What I Really Mean when I say "I'm Afraid to meet by Black Birth Family"

It’s been a few days and I am STILL stewing over The Red Table Talk with Angela Tucker, well known transracial adoptee, advocate, and speaker. I thought I had felt all the things there were to feel (I was TIRED y’all). But alas, I had not.

I’ve been replaying the video in my mind and reading and listening to the many reactions to Angela’s use of the word fear.

“I was a little bit afraid to meet them [my birth mother and birth family] because they’re a black family and I haven’t been around that… It’s not that I don’t identify as a black woman . . . But I don’t identify with black folks because I feel my own sense of fear or illegitimacy is how I feel even sitting at this table with you. Because I feel like you three are legitimate black people because you were raised by black people.”

Now, understandably, when we hear the word fear in relation to black people we pause. We think of the shrill fearful screams of white women being chased by men in blackface in the movie Birth of a Nation, we think about black boys gunned down in the streets by fearful white cops, we think of Botham Jean dead in his apartment because of the fear of a neighbor. Don’t misunderstand me. We have REASON to pause when someone discusses fear in relation to black bodies. But that’s NOT how I interpreted Angela’s use of the word fear. I didn’t hear her saying, “I’m afraid of black people.” I heard her saying, “I’m afraid of being perceived as illegitimate by black people.” Two very different things.

Now, I don’t want to speak for Angela. She beautifully shared her story, emphasizing the complexity and nuance of the transracial adoptee experience. And I think those of us who live this fragile both/and life could easily sense the yin and yang in her voice for what it truly was. Rather than tell you what I think Angela meant when she used the word fear, I’m going to tell you what I, Torie DiMartile, mean when I use the word fear when thinking about meeting my black birth family.

It wasn’t until today when I was on the phone with my mom that I finally picked up all those disparate feelings and emotions still brewing from the Red Table Talk and was able to line them up into coherent thoughts. My mom asked, point-blank, why I was hesitant to meet my black family. And guess what I said?

“I’m afraid.”

Is it because I’m afraid of black people? No. Is it because my parents taught me to hate black people? No. Is it because I’m in denial of my blackness? No.

I’m afraid to come face-to-face with the life I lost.

I’m afraid of the ache I will feel knowing this vibrant, black family existed at the same time I longed for more black and brown people in my life.

I’m afraid to mourn the life I was denied.

I’m afraid I may wish I was never adopted.

I’m afraid my immersion in whiteness will render me illegitimate to my black family.

I’m afraid I won’t fit into the one place in which I have longed to be accepted.

If I don’t meet my black family, then there is no chance of rejection. No chance of reliving my biggest racial wounds of illegitimacy. It is better to stay wondering if there is a place I truly belong than go to that imagined place and be turned away at the door.

As Angela said, it’s all about nuance - nuance you cannot possibly perceive or fully understand if you have not lived a life marked by both biological and racial estrangement.

Suffice it to say, finally verbalizing those fears over the phone in the car was a moment of utter wreckage for me. I felt gutted, sitting alone, crying over the phone to my mom who just sat and listened. The title of my space, Wreckage and Wonder, is meant to pay homage to that nuance, the brokenness and beauty of the adoption journey. While today was a day muddling through the wreckage, I’m really grateful for the wonder that followed:

After I hung up with my mom, I called my paternal birth grandmother who I have only met over the phone and seen in pictures she has sent me via snail mail. She is the only black woman I know by name that is biologically related to me, and one day, when we are both ready, I’ll get to see the smile lines I love hearing over the speaker:

“Oh baby, it’s been a while. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

There is always Wonder after the Wreckage you all. Pure wonder.