Living in Italy always brings out some strange emotions in me.
As an American who happens to speak Italian, I meet a lot of new people all the time. I often feel like a sort of exotic bird (not necessarily in a good way). Meeting new people has never really daunted me. I move around a lot, and have become adept at putting myself out there, shaking new hands, kissing new faces, and making new friends. The only problem is that, invariably, my new friends will want to know about my life.
I lie for as long as it is feasible. I answer questions about my family honestly. I talk about my brother, his children, my parents and my dog. I tell my Italian friends about American traditions, about the city in which I live, and about my family's heritage. I pretend, for as long as I can, that I am not adopted. In a family of dark skinned Italians, my blonde hair and transparent skin usually give me away. But I can chalk that up to the small portion of my family that is Irish. I am 21 years younger than my brother is. I usually just try and convince people that I was a late arrival. One of the biggest reasons I live and study in Italy has to do with the fact that my adoptive family is Italian. But saying that aloud makes me feel like a fraud. My friends, always fascinated by my american documentation, ask to see my passport, which lists my city of birth. Which is clear across the country from the state and city I was raised in my entire life. I can never think of a feasible explanation for why my parents seemingly moved from NYC to Dallas just to have a baby.
But I can only keep this up this charade for so long. After a little while, I begin to feel guilty. I feel like I am hiding something. And I suppose I am. Sooner or later, though, the truth comes out. And when it does, it's always a little depressing.
Adoption does not exist in Italy as it does in the United States. Which, given the influence of the Catholic church, is rather astonishing. But when I explain to my Italian friends that I was adopted, they assume my birthparents have died. Why else would anyone not keep their own child? When I explain that not only are they still alive, but I have ongoing contact with them...the room goes silent.
As the country that surrounds vatican city, abortion is hotly debated in Italy. But adoption simply is not. The phrase 'tenere un bambino' (keeping a baby) refers not to the debate between adoption and parenting, but abortion and parenting. Here, there simply is no healthy medium. Either you kill your baby or you raise it. During a debate with my friend Cinzia, in which we discussed our oppposing views on abortion, the topic of adoption came up. Cinzia is a vehemently pro-choice, athiest, communist. She supports her right not only to abort, but to abort within a timeframe that most people would find distasteful ( 5 months + ) She said to me:
'If I get pregnant, and dont have an abortion, I will have an unhappy motherhood. Thats the only choice. Why would I condemn myself to an unahppy motherhood? It should be the joy of my life.''
When I mentioned adoption as an alternative to parenting (and hated myself for it) she got quiet. She then stated, quite simply,:
''Well...to me that seems like a terrible thing to do. To have your baby and then give it away. What kind of woman does that?''
While I was tempted to ask her what kind of woman believes that casual late terms abortions are 100% morally correct , instead I answered ''What kind of mother gives away her child? Well..mine!''
In a country where my life circumstances are incomprehensible, I struggle to defend my birthfamilys choice. I tell my Italian companions about drug addiction, about lack of family support, about money issues and about the promise of a better life. Of course, they have all those things in Italy. The same social problems exist. And yet, somehow, they are not good enough reasons to not keep your own child. When I tell them that I have reunited with my birthfamily, and that we speak often, my friends are horrified.
''They do not deserve you,'' they say. '' What right do they have? YOU were their child. They gave you away. To have contact with them is to condone what they have done. They should have wanted you. How can you love the family that has abandoned you?''
And every time, I find that there are no easy answers. I find myself believing a little bit of what they say, subscribing to the belief that my biological family has done the unthinkable. And so I retreat within myself. If last time it took 3 weeks for me to tell my friends the (obvious) truth about my family..next time it will take 4. And the time after that, 5. Because although I can tell the story by heart, mimicking the words like a parrot, I cannot find any good reasons, any good excuses. Why have my parents given me away? I know the reasons. And yet when said aloud they seem shallow. And so... I am left without words, unable to explain what is incomprehensible to me.
