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I Am Adopted, I Am Proud

My name's Alexis and I'm a senior in high-school. My name's Alexis and I can truly say that I am proud that I am adopted. My story, much like many others, involves tragedy, grief, and abandonment. But my story also involves happiness, self-worth, and revelation. I'm telling my story in hopes that it will resonate with those who are suffering; those who are lost in the dark. I'm telling my story in hopes that it may heal the broken-hearted; perhaps some closure. But most importantly I'm telling my story because I want the world to know that I made it.
I Am Free.

I suppose I've always known I was adopted. I don't know how my parents told me or, for that matter, how but they did and I was completely okay with that.
Momma had eyes; I had eyes. Hers, an uncertain shade of blue and green while mine, a confident shade of brown.
Almost carmel-like.
Momma had hair; I had hair. Wind tortured her hair, making it dry and frizzy while it weaved patterns into mine.
An untamed mane.
Momma had hands; I had hands. Hers, worn and slightly calloused while mine remained soft and fragile.
Almost like they had never been touched.
But nonetheless, we were made up of the same structure; feet, toes, hands, mouth. I saw no difference. At least, I saw no difference until the day I opened my eyes and saw the world for first time.

It was fifth grade. Fifth grade was the first time I got called the "N word". I didn't even know what it meant. Was it a compliment? How 'bout a nickname? That day, I went home and asked my parents what the word meant. As they explained it to me, for the first time, I felt alone.
Why me?
Who was I?
I was a mixture of black and Mexican; a half blood. Would God approve of me? What "category" did I belong to?
White? No.
Black? No.
Mexican? No.
Leftovers? Yes. I was stuck in a category of gray matter. I suddenly became overly aware of my appearance. I wanted light skin, light eyes, straight hair, and small lips. What made it worse was when I found out who my birthmother was.
For years, I had been fantasizing about what she would look like;
A tall and statuesque woman with broad shoulders and sturdy feet or, perhaps, a smaller woman with fragile limbs and whispy hair? I fantasized about what perfume she wore;
A feminine mixture of sweet pea and lilac or, perhaps, a darker mixture of black berry and musk?
Did she wear lipstick?
Actually, she was a drug addict. Cocaine was the child she nurtured and loved and men and money became her partners in crime. And my birthfather? An illegal immigrant. I grew to hate them.
They never built snowforts with me, they never went frog hunting with me, they never traced the stars with me.
I chased the moon while they chased addiction.
Was I not good enough for recovery?
Was I not substantial motivation? For a while I was bitter. I was sad. I was self-conscious.
For a while I was lost. But I soon realized that it was NOT my fault my parents were sick. It was NOT my fault addiction had a stronger grip than love, MY love, ever did; ever could. Today, I am proud of the fact that I am adopted. Where would I be if I wasn't?
Who would I be?
I'll admit, while I do still struggle with it from time to time, I am truly grateful.
I am grateful my birthparents parents gave me life and I am grateful my adoptive parents showed me how to live it.
I Am Living.
And that, my friends, is the greatest gift anyone could ever receive. I am 5'8", a unique mixture of two cultures, I have brown eyes, brown hair, and I am FINALLY proud of it. For anyone who is suffering, or feels like they are alone, I assure you, you're not. Be proud of where you came from. Be proud of where you are now. Love yourself.
You're worth it.
With love,
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replied May 7th, 2013
I was adopted as well. I too have grown to hate my birth parents. I was born out of drunken stupidity and the intercorse was legally molest. A twenty year old man with a sixteen year old woman. Sickening...
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