Around the time the Chinese government announced their decision to end their international adoption program, I had just moved to a new city and had to find a local family doctor.
One afternoon, I walked into a new clinic. After checking in, the receptionist handed me a packet of forms to fill out and sign. I sat on one of those hard plastic chairs and glanced at a big notice board filled with local news and health promotion posters.
It was quiet, and there were barely any other patients in the waiting room except for an older couple and a younger woman who looked miserable with a sniffling cold. Every couple of minutes, a bell would ring, and patients would be called to different consultation rooms.
As I began to fill out the forms, I braced myself for the inevitable “What is your family’s medical history?” section. I’m adopted, so I’m always a bit apprehensive about how healthcare providers will handle the topic of my adoption.
Thankfully, my new general practitioner went over that section with me in a way that made me feel at ease. Their voice wasn’t judgmental, and I was able to speak freely.
However, factual answers on paper, especially a medical or legal form, don’t always capture the whole story. I can’t help but wonder, in another dimension, what would happen if I answered these questions from the lens of my adoption experience?
Here, I want to share my answers.
Please complete the following intake questionnaire to the best of your abilities. This is a tool we use as healthcare providers to gather information about our patients so we can establish a clear and comprehensive understanding of your medical history and past and current health status and address any concerns you might have during your appointment.
PATIENT DEMOGRAPHICS
NAME: Daphnée
My biological parents didn’t give me a name. Or maybe they did, I’ll never know for sure. What I know is that when I was left at the orphanage’s front door, there was no mention of a first or last name, only a (potentially wrong) date of birth.
Perhaps it would have been too dangerous for them to name me, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t love me. I try to paint a realistic picture inside my head, add up the facts, weigh the evidence, and search for answers. My biological parents most likely gave me a name but decided to keep it to themselves.
Adoption is all about speculation.
They say a name carries deep ties to one’s sense of self and place in the world. Is that why I feel so lost, like there’s a black hole inside me, and I can’t find my way out? Is it because one’s name marks the beginning of who one is and defines one’s very existence, and since I’m adopted, I have no point of reference?
The ladies at the orphanage who took care of me for nine months gave me a Chinese name, which my adopted parents kept as my legal middle name, a nod to my Chinese heritage. I was supposed to be called Chloé, but my parents named me Daphnée, because “Daphne” is a flower native to Asia, and my Chinese middle name has a character, “木”, which means “tree.”
Adoption is all about connection.
SEX: Female
My adoption is the result of China’s one-child policy, established in 1980, and formally ending in 2016. I am born female, and Chinese families prefer males.
I didn’t know much about the one-child policy until I was much older, a curious teenager, and started doing my own research.
I have a hard time believing the truth and recoil when I learn about forced abortions, difficult decisions, and a large number of murdered baby girls.
I wonder about the circumstances of my birth, whether I was abandoned by choice or by force. Can the two co-exist?
I picture my birth mother enveloping me in a blanket, running away from her home in the middle of the night to leave me at the door of the orphanage. Like a movie, she can see the light through the window — a beacon that gives her enough courage to make the hardest choice of her life.
On the other hand, maybe my biological parents wanted to keep me. Still, they were forced to give me up due to circumstances outside their control, like external pressure from relatives or even threats from the authorities.
That thought adds to the boundless sadness and makes me grieve for all parties involved because it would mean my biological parents were robbed of the opportunity to raise a child. I was robbed of the opportunity to know my family of origin. There is no need to forgive them if this were the case.
It’s not so much about the choice but the rationale behind it. If unconditional love and a leap of faith were involved, nothing else matters to me.
DATE OF BIRTH:
I’m a lucky girl, because I have two birthdays, and not everybody does. Every year, I make a point to celebrate both, albeit in different ways.
My first birthday is the day I was supposedly born, my “real” date. I usually celebrate that birthday with a slice of homemade chocolate cake and a glass of my mom’s famous lime punch. I spend time with my friends and marvel at the fact that I’m still alive.
My second birthday is my “adoption” birthday, or the day that my parents officially adopted me. That day, sometime in mid-October, I treat myself to a nice Asian meal, usually a mix of traditional Chinese dishes. I devour Shanghai noodles, dumplings filled with pork, and fried rice with eggs and tomatoes. I crack open a fortune cookie. I am lucky — to be loved, safe, and free.
One time, I asked my mom whether she thought I was born in mid-January. What if I were older or younger? My mom says that when I was abandoned at the front door of the orphanage, it was obvious I’d been born a couple of days or weeks earlier. She’s certain that my birth year is the right one.
But maybe my birthday isn’t in mid-January. Maybe it’s a bit earlier or a bit later. Does it matter?
That’s up to me.
Even though I’m satisfied with my birth year, I still wonder about the correct month and day. My mom thinks the people who abandoned me probably wrote down the correct birthday date.
“I don’t think they’d lie about something like that,” she says. But they could have lied, and that possibility alone is enough to make me question the love they have or had for me.
