of high school and I had no social life whatsoever.  School dances?  Forget it.  Boyfriend?  Forget it, who had time for that?   Though I did leave my puppy love first “boyfriend” behind in Louisiana.    But for those two years in Texas, I was focused on being the best gymnast I could be. 

I had guy friends and crushes that I talked about with my friends, but I did not date.  I did not think much about being adopted when I was so absorbed in my sport.  But every now and then where would be a sharp reminder.  We still got the looks when we were with our parents.  Except now being in Texas, there was a small population of Mexicans.  So people would always assume we were Mexican.  I was actually ok with that at first because I cannot tell you how many times kids would ask me if my “real parents were drug dealers” since I was from Colombia.  So being referred to as a Mexican was a nice change from being called Chinese or the product of a drug lord.  A little fun fact was I did have fun with it a time or two and told some kids that my uncle was Juan Valdez.  Ha ha!  But then I learned that the way people would call us Mexican was not always in the nicest context.  One day my little brother and I rode our bikes to the local convenience store for an Icee.  When we were inside we overheard the clerk tell someone, “oh look at these kids..dirty Mexicans.”  I remember this moment clearly.  I felt like someone put a knife in my heart.  Part of me wanted to shout out, “I am not Mexican, I am Colombian!”  But I learned how that worked out for me in the past….not so good.  Into my turtleshell this ugly duckling went.  Anyway, back to gymnastics….after so many hours and hours of practice, I was starting to get really burned out.  Then I got really sick.  Sick enough that it impacted my gymnastics and caused my coaches to question my seriousness and dedication.  But the funny thing was it was not of my choosing.  My Mom followed doctor’s orders unlike many gym mothers out there.  I remember competing in Nationals my sophomore year fighting a fever and taking antibiotics.  I was literally scheduled to get my tonsils out the week after Nationals.  That was just the way it was in gymnastics at that level.  You stick it out.  Gymnasts are tough and very competitive.  I did not want to miss anything, even if being sick did affect my performance.  Especially when the college coaches, I was getting recruitment letters from, were going to be there to watch.  After that national meet, I had had it though.  I was so sick and tired of it all.  I was tired of beating my body up, trying to stay as skinny as possible -due to weigh ins, and having no social life.  My interest in boys was getting the best of me and I had to hear about how my friends back home were having fun living the life of normal teenagers.  I just wanted to quit and go home to Louisiana where my old friends were.  So, I did.  I quit gymnastics right when recruiters from some pretty darn good schools were showing interest in me, especially since I wore the ”Karolyi” uniform.  I did not care.  I figured, I am smart; I will just keep my grades up.  I was so sick of the life of a Karolyi gymnast or really a gymnast in general.  So we packed up and moved back home. 

So here I was a junior in high school, no longer a gymnast but still a Colombian adoptee.  There was no running away from that, all I had to do was look in the mirror next to my Mom or even my friends.  I was really quickly snapped into a new world as a “normal” teenager.  I had never been on a date and without gymnastics, I did not know what to do with myself.  Well, I figured it out real fast.  I think I was trying to make up for lost time.  I was a little rebellious at times.  Well as much as I could be considering I really was a good girl.  My Mom made me join the swim team at school; I think to keep me out of trouble.  But I found my way around that one by going to my friend’s house to listen to cds, read cosmo and talk about boys.  Then I would simply wet my hair under her tub and then head home as if I had just got out of swim practice.  I know…that is pretty bad.  I think it was because my Mom made me and I just wanted to be a regular teenage girl for once in my life, no more competitions or practice!  So I had lots of fun with my friends, going to parties, going out in New Orleans (yikes), going to the beach in Biloxi and meeting boys from all over.  As a side note, for some reason whenever I went to the beach or the pool while I was in high school, I refused to wear bikinis and stayed under the umbrellas with the intent of not getting any tanner than I was.  Anyway, it was a whirlwind of a year.  I did start dating and whenever a boy started really liking me; I would lose interest and end it.  Inside I could not believe that any of them really thought I was pretty.  Sounds pitiful doesn’t it?  Well, it was true.  I remember one guy who I dated who was a senior and the teacher’s aide in my trigonometry class.  He had roses sent to me in class on my 16^th birthday and I wanted to run away….to my turtleshell.  I thought there was some motive behind it.  He couldn’t really like me and he must want something more.  He treated me so nice and he thought I was beautiful.  Yet it scared me and I dumped him for another guy who later became my first serious boyfriend.   This is where my roller coaster journey to love starts….to be continued.

But in closing, keep in mind (as I type this), I am not this same Alicia you just read in this blog entry.  Not even close.   (Though for some unknown reasons, I do picture my old gymnastics routines in my head instead of counting sheep to fall asleep).  So really…no violins or pity needed.  I no longer see myself as an ugly duckling.   However, even a swan has her turtleshell moments where  she remembers what it felt like to be the ugly ducking in the swamp.     But that is a good thing because I can truly appreciate that what really matters most is what is on the inside ~ as cliche as it sounds.   I think many adoptees can relate to this ugly duckling syndrome I speak of.   Right my adoptee friends?   But it helped us become the people we are today…accepting of all and unconditionally loving.   In most cases, our parents taught us this by the shear gift of adopting us as we were or “as is.”  Our friends taught us this by raising their hand and showing us the way to the 3rd grade girls bathroom.  And hopefully for most of us, we have met or will meet that special someone (like my Russ) who will show us what real loves is and love us as we are…swan or not.  Afterall, there is an ugly duckling in all of us at times, right?

