They Stole Me from the Indians:
An Adopted Life.
“They stole me from the Indians.” She said matter-of-factly with wide eyed innocence.
She didn’t realize how silly that truly sounded as the explanation for the often-asked question
“Where did you come from with your blue eyes and pretty blonde hair?”
Every adult she met seemed to notice that she didn’t belong to this family and found it necessary to ask the little unknowing child why she looked so different from her dark haired, olive-skinned Greek family. She had heard her favorite grown up, her Auntie Og, once explain it to someone with a quick
“Well, we stole her from the Indians don’t you know.”
And so, after hearing that, it became the answer the small impressionable child would give when anyone boldly asked where she came from.
This day as she stood in the foyer of her grandparent’s house smiling at the older gentleman who pointed out her differences, she began to noticed that everyone who came to her Grampy to offer condolences would look down at her, the little blonde girl holding his hand, and offer their perception of how much she doesn’t belong in this family. None of those adults intended harm. The question was usually disguised as a compliment about how pretty her blonde hair was, but the little girl only heard that she wasn’t like the rest of her family. That she must have come from somewhere else.
Her eyes looked down at the tiles on the floor. She lost her thoughts in the swirling speckled grey and white linoleum lightly dotted with red and black. She traced the dots on the floor with the toe of her shiny black patent leather shoes and thought about her Grammy. If she had been there, she would have swept her up at that moment and whispered in her ear. They had this great secret between them that made the little girl so proud. If her Grammy were there, she would have told her how special and beautiful she was and that God had given them a precious gift. She would have told the little girl that she was a gift to help the family shine; like the pretty blonde hair that stood out so much to outsiders, but to her Grammy, it made her special. She had convinced the small child that her pale blonde hair was a blessing to the dark-haired family; that her blonde hair was to light the way for the whole family to shine. Her Grammy always made her feel special. Perfect and beautiful just the way she was. She felt real honest Love from her grandmother.
Everything was different at the little girls’ grandparent’s house on that chilly November afternoon. Most noticeable was that her beloved Grammy wasn’t there. Although it seemed that just about everyone else was. All her uncles and Aunts and family she didn’t see often, if ever at all. So many people filled the small modest house that it was overwhelming and a bit scary for the little girl who was just 4 years old. There were lots of guests who knew who she was, but not as many faces were recognizable to her. There were flowers, many flowers of all different arrangements, sizes, colors and smells. The smell was so strong it made the little girl nauseas. It was also very dark that afternoon and there was quietness in the conversations being held around her. An unfamiliar sad energy filled the usually happy home. The guests seemed uncomfortable and yet they were showing so much affection for each other with hugs and hand holding. It was awkward when the guests hugged the small girl, their tremendous smiling faces used to hide the heart broken reality of the day.
There was a lot of food, finger sandwiches and special cookies. The small dining room was filled with more food than the little girl had seen in once place before. The older aunts seemed very concerned with its presentation, bustling about the kitchen with such determination, focusing all their energy on making sure no one was hungry and that everything was perfect. She didn’t understand that staying busy and pre-occupied with the food was how these women eased the discomfort in their own hearts. In the kitchen, away from the odor of flowers that permeated the foyer, she could smell coffee brewing and it seemed to settle her nausea in some odd way. She wanted coffee and tried to get some by whining to her parents about feeling sick, she wanted whatever it was that smelled so good and eased her stomach ache; her sensitivity to scents apparent even at 4 years old. She was allowed ginger ale. Her Grampy put bright red candied cherries in the clear plastic cup to convince the young child that it was something special and with hopes of stopping her persistence for the coffee. But she didn’t like cherries and so she remained unhappy.
