My adoption story

By Dionne Meenken

My name is Dionne Meenken. I was born in Taipei on June 16^th 1997 and adopted by a Dutch family when I was four months old. I grew up in The Netherlands with a little sister who is adopted from China.

Growing up my parents never kept it secret that I came from another family. Nevertheless, it was a topic that we didn’t speak all that much about. I think that was partly because I didn’t question where I came from, but even more importantly, people around me didn’t question where I came from. But as time passed not only I changed, the interests of the people around me changed. The toys you had as a kid and what time your parents let you go to bed didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly, other things were far more important. From the way you looked, dressed, talked, to where you came from, the color of your skin. It was all about fitting in, or in my case, about how much I didn’t fit in. All of a sudden, people whom I’d never met before felt obliged to yell dishes from the Chinese takeout menu at me, started approaching me in English and stubbornly kept doing so in spite of me telling them I grew up here, asked if I speak Korean/Chinese/Japanese because I’m from there, aren’t I? And it didn’t stop with them questioning my being Dutch. For some reason they also started questioning the role my adoptive parents had. “But who are your real parents?” they’d ask me. As if my adoptive parents hadn’t fulfilled that role to the best of their abilities for most of my life, very much unlike my biological parents whom I’d never even met back then. “Oh, you’re so lucky you were adopted!”  people would – will say to me. I wasn’t. I’m still not. Being adopted is not ‘being lucky’. Not being able to grow up with your biological family – no matter how welcoming your adoptive family might be – isn’t luck. Being one of the very few Asian people in a mostly white neighborhood and being treated differently because of it isn’t luck. If people constantly make me feel like I don’t belong in the place that’s supposedly my home, how can you call that luck?

I went back to Taiwan for the first time in 2009. For the past year or so we’d kept in touch with Cathwel to see if we could schedule a reunion with my mother, but to no avail. She seemingly went off the grid and they couldn’t get a hold of her. Up until a week or two before our flight to Taipei, that is. Oh. I remember being excited to go to Taiwan because this was my first time going back after being adopted, but nervous as well. Because what if it didn’t live up to my expectations? And I guess I was a little scared too. To be with this woman whom I’d never met before – or even seen a picture of, for that matter – but people still called my mother. What if she had suddenly changed her mind and wanted to keep me after all? And what if my parents would let her?

I think the best way to describe the whole experience is. . .strange? I mean, I was twelve, about to meet someone who was pretty much a stranger to me, and people called it one of the moments that was going to be ‘such an important part of my life’. Back then to me, the most important part of my day to day life was whether or not I would get ice cream after dinner and if my parents were going to get the candy I asked for before they went grocery shopping.

The first time I saw her she showed up late. Not a great first impression but hey, you’ve got to get to know someone a little first before you can make up your mind about them, right? She didn’t speak English and I spoke neither Chinese nor English, so we didn’t really get to talk a lot. One of the social workers had to translate everything she said to English, and in turn my parents had to translate everything to Dutch and the other way around. That’s how I came to know that I had three more half-siblings. A girl from 1998 and a boy from 1999 who both lived with their grandparents, and another girl from 2007 who was also adopted, but by a Swedish family. Where I secretly hoped to get one of those reunions like the ones you see on tv where long lost family members run up to each other for a hug and people cry and exclaim how filled with joy they are, all I got was a woman who didn’t seem like she cared about her kids all that much and gave off the impression she had other places to be. But maybe she was just having an off day. You never know what people have got on their minds. So we went to see her a second time. Let’s have dinner together, all right? Maybe it’ll feel more natural if we actually have something to do together. Except it didn’t. How could it when she – without an explanation or a simple warning beforehand – brought a baby that she was watching with her. Wasn’t this reunion supposed to be about us? About me? Third time’s a charm though, I suppose? It could’ve been, maybe. If she’d shown up.

And that’s how my first reunion with my biological mother went. I left Taiwan with more questions on my mind than I originally came with. And in the beginning that didn’t really bother me all that much. But then I became older, and the people around me were no longer the only ones questioning where I came from. I, too, started to question where I came from. Who I was. And this time the questions went beyond “Do we look alike?” and “What’s her favorite color?”

Why did she have so many children if she can’t take care of them? Why was I adopted but do two of my siblings still live in Taiwan? Was it something I did? Was it the way I looked? Why couldn’t I stay with someone else? Was it hard for her to give me up? Who is my father? Does he even know I exist? And even if he knew, would he even care? Do any of them even care?