Hold On To Me Tight and Don’t Let Me Go

My Dad holding on to me tight

So I wasn’t quite sure what direction to go in for my next blog.  Chronological, logical, my earliest memory, how I learned I was adopted….I don’t know.  So I decided to start going down the deep trail.   I knew I wanted this to be the title of my next blog.  Because of what it means and how it’s meaning has stuck with me my whole life.   I just experienced it differently, with my parents, with my friends and with my romantic relationships.  It was funny because I just so happened to have this picture of me with my Dad.  It was perfect for this blog.

 On to the blog….overall, I am very positive about my adoption experience.  I have known many adoptees both international and domestic and have seen the gamut of ranges of levels of adjustment.  There are those who seem very well adjusted and those who are still struggling with who they are.  One thing I have learned is that as an adoptee, I have weaknesses and challenges that I will likely face my whole life.  I am just being honest here.  It is a fact.  For years I tried to deny this about myself until one day I finally accepted it.  It was a long process.  Afterall, I first had to come to terms with being adopted then had to tackle all that comes with that.   We all have our stuff, right?  No one is perfect!

So I have learned to accept that there are traits or characteristics that most, if not all, adoptees have.  In fact, I would be willing to bet that if I were to ask every single one of my adoptee friends about this, they would agree.  Somewhere deep down inside there is a commonality that we all have and that a lot of us hate to admit that we have.  But before I tell you what that is.  Let me start with a few stories from my childhood. 

I should start by saying that as far back as I can remember, my Mom was everything to me.  When I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING.  I remember watching her get ready for work in the morning and I would just gaze into her beautiful blue eyes.  I wanted so badly to be just like her.  I wanted so badly to say I was born from her “tummy.”   That sounds so sweet doesn’t it?  It was.  At some point, I recognized that I did not look like my Mom.  She had red hair and blue eyes.  She did not have “brown” skin like I did.  I remember sitting on the counter top in the bathroom and watching her put her makeup on.  I would pretend to put makeup on my own face.  I distinctly remember looking at our reflections in the mirror.  I would look at hers and then mine and then hers and then mine.  I would see her pretty blue eyes and then I would look at my brown ones.  I would see her creamy white skin and then I would look at how mine was darker.  I DID NOT LIKE IT.  I also distinctly remember praying in my bed at night before going to sleep.  I remember asking God if he could please give me blue eyes and lighter skin like my Mom’s.  But for some reason I asked him for blonde hair.  Hmm. Go figure.  Maybe because blondes are supposed to have more fun?  ha ha!  I would pray for this night after night after night.  I would run to the mirror in the morning and there I was still with dark brown hair, brown eyes and brown skin.  All I saw was brown and I didn’t like it.  I was very young.  But I was a very shy little girl.  So I kept all of this inside.  I may have told my Mom that I wished I was born from her tummy but I never told her anything more than that.  In fact, I remember being jealous of my older brothers who were born from her “tummy” and who had her blue eyes. 

Then I remember my Mom fainting one time in the bathroom when I was little.  I will never forget it.  I ran to the phone and called the operator.  I think I was only 4 or 5 years old.   They sent an ambulance.  I remember the EMT being impressed that such a little girl knew what to do.  I think I just saw it on TV or something.  Anyway, let me go back to the moment when she fainted.  I believe she was running the bath water for me.  She got up too fast or something.  I remember her falling over on the ground.  I remember saying, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! No!  Don’t die! Don’t Die!  I remember opening her eyes with my little hands.  She was out cold.  I remember making that call to the operator.  I remember saying, “My mommy is dead!  My mommy is dead! Save her!”  What is more important to mention here is the feeling that I felt in my heart and in my gut at the moment she fell over and then the moments until she was ok.  I remember this horrible feeling in my chest.  It hurt! Literally!  It was like an extreme case of the butterflies.  It hurt so badly.  I was crying and screaming to the operator that my Mom had died.  That was the first time I remember feeling this certain feeling inside that later in life I would one day make a connection to.  It was a feeling of pure panic, pain, terror.  I never wanted to feel that way again.

Then a  year or so later, my Dad had a work party at our house.  All of the guests had left and my little brother was already in bed.  I was still outside with my parents.   My Mom told me to go inside and start my bath water. (what is it about the bath water?) Anyway, I said, “No, I want to stay out here with Daddy.”  So she went inside to start my bath water.  It was dark out already and our the light by our back door had burned out.  So when my Mom walked towards the back door, she did not see the large Copperhead snake coiled in the corner of the house by the back door.  But it saw her and it bit her.  I will NEVER FORGET this either.  I heard her scream at the top her her lungs,” Richard! Richard! Richard! A snake bit me!!!”  My Dad thought she was joking .  But I knew, she was not joking.  She screamed again and we ran to her.  The rest is kind of a blur.  But I vividly remember us in the car on the way to the hospital. I remember seeing her ankle and seeing two fang marks with blood coming out.  I was crying my eyes out.  Another familiar feeling entered my heart and my body.  Sheer panic.  Terror and fear.  I remember saying, “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Are  you going to die?”  She said no.  We just have to get to the hospital.  I don’t remember much after that than seeing my Mom in the hospital bed and being so scared.  I still thought she was going to die.  It was if I didn’t believe her when she said that  she was not going to die.  She finally came home from the hospital on crutches and her leg was swollen and green.  It was horrible.  But she was home and she was alive!

