“Ilana,” I began after listening to them carefully, “this agency supports
reunions. When an adoption has been through our agency, we go the extra
mile to facilitate it and make it the best experience possible. However, we
have a rule: the adoptee must be 18 before we can, or will, participate.”
Reunions were one of my favorite parts of the job. I had facilitated several,
mostly with adoptees in their late twenties to forties, and they generally
worked out well.

I understood and supported the reasoning behind the age requirement—
and still do, for the most part. But something was different this time. Ilana
had convinced me to bend the rules on her behalf. There was a lot of work
to do, and complicating matters, I was moving to North Carolina in
February. If this were going to happen, I would be the only one to make it
happen.

I knew I was heading for a battle with Grace Sisto, the very old-school head
of Children’s Aid and Adoption Society (CAAS). I was just one step down
from her in the hierarchy, but Grace loved wielding her authority.

Fortunately, I was the direct supervisor of the team involved
in this decision, and I’d always run things democratically. That paid off now.
My team listened because they knew I respected their input. We came to
an agreement, presented our plan to Grace—and we won.

Now came the harder part.

Lisa, Ilana’s birth mother, lived in New York State. She had gone to
college in New Mexico, where she met a young man from the South
Pacific. They dated for several months, and she became pregnant while he
returned home. She returned to New Jersey to have the baby and decided
to work with our agency to surrender her daughter.

Meanwhile, Beth and her husband had spent years trying to start a
family before deciding adoption was their best option. The process is long,
tedious, and often painful—but they faced an additional challenge. They
were Jewish.

There’s a perception that Jewish birth mothers are like unicorns—an
appealing concept, but do they really exist? To complicate things further,
Beth and her husband were religious Conservatives and observant. Though they
had grown up as red diaper babies—liberal in every way—they had chosen
to build a religiously observant home. They kept kosher, celebrated all the
holidays, and even built a sukkah in their backyard for Sukkot.

They worried that even the rare Jewish birth mother would be
uncomfortable with their level of observance. They knew their thoughtfully
chosen path might prevent them from having a family. But Lisa—modern,
Jewish, and perhaps influenced by the fact that her child would be
considered mixed race—agreed to place her baby with them. They weren’t sure of Lisa’s motivations, but they were thrilled to become the parents of
this remarkable baby girl.

There’s a myth that once an infertile couple adopts, they’ll then conceive
naturally. A classmate of mine had an older sister, and we were surprised to
learn she was adopted—but it made sense. They couldn’t have looked
more different. Still, this post-adoption pregnancy phenomenon may be
rarer than Jewish birth mothers.

Yet within seven years of adopting Ilana, Beth gave birth to two boys
and two girls.

We held several meetings with Ilana and Beth to prepare them. One
day, the entire family came in. Ilana’s siblings resembled her. They were all extremely well-
behaved children—but there were five of them, and I was overwhelmed. I had always known Beth was an amazing woman, but that day sealed it.

Lisa, however, was going to be a challenge. She had always been shy,
which came across as cold, and she had no interest in a reunion. She
seemed fearful, and to make matters worse, she was in New York while I
was in Metro New Jersey. In-person meetings weren’t possible; the phone
was our only option. I don’t know how I did it—probably through a
combination of support and concessions—but eventually, we set a date.
She canceled twice because of work.

Time was running out. I was leaving for Raleigh, NC, soon and wouldn’t be
coming back. I got permission to open the agency on a Sunday, and Lisa
agreed to come. She had a young son and needed childcare, but promised
she’d be there.

That Sunday, I woke up and looked out my third-story window—snow.
Heavy snow. NO. Lisa had to drive from New York State in that! I decided
that if she used the weather as an excuse, I would drive up to New York
and drag her down by the hair if I had to.

But she kept her word.

Lisa, Beth, Ilana, Michael (Illana’s father), and I met in a conference
room in an otherwise empty building. Lisa—small and pale, with dishwater
blonde hair—looked nothing like dark-haired, exotic Ilana, who must have
resembled her birth father. Lisa sat apart, arms crossed tightly across her
chest, radiating a clear message: Look, but don’t touch.

