I'm not crazy!!

Which is exactly what you would expect a crazy person to say, right?

Though this really is the set-up that adoption lays the foundation for ... some having to defend their perspective for the rest of their life.

Or as the woman who bought me once said to the woman who bore my child, "You never know what you'll get when you adopt from a developing country." Because eventually the purchased person is expected to adapt to their situation, and if they don't it is affirmation of the person being a defective product.

I was bought by an Evangelical woman, by her Vietnam vet husband ... when we're being honest about the set-up; they couldn't have kids and I was the gift of last resort ... the consolation prize, if you will.

And so many people often ask why racist people (I'm not saying all Evangelicals are racist ... but ... well ... ) why would such blatantly racist people buy a brown child ... and for many years I tried to believe that they were genuinely good people, or wanted to be genuinely good people.

The values I was taught in the home were ... well, the values I was taught in Bible school, and through the media, we to be a good person, to be considerate of others, don't steal, don't lie and don't forget to say your prayers at night ... oh, and when you've done something "bad" apologize. Which requires acknowledging that a mistake was made, or a sin committed ... again, this is why we say The Lord's Prayer at night ... forgive me my trespasses as I forgive those who trespass against me.

Eventually I had to acknowledge the truth ... because when all roads lead to Rome, it's the only place to go, really ... like, what else is there ... they bought a brown child in order to maintain a right to plausible deniability ...

If the child succeeds, they are able to claim credit for that success; they were able to claim the crown of being true white saviors.

If the child failed, they were able to claim genetic defects, or the like, and discharge themselves of all responsibility.

"You never know what you'll get when you adopt from a developing county ..."

In contrast, the woman who bore my child was bought by white people, and was purchased because at the time of their birth they had blonde hair and blue eyes; though that is not my story to tell, so I digress. Save to contrast situation with my own.

Duck, Duck, Brown Duck ...

In retrospect, it is fascinating to see how the entire situation played out ... raising a non-white child in an all-white environment truly is a form of abuse. Cognitively the child perceives themselves as white, because one does not run around looking in a mirror all day, and if all you see are white people ... well ...

It wasn't until my late-teens that I was able to picture myself as I actually was in my mind's eye when I closed my eyes ... though it was near the age of 15 ... the local boys had all dyed their hair blonde, as it was the thing to do at the time. Naturally l joined in on the fun ... to my purchaser's horror ... though my hair didn't go blonde ... I got an orangish color ... I like it, though it prompted a larger question at the time, in my own mind ...

Could I ever be white? Was that the goal that I was aiming for? Did I need to be white in order to be accepted? Did I need to try to be white, in order to be accepted? And, was that the set-up ... for me to constantly be seeking the validation and acceptance of whiteness, in order to be accepted as human.

Thankfully for the people who bought me, I was surrounded by white people ... in the State of Minnesota, which ... y'all ... that state sucks ... sorry, but ... ok ... by the numbers, it's really racist ... but on the otherside ... there are not enough non-white people for diverse communities to be autonomous or able to stand-on their own; everyone has to tow the line of white supremacy in order to have a modicum of comfort ... you rock that boat, your off the ship without a raft.

"You look so Colombian."

The second time I visited Colombia, I spent a month in Cali; and stayed at an AirBnb, naturally.

One evening I went out for a beer with my host and while we were sitting on the raised stairway, across from the local tienda ... they looked over at me and said, "You look so Colombian."

And from that day, I had to ask myself ... what does it mean to look like a colonial nation-state?

Recently I watched as a brown Colombian passionately and condescendingly told me that I'm not Colombian; the discussion was tangential to a Dutchman expressing their frustration over having the speak English when ordering food at a restaurant in their own country, because the immigrant from Africa serving their table didn't speak Dutch, and only spoke English.

And ... for the intent of this conversation, I understand their frustration, and recognize their claim that, despite having all of the requisite paperwork ... this does not make the immigrant a Dutch-person. Sure we can get into the weeds about it all, and talk about colonialism, and the consequences, etc. And this person acknowledges much of that too ... but ...

The brown Colombian informed me that I was in fact Latino.

White, not Latino

"You're white, it's obvious," it was I was told by a fair-skinned Latino ... on the internet of all things.

I asked them to treat me like an idiot, which is often so easy for people to do ... explain to me how and why I am white; at the time I was using a selfie for my profile picture; and so the question felt valid.

"I don't have to explain, it's obvious, you're white."

And they aren't wrong; according to the government, I'm white ... but in this instance, over the internet ... what makes me white; while again, when one closes their eyes and listens to me speak English ... I absolutely sound, not just white, but wealthy and white.

"What's your mother's name ...", she shouted to me as I walked out of the restaurant ... she thought I was perhaps the child of a friend of hers who resided on a reservation in South Dakota.

Hate Me Now, Prizefighter

At day's end, I'm fair-game for everyone to hate ... and again, that really was the point of adopting me ... my failure to "succeed" at life is proof that I'm defective ... because if only I had believed in white Jesus and followed the path prescribed to me by the people who bought me.

So why didn't I?