Then fast forward several years.  My Mom, having the fair skin she has, has always had moles and freckles on her body.  Well, unfortunately, some of those were not normal moles and freckles.  She had a bout with skin cancer- nothing severe and they were able to catch it before any serious treatment had to take place.  But never the less, I remember her having one taken off of her head.  For whatever reason, the fact that she had a cancerous mole on her head, I was convinced that she was going to get brain cancer.  Once again, there was that feeling again.  That feeling in my heart and in my gut.  I was panicking and I asked her, now being 12 years old or so, “Mom are you going to die?”  This time I remember her saying, “well someday.”  Well that didn’t really help even though I was old enough to understand at that point.   But I was ok knowing that she was not going to die yet. 

The point of these stories is that I had this indescribable fear of something happening to my Mom.   It was something that I worried about a lot growing up.  Again, I was shy and I kept a lot of this to myself.  At the time, I did not realize what it was- just that it was a feeling inside that I did not like at all.   I don’t remember my friends being so scared about their parents dying as I was.  But I was.  I finally grew out of that as an adult.   But I did not grow out of that feeling in my heart and in my gut that would later in life come back to haunt me.

Now let me share another couple of stories with you so that I can really paint the picture.  This takes a slightly different twist.  Back when I was ten or so, my little brother and I used to try to peek to see what our Christmas presents were ahead of Christmas.  I had no patience.    Anyway, one year, we got caught.  Or should I say, I got caught.  To teach us a lesson not to cheat or always follow the rules, my Mom decided to give that particular gift away to a neighbor girl.  I was devastated.   What? She is giving my Christmas gift away to another girl?  My heart ached.   I was so upset and so jealous.  I was convinced that my Mom must have liked this neighbor girl better than me.  Why else would she give my gift away to her?  I was convinced that she wished that this girl was her daughter rather than me.  Absolutely convinced.    

Then, one summer, I lived away from home so that I could train at Bela Karolyi’s gym in Houston, Texas.  I lived with several other girls all from different parts of the country with the same passion for gymnastics.  One of the girls that shared a room with me was named Michelle.  Believe it or not, I even remember her last name.  She was a few years older than me.  I was 12 and she was 15 I think.  Anyway, I remember her having a great personality and having blondish reddish hair.  I really liked her.  Well, one weekend, my Mom came to visit me and she took a bunch of us to the mall and to dinner.  Michelle was one of the girls who went with us.  I remember my Mom spending more time talking to her than me.  Then I remember my Mom going on and on about her and how great she was.  I remember thinking about how Michelle had blue eyes and sort of looking more like my Mom than I did.  Even though I was 12 years old, I remember thinking, I wonder if my Mom wished she was her daughter instead of me.  Yes, that stupid thought crossed my mind.  Not only did it cross my mind, I was convinced of it.  I was so sure it was because Michelle looked more like my Mom than I did. 

So here comes the hold on tight and don’t let me go part. 

The reason I am bringing up these stories from my childhood is that those were my first experiences with the feelings of fears of abandonment.  Yep, I said, it fears of abandonment.  I did not know that at the time.  But I grew to one day understand.   In a weird way, it was sort of relieving to know that what I was experiencing as a little girl was an intense fear of abandonment.  I simply could not bear the thought of my Mom leaving me or not wanting me.  I am sure a lot of little girls go through some shape or form of attachment to their biological mothers and feeling scared of something happening to them but it is magnified for adoptees.  

You may find yourself asking (as I once did), but wait, you were adopted as a newborn, how can you experience fears of abandonment or have attachment issues? One may think that I did not have time to even realize I was abandoned.  This is a common misnomer in adoption.  I have since learned that children adopted as older children as well as newborns and infants experience the same fears of abandonment.  One famous author even refers to it as the “primal wound.”  For newborns it is in their subconscious but it is very real.  And what confuses us all through our childhood is our parents constantly not wanting us to think we were abandoned and that in fact, we were loved so much.  Which, yes, we were and I now believe that.  However, I also know that the sheer fact that our mothers made that decision demonstrates that they did not want to keep us.  Hey no one put a gun to their heads, well at least not that we know of. 

So that stays with us as children and even as adults when we enter into romantic relationships.  Many of us struggle or have struggled in that part of our lives at one point or another.  I know I have and sometimes still have my moments, my turtleshell moments.  .   In fact, for the longest time, I did not face this fact about me.  When I first learned what those feelings were and how they translated later as an adult, I was pretty upset about it.  First I had to accept that that is part of who I am.  I cannot change that.  Then I had to learn to recognize when “it” was getting in my driver’s seat.  It is something that most of us will have to work on or deal with our whole lives.  For us adoptees, as much as we want to believe we can’t be left, there is this little part deep down inside that questions it just a little bit.  We want someone to hold on to us tight and not ever let go.  Who doesn’t right?  But for us, the saying, “hold on to me and do not ever let me go” takes on a whole other meaning. 