Adults are often disappointed because they have expectations about what
should happen. I counsel people about this all the time. So how could an
11-year-old resist that temptation when meeting her birth mother for the first
time?

But this remarkable little girl did just that.

She had a few questions—questions I no longer remember—but she
wasn’t upset about not meeting her little sibling. She had four of those at
home. She wanted to meet her birth mother, and while she only had one of
those, this wasn’t about replacing anyone. Her parents, her siblings, her life
—those were intact. She expected little, received little, and was perfectly
fine with that.

I felt real compassion for Lisa. I saw how much this cost her. Her
coldness wasn’t cruelty—it was protection. She was a very shy woman in a
profoundly difficult situation. And it was working out.

My heart went out to Beth. She had her own reasons for being there.
This woman, Lisa, had not only given her the gift of a daughter, but possibly
the catalyst for the rest of her family. Beth wanted so badly to walk over,
wrap Lisa in an enormous hug, and thank her. But she knew it wouldn’t be
welcomed. So she held back—and watched her daughter blossom.

A few months after I settled in Raleigh, I received a typed, two-page letter
from Ilana. I had always known she was special, but the letter was
beyond her years. She thanked me and said, in essence, that she could
now put this behind her and move forward with her life—which, ultimately,
was what Lisa wanted also.

It’s been more than 32 years since that day.

Beth and I connected on Facebook years ago. I love hearing about her
family. Those five well-behaved children are now successful professionals with their own families.  Beth and her husband now have a whole tribe of grandchildren, and I love hearing their stories.

I still think of that day—the spirited little girl and the reserved, shy woman
who brought her into the world. I know that if Lisa had tried to mother
Ilana, one or both of them would not have survived emotionally, certainly
not intact.

In The Ugly Duckling, a swan egg hatches in a duck’s nest. She doesn’t fit
in and goes searching for the flock where she belongs. Ilana was luckier.

She was born into the wrong nest but was quickly placed in the right one—
with a pack of talented, spirited siblings and a father who was perfect for
them all.

Most of all, Ilana found Beth—the woman God must have always
intended to be her mother.

• Stephen Jay Gould, Evolutionary Biologist

I was touched by the responses to this piece from those who expressed concern for Louie and his sister, Lourdes.  I have also been concerned that I was not clear enough about the message, which is that neglected children aren’t just something to be sad about and that it isn’t just about these children.  The story of these two is so compelling that it shadows the reality that, as long as gifted children, as Louie clearly was, are not supported and educated, we suffer as a society.   Louie had a gift that could have been used to solve many of our serious problems today.  However, Louie and his sister were raised by a homeless mother before they entered a system that could not begin to give him the education that he deserved and needed.  Louie lost his future, which should be enough to demand change, but until people fully understand that losing children like him costs us all our future, change is less likely.  As you read this story, please balance the tragedy that belongs to Louie and Lourdes with the tragedy of a society where children’s futures are based on the circumstances of their parents and not the needs of society and the world.  

“She’s the one over by the window masturbating under a blanket.”

I was nervous about my new job in a residential treatment center for disturbed children ages 6-12.  While interviewing for the therapist job, I was in the Holly Residential Treatment Center, where I saw kids running around making noise, much like any other place with 50 children of that age.  I had begun my first day a few miles away at the school.  I knocked on the door to ask the teacher for my first patient. 

“We are so proud of the progress she is making.”  The teacher’s eyes glistened, and she was sincere.  “It wasn’t long ago that she did it at the table and wouldn’t cover.”

This dramatic and fortuitous beginning to my next four years didn’t make me run. I took Lourdes off to a private room. She was hyper in a way some might find charming, but other than that, she was not all that different from many children her age. She demanded attention, and in an individual session, that was not a problem, as our time together was about her. 

It was her brother, Louie, who grabbed my heart.  No matter where Louie was, even in the middle of the room, he could manage the camouflage trick. But I could see the intensity, the pain, and the charm that was being fiercely protected.  

