In Memory of My Grandmother

This is an archive of the original Bastard Quarterly newsletter, edited by Damsel Plum and Charles Filius. It was published in print and on the web between 1997 and 2002.

A Grandmother's Gift
by Natalie Proctor (nsprocto@magma.ca)

(This feature appeared in the Winter 1999 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)

Today is January 26th. It is now six years since my grandmother died.
We shared a special bond - not of blood, like my younger siblings,
but of being swept into the adoption system at a very young age.
It saddens me when I realize that I was only beginning to understand
that bond when she died.

We were both "born" into closed adoption, a system that is predicated
on keeping secrets. Although both of us knew we were adopted, we were
good about keeping its related secrets. I learned early on in school
that my adoptive status was not something my parents wanted me to share.

My grandmother also had her secrets. It was only after her death that I
learned how precious the secret that she shared with me was. I was unable
to make the trip for the funeral. My only request was that my mother
try to bring me back her wooden handkerchief box. During a
talk with Nannie, she had told me that it had come with her when she was adopted.

When my mother returned with the box, I discovered that I was the only
one in the family that Nannie had shared this secret with - not with her
only child, not with her husband of over fifty years. This revelation led me to
re-examine her other gifts to me: the ring her parents gave her when
she turned sixteen, the book of Longfellow she had won at school. In
retrospect, I think she wanted me, as the adopted granddaughter, to
have these things.

We never got past our first conversation about adoption. It was the
last time we talked alone. It bothers me that I didn't realize then
what an important time that was. I think we discussed search and
reunion. I'm reasonably sure Nannie told me her adoption was arranged
privately. I can't remember the exact details of our talk.

I don't know if her desire to give me family things came from
good or bad experiences in her past. I know that it did work,
because it was a long time before I realized that some people
are marginalized by both extended and close family because of
their adoptive status. I think that the equality of my position in
my family, the concept that my adoption didn't make me any less
a member, was a great gift from her. I think of it every time I look
at the wooden box, but especially today.

Natalie is an unreunited adoptee, an engineer, a student in pursuit
of a Classical Studies degree, and now an activist for adoptee rights.
She resides in Ottawa, Canada.

(This article appeared in the Winter 1999 issue of the Bastard Quarterly.)