The day was honored not only with flowers and good food but each guest looked especially finished. Everyone had on their best Sunday outfits. Most of the men from the small girls’ mothers’ family didn’t usually go beyond jeans and sweatshirts; sometimes a nice shirt but certainly always sneakers. Not today, today all the men wore shirts and ties and looked like they were going to work at her father’s office; complete with shiny shoes like her own. Even her Grampy, who never ever dressed up and prided himself on being comfortable at all cost, was wearing a suit and tie. As she tugged on her uncomfortable white tights, the little girl was grateful that her mother insisted that she be dressed in her prettiest dress and wore her special shoes. At the time she hadn’t understood why but now seeing all the other nicely dressed guests she realized her mother knew why and that she was right. Already she hated when her mother was right.
It was almost a party…so much food and so many people all dressed in their best. But there were also wet tear-stained faces and eyes red from crying. The home was filled with quiet whispering instead of the usual noisy laughter and happiness that filled the house when these families were all together. Everything was different. It was a sad day and she knew that, but she didn’t really know what it meant that her Grammy had died or why the grown ups were having this party. Death had yet to have a meaning. She didn’t understand that she’d never feel the comfort of her Grammy’s hugs again. She didn’t know everyone needed to celebrate the special woman’s life or that the party was for the family to grieve together and share happy stories that would comfort each other. She was too young to realize that she had just lost forever the one person who really made her feel comfortable, as though she truly belonged in this large Greek family. Her life had changed with the death of her Grammy but she didn’t understand that yet.
She did understand that her mother was sad. Her father tried so hard to help her mother feel better; he made dinner and stayed home a few days to care for their little girl. But her mother was so sad, so very, very sad. Nothing mattered but her sadness. For days and days after that night of the weird party at her grandparent’s house, she watched as her mother lay in bed and cried. Her pillow soaked with tears, a sign of the anguish and heartache that had overcome her. She sobbed for what seemed like an eternity.
“I want my Mommy”
Would be all she could offer when her little daughter tried to get her attention or asked why she was crying.
“I want my Mommy” The little girl’s mother cried over and over.
The small child assumed Grammy would be back. In fact she felt and saw her grandmother standing there with her and tried to say “She’s right here Mummy” but somehow she already knew that was for her eyes only.
Instead, she offered a cheery “It’s okay Mummy, I’ll tell her, when she calls on me, I’ll tell her that you want her”
Of course, her Grammy would call, she’d call and tell the little girl to come over and see what new present was left on the garage windowsill for her, just like she did every week. And if Grammy knew how sad her own little girl was then she’d come and hug her and make her feel better. The little naive child thought it would all be okay once her Grammy called, she was unable to understand the idea of death and her budding mediumship gifts confused her so she was jovial in her 4 year old attempts to comfort her mother. It didn’t matter what comfort the child offered, her mother just cried harder. She had a deep anger inside her as she responded to the child’s efforts
“Grammy won’t be calling you Laura… she’s gone”.
That was all she could choke out before she started sobbing and crying again
It was best that the little girl leaves her mother alone.
That’s when this little four-year girl started to realize that being “dead” meant being gone forever. Her Grammy was supposed to be dead. She remembered that Grammy had been sick in the hospital and couldn’t come to see her win the Halloween costume contest. She was so disappointed when her Grammy didn’t get to see her awesome witch costume, complete with big nose, green face and teeth blackened out from the special gum she had bought her grand-daughter. Laura’s mother worked so hard on the costume and her own mother would have been so proud. Grammy was in the hospital is all she was told. She was too young to wonder why no one had brought her there. Mostly she had just assumed Grammy would come home when she was feeling better. Her intuition suggesting to her that her grandmother would never be gone but life was telling her otherwise.
One day after her mother had come out of the solitude of her bedroom, Laura overheard her on the phone talking to someone about how “awful it was seeing her mother like that” but it made no sense, Grammy looked so beautiful now when she visited her. Glowing and full of light.
