Journey of a Gnarly-fingered Adopted Child

My fingers have always looked too long and skinny for my hands, and my knuckles too large. Growing up, children ridiculed them. “Piano fingers” my mom would lovingly offer, and this might have assuaged me—had my gnarly fingers some actual piano-playing talent.

As a pre-teen, my weight fluctuated wildly, and by age sixteen I’d been humbled by a visit to Weight Watchers. I found it oddly dismaying that most girls my age could binge on sweets and fatty foods without gaining weight. I, on the other hand, was relegated to a modest, low-fat diet. Even as a teen, three meals were completely out of question; I gained a pound just ogling that third meal.

I was tall with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes. My parents and extended family members were small people, with fair hair and light eyes. I towered over most of the adults in my family by age twelve—even my feet grew to be larger than some of my uncles’. My tender teenaged ego was deflating even before its God-given chance to fully form. 

City-folk swore the country water was causing my condition of gargantuism. I knew better. It was me; I just didn’t fit in. I never had. Then, one day, my cousin blurted it out during an argument. It was because I was adopted.

I’d always known I was adopted. Could this be the reason I didn’t look, act or feel like any of those tiny, fair-haired, light-eyed people? 

Mom assured me that I could not have been more “hers” than if she’d carried me in the womb herself. Nestled in her wallet was a newspaper clipping of “The Adopted Child’s Legacy”—I think it’s still there. Anytime I’d seek reassurance, she’d take it out and show me. And, let me tell you that sweet little newspaper clipping had been folded and unfolded and re-folded so many times that it bore a deep ridge down the middle. During my elementary school years, I blurted my adoption status to anyone who’d listen. Most people smiled politely; I secretly wondered whether they thought I was special now.