ADDRESS:
“Where are you from?” somebody asks me, usually within the first few minutes of meeting me. That “somebody” varies from strangers to cab drivers, classmates, and co-workers.
“Canada,” I say. I stick to the real answer but brace myself for the conversation that will inevitably follow.
“Oh, you look like you’re from China,” they say, more a statement than a question. I can feel their curiosity.
“I am. Well, I was born there.” I offer more information but refrain from diving into the whole story.
“So, you speak Mandarin?” they ask next.
“No,” I say, and sometimes they look disappointed.
“Are your parents from China?” Usually, they don’t shy away from following up with more personal questions.
“No, they’re 100% Canadian.” I’m aware this is getting confusing, and I know the topic of my adoption will inevitably crop up.
“I don’t get —”
“I was adopted,” I say matter-of-factly, usually with no emotion in my voice.
“Oh.” That’s when they get quiet.
“It’s okay to ask questions.” I offer reassurance, and then tell them my story.
LANGUAGES/EDUCATION:
“Whereabouts are you from in Canada?” is a question I get often, especially since I moved to the United Kingdom.
“I grew up in Northern Ontario but went to university in Vancouver, where I majored in English literature. I lived on the West Coast for eight years,” is my standard answer.
“But you have a French name,” they say, usually people who have gotten to know me a bit more, like coworkers.
“Yes, my parents are from Québec, and French is my first language,” I say. “Plenty of people speak French in Canada — not just in the province of Québec.”
“I can barely hear your accent,” they respond, and I’m unsure what to do with their comment.
MEDICAL HISTORY
PAST MEDICAL CONDITIONS AND INJURIES:
- A small hole in my heart
During the one-child policy period, healthy babies are reserved for Chinese families, so it becomes common practice to falsify documentation to facilitate international adoptions. In this case, a slight defect works in my favour, earning me a golden ticket to North America and buying me the possibility of a better future.
But that same small hole in my heart grows — and turns into a form of loneliness that becomes hard to ignore, especially as I reach my teenage years, where I’m the only Asian kid in my high school. I don’t feel different, but I feel pressured to fit the stereotypes. I wear braces and glasses and earn straight A’s. I’m good at math but hate the subject. I don’t necessarily feel alienated from my peers, but I also don’t feel like I fit in.
When I moved to Vancouver and met other Chinese people for the first time, the small hole became big. I can’t relate to their culture. I don’t identify as an immigrant, a person of colour, or a marginalized Other. It doesn’t feel right to check “Asian” when researchers ask about ethnicity in their scientific studies, but I can’t tick the “white” box either.
- Trauma
I’m 19 years old and find myself in the emergency room. I’m in crisis, highly suicidal, and all the psych nurse wants to talk about is my adoption because my mental health issues could stem from insecure attachment, a topic she deems significant.
I’m angry and sad and want to spit on the floor, but I’m too polite. I’m exasperated and too overwhelmed to process any type of information, so I dissociate, tune out, and pinch myself until I’m numb.
After I’m discharged from the psych ward, I dive into research-mode and start to learn more about complex trauma. I read articles about neglect and studies of babies dying when their emotional needs weren’t met. I met with some psychiatrists who told me that my adoption played a significant role in the development of my mental illness and others who believed the opposite. I think about the fact that the back of my head is flat because I had to spend so much time lying on my back in the orphanage.
When I find myself in a dark place, I think about the possibility of my birth mother being raped, about my birth being the result of a horrifying event. I can’t imagine being the result of someone else’s trauma, even though I had nothing to do with it.
“If I ever found out this was the truth,” I tell my therapist, “then I’d kill myself.”
FAMILY HISTORY:
I have always loved stories, and this is my favourite one.
It starts with a classic storyline. My adopted mom, whom I refer to as simply ‘mom,’ can’t get pregnant. So, she and my father decided to adopt a baby girl from China.
One morning, she receives a phone call. “We found you a little girl in China!” That same afternoon, she followed her gut feeling and took a pregnancy test. “I’m pregnant!”
When people ask her whether she is still going to adopt now that she’s pregnant with a boy, all she has to say is, “Of course, don’t be silly. That baby girl is already mine.”
CURRENT HEALTH CONCERNS:
- Anxiety
I worry about my health, my genes, and growing older. I toss and turn, and the what-ifs keep me awake at night. What if I have a hereditary disease? I wonder whether I should undergo some tests to rule out some things. Would knowing anything change everything?
I let my imagination run free and wonder about my family of origin. Do I have a twin sister somewhere? I wonder what it’s like to look at other humans and see yourself in them. Do I look more like my biological mother or biological father?
I’m aware that some Chinese adoptees have successfully found their family of origin, and I know about ancestry libraries, databases, and DNA testing. I want to sign up for 23andMe, but I know the harsh reality.