But even with that little bit of doubt in all of us adoptees, one day we meet the right person and then that questioning begins to subside.  We meet that person that makes us want to be the best partner we can be for him or her.  We meet that person that recognizes that we are not perfect but are in fact special.  We meet that person that loves and accepts all parts of us unconditionally.  That person who recognizes and appreciates all of the good that comes from us being adopted and that not only were we gifts to our parents and families but they see us as a gift too.   I know that is how my husband feels about me. 

I am looking forward to writing more about how the fear of abandonment began to take a life of it’s own in my life.  It even caused me to make some poor and maybe even impulsive decisions in the past.  That will be a whole other blog or two but for now…I am getting sleepy and my dogs won’t stop licking me.  But first (I know I said this in my earlier blogs), I am happy to say that although, I have struggled in past relationships, those struggles and experiences have led me to my Russ.  I still have my turtle shell moments but I have learned to recognize those moments and kick that turtle out of the driver’s seat and let the butterfly that I know I can be take flight. 

I Hope You Dance

Relinquishment Letter

My Mom and me....I love her so much!

I am so inspired for this next blog.  Today I asked someone who is bilingual at my work to translate a very important document.  Initially, I was not going to bring this into my blog process just yet.  However, I guess it was meant to be.  For the past year or so, I have had this piece of paper that my Mom sent to me.  I remember her calling me one day saying, “Alicia, guess what I found?”  I said, “What?”  She said “the relinquishment letter.”  I was speechless but then full of words.  I will get to why in a later blog.  Let’s just say, it is a long story.  But the fact that she “found” this document is very significant.  You see, when I went back to Colombia in 2005, I began the search process.  But I was unsuccessful.  That is a whole other blog.  But for now, I feel compelled to focus today’s blog on this document.  I have posted a picture of it and the translation is as follows: 

I, Beatriz Eugenia Martinez, 19 years old, without identification, citizen of Bogota, give my daughter, born January 16, 1975, to La Casa de La Madre y El Nino (House of the Mother and the Child).  This is voluntary and I do it with the objective that the child be placed for adoption under the rules of La Casa de La Madre y El Nino, legal entity, granted by the Ministry of Justice by Resolution No. 107 of 1942 and the Civil Code laws regarding adoption.  I do this physical and moral abandonment of my daughter in light of the fact that I am not in condition to take care of her properly.  I leave explicit evidence that the child completely lacks the means for her sustenance.  With the above evidence, I sign this document in Bogota on January 16, 1975.   

                                                                     Beatriz Eugenia Martinez 

Some of you may have eyes teared up just from reading that.  I don’t blame you if you do.  When I first read this, I had this indescribable feeling in my heart and in my gut.  The person who translated it left a post it note on it that said, “I hope this doesn’t make you sad.”  If anything, the fact that she felt that way from translating it was moving for me, more than the letter itself.   I had to go to her immediately and put her mind at ease.  I told her, “No, don’t worry.  That does not make me sad.”  In fact, it makes me happy!!  

Wow.  You may be thinking how could that make you happy?  Well it does.  I will explain why~  Hope.  Love.  Faith.  That is what I feel in my heart and in my gut that my birth mother, Beatriz, was feeling when she signed that document over 35 years ago.  Call me Pollyana.  Maybe that is the furthest from the truth.  I don’t know.  But what does it hurt to feel that way?  

What good would it do me to harp on the fact that the circumstances could have been different and she did not care in the least.  What good would it do for me to think that she just wanted to get rid of me and be glad that her pregnancy was over.  Perhaps she got “knocked up” out of bad circumstances.  Perhaps she was raped.  Perhaps she was a young housekeeper or maid for a well established machismo Colombian that took advantage of her.  Perhaps she was very poor and worked at a rose or coffee plantation on the outskirts of Bogota and forgot to use protection when sleeping over at her boyfriend’s place.  Perhaps she was a drug mule. That is what happened in the movie Maria Full of Grace.  The possibilities are endless.  For the longest time, knowing I was a preemie and covered with prenatal hair, my young insecure mind actually thought that she took one look at my tiny hairy body and freaked out.  But what good does it do me to think that way now?  I am not being naive.  I am not being unrealistic.  I am not in denial.  Perhaps all of those circumstances are true.  Perhaps the story they told my parents about Beatriz being a aspiring concert pianist and my birthfather being a student in architecture or engineering school is true.  Perhaps she is poor and unable to read and write.  Who knows!  I cannot harp on what could have been or I will drive myself crazy.  Instead, I choose to believe the following. 

There was a plan for me before I was even conceived.  I’m not an overly religious person.  In fact, I do not go to church.   But I do believe.  I believe in God and I believe he has had a role in every phase of my life.  I believe the fact that I am living and breathing and as blessed as I feel that I am is living proof that he exists.  This was not all just chance.  There is a reason my birthmother chose to “relinquish” me.  It was the best thing that could have happened.  Just imagine what my life would have been like had she not made that decision nor signed that piece of paper.  It gives me the chills just thinking about it.  Especially after my trips to Colombia and specifically Bogota.  