I was put on stage at the age of 5 years old, and I performed in church musicals twice per year, Christmas and Easter, until the age of 12. In this way, I was formally taught to perform for the applause of white people; though what I learned was, even if you do everything correctly, even if you perform well, that does not guarantee acceptance as a unique human individual, with unique talents, or abilities, outside of performing for whiteness.

In fact, in almost guarantees the opposite ... once I stepped off-stage, I was expected to continue carrying on the performance ... smile for the people, don't rock the boat ... don't express needs, or desires, or concerns, that would disrupt the preferred palatial narrative of perfection. Keep the fanciful farse moving forward.

National Geographic ... December issue, 1988 ... the holographic issue.

There was an article covering an indigenous tribe in the Amazon ... there were pictures.

They looked like me ... it was the first time in my life, age 4 and half, that I saw people who looked like me ... they had round faces, black hair, and brown skin, that looked exactly like mine ... I don't know what happened, I don't know what the consequences of it all were ... I can only speculate, and make conjectures from the present ... but I feel like something clicked, or unclicked.

Soon after I was enrolled in Orono Primary School, and eventually Schumann Elementary; a good school, paid for by property taxes high enough to keep out all other people of color except for a few Asian adoptees, and one other non-white, non-Asian adoptee.

My first school essay ... because it was the type of school where those things were taught at the tender age of 6, was to write our three wishes. I can only imagine what the other students wrote ... I want a bike, or I want to go to Disneyland, or maybe even, I want a puppy. Or maybe, I want to be a lawyer, or a football star ... or I want to be a doctor ...

My three wishes ... I want to find my sister, I want to find my mother and I want peace ... wtf ... who says that at the age of six ?!?

When I showed the essay to the woman who bought me ... well ... it was a sentimental moment for about 2 seconds, and then the conversation was shelved for the next 30 years.

Hit by ton of bricks ...

Joan, the woman who bought me, continues to claim that she "always wanted [me] to find my biological family."

She'll likely even claim credit for helping me find them ... in my mid-thirties; she also claims credit for my ability to survive until my early 40's ... even though I was defective, it's to her credit, what she taught me, what she gave me ... that I've survived this long.

She is the white savior, and my rejection of her is tantamount to my rejection of God, and love and light and all that is good in the world ... I was once trying to have a civil conversation with her in their living room.

I was seated, on the ground, with my back to the couch ... facing the kitchen ... trying to have a civil conversation about my life experiences and how I might move forward with my life ... she walked over to me, stood over me, as again, I was seated ... calmly, attempting a civil conversation ... and in her most authoritarian voice said,

"In the name of Jesus Christ, I command the demons to leave you."

What. The. Fuck.

What justified this declaration was my flagrant use of, and addiction to, marijuana ... it made me crazy, she claimed; and still claims to this day.

Their first pastor at their church was a man named John Vawter, Dr. John Vawter; and he had written a book called, "Hit By a Ton of Bricks", about his story of their son's battle with cocaine and heroin ... because cannabis is also a schedule one drug ...so naturally, I was an addict to the same degree; and so naturally, attempting to converse with me, was the same futile exploration of frustration as trying to talk to a heroin, or cocaine addict.

Because again ... you never know what you'll get when you adopt from a developing country.

Are we having fun yet ?

I'm not ... I've been able to scrape by ... but I guess that's what the white education I received taught me ... I'm at the same conclusion as Frederick Douglas, regarding my own education ...

As I read and contemplated the subject, behold! that very discontentment which Master Hugh had predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment and sting my soul to unutterable anguish. As I writhed under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy. it opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. in moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever. It was heard in every sound and seen in every thing. It was ever present to torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I'm too white for Latinos, I haven't even talked about indigenous people ... sorry, I lost a lot of respect for them, but that's a different story ... and yes ... uff ... those are truly ugly stories, I'm sorry to say ... I still help those living on the street when I can ... but ... well, the Whites hate me because I see through their facade, at every turn; I was raised by the wealthiest of them.

I started learning molecular biology at the the age of twelve, and was introduced to the fundamentals of sociology, psychology and anthropology soon after ... I wasn't able to tow the line for long, eventually started questioning the entire narrative ... and well, as the ol' African saying goes, "A speaker of truth has no friends."

I was expected to lie to myself, and others ... I was expected to perform my identity, as the adopted Christian son of white people, who worshiped, praised and adored their God, and by proxy, them ... for saving me from the depths and treacheries of the Colombian orphanage, poetically named, Ayudame, translation being ... help me.

Joan also claims credit for helping me to connect with the child, they and the courts kept me from for nearly 20 years ... but again, that's another story ... the point was to push me to unalive myself ... the woman who bore my child, and the husband of the woman who bought me open said as much, that I should just unalive myself if it was so difficult ...

Because again, then I would have proven their claims that I was defective, it would have been the ultimate proof of their conviction that they were white saviors, they are the sane ones ... they are the good ones.

And me, in my criticism, my cynicism, my bitterness, anger and resentment ... me in my hatred of them ... I am the defective one ... I'm the crazy one ...