In early 1950, a young woman, call her Mary, left her home in the far west of Ireland.  Her parent’s small farm could no longer support their ever growing family. Mary had a very limited education, having left school at age 12 to drive a trap, delivering farm produce.  In common with thousands of others, she decided upon emigration as the only real solution. 

A few weeks later, she arrived in England and quickly found a place as a maid at a large boarding school to the west of London.  Pay and conditions were woeful, so when the opportunity to work as a waitress on an American airbase arose, Mary moved immediately.

By November of 1951, she was pregnant, unmarried and about to be dismissed from her job as a result.  Her serviceman boyfriend had been posted home when the news broke, standard U.S. military procedure at the time.  Reeling from rejection, too ashamed to ask for help from home and friendless in a foreign country, she finally accepted “help” from her local G.P. who arranged admission to a local authority home for unmarried mothers.

Mary’s stay at the facility was dependant on her giving up her baby for adoption.  Initially, the relief offered by her safe haven outweighed fear of that consequence, but within 3 months, she wrote home, asking if she could return.  Her mother lost no time in travelling to England.  It was not that she lacked empathy, but made it clear that the stigma of unmarried motherhood in the Ireland of the day was far worse than in the U.K.  Mary could be forced into one of the infamous Magdalen laundries; removal of her child for adoption would be mandatory and she would be compelled to remain for several years, in order to work off her “debt”.

Mary decided to stay at the home in England, where she gave birth to her child, me, in the summer of 1952.  Within 6 days, I was taken by my new family, a childless, middle aged couple.  Too late, a distraught Mary rushed to the nursery, desperate to keep her child.  He had already gone, leaving only outstanding paperwork.  Numb with shock and distress, she signed away her baby.

Mary went on to build herself a life in England.  She eventually married and had a family, but didn’t return to Ireland for decades, although she exchanged infrequent letters with her mother and older sister.

My birth father was a second generation immigrant to the U.S. Mary thought he was of Greek descent.  I certainly had a “Mediterranean” look, at odds with my adoptive parents, who would never admit to my origins.  Once a court had rubber-stamped the adoption order, they lost little time in moving home, all but losing contact with friends and their own families.

I was never told of my adoption, but earliest memories were of not belonging.  Although my new parents were usually kind and often loving, according to their lights, there was always an unseen and unspoken barrier.  Possibly they were too old to adopt, there was never much appetite for fun and adventure, although I was always well cared for.  There were of course no grandparents or aunts, uncles and cousins.  However, I grew into a lively and curious toddler, who could be quite challenging to his staid parents.

My adoptive mother was often unable to cope, by the time I was 6, she was going through a difficult menopause.  On several occasions, in apparent sheer desperation, she staged phone calls to the police, in order to, “take her wicked child,” to prison, or would pack a suitcase with my belongings, to be sent with me to a children’s home.  I frequently had bruises to hide, but came to accept this as normal.  My adoptive father, by then approaching 60, left parenting to his wife, refusing to become involved or offer any form of guidance.  The effect on me was predictably adverse.  School work suffered, I found it difficult to form peer relationships and became introverted and shy, blaming myself for letting down my parents by not loving them enough 

By 1970, I was a reasonably intelligent, though virtually unqualified 18 year old, attracted by a demand for labour abroad. I privately decided that emigration and a new start could be an answer.  A passport was needed, so a trip to the records office for a birth certificate was the first step in the process.  Following a fruitless search, a kindly official gently suggested that adoption could be the reason.  Unfortunately, the law forbade further disclosure.  An inevitable confrontation at home revealed the truth.  Mother angrily admitted that I was an adoptee, but refused to give any further details.  Following several horrible scenes, he left home and remained estranged from his adoptive parents for the rest of their lives.

A later change to adoption law meant that I was able to retrieve some basic birth details.  I mulled over these for some years, due to marriage and work commitments.  Ultimately, I decided to attempt to trace my birth mother.  It was relatively easy to obtain documents in my adoptive name, slightly more difficult to get the original long birth certificate, which gave my birth mother’s home town in Ireland.  Months passed in searching, until I hit on the plan of contacting the local Irish Parish Priest.  He was incredibly sympathetic and invited me over, as he had important and highly confidential information for me.

I travelled out a few weeks later.  Once I had identified myself to his satisfaction, the priest revealed that, following a period of seismic social change in Ireland, my birth mother’s history was now largely accepted.  By coincidence, she herself had attempted to trace me and the family had enlisted his help

I was introduced to and accepted by members of my birth family.  A few months later, I was able to meet my birth mother.  She told me her story and asked for my forgiveness.  I was able to thank her and assure her that the only feeling I had was one of love.  These revelations enabled me to understand who I am, why I felt different and finally come to terms with myself. I even enrolled as a mature student and gained a degree, fulfilling at least some of my earlier potential.  

Both my birth mother and I were victims of forced adoption, so prevalent in those less enlightened times.  Mary deserves an apology, but sadly she passed a few years ago.  I would appreciate recognition of the unnecessary suffering we both endured.   

I am not anti-adoption per se, but I feel that honesty, transparency and strict vetting and matching processes are vital.  Looking back, I feel that earlier parts of my life suffered directly from the policies in place at the time.  I have no animosity towards my adoptive parents, but now realise that they were hopelessly unsuitable candidates and that the system which enabled them, was irretrievably flawed. 

In 2017, I applied successfully to the court for an unsealing of the original adoption order. The process took some years, but I was able to use the information to claim automatic Irish citizenship and a passport.  I would be happy to share details of this process along with any aspect of my story, in order to help anyone with similar concerns.

Photo by Lukas Rychvalsky on Unsplash