Healing for a Birth Mother

 Journal entry 12-22-2021

This past week I responded to a post from a mother looking for her son. I don’t know what drew me to this particular post, because I see so many that I can’t respond to because of time restraints.

I sometimes feel like I am able to detect when there is a great need for healing and a story to be told but in truth, all stories need telling and I am here to help create the ending.

In 1986 a 14-year-old girl gets pregnant. She is trying to decide whether or not to keep the baby and makes a list of the pros and cons. The only pro for keeping the baby is for her emotional needs. Knowing she is unable to provide for the other needs and with the support of her own family, she decided what was best for the baby. She put the list in a box.

The pregnancy advances and the girl has seen advertisements for a fancy place in texas that will provide all the needs for her son. The Gladney Home or Edna Gladney. She enrolls and places the advertisement in the box.

Upon her arrival at the Gladney home, the young mother is encouraged to make up a new persona. “Give us a last name that you would like to have” they insist. “How about Hippopautomas?” she jokes. “Since I’m as big as a hippo.” From then on she is known as Susan Hipp. She doesn’t realize at this point that her baby will now never be able to locate her by name. Her 14-year-old identity gets put in a box.

“We had lavish parties, were given many gifts, and treated to shopping sprees if we weren’t sure we wanted to continue with the adoption.” “The girls who couldn’t decide were persuaded with elaborate gifts.” “We were given gift bags with lip gloss and makeup.” I think to myself, the lip gloss is just super glue, as soon as these girls use these gifts their lips are sealed.

I start to do some research and find message boards where mothers are struggling with locating their children. The reunion service offered by Edna Gladney is noted by the women, to have a very rude and condescending lady answering the calls. I read these posts and imagine the girls traveling back to a time when they were vulnerable without loved ones and having to relive being spoken down to and shamed for the choice that their underage selves made all those years ago. Our Miss Hipp calls the number and has the same experience herself. “He is fine and hasn’t looked for you. If he dies we will contact you.” The phone number goes in the box.

“I will look in the box,” she tells me when I ask her to find the photo that she took of her baby, she used a hidden instant camera and at 14 she hid the forbidden item in her bag and snapped the only photos of her baby she will get to see for the next 25 years.

“Why do you do this?” she asks me. She seems a bit wary of my intentions as she hasn’t met me before and is jaded by the trust issues.

I tell her the story of how my Grandfather was raised in a children’s home and even though he knew his parents, the events he spoke of there were very traumatic and I feel a soft spot for adoptees. I tell her how I love genealogy. I do not tell her I am helping her locate the key to the box. She will see that happen later when she figures it out herself. She doesn’t realize that it is hidden in a secret place deep in her soul. She doesn’t know yet how to uncover it. But I can tell it’s there. I have seen people misplace the keys a hundred times.

I encourage her to call me. “I need to know a bit more,” I tell her. She calls and she begins to remember. “Why did they make me change my name?” “It seemed like I was being tricked, I knew something wasn’t right.” “Some of the girls came from such homes that they were happy to be getting 3 meals a day, to give up their baby to a rich family was like a dream come true for them.” She’s uncovering the box getting ready to insert the key.

When she does she will take Susan Hipp by the hand and travel back in time. She will leave young Miss Hipp in Texas and she will embrace the girl who has always been there, crying, waiting to be recognized and called by name.

Will I find her son? It’s not likely without DNA. We are up against odds and the key is rusted and may not open the box. It depends on what the key is made of. Is she made of metal and been strengthened by fire? Will the box spill out truths and become a trunk of smaller boxes from every mother in Edna Gladney? I will continue helping her locate the key and she can open the box,using the same hand that brushed his baby hair from his face. I know the box is precious, she paid a dear price for it. When she is ready she will share it with the world. Until then we keep searching for the right key.