My adoptive parents are Caucasian. My mother short, petite, fair skinned with blond hair. My father is not a tall man, he was thin and had dark hair. I am physically different. Tall, with a larger, stouter frame and olive colored skin so it was no wonder I was often asked if I was adopted.
There was never a time when my adoption was revealed but a fact I knew for as long as I can recall. A book prominently sat on our coffee table titled, “Why Was I Adopted?” by Carole Livingston. At the age of three, my brother was adopted. He is of Native American and Philippine descent, so we looked more alike one another than that of our adoptive parents.
We lived in a modest home in the suburbs. My adopted father was a diesel mechanic who worked on heavy trucks. He had a high school degree and during my childhood often had more than one job to pay for the family’s household expenses. My adopted mother was a stay-at-home mom until my brother entered the third grade. She had a high school degree and went to work in the schools as a Special Education Aide wanting to be at home with her children when we had time off from school.
When my brother was brought into our home there had been tension between my parents. The marriage was struggling. In 1979, my mom, desperately wanting more children, did not hesitate to say yes when she received another call from the adoption agency. I was three and this was when my adopted father began abusing me.