The children were unlikely to have the same father, but they could have been identical twins except for the gender. Mom was Puerto Rican, and Dads were thought to be African American. Mom was homeless and did what she could to live. They had light mocha skin, dark blonde hair, loose Afros, and green eyes. They were two of the most beautiful children I have seen. 

In a milieu of horrific stories, theirs stood out.  Mom had managed to keep them together, living in cars and abandoned buildings and feeding when they could.  It was unclear if she finally surrendered the children or if they were taken away.  No one thought it would be hard to place them for adoption, even at the ages of 5 and 4.  They began the tragic series of homes that led them to the Holly Center.

A family was found immediately. They wanted to adopt and weren’t interested in dealing with a baby.  One look at Lourdes, and they were sold.  The hitch was that they only wanted her.  When told the siblings would not be separated, they reluctantly took Louie.  They later admitted that they assumed that once Lourdes settled in, they could return Louie, and no one would take her from a happy home.  Two families repeated that pattern before the children were placed in a foster home with older boys.  It was thought that at least they would not be rejected because of Louie.  

It was there that Lourdes began her compulsive masturbation, and both developed severe UTIs. When they went to the bathroom, one or more of the older boys would molest them, which caused them to wait as long as possible.  

Then they came to the Holly Center when Lourdes turned 6, and they were eligible to go together. 

Once past their striking looks, the two couldn’t have been more different.  He seemed to will himself to disappear.  He was a chameleon who worked to be anything anyone wanted him to be.   

He didn’t use the toys for our play therapy sessions, but did develop two games of his own.  #1 Louie instructed me that I was a monster and that I was coming to hurt his mother.  Louie would play the hero who rescued her from me, the beast.  There was a lot of laughter, but it was clear that he was intensely serious.  He wouldn’t allow me to use the game in the therapeutic manner that I was taught, but he was trying to make himself something he thought he should be, but could only do there in that room.  

#2 This was the “Who Am I” Game. It varied a little, but he would demand I ask who he was; I would say he had green eyes, and he would say, “No, I have brown eyes.” This child had invented two means of therapy that hit directly at his two most significant issues. 

Lourdes was not that interesting, but could be a challenge.  She appeared to be an entitled and pampered child, although she never was.  DYFS (New Jersey Division of Youth and Family Services) insisted that they not be separated.  I argued that, in this case, they should.  Lourdes needed loving discipline, while Louie needed loving indulgence.  She required clear boundaries, and he needed someone to help him crawl out of his prison.  Some parents can do both, but not with these siblings in the same house.  

I don’t remember why I brought them into my office together, but I will never forget it.  I remember nothing about the session until Louie showed us his gift.   When I started the job, I was given a budget to buy toys for play therapy and help the kids relax with me.  I don’t know what I was thinking when I bought the doll stroller, it wasn’t really useful, and it was “to be assembled”.  Once I saw the number of pieces and the number of tools needed, “not included,” I set it aside.  Lourdes nagged me to play with it, but that wouldn’t happen.  

She did the same that day when suddenly Louis went into a frenzy, tearing open the box, parts went flying, me thinking of throwing it away, when he started putting it together with his bare hands, still in a frenzy.  The only way I could have stopped him would be by sitting on him, and I wouldn’t do that. He put it together without directions or tools, put his 40-pound sister in it, and pushed her around the office.  

His shoes also demonstrated Louie’s issues.  We had budgets to clothe the children and did well, but Louie had a pair of sneakers held to his feet by threads.   When I announced I was taking him to the store for new ones, he excitedly described to the laces what he wanted.  He must have seen them in a window, and there they were.  He was so excited.  

The next day, he went to school in the old raggedy shoes. His attachment to those shoes was very personal. They represented what he saw himself to be. We couldn’t just throw them away. I got a shovel and gathered several children and a couple of therapists. We dug a hole, and we had a funeral for the shoes. People read the Bible and said nice things. Louie could then put them to rest and move on, happily wearing his new shoes.