So I want to break down the letter a little bit and express what I feel when I read it.  

First, she was 19 years old.  When I was 19, I was in college.  I was a collegiate gymnast at a NCAA Division I school.  I had loving friends and family.   Wow.  When she was 19 she gave birth to a human life.  So if she was 19 then, then that means she is 54 now!  What could she be doing now?  Could she have started a family sometime after I was born?  Could I have biological siblings out there somewhere?  I wonder what she looks like.   I wonder if she thinks of me.  Or am I a fleeting thought?  

I think  one of the excerpts of this letter that gets to me the most is, “my daughter.”  That is a weird thought to me.  Since when am I someone else’s daughter other than Annette Thier’s?  Never!  But I was someone else’s daughter before I was Annette’s daughter.  For a moment or forever, I was/am someone else’s daughter.  Wow.  “My daughter.”  “My daughter.”  That is just unbelievable to me.  

The other part that really touches me is, “physical and moral abandonment of my daughter.”  I am sure she had to sign off on that.  I am sure she did not want to think she was abandoning me.  What mother would abandon her daughter, right?  I was abandoned.  Yes.  I hate to think that.  But I was.  But then, there was a reason as she indicated that she was “not in condition to take care of her properly.”   She had the sense to recognize that she could not take care of me, whether it was financial or emotional.  She knew.  She wanted better for me.  In our country alone, look at the number of pregnancies that end up in single motherhood, divorce, poverty, welfare, abuse.  She wanted more for me than that.  

Then thousands of miles away was my Mom, Annette.  She is my Mom and always will be no matter what.  There she was.  Unable to conceive but so badly wanted a daughter to call her own.  This is where the fate part comes in.  The God part.  Just at the right time my Mom was connected to me.  But what is ironic is the connection that both of my mothers have, that many may not think about.  You see.  When I read that relinquishment letter, all I can see is hope.  Hope for me.  Hope for Diana Zea aka Alicia Anne.  Beatriz wanted me to live life to the fullest.  She wanted that for me or she would not have signed it.  Meanwhile when I was put into my adoptive mother’s arms only 10 days after Beatriz let me go and put me in the hands of La Casa.  My Mom, Annette, had that same Hope for me.  You see I was placed in just the right place, in just the right arms.  My parents got a daughter that was a dreamer and a fighter (just like them).  That hope that my birthmother had for me stayed with me and translated into a dreamer of a daughter.  Then my parents in the US, gave me the love and resources to make my dreams come true.  They raised me to GO FOR IT!  Which I will also get to in a later blog.  My two mothers were ever so connected.  They both had/have hope for me….their daughter.  

So flashback ten years ago.  Again, another blog entry.  I had a life changing epiphany.  You know, one of those.  Ten years ago, I was 25, and I started changing my attitude about being adopted as it had been a tad bit on the negative side for years…most of my childhod.  So one day, I was flipping through the channels one night and I happened to flip to a special on 20/20 about a girl who was adopted from Guatemala.  I was intrigued.  Difference was, previously, I would have flipped past it on purpose.  That was because I wanted nothing to do with being adopted and being from Colombia.   But something changed within me and I was drawn to this episode.  

So I watched it.  It was eye opening and painful.  It was a story about a baby in a small village in Guatemala.  She was asleep in her crib in this small dirt floored house.  Outside of her window some young boys were playing with firecrackers.  Unfortunately, one of the firecrackers went in the window and into the baby girl’s crib while she was sleeping.   She was badly burned and in fact almost died.  She required medical care that her mother could not provide for her.  She was so badly burned that she would require numerous surgeries over several years.  Her mother was very poor.  There was no way possible.  At the hospital, there was a missionary nurse from the United States who was working while the baby girl was being treated.  She was assigned to the baby and folllowed her progress.  It was not good.  She needed to go the US where she could get proper treatment.  Long story short, the mother decided to give her daughter up for adoption to the missionary nurse.  She knew that her daughter would require years of surgeries even into her teens.  She knew that it would be in her best interest to set her free.  So the missionary nurse decided to adopt the baby and go back to the US, Kentucky to be exact.  

I will NEVER forget what I saw next on this program.  They showed the birthmother handing her daughter over to the nurse at the airport.  That was her last goodbye.  She was crying so hard, hysterically even.  I completely LOST IT.  In fact, tears are filling up my eyes as I type this.  For the FIRST time in my entire life, I thought about what it must have been like for my birthmother.  That moment when she handed me over.  That moment when she signed that relinquishment letter.  What was she thinking?  What was she feeling?  There were probably tears.  But there was most likely HOPE.   That birthmother handing over her daughter for a better life and in order to get the medical care she needed and my birthmother signing the relinquishment letter and handing me over to La Casa were both acts of LOVE as far as I am concerned. 

