The Gift of Sameness

The story began in a cold, green room. I was a tiny baby, just barely born, but there I was in a stark crib in a room where cribs just like mine lined the sterile, unfriendly walls. I was neither happy, nor unhappy; I was simply waiting. A couple, who would end up being my parents, walked through the door of the room, stopping to inspect each and every child as they passed. They hesitated at my crib. They couldn't say why, but something indescribable happened, a sense of fate. They just knew I was the one — I was the child they had waited for.

This story was a complete fabrication on my mother's part. The reality, I found out much later in life, was nothing at all like her description of the room filled with cribs. But the tale served her purpose. She got to tell me over and over again that she chose me. She chose me from all the other babies, communicating my uniqueness, how winsomely different I was from all the other crib dwellers. But, thank goodness, as far as she was concerned, that was the only thing different about me for the remainder of my growing-up years.

I gained a sense of being wanted and special through that story, but most of the time, I was just like everyone else. My mom was serious about children, and having infertility issues, she quickly looked into adoption. I became the oldest child in a home of five — the only adopted one. I was the only one who did not spring from French-Indian blood, the only one who did not share my parents' gene pool. But it didn't matter. I was given the gift of sameness.

The gift was in how I was treated. One year in high school, I mistakenly signed up for Physics. I thought it would be better than Chemistry, but I was wrong. (They are both equally awful, I now realize.) After three days of sitting in a class where every word was like a foreign language, I came home and told my mom that I needed to drop it. She would not let me quit. This may not have been completely logical or the best thing for my permanent record, but it was a rule: We never quit. We were not allowed to quit.

My parents thought it was important to see things through. If one were always allowed to quit, one would become a quitter. No one had any compassion for the poor, adopted child. I failed Physics, but had character. The expectations for the rest of my family were the same as they were for me.

When we had homework, it was ours. My mother often said, "I have already been to school. I don't need to do your homework." No one coddled the poor, adopted child.

My parents attended all kinds of childhood events without prejudice. When my siblings left home, they all took many trophies with them. They excelled in swimming and softball, football and basketball. I left with one award — a trophy for "Miss Congeniality" in the Miss Memphis Pageant. My parents sat through softball tournaments for my siblings and dance recitals for me, but sat through them just the same. One was not thought to be more or less important than the other. As Mom and Dad understood it, their job was to support and encourage whatever we wanted to do, using whatever gifts God had given us.

The fact that I was adopted was not an issue at all. It was never a secret, just a fact. I was never made to feel superior or inferior in any way to the others.

My mom's idea was that there were different ways God gave you children, and adoption was just one of those ways. It was no accident or second choice. His hand was in all things, and destiny required that I join the Riggins family. I believed these things with all my heart. And those beliefs gave me the ability to see my adoption as a glorious thing, a choice of purpose and desire, as normal as physical birth, which, of course, it really is.

Not everyone I know who was adopted was given this same gift. A high-school friend had a similar family situation. She was adopted; then, her parents went on to have other, biological children. But she was treated differently. I don't know whether it was out of fear or ignorance, but I think it was fear. When she was a teenager, she lived by a set of very strict rules, as if her parents feared the worst. To her mother, she was an unknown; the "natural" children could somehow be accounted for. The parents' blood ran through their veins, so surely they would be OK, have the same tendencies as the parents, be understood. Instead of declaring this girl to be her own person with her own personality and decisions to be made, her mom communicated that my friend was the product of a woman "of low morals" and, therefore, not to be trusted around boys. She was called names and reminded constantly that she was different. My mom called me a thing or two, as well, but the things she said never had anything to do with my unknown lineage!

Today, I stand beside my brothers and sisters having been manipulated the same, misunderstood the same, and clothed, loved and cared for the same. My parents sacrificed the same for us, yelled the same at us and presented the same moral standard to us. The standard they modeled included tolerance and playing fair, kindness and charity, restitution and truthfulness. We were not allowed to whine or feel the least bit sorry for ourselves. Where I was born and to whom was not important at all, because those things were completely out of my control. What was important was what I did with myself after that, which was in my control and, moreover, was my God-given responsibility, as my mother saw things.

And so I grew up wonderfully different in talent and personality, but totally the same in all the important ways. For an adopted child, that truly was a gift.

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Books, CDs, DVDs and More

The Whole Life Adoption Book
(Paperback) This professional resource equips the prospective and new adoptive parents with all the information they need to prepare for the adoption process.