It would not be safe for my biological parents to look for me because even though it’s been more than 27 years, they could still get in trouble, maybe even get arrested or prosecuted under Chinese law for Child Abandonment. It is highly unlikely, but still a possibility.
The chances of a DNA match are slim — and I’m not sure I’m ready to be disappointed.
- Envy
I watch a documentary, “Somewhere Between,” and YouTube clips featuring reunification stories. I’m filled with envy because part of me will always be curious about finding my birth family.
One time, I ask my mom, “What would you do if you ever met my birth mother?” and she says, “The first thing I would tell her is, thank you for giving me such a wonderful daughter.”
- Grief
Recently, the Chinese government announced that they are officially ending their international adoption program. Their decision marks the end of an era, and I’m full of grief. I feel heartbroken for the families who have been waiting for years.
My mom says that maybe it’s a good thing that now Chinese babies will get to grow up in their own country of origin, but I know that some of these babies will be left and their needs unmet. It won’t always be the case; some of them will grow up surrounded by a loving family.
At the same time, it is also true that some of them won’t have that opportunity, especially the babies who come from families afflicted by poverty and are more likely to be abandoned. After all, during the one-child policy period, wealthier families could afford to pay the fines of having more children and didn’t have the dilemma of deciding whether to abandon their child or not.
Secrecy and politics are only a few of the other factors that might get in the way, and these babies will not grow up with the same amount of privilege, luck, or love that I hold in my hands every day.
I also realize that I will never get to adopt my baby girl from China, something that I’ve always wanted to do. There are many losses to grieve — and even more to come.
LIFESTYLE, SOCIAL AND OCCUPATIONAL HISTORY
DIET/NUTRITION:
As a little girl, my family celebrated Chinese New Year at the Golden Dragon, a buffet-style restaurant serving Westernized Chinese food, including dishes like spring rolls and seasoned rice mixed with vegetables. I gathered with other families with adopted children from China, dressed up in my traditional Chinese pyjamas, and scarfed down Westernized Chinese food until my belly was full.
Years later, I moved to Vancouver, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover a vibrant Asian food scene. I learn to eat with chopsticks for the first time. Hot pot, ramen, pho, sushi, Chinese barbecue —I try all the dishes and ask for more. I’m trying to fill my stomach but also satisfy a part of me that’s hungry for my roots.
ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION:
Asian girls should be good girls. Grateful, obedient, silent.
I’m the designated driver. I’m a “pleasure to have in class.” I’m praised for being “mature for my age.”
When I drink champagne for the first time, sometime in my early twenties, my cheeks get bright red, and I feel sick and sleepy. I can’t tolerate alcohol well, and apparently, it’s due to genetics.
So, the so-called “Asian flush” gives me a good excuse not to drink.
SLEEP PATTERNS:
I can’t sleep and observe the stars through my tilted window. I wonder whether my birth mother is still alive, staring at the same sky. I wonder whether she thinks of me, prays for me, or has forgotten about me. I wonder whether she’s dead. I want to believe that if she isn’t, she also spends her time wondering about me.
LIVING SITUATION:
A lot of people ask whether I will ever return to China. “I would like to visit someday,” I tell them, but the truth is that China isn’t home, and I’d prefer to travel around Europe instead. The orphanage no longer exists, and I don’t speak the language, so I’m unsure whether I’d even enjoy the trip. I don’t even know if I was born in Yueyang because back in those days, families travelled long distances to abandon their babies to reduce their chances of being caught.
SOCIAL SUPPORT:
I now have friends from Taiwan, Shanghai, and Beijing who have helped me learn about Chinese culture. It is a new universe for me, and I’m unsure whether I like it or fear it, perhaps a mix of both. It’s hard to admit, but part of me hates China. I can’t help but focus on the negative stereotypes. I wouldn’t say I like authoritarian parenting, Tiger mothers, and harsh education systems. I hate it when people speak Mandarin, but also crave to understand it.
HOBBIES:
Like many Asian kids, I learn to play an instrument when I’m young. I hate playing the piano, so I give up, then later wonder whether I should have kept playing. I vaguely remember learning about China’s history in school, and I even showed an interest in learning Mandarin at some point. I signed up for a beginner’s class at university, but all the tones sounded the same, so I dropped out. It’s not worth it to me.
IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WISH TO SHARE WITH US?
“Your birth parents loved you so much, they had to give you up.”
I grow up hearing this statement. Maybe it’s the truth or the farthest thing from it. Regardless, I choose to believe it.
Perhaps it’s only a matter of self-protection, of organizing my life narrative in a way that makes sense and minimizes the pain of that initial abandonment.
But even if I wasn’t wanted back then, it doesn’t change the fact that I now have a place in the world. I’m loved in a thousand splendid ways — right here, now.
Daphnée is an emerging writer from Canada who grew up in Northern Ontario. Originally born in China, she was adopted at the age of nine months. She has a BA in English literature and counselling psychology from the University of British Columbia.