By Charles A. Filius (inkybastard@earthlink.net)
Once my adoptive parents decided to meander down the adoption route in 1960, one of the first tasks at hand was filling out a questionnaire. A paper, I’m sure, that could have been entitled “What I Adopted This Summer.” Imagine all of your hopes and dreams summed up in a few simple questions. Here are a few choice selections for your enjoyment. Keep score and see if you qualify as a “PAP” (Prospective Armchair Parent)!
Q: Why do you wish to adopt a child?
A: “We wish to adopt a child because we love children and have wanted one for almost ten years. With all the love and devotion we have for one another we want to share it with a baby.”
Here’s an interesting note: I was born in January of 1961. I was adopted in August of that same year. The adoption was finalized in March, 1962 and my adoptive parents, who supposedly had all this love and devotion for one another, split up seven months later. As you can see, it was a very thorough home study.
Q: Are you thinking of a baby, a pre-school child, or an older child? Why?
A: “We would like to adopt a baby as young as possible. Seeing the baby grow and develop would give us the greatest satisfaction in life.”
Clearly, these two individuals were starving for serious entertainment.
Q: Do you want a boy or a girl?
A: Boy.
Q: Why?
A: We have always felt that we would like a boy first, that he should be the oldest of our children if we are fortunate enough to receive a girl.”
With a roundabout, vague, pointless answer like that, it’s amazing to me that they never went into politics. They could have said just as much if they had simply answered, “Because.”
Q: Is it important to you that the child …
(a) Resemble you physically?
A: “Not necessarily.”
(a) Have similar nationality strains?
A: “Yes.”
Q: What are your requirements in relation to health and mental capacity?
A: “Good health and average mental capacity.”
Is it me or does it sound like they are custom ordering from the Dell Corporation? While going through school my mother would always insist I could make better grades than the ones I managed to produce. She would tell me that my mother's side of the family was very smart! They were valedictorians after all! My response was simply, “What if my father was a complete idiot?” It seemed utterly plausible to me.
Q: Is there anything mental or physical in a child’s background you cannot accept?
A: “It depends on the nature of the case. There are some we could accept and some we could not.”
How is that for deliciously indistinguishable?
And my personal favorite:
Q: What kind of personality would you like your child to have?
A: “Pleasant.”
Did they get screwed or what?
Social Worker Smith was the first to interview my adoptive parents in the spring of 1960. Standing before her were two individuals seeking the greatest responsibility that can be bestowed on anyone, and Smith was only concerned about their appearances. This first interview, and those that followed, all start with the same format: they read like a fashion report. “I noted that they were both well dressed and in excellent taste." Smith, obviously a closet would-be writer for Glamour magazine, wrote, “Mrs. Filius is a rather pretty woman, rather on the tall side.” It’s my theory that Smith had just discovered the word ‘rather’ and felt compelled to use it twice in the same sentence. “She has brown hair and a rather fair skin.” Oh! There it is again! Doesn’t that just flow off the tongue? “…a rather fair skin?” A rather short note to myself: send Social Worker Smith a rather thick thesaurus. “She was wearing a rich brown linen dress today trimmed in pale orange which was most becoming to her.” Imagine what would have happened if Smith hadn’t liked the outfit?
“Mr. Filius is medium built, rather on the plump side. He has brown hair and is getting bald. He is not at all attractive, but he is neat looking,” Smith condescendingly reported. “He appears to be an intelligent man and he has a warm, friendly personality.” From this statement I assume Dad was wearing a graduation cap while dancing the mamba on the social worker’s desk.
I have to point out, just for the sheer sake of humor that my adoptive mother was such a suck-up. She told the self-righteous Smith, “I can see that a lot of time and thought has gone into building up your adoption program and I certainly think it is the right way to do it.” I’m surprised she didn’t offer the woman a foot massage or a kidney. I’m certainly not condemning her for it, as she obviously wanted to adopt a child. I just find the boot-licking attitude amusing in all situations. Whether trying to adopt a child or get a job, we are programmed to nod madly in agreement at any absurd notion tossed our way, in the same manner a starving dog would pounce on sponge in wild hopes of a gram of nourishment. “Can I lick the lint out of your dryer again tomorrow, sir? No, thank you, sir!”
After sufficient sucking up time with Dictator Smith, the final wheeling and dealing began. The report reads, “After discussing illnesses in the child’s background, Mrs. Filius said that she would like to have a healthy, normal child, one that could absorb a college education if it so desired, they are planning to send their youngster to college, however, would not force it if the child did not want to go.” (The only thing Smith loved more than the word ‘rather’ was a good old-fashioned run on sentence!) My main reason for bringing this up is that I find that statement so absurd. I don’t know who the word-Smith was interviewing but it surely was not my adoptive mother. There was no choice: I was going to college come hell or high water. I wish I had had this information available when I started college! Simply to watch Mom get flustered…she stammers so well.
Dear old Dad made a point to mention that he wanted “an active boy for a son” because he was a stereotypical outdoorsman. He went on to say he “hunts everything in West Virginia.” He forgot to mention that this also included other women and any beverage that included the word 'proof' branded somewhere on the label. Give my Dad a couple of strippers, a keg, a wall filled with dead critter heads and he would have been one happy camper. To have all these things on a baseball field would have been nothing short of absolute euphoria.
Dad did not fail to express his views on the age-old question of ethnicity: “Mr. Filius stated that his own background was that of German and French and he certainly did not feel that they would be able to accept a child with a background of Italian or Slavic nationality.” I guess it’s good to know where one stands in the eyes of an adulterous alcoholic. He also said that he felt the “coloring” of an Italian or Slavic child might be a bit darker than he and his wife and that just wouldn’t suit their needs. He wanted a white baby to better match them and their illusion of the perfect family unit. Social Worker Guseman, a new face on the scene, assured them that “the agency does take particular pains in matching a child to a family.” Boy, did they ever. I was bald. Dad was bald. That was a dead-on match all right. Guseman, unlike Smith, was a male and I’m sure my adoptive father felt more comfortable sharing his bigotry with him. Guseman had no problem with it. As a matter of fact, when Guseman interviewed the happy pre-parental units in their home, Dad whipped out the new hunting rifle he had received as a Christmas present and showed it to the social worker with pride. Guseman was impressed. Although not documented, I’m sure they capped the evening off by burping the National Anthem in unison.
Guseman asked the prospective parents to pose for an impromptu photograph for their files. My adoptive mother smiles at the camera warmly while my adoptive father looks distracted and uninterested. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even look at the camera...his brown eyes are obviously lodged into the far left corners of his sockets. He was grossly involved in a televised baseball game. My adoptive parents were looking to completely alter their lives by giving bureaucratic birth to a child and the male half of this duo didn’t think enough of the situation to turn off the television. Go figure.*
Of course the background check went off without a hitch and on March 27, 1961, my adoptive parents' application for adoption was officially approved. The last line in the letter they received reads, “Just as soon as we have a child who has the potentialities of becoming part of your family, and who will help you find the happiness you are seeking through adoption, we shall let you know.” The astonishing marriage so cautiously scrutinized by the social workers had scarcely 19 months left to survive.
*I absolutely hate all sports. I can’t fathom how anyone could have even the slightest interest in their outcome. Especially baseball, which has to be, with the exception of golf, the dullest sport ever conceived. Why would anyone willingly sit on uncomfortable seats, exposed to the elements, watching something that is called a “no hitter?” Imagine that! Getting excited over a game where NOTHING happens! If the game was replaced at the last minute with a paint drying competition, would anyone notice?
(This feature appeared in the Summer 2002 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)
Copyright 2003 Charles Filius
All Rights Reserved