As a transracial adoptive family, my child and I often attract more attention than the typical mother-child duo. It might be because my daughter is truly adorable (which she is), or perhaps because I’m an undiscovered supermodel at 36 years old (though my BMI and knack for looking awkward in photos tell a different story).
Most of the attention we receive is positive. My daughter, a joyful baby, is usually quiet or laughing. I know I’m tempting fate by saying this, but she rarely has public meltdowns, provided she’s well-fed and rested. For a one-year-old, this is quite unusual, and I anticipate that may change, leading to me carrying her out of a store like a flailing bag of potatoes.
I gladly accept compliments about my child. After all, who wouldn’t appreciate being told their kid is amazing? However, there are comments and questions that I find intrusive and unwelcome. My daughter is black, whereas I identify as “aggressively Caucasian,” equipped with fair skin and blue eyes. My husband is even paler and practically radiates in sunlight.
It’s clear to any observer that this child did not emerge from my womb. Yes, she was adopted at birth. We fully understand that raising a child of a different race, particularly a black child in America, presents unique challenges and considerations we wouldn’t have faced if we had adopted a child of the same race. We are aware of this; we’ve read literature, completed online courses, and consulted friends who have experience with transracial adoption. We deliberated thoroughly before indicating our preferences on the agency’s questionnaire.
I recognize that curiosity often drives these inquiries. Some individuals are genuinely interested in adoption and may have personal ties to the subject. Those people typically ask polite, straightforward questions—such as which agency we used or what a home study involves—before congratulating us on our beautiful daughter and moving along in the store. I appreciate these interactions and strive to respond graciously, no matter how fatigued or disheveled I may feel.
The trouble arises with a second type of person, often indistinguishable from the first until it’s too late. These individuals seek to know the age of my daughter’s birth mother and make unwarranted assumptions about her character. They masquerade as merely curious, but their true intention is to elicit a narrative that aligns with their preconceived biases against women and people of color. They have an agenda rooted in a need to feel superior, and I have no time for that. I am not an ambassador for adoption or a racial tolerance educator. I owe you nothing—no explanations, no stories about my life or my daughter’s journey.
While some adoptive parents feel a sense of duty to educate others about adoption, I do not share that perspective. For us, adoption was simply how we chose to build our family. Families make these decisions every day; for instance, parents opt for vasectomies when they feel their family is complete, or they decide when to try for another child based on personal preferences. Increasingly, hopeful parents turn to fertility treatments to grow their families.
The only distinction between their choices and mine is visibility. Would anyone dare to approach a woman with several children close in age to ask why she didn’t space them further apart? Would they ask a family with one child whether they plan to have more? Likely not. So why is it acceptable to pose invasive questions to families formed through adoption? It shouldn’t be.
All I ask is to enjoy the mundane activities of daily life—like browsing for melons or contemplating the price of avocados—without unsolicited inquiries. I simply want to push my child on a swing at the park, like any other parent. We are just a regular family.
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In summary, as a transracial adoptive family, I face an array of questions and assumptions that I believe are unwarranted. While curiosity is natural, it doesn’t justify invasive inquiries into our family’s story. Ultimately, we simply want to partake in everyday life like any other family.
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