What Is It About You?

Besides November being National Adoption Awareness Month, it’s the month to consider the people and things for which we are most grateful. 

One of the most important persons in my life is my twin sister. Whenever I talk to her, I’m profoundly grateful that Catholic Charities had a firm mission to place twins in the same adoptive family. I can’t imagine how different my life would have been had this not been the plan made for us. 

Below I share an essay about being a twin and how it intersected with my adoption.

But first, let me profess how grateful I am to you dear readers! 

Since my memoir, Twice a Daughter, released six months ago, my life has been a whirlwind. In a good way. The book has received over 350 positive reviews and numerous book awards. I’ve been the guest at a dozen book clubs and I never tire of sharing my story. Thank you to all of you for offering feedback and sharing your heart-warming comments with me. 

Connecting with readers is the best part of the author journey for me.

Please have a safe and Happy Thanksgiving! 

Xo Julie

What Is It About You?

For most of my life, my adoption was tucked neatly behind a fascinating fact: I have a twin sister. 

My sister and I have always looked so much alike that relatives, neighbors, and classmates were often confused about which name went with which sister. When my adoptive parents picked up my three-week-old twin sister and me from St. Vincent’s Orphanage in Chicago, they were told we were fraternal twins. In 2011, DNA proved that we are not fraternal twins. We are identical. 

As we grew up, the people we encountered did not just marvel at our similar appearance, gestures, speech, and habits– they were mesmerized. Often, we were ordered to stand next to one another, so the onlooker could judge who was taller, heavier, or had more freckles. As irritating and as embarrassing as it was to have this happen on a regular basis, it was also a relief. I was grateful for my twindom. It served as the perfect smokescreen for something I was uncomfortable thinking about and discussing: my adoption. 

My sister and I knew at any early age that we were adopted as infants. Back in 1959 though, my adoptive parents didn’t dwell on Adoption Day, which is the day we joined our new family. Instead, my family celebrated our birthday, the day that we were born. And every so often, after the cake and presents had been stowed away, our folks would call my sister and me into the living room. They would express how much they cared about us, how dearly they had wanted us, and that they would support us if we ever wanted to look into our adoption. 

Beyond those “check-ins,” our adoption was rarely brought up. Occasionally, when my folks entertained at home, one of their friends would remark, “You girls have gotten so tall. Why, I remember when your folks brought you home from St. Vincent’s.” These “adoption conversations” brought on a heated flush to my cheeks. I didn’t like being different or having it recognized in such a public way. I wanted to fit in, to belong. When my parents’ friends reminded me that I came from another set of parents, invariably my face and neck would flush a flamingo pink. 

When I was old enough to have sleepovers, I remember snuggling into my sleeping bag in a darkened rec room and whispering secrets with my school friends. On one occasion, one of the girls summoned the courage to ask, “You guys are adopted, right?” Within seconds, embarrassment steamed up my sleeping bag. 

I abhorred this question, “You’re adopted, right?” It was an unbidden intrusion into my privacy. Mostly, I hated this query because it meant that my friends, and likely their parents too, had been gossiping about me and my family behind our backs. 

To my friend on that sleepover night, I offered a quiet, “Yeah.” And I suspected that another equally dreaded question would soon follow. 

“So, what happened to your real parents?” my friend quizzed.

After this incident I was prepared. Whenever the “adoption conversation” came up with my friends, I rattled off a well-rehearsed response. “Yeah, I’m adopted. I’ve always known about it. And I don’t know anything about where I came from. Mom and Dad are my real parents.” I spewed all this out and changed the subject. 

As I look back on those uncomfortable episodes now, I believe that the reason they have stuck with me is because of unrecognized shame. Even though it wasn’t my fault, I was embarrassed that I knew nothing about my background, my birth parents, or why I had been placed for adoption. It was a shortcoming. One that I had no control over and one that I couldn’t rectify because of stringent state closed adoption laws. When I compared myself with friends and family members, I always came up lacking in the personal history department. 

What’s more? After someone posed any variation of those uncomfortable adoption questions, I had the sense that they viewed me differently than before. When I wasn’t looking, I felt them studying me. I imagined what they were thinking: “What is it about you that’s different? Is it that you are adopted or that you are a twin?”

Until I wrote Twice a Daughter, my memoir about the search for my birth relatives, I also wondered, “What is it about me?” Is it my adoption that sets me apart or is it my twindom?  Unlike that shy, weary pre-teen in her sleeping bag, I have spent a lot of time reflecting upon “What it is about me?” It is only now, that I am a middle-aged woman in reunion with birth relatives, that I am open to discussing my adoption experience.

So, what is it about me? 

I have come to view my adoption and being a twin as inseparable. And it is the intersection of these two vital details which formed my identity and defines my existence. As a mature adult, I embrace both these truths. Frankly, it’s a relief to no longer allow my adoption to take a second seat to my twindom. 

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