The Privilege of Sharing Stories
For international adoptees, sharing our stories usually comes at our own expense.
Having grown up in a transracial household situated within a predominantly white community, I went out of my way to suppress my Asian ethnicity. This tactic did not stop people from broaching the subject: jokes about my appearance + typical Asian stereotypes, the classic Where are you from?, and pressure to explain why I have not yet sought out my birth family or returned to Korea (with no answer ever being satisfactory).
In those situations, I lost control over my lived experience and my ability to share it in a way that was best and safest for me.
Those same situations became the foundation from which my appreciation for people’s stories, their lived experiences, and when/how they share them would grow. And as I started to come to terms with my adoption and began to learn about the adoptee community, my appreciation grew into an understanding of just how much of a privilege it is, not just for someone to share their story with you, but also for them to trust you to share their story with others.
Historically, adoptees have not been the authors of their own stories—that has been co-opted by adoptive parents (generally white), adoption agencies, and non-adopted scholars. This has led to the narrative of adoption always being shaped and framed as a positive thing. This leads to articles like the one comparing adoption to vacation, prospective adoptive parents (PAPs) fundraising to adopt, and the hashtag #adoptionislove.
“Historically, adoptees have not been the authors of their own stories.”
This narrative is so dominant + pervasive that adoptees who don’t have those positive experiences are met with hostility and rejection, told they’re ungrateful or maladjusted, gaslit to believing that’s not what they meant or you must have heard them wrong, and constantly having their lived experiences invalidated by someone not of this community.
“This narrative is so dominant + pervasive that adoptees who don’t have those positive experiences are met with hostility and rejection.”
That’s what makes hearing and sharing someone’s story a privilege; no one is obligated to provide you with any information about themselves, let alone the intimate details and experiences that they’ve had. It can be a frightening thing to be vulnerable with someone else. If a person chooses to share their story with you, they are trusting you to handle their story with care and to respect their wishes around when and how you share their story.
When it comes to the act of sharing, we must work to show that their trust has not been misplaced. Blindly sharing someone’s story, or sharing parts that they’ve asked you not to share, opens them up to unnecessary and unwanted trauma. Even worse, if we do not receive consent to share someone’s story, then we must not share it, even anecdotally. Doing so can erode trust completely, and it may be awhile before they are able to share their story again, if ever.
One of my good friends in this space recently posted:
“My story is the only thing I have. So sharing it on my own terms is so important, but also knowing it won’t be shared by anyone is just as important. That builds trust.”
It sums up why sharing someone’s story is such a privilege; it’s the only thing we have. Our stories are important, and it’s equally as important for our stories to be respected with regards to when, where, and by + to whom they are shared. Without the appropriate consent, we run the risk of causing harm to those who trusted us with their stories; intentionality has nothing to do with it.