She also heard her say something else about “saying good-bye”. Laura now started to wonder why no one brought her to visit her beloved Grammy to say Good bye? If they knew she wasn’t coming home then why didn’t she get to go and say “good-bye”? Did she do something wrong? The small child had no idea that her grandmother had asked for privacy and that she didn’t want the baby to see her so weak and wasting away from the cancer inside her. All she knew was that they kept her away and it quickly became another seed in the growing resentment Laura had towards her mother.
At 4 years old Laura tried to understand that her precious Grammy who loved her despite her fair skin, blonde hair and blue eyes wasn’t EVER coming back. How could this small girl grasp that? That small child had lost the person who never called her the adopted one, the one person who never let her feel like she didn’t belong; she was gone before the little girl really got to learn all she had to teach. It took years for that young child to feel again as good as her Grammy could make her feel. It took decades for her to realize just how right her Grammy was when she told her that God had made her special, and especially for their family to love. 40 more years to unfold her mediumship gift and truly understand. As Laura grew, she really missed the influence of her Grammy, not only on her own life, but on her mother’s life as well.
“I love you my little adopted daughter”.
That’s how her parents expressed their love. As suggested by the adoption agency. They never let the little girl forget she was their ‘adopted’ daughter. As long as she could remember Laura knew she was their “adopted” daughter. Her parents weren’t intending to make her feel an outcast, they were just doing what the state-run adoption agency had told them was the best. Laura didn’t quite understand what that meant, to be “adopted”, but she knew it somehow meant she wasn’t really theirs. She liked it when Auntie Og would say they stole her from the Indians, it was an answer to where she came from, so she would tell anyone who questioned it that her parents stole her from the Indians. It was somehow better than saying they “adopted” her. Adopted meant nothing, except that she wasn’t her parent’s ‘real’ daughter, she was their “adopted” daughter. It didn’t explain anything. It was just a word she didn’t like to hear. It was her first label.
As the months went by Laura became more and more insecure about who she was and where she belonged. One summer afternoon, shortly after her 5th birthday, she went to visit her Nana’s house. Her Nana lived only a few blocks away and the family would visit there often. The little girl’s paternal grandmother was the complete opposite of her Grammy. Nana liked to tell Laura what an ugly newborn baby she had been. In fact, she was the ugliest baby her Nana had EVER seen. In the politest way Nana threw insults at those around her. Not just Laura, but everyone in Nana’s circle felt her cold tongue attack at one point or another. Nana didn’t help the little insecure girl feel good about herself. She helped convince the small child that she was ugly; she didn’t see her as being that special light to help the family shine, but the ugliest baby she had ever seen. The child felt like an embarrassment to this woman she called Nana. Every time Laura saw her Nana, she got another polite dose of everything about her that could be improved. Grammy’s kind heart was missing from her world and there seemed to be no one else who had unconditional love to give her; who could just accept her the way she was, with no expectations of being more than just Laura.
That summer afternoon at Nana’s house her aunt and uncle and cousins were there. Her aunt was very pregnant, overdue in fact, but Laura didn’t know that, she only thought she was bigger and wasn’t concerned with why. She didn’t understand why the other women were touching her big belly and so interested in it. There was also someone there she hadn’t met before and of course this man had to question where she came from with her pretty blonde hair, so different from her parents. Without her Grammy to comfort her, those words cut deeper and deeper. It seemed only her grandmother could understand how inappropriate and toxic that question was. Now whenever it was asked it caused Laura to worry about exactly where it was that she DID come from. Those curious adults had no idea what was being seen between the lines of the innocent question, or what they were writing on the wall of that little girl’s sense of self.
But the little girl happily defended her position in the family with her automatic response that they stole her from the Indians. She imagined her Indian family and wondered how Auntie Og snuck into the camp and stole her. Was it dark out when she came into camp? Did she come a long way to get there? Why did Auntie Og want to take her from those Indians? Were they looking for their little girl, the Indian family she was stolen from? Maybe they didn’t steal her but instead maybe the Indians gave her to Auntie Og and if that was the case then why didn’t they want her? She liked the idea better that Auntie Og stole her from them, that no one gave her away.