I had so many questions, only a small amount of people I could ask, and even fewer answers. I mean, she certainly wasn’t going to give them to me. And I guess it wasn’t fair to base my impression of her off of the two times that I saw her. But I was young and didn’t know how to rationalize her disinterest, so instead of looking at other factors I figured I was the one to blame. I didn’t notice the puncture wounds she had on her arms from the cocaine that she was apparently addicted to, as I was later told. I walked around with that confusion – anger even, at times – for years. Because I was so young when she gave me up. How could I possibly have done something at that age for her to not want me? Because to twelve-year-old me, that’s what her putting me up for adoption meant. She didn’t want me. My own mother, my own flesh and blood didn’t want me. Why would anyone else?

So I went and tried my best to find ways to compensate for being different, not being enough, whatever it was that made my mother give me up. I never skipped any classes, rarely ever forgot to do my homework, tried to get good grades. I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, never stayed out after curfew. In class I taught myself to blend in, to not draw too much attention to myself, to keep my mouth shut when I didn’t agree with something. Anything for people to like me. To not have to experience that rejection again. Because I was terrified that the people I cared about were going to leave at one point or another. And so, every small set back, everything that didn’t go the way I wanted it to – the way I thought people around me expected it to – was a failure. Was something that made me a failure. And if only I’d reached out to people and talked about the way I felt, had someone who understood the thoughts that I had, made me feel like there wasn’t something wrong with me, maybe things would’ve turned out different. But back then I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I sure wasn’t going to tell my parents and it wasn’t like any of my friends were going to understand. Neither would my mentor at school or the psychologist that I went to see every two weeks. How could they? None of them were adopted.

The second time I went to Taiwan was in 2014, five years after I first went there. A rootsfinding trip organized by Cathwel for adoptees from all around the world. Finally, I was going to be with people who had the same background as me. Who might feel the same way I did. And as much as I didn’t want anyone to experience what I experienced, I was secretly glad to find out that some of them did. After years of feeling like I had to keep things to myself, I finally had people that I could share my feelings with. People who knew what I felt without me having to explain it to them over and over again, only for them to still misunderstand me. And that wasn’t the only thing. I also got answers to the majority of the questions I had. More than I ever dared to hope for. I learned that I have another half-brother, saw my mother again, met my grandparents, aunts, uncles. I was surrounded by people who understood me, people who looked like me. It was a relief, but at the same time it made me sad. Because I knew it wasn’t going to last forever, and I wanted nothing more than for it to never end.

Back in The Netherlands I struggled to readapt to my life here. I missed being in Taiwan. I missed the food, the people, the smells, the scenery. Because when I was there, for the first time in a long time, I had felt like I belonged. And all that was taken away again far too soon. But you don’t just tell your parents that, right? When they provide you with money, food, clothes, a roof above your head. So much more than your biological parents ever did for you. How could you possibly tell them you want to go back? But I did. I did want to go back. No matter how hard I tried, I just didn’t feel at home here, and I hated myself for it. Even felt guilty because of it. I had parents here who loved me, who would do anything for me. Why was I so unhappy? I had so much sadness inside me that I didn’t know how to deal with. It was scary, but most of all, it was so incredibly lonely.

I’ve gone back every year since the rootsfinding trip, and it always leaves me with the same feeling. Homesick. Each year just a little bit more than the previous. Going back so often and being able to see my family there has put a lot of things for me in perspective, though. I now know that my mother did want me. That she wanted to take care of me, to make sure I lived a happy life. But she knew she wasn’t capable of doing that, and so she saw no other option than to put my life in the hands of the family she thought was best fit to do what she couldn’t. My adoption has played a big role in my life. It has shaped the way I looked at not only myself, but also my relationship with my parents, my friends, my partner. For the longest time I tried to keep things to myself. Scared of rejection, to be misunderstood, to be too much. But that’s not a way to live your life. For me, it was a bad coping mechanism that only allowed the negative voices I had in my head to grow stronger because I didn’t have people to tell me differently. Talking is what helped me. Talking to my parents, my girlfriend, other adoptees, my therapist. About how I feel, what scares me, what I want with my life. And for them to listen. To ask questions, stay patient, never dismiss the way I feel and acknowledge my fears, frustrations, anger, regardless of them really understanding. It has taken me such a long time to accept that I, too, am allowed to take up space. To accept that it is okay to ask for help. That there are people who will take the time to listen, to understand. My adoption has played a big role in my life, but I will no longer let it define me.

I love my family dearly. To me, they’re not my ‘adoptive family’. They’re my mother. My father. My sister. It wasn’t our shared blood that gave them those titles but their love, compassion, patience, warmth. I still struggle with being adopted. There are times when I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve looked like had I still lived in Taiwan. It saddens me, and I don’t think that feeling will ever completely go away. But at least I know I’m not alone, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that. (Back)