But then the placements started.  DYFS, with the best of intentions, started having adoption parties.  Children were brought to a reception with prospective adoptive parents. If you have ever been to a college mixer or a club and worried about being a wallflower, you can begin to understand what it was like for these children hoping for a home with a Mom and Dad.  The Holly staff argued that the tension was too much for these children, and DYFS insisted the children didn’t know the purpose of the parties.  Of course, they all did. They weren’t stupid.  We continued to argue against the parties. DYFS said there were a lot of matches, we reminded them that none had led to successful adoptions, but the practice continued.

Louie’s first was a single woman who had adopted a girl near Louie’s age from Nicaragua.  When Rosa was 5, the Sandinistas raided her village, killing everyone that she had known and loved.  The last thing she remembered before passing out was two soldiers arguing.  She had only been hit in the foot.  One insisted they shoot her in the head. The other argued not to waste the bullet, as she would bleed out eventually.  Adoptive Mom felt terrible for Louie and knew he would fit into her family.  But she could not comprehend that Louie was worse off than Rosa.  I tried to explain that the girl had had five years of a loving family, extended family, and neighbors. Yes, it was torn away in unspeakable acts of violence and cruelty none of us could fathom, but she had that foundation that Louie didn’t.  

We insisted that she never mention the word adoption during their weekend visits.  She agreed but knew so much more than we did.  So Louie had a new home until he didn’t.  “Mom” brought him back for the last time.  

I didn’t know why, and it’s probably good that I didn’t until later.  However, she still wanted him to visit once a month or so.  I wanted to reach down through the phone and pull her heart out, but I knew that would have been considered unprofessional.  When she explained in all her wisdom that this would be her being good to the boy, I replied, “ Look, what you have done is not the worst thing that has ever happened to him, and unfortunately, probably won’t be the worst that will.  However, you have done something terrible by repeatedly making promises and showing him that he isn’t good enough and that people can’t be trusted.  His visiting you will help you feel less guilty about what you have done, and perhaps it will make you a great person in your mind.  However, what you did was bad; it was hurtful, and if I allow him to go there again, every time you send him back, it will reinforce his feelings of not being good enough for anyone.  So no, you deal with your guilt in another way.”

I found out later that when Rosie wanted Louie to play dress up with her in Mom’s clothes, he went along. He would do anything to be liked.  From that, she decided that she couldn’t raise a ‘homosexual’, and he lost his new home. 

His teacher, Barbara, and I were excited about the next find.  They were childless, and she had a daughter from a previous marriage whom the father stole.  The couple had spent all their money and lost their house on investigators trying to locate that girl.    Another situation with a sister, but this one was different enough that we ignored it. This sister was a phantom.  The director pointed out that the Dad looked like an alcoholic, but we also ignored that.  Besides, there was nothing we could do but hope for the best, and this time, Louie moved in.  And it went well. Barbara got great reports from the new teacher.  It went great until it didn’t.  Dad did go on a bender that didn’t stop.  I couldn’t get much more information except that the last thing people knew about the then 13-year-old Louie was that he had a 3-month bus pass and was somewhere on a Greyhound.  It was a place to sleep, and he must have done what he had to do to get food and a new bus pass as long as he could. It was the mid-1980s, the AIDS epidemic was starting.

Lourdes did find a permanent home.  I was happy for her that this family knew that she needed to learn discipline. That was good until I learned she was sent to school wearing a sign that said, “I am a liar and I steal”.  Can people understand that discipline does not have to be punitive or cruel?

I know that we can’t all worry about all the Louies or Lordes of the world.  I have gone without thinking about these particular ones for years, even though I kept his picture.  It’s just too much for those of us who also need to lead lives and care for the children we have.  We have to compartmentalize.  I also know some people really don’t care at all. 

However, remember that boy who, in a frenzy, tore open a box, causing parts to fly, and put it all together without the required tools or reading instructions?  Maybe everyone can care about what the world lost when he took that ability, and instead of being educated or trained to use it to solve global warming, he spent his life on a Greyhound doing what he had to do to survive. 

 “I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain, than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweat shops.”

• Stephen Jay Gould, Evolutionary Biologist