At 5 years old she didn’t understand much, the least of which was that she looked no more Indian than she did Greek.
That day at her Nana’s house when she spoke to the stranger about where she came from, she noticed her parents look at each other and sensed that they were upset with her story. Laura’s world was about to change again.
On the way home from her Nana’s house Laura’s Mom and Dad said they wanted to talk about where she came from. She piped in with her Indian tale and her parents quickly took out a pin and popped the precious bubble the little girl had built around herself. They told her she in fact did NOT come from the Indians as she wanted to believe, but that they adopted her. They had told her this before about being adopted and were upset to have to explain again.
Laura wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Their little “adopted daughter”, what did that mean, to be “adopted”? What was wrong with her she wondered? Why was she adopted? Her parents took great care to try and protect the small child’s feelings as they explained. The adoption agency had given them the language to use, “she was special, she was wanted and they picked her because they wanted her”
They told her that some women have babies they don’t always want, but that they got her because they really wanted her. They chose to be her parents, she was special, they picked her, and they wanted her. Chosen, Special, Wanted, by them, that’s what they were saying. But there is another side to that coin. Someone didn’t want her.
Then they told her that the woman who gave birth to her loved her but couldn’t give her everything that she needed and that this woman wanted what was best for her and that’s why she had given her to new parents who could do more for her. But she had just heard them say that some mothers don’t want their babies, so which was it? Was she loved and given away or not wanted? What was really the difference?
Laura didn’t understand, not the way her parents wanted her to. They tried to do just what the adoption agency had told them was best but all the little girl really understood was that someone gave birth to her and then gave her away. They tried so hard to explain how much love they had for her but Laura didn’t get it. They tried to explain pregnancy by referring to her aunt but she didn’t understand. They talked of childbirth and the needs of a child but all Laura could understand is that being adopted separated her from the rest of them.
That day she learned a lot about motherhood, she learned that babies grew inside their mothers, and that mothers could then give away their babies if they didn’t want them. So, her being “adopted” came to mean that her mother who she grew in, had given her away? She had a birth mother and an adopted mother. That made a mess out of the little girl’s mind. She resented her parents for not being her parents; and at the same time, she loved them so much for being the ones that wanted her. Everything she understood about herself was just stories and the reality was overwhelming for the young 5-year-old.
Suddenly this young girl who had never noticed a pregnant woman was noticing them everywhere and learning more about how under that big belly was a growing baby. Being adopted was beginning to take on its form. She had baby cousins but never thought about where they came from until that day. She was beginning to understand why she was so different and didn’t feel like she belonged. She wasn’t born from her mother’s body.
As I grew, I resented being this adopted child that was either wanted or unwanted depending on whose perspective I looked at it from. Every time I fought with my mother, the way all children do, I would need to shout at her
“You’re not my real mother anyway”
“You can’t tell me what to do”.
Subconsciously I think I wanted to hurt her as much as it was hurting me to feel like I didn’t belong, why couldn’t she just let me keep thinking they stole me from the Indians? Why did they have to tell me so much and confuse me with birth mothers and wanting and not wanting…why did they constantly have to remind me that I was their loved “adopted” daughter? I just wanted to be their daughter.
I remember that summer day when they tried to make me understand where I came from; it was a turning point in my relationship with my mother. If my Grammy had still been alive maybe she could have helped my mom or me. But she was gone and I had to figure it out alone. What I saw of her Spirit confused me and I think she watched but stopped visiting when it started making me sad. I remember crying out to her during one visit and asking why she couldn’t come back. I felt her love and knew she would be with me always, but that was the last time I saw her with me until much later in life.
That summer of 1974 I got more and more insecure each day, and by the time July 4th came I couldn’t make it to the end of the big parade thru our neighborhood.