The next day, I kid you not.  I heard a song on the radio as my clock radio alarm went off.  You know that song by Leann Womack, I Hope You Dance?  The first time I heard it, I got chills and I cried.  I cried tears of joy.  For both my birthmother and my adoptive mother who want nothing but the best for me and to GO FOR IT!  It was as if they were both singing that song to me.  I know it sounds corny but for me it means the world.  I have always said that song is my theme song (well at least other than shake it like a salt shaker…ha ha…trying to lighten things up here).  But seriously, that song means a lot to me as I heard it at a pivotal moment in my life.  

So I will end this blog entry with the words to that song.  Listen to it if you get a chance.  It’s my theme song!  It is the reason I titled this entry I Hope You Dance.  

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat
But always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small
When you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you’ll give faith a fighting chance 

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance 

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Living might mean taking chances
But they’re worth taking
Lovin’ might be a mistake
But it’s worth making
Don’t let some hell bent heart
Leave you bitter
When you come close to selling out
Reconsider
Give the heavens above
More than just a passing glance 

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance
I hope you dance

I hope you still feel small
When you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me you’ll give faith a fighting chance 

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
Dance
I hope you dance

Repeats several times

Made in Colombia

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

I came up with the title of this one based on the fact that I was made in Colombia.  It still blows my mind.  Really, me?  Made in Colombia?  Yes.  I was.  Probably around mid June of 1974.   That would have been the point of conception from two people I do not know.  It seems surreal at times.

 Anyway, as the second part of my blog, I figure I should start from the beginning and how my family started and how I became a Thier and how I came into a family with two older brothers.  My Dad is actually my Mom’s second husband and my brothers Jim and Jeff are from my Mom’s first marriage.  My parents were introduced at one of my Dad’s work parties in Chicago- where they were living at the time.   They got married in the backyard of their house in Park Forest, Illinois a couple of years before I came into the picture.  I loved looking at their wedding pictures because it sort of reminded me of the Brady Bunch episode where Carol and Mike got married in their backyard.  Jim and Jeff had the goofiest 70′s outfits ever.  I guess that is why I mentioned the Brady Bunch.  Their outfits.  ha ha!  If I had a copy of that picture I would post it.  Just so you could see how “stylish” my big brothers were.  hee hee.  After my Mom and Dad were married, my Dad got transferred with his company to Minneapolis, Minnesota.   

At that point, they wanted a daughter.  However, my Mom was not able to have kids anymore.  After she gave birth to my brother, Jeff (close to a 13 lb baby), she had to have a hysterectomy.   At first they explored domestic adoption (meaning from the US).  However, that was difficult especially given the fact that they already had two kids (12 & 13 years old).  Then they looked into Korea.  However, they were told they would most likely be placed with an older child from Korea since they already had 2 kids.    But they really wanted a baby girl.  When she talks about this process she refers to a lot of heartbreak and let down from hitting walls in the adoption process everywhere they turned.  Finally, they had heard about some people in their area that were adopting from Colombia.  Evidently, at that time it was easy to adopt babies from Colombia, even if you already had kids.  This gave them the hope they were looking for.  So my parents finally decided to pursue a Colombian baby.   I have seen the letter that my Mom and Dad sent to the orphanage prior to my adoption.  I saw the sweetest letters from my older brothers who told the orphanage what great big brothers they would be to their little sister.   It was super cool to read how much my brothers wanted me and loved me before I was even born. 

So one day my Mom got a phone call from Colombia.   It is funny to hear her describe it- my Mom trying to speak with a Spanish accent.   She told me about this long awaited phone call.  It was a static-filled phone connection from thousands of miles away in the Andes of South America.  No, it wasn’t in the jungle.  When my Mom would tell me the story when I was younger , I pictured the jungle and mountains.  But in fact, it was from the capitol city of Bogota.   Bogota is a city literally in the mountains of Colombia over 8,000 feet above sea level.  It was from my orphanage, La Casa de la Madre y el nino.  The lady on the other end announced that they had a baby girl for my parents and that they had to come right away to get me.   So they immediately booked their flight from Minneapolis to Bogota.  My brothers could not go so my Grandma was to take care of them while my parents were in Colombia.   You see at that time, Colombian law required that they stay for several weeks.  My Dad was there for a week and my Mom stayed for nearly a month. 

When they arrived at the orphanage on January 26, 1975, they were told to sit and wait in the waiting room for a moment (un momento).   Their hearts were racing!  They could not wait to meet their baby girl.  Then the lady came back in and asked them to follow her.  They followed her down this hallway covered in spanish ceramic tile.  My Mom remembers this vividly.  Then they sat them down in a room and they waited again.  They were so nervous.  Seconds seemed like minutes.  Minutes seemed like hours.   They could not get me to them fast enough.  Then I remember my Mom always describing this clearly~after a few minutes, my parents heard the clip clop of heels coming down the hallway.  She knew it was the lady coming back with me.  Clip clop…clip clop on the spanish tile, then around the corner, there I was.  I was wrapped in a blanket.  The lady handed me over to my Mom and my Mom tells me to this day it was LOVE.  She pulled back what seemed like quite a lot of blanket to get to me.  There I was, this little tiny face.  She says I was pretty hairy.  She fell in love with me with a love that only a mother could describe.  Only an adoptive mother.  She was overcome with emotion and love.    When she saw this little girl, this tiny little baby.  She describes how tiny I was.  Because you see, I was adopted when I was ten days old- practically fresh out of the oven.  As a side note, this is very interesting to me and I am very curious about this because this is the youngest age I have ever heard of being adopted internationally.  I have met so many adoptees from all over the world- fellow Colombian adoptees, Peruvian, Paraguayan, El Salvadoran, Honduran, Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Indian, just to name a few.  But not one of them was adopted at such a young age.  Anyway, I was only ten days old and I was two months premature.  That is why I was a little hairy.   Normally that hair would have fallen off in my birthmother’s womb, but I guess I couldn’t wait.  Now that I think of it, that explains a lot actually!  I have no patience!  I guess I wanted the world to meet me sooner rather than later! 