The aunts and uncles on my father’s side would gather at Nana’s house to watch all us cousins walk by in our cute little costumes. My mother had dressed me up as a Holly Hobby doll, complete with doll face make-up and braided wig. Early in the morning everyone had to line up behind the drug store and get ready. Some neighborhoods made floats that all the kids would ride on. There were old model cars and motorcycles fully dressed. The local politicians lined up and practiced their wave. Some kids rode their bikes all covered in red, white and blue tissue paper and garland to celebrate the holiday. I remember Uncle Sam on stilts and lots of crazy dog costumes. The fire engines and ambulances were last in line, right behind the group of costumed kids, which included me. Something changed inside me that summer and I began to feel scared and alone in this world. My sensitivities grew. The loud sirens made me nervous and for some reason it just rattled me to my core, I hated it. So, as we approached my Nana’s I started to cry and cry
“I want my Mommy” “I want my Mommy”
So as soon as we reached my Nana’s house, I ran up the driveway looking for the protection of my mothers’ arms and was additionally greeted with my family’s ridicule. They all asked.
“What’s the matter with Laura?”
Laughing and joking about my being afraid. No one showed any understanding or offered any comfort. The family thought it was funny that I was scared of the sirens. Year after year when it came time for the parade I would start and sure enough be in tears by the time I reached Nana’s house and so I would quit there and watch, with my hands over my ears, as the fire engines and ambulances went by. Every family occasion during the years to follow I heard stories of how I couldn’t finish the parade and was scared of the sirens. My family seemed to enjoy using my insecurities against me and reminding me that I was afraid.
I never did finish that parade until I walked it with my own daughter many years later.
That summer when I turned 5, I still had a deep yearning to feel like my mother’s child. I stopped telling the story about being stolen from the Indians. I was saddened by the loss of my fairy tale beginnings. I started feeling like I didn’t know who I was. I was sad without my Grammy and so confused about death and what it meant. I wondered why she stopped coming and shining on me and those memories of her visits grew hazy like dreams and I discounted it as a young childs mind. As I’ve grown my memories of Grammy have faded but the comfort and ease of being that I felt around her is a feeling I’m always searching for. As I developed my mediumistic gifts she was the first to find me. In fact it was her, a message from her through another medium, that pushed me into classes and unfolding to be the gifted evidential medium I am today.
Naturally the instinct of an insecure lost 5-year-old girl would be to find a bond with the next closest adult female. The logical choice here would be my mother. And for a short while after her mother passed, we may have bonded but with the “adoption” story being so openly discussed I began to feel an outcast. Too young to understand the love my parents had for me but old enough to feel like I was second best; if I was their own child, I’d be better.
For many reasons it wasn’t meant to be yet that I would bond with my mother. I was angry even then when she had done nothing to wrong me, and I was needy at the same time. Pulling at her for love and attention and calling her out for not being able to do the right thing and not being my ‘real’ mother. I needed a female adult to accept me and love me without wanting me to fit a mold that says to the world that I am perfect, without reminding everyone around us that I came from somewhere else and didn’t really belong.
I already had a bond with my Auntie Og and after Grammy died, we started spending more and more time together. She began picking me up on Friday afternoons and bringing me along with her to her volunteer job at the hospital. She worked her regular job in Central Supply there but she ran the gift shop several nights a week as a volunteer. Friday nights was the night she would bring me. What a treat. I felt so special. I got to wear a pink smock with a pin that had my name on it just like the other volunteers. We stocked the shelves and kept the shop clean and tidy. Eventually she taught me to use the register and count change. We practiced curling ribbons and wrapping packages. It was my first experience with customer service and the customers all thought it was so cute to have this little girl waiting on them and wrapping their gifts. I got to meet everyone in the lobby and deliver flowers to the patients’ rooms when they were ordered. The girls at the switchboard even taught me how to answer the phones and transfer calls with the red and black plugs. I thought it was great fun to answer the phones and say “Beverly Hospital, how may I direct your call?” These Friday nights at the hospital with my Aunt Olga were magic for me. I was Olga’s niece. Not her adopted niece, just her niece. Sometimes they even thought I was her granddaughter and I liked that. We would take our dinner break and go to the coffee shop where all the ladies were so very nice to me. My grandmother was a volunteer and they knew who I was but I didn’t realize that until I got older. Dinner at the coffee shop was the best, grilled cheese sandwiches with as many pickles as I could eat. Sometimes if it was slow enough, they ladies would let me come behind the counter and make my own sandwich or grill my own burger. I felt special and I really needed to feel special at that point in my life. Auntie Og would take me thru the employee entrances and secret elevators to different departments and introduce me to all her friends throughout the hospital. And not one of them would ask the dreaded question. They all just accepted me as her family. On the warmer days we’d go visit the gardens outside, there was a fish pond and my aunt would bring me there and let me touch the water with my sneaker and see if the fish would come up to say hi. And the ladies in central supply would see us thru the window and knock and wave. I loved going to the hospital with Auntie Og. Soon I began going with her during the week to pick up a paycheck or just drop off dolls my mother had made. I was always welcomed. Auntie Og’s friends were excited to see me and it made me feel special. No one asked where I came from, I was Olga’s and that’s all that mattered.
Before long we began spending the whole weekend together. I’d go home with her after our Friday night at the gift shop and sleep over her apartment down town. Then on Saturday morning we would head out to her sister’s house for the rest of the weekend. My Aunt Ida and Uncle Charlie’s was a 30-minute drive away and those drives with my Auntie Og thru the woods to Haverhill were always so much fun. We’d stop along the way to pick wild grape leaves she somehow was able to spot as we drove by, or we’d stop and get ice cream cones and let her dog MiMi lick up the mess when the heat melted them too quickly. We laughed and sang songs about bears climbing over mountains and had a great time. Never once talking about my being adopted or not belonging. It was a great relief for me to spend time with someone who didn’t constantly want to remind me that I wasn’t really a part of this family.
Auntie Og was already in her 60’s at this point in our lives and she had never married or had children of her own, which left her with so much love to give and left me the lucky recipient. We’d arrive at Aunt Ida’s house and be welcomed with hugs and smiles and a true sense of happiness that we were there. I never felt so much acceptance as I did when I visited this family.
Uncle Charlie and Aunt Ida had 3 children of their own who were all at least 10 years older than me so they truly enjoyed having a small child around. These older ladies loved to teach me things about cooking and manners and they constantly shared stories about the things they did to entertain themselves when they were small.
Their parents had come over from Greece to start a new life, they bought a house and started a small grocery type store which kept them very busy. In addition to raising 5 kids and running the store, their mother, my great grandmother, cared for an older man who was dying and needed nursing care. She wasn’t a nurse and she barely spoke English, but the gentleman they bought their home from was sick and dying and part of the deal when purchasing the house was that this man would get cared for until he passed in what was his own home.
My Aunt’s Olga and Ida had one other sister, my Aunt Katherine, who moved away down south before I really got to know her, and 2 brothers as well. My Grandfather, Mike, and the oldest who took the boat ride over from Greece with his parents, my Uncle Alec. Uncle Alec was a hoot and I loved when he was around because he was always laughing and joking and forcing a good time no matter what. He had a girlfriend named Rita who had bright red hair and was kind of tiny but had a laughter and aura around her that completely complimented my Uncle Alec’s way of insisting life be fun.
But of these 5 siblings, my great aunts and uncles, my Auntie Og was the one who kept me folded into the mix. She would bring me to Haverhill with her almost every weekend. I looked forward to those weekends so much. My cousin Stuart would be there at his parent’s house and even though he was a grown man and I was just a little girl he always took the time to play with me. He would get out the Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys and we would spend hours building cabins and toys. He had more patience than anyone I’ve ever known. Still does.