From here forward, my Mom is so much better at telling the story but I will do my best.  There are steps you have to take to complete the adoption process.  One of the steps included visiting a doctor at the embassy or something like that.  My Mom thinks that perhaps this doctor had connections, or vice versa La Casa did, because it turns out I was VERY sick.  However, I somehow passed the physical.   You see I was only 3 1/2 pounds.  I was two months premature.  Evidently, my lungs were not fully developed and I was badly in need of an incubator.  But the doctor sent my Mom on her way and I had a clean bill of health.  Yeah, right.   That first day and night was horrible.  My Mom said she just knew I was not well and something was wrong.  She was in a hotel and later that night, I seemed to be getting worse.  So she got the phone book and looked up doctors and just picked a number.  This part is fuzzy for me but apparently she miraculously picked a doctor who was an American who married a Colombian or vice versa, a Colombian doctor who married an American.  Nonetheless, she found a doctor who made a house call and was able to communicate to her in English  how sick I was and that I was basically on the verge of death.  I believe it because I have seen some pictures of me and my stomach was so bloated from malnutrition.  My younger brother used to tease me when that picture was around.  He would call me the Ethiopian baby since my stomach protruded so much and the rest of me was skin and bones.  Anyway, the doctor prescribed some antibiotics and got my Mom several humidifiers or vaporizers.  He told her that if I can make it through the night, I will be ok.  She put all of the humidifiers in the bathroom and basically turned it into a homemade incubator.  She held me all night in her arms and prayed.  In the midst of the prayers, she kept looking at me and saying, “you are not going to die! you are  not going to die!”  I think if I could talk I would have been repeating it back as it sounds like something I would say or do as those of you who know me know how determined I am.  I am sure I was somehow radiating it back, “I am not going to die! I am not going to die!”  Anyway, she prayed and prayed and held me all night.  Seriously, my Mom is so much better at telling this story.  Maybe I should have her write this part. ha ha!  Fast forward to February 14th, I had gained a pound and I was ready to go home to my family! 

Something important to mention is how I became Alicia Anne.  Supposedly, my Mom saw a picture on the wall at the orphanage of either a nun or someone who volunteered at my orphanage whose name was Alicia.  My Mom liked it because it could be English and Spanish.  Then my middle name is Anne after my great Auntie Anne from northern Michigan.  She was my Mom’s favorite aunt.  I have to mention this as now is as good of a time as any.  I find it interesting that one of the reasons my Mom named me Alicia is because it was a name that could be used in English as well.  Yet my given name at birth was Diana Zea (pronounced Dee Ahna Say-ah).   Hmmmmm….interesting.  It’s ok though because Alicia fits me!  I couldn’t imagine being anything other than Alicia Anne.  But I do find it interesting that I was born as a Diana.  One of those mysteries I guess.  My personal opinion is that I think my Mom just liked the name Alicia.  Although, she almost named me Kiamara.  Yikes!  Guess I should count my blessings.  ha ha.  They could have named me Valentina or Val since I arrived in America on Valentines Day!  Nope… I am Alicia. 

Anyway, as I write this part of my story, my history, how I came to be, lots of thoughts and unanswered questions pop in my head.  So many things do not make sense to me.  I try to connect the dots and they do not connect.  There is more to this story, I know it.  Things my Mom has no idea about.  I can just feel it.   Here is why. 

First, the orphanage told my parents that my birth parents were very young.  They were not ready or able to take care of me.  That makes sense.  Thankfully, they recognized that and made the decision to place me for adoption.  They told my Mom that my birth father was either in architecture or engineering school.  They told her that my birth mother was trying to become a concert pianist and that she remarkably beautiful.  They harped on how pretty she was.  Wow, sounds sort of glamorous doesn’t it.  Smart young man who is trying to get through school.  Pretty young woman wanting to become a professional musician.  If I heard that story as an adoptive parent, I would be pretty proud.   I don’t mean to sound cynical.  But I imagine if I was a boy, they would have told my parents how handsome my birthfather was.  My Mom even made me take piano lessons when I was younger since my birthmother played.   I was really good at math and science.  When I would bring home my report card and my math scores were really high, my Mom would tell me it was because of my birthfather.  Although I did like math, I hated piano!   But I did grow up thinking that about my birthparents.  I had pictures in my head.  For some reason, I pictured a woman wearing a black gown playing the piano in a concert hall on a stage.  I also pictured my birthfather with a white shirt and white pants with a hat on.  Not sure why.  But these were images in my head my whole life.  I grew up thinking that my birthmother played the piano and was beautiful.  I grew up thinking I had a real smart Dad.  Until one day that changed…..but I will get to more into that in a later blog. 

Could this story be true?  Perhaps.  Could it be a lie?  Possibly.  I may never know.  But after going to Colombia twice, after watching movies such as Maria Full of Grace, and after meeting countless adoptees who met their birth families, I am VERY skeptical.  I know the reality is that there is more likely another story.  I feel in my gut there is more to this story.  More to my birthparents.  More to my first several days of life.  But nevertheless, I am certain of this.  No doubts, ifs ands or buts.  My birthmother did love me.  More than I may ever know.  I do unequivocally believe that there was a point when she said, my daughter deserves more than what I can give her.  I love her enough to set her free.   I may never meet my birthmother.  However, I love her.  I love her for choosing life.  She could have taken the easy road and done otherwise.  But she chose life!  So in turn I will always live life to the fullest.

First Blog!

Cover Girl in local adoption magazine

Yep….that’s me!

So I just signed up on what Wiki claims is the number one blog site.  The reason for my blog is simple.  I have a dream of writing a book.  And for those of you who know me, I am a dreamer.  Always have been and always will be.  So I will make this happen one way or another!  It has been a slow go with getting it started.  I have jotted ideas here and there and have even come up with a title…well sort of.  I thought to myself hey…try blogging and that should help me get started. 

It was not my idea at first to write a book.  However, countless people have told me I should consider it.  But now my main reason is easy to explain.  I want to touch the lives of others.  Sounds cliche I know.  But it is true.  I do have a target audience.  However, I am hoping that I might be a good read to others anyway.    If only one person reads my book and I touched his or her life in some way, I will be happy.  However, if in my wildest dreams I become a bestseller..hee hee…I will vow to give back in some way to the orphanages in this world.  Mark my words!

The best way to explain the gist of my book is this: I was adopted as a newborn from Colombia by an American family.   It is now 35 years later and it amazes me.  The enormity of what that means.   What happened from the day I was born (or even before that) to now and everything in between and how being adopted affected it all.  My journey to LOVE.  True love, unconditional love.  It has been a long road.   Full of hills, valleys, meadows, mountains, storms, hurricanes and lots of sunshine.  I treasure every minute of it.  Even the storms because it has made me what I am today and led me to my family and my Russ.  Sounds corny.  I know.     

So I will start with letting you in on my title…or at least what I think will be the title: Turtleshell Moments and Butterfly Dreams: My Journey to Love.  What do you think?   To me this title is perfect.  When I think of turtleshell moments, I think of a baby sea turtle in it’s shell.  So curious and brave, yet so afraid.  She has her shell to go into and hide whenever she wants it.  It is part of her body afterall.  She feels safe there.  I feel safe there, in my turtle shell.  Then I think of butterfly dreams.  To me I think of a creature ready to fly with the wind, free and beautiful.  Full of life and out of her cocoon.  Flying through the sky with great big wings.  Nothing holding her back.  You see, at times, I felt like both of these creatures.  Like I was in some alternate universe where I can transform from one to the other.  This is a common trait in adoptees, feeling torn between two worlds….in so many ways.  Which I will get into.  Not only do I know this from knowing so many adoptees but I have read about this from experts in social work and psychology who have researched and studied adoption.  It only took me 30 years to find that out.   In my life, I have come full circle.   There was a time, most of my childhood in fact, when I hated (with a capital H) the fact that I was adopted and everything that came along with that (being Colombian, being tan and looking the way I do, not being biologically related to my adoptive parents).  I had to experience things, meet people and basically live life to finally come to terms with that to the point where I love that I am adopted and am proud of everything (well mostly) that comes along with that.   

To give you a foundation, I will define adoptee for the purposes of my book as: being adopted from another country to the United States and in many cases but not all being a different race than our caucasian adoptive parents.   

There was something very important I learned along the way.  Being an adoptee affects everything in your life.  Things you couldn’t even imagine.  But the hardest thing for me to learn and realize was how it affects relationships, specifically romantic relationships.  I will say it and for those of you who have been touched by adoption, be it you have a friend or a family member, you may already know this.  Adoptees are special.  I don’t mean that in a condescending, demeaning or otherwise negative way.  That is just the way it is.  I have often told my adoptee friends, we are our own demographic and our own culture.   It takes a truly special person to love us.  To truly love us…and all of our baggage.  And I don’t necessarily mean baggage in a negative way.  But I joke that on that day in 1975 when my parents checked in to their flight from the Bogota International airport headed to Minneapolis, Minnesota, they got a 3.5 lb baby girl and all or her baggage.   Here I sit, 35 years later, making a joke about my baggage.   Hey they got my baggage through customs in Miami!  Ha ha!  I can joke about that now.  I am ok with it.  That baggage that my parents willingly checked at their airport that day because they loved me unconditionally from the moment I was placed in their arms at my orphanage.   That baggage would remain with me for years to come…perhaps forever.  But I am ok with that.  Because I have learned what unconditional love is…from family….from friends and from my husband Russ.  Isn’t it ironic that I arrived in the United States on Valentine’s Day!      ok.  My eyes are getting droopy and my husband is waiting to spoon with me.  So I will continue soon.