Showing posts with label adoption records. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adoption records. Show all posts

Friday, February 22, 2008

UNITED STATES: Did You Ever Give Up a Child for Adoption?, February 22, 2008

Please go to the link and add your comments!

ABC NEWS
February 22, 2008



Did You Ever Give Up a Child for Adoption?
ABC Wants to Talk to Biological Parents Who Want to Keep Their Adoptions Anonymous


We are doing a story on the efforts of different states to unseal adoption records. We are looking to interview a woman who gave a child up for adoption and does not want to be found and is adamantly opposed to the unsealing of adoption records. We promise to fully disguise her identity in the piece, including her face and voice.

Please tell us your story below:

Followed by form.


Direct link not working. Try http://abcnews.go.com/WN/story?id=4332269&page=1

Friday, January 4, 2008

KANSAS/MISSOURI: A Heartfelt Reunion: Open Records Help Woman Find Biological Mother, January 3, 2008


BLUE SPRINGS EXAMINER.
January 3, 2008

A Heartfelt Reunion: Open Records Help Woman Find Biological Mother

By Hugh S. Welsh |
Hugh.welsh@examiner.net

The year was 1969, but Sharon Cummins' family didn't embrace the flower child mentality blossoming across the country.

"My family was pretty conservative," said Cummins, a middle child in a family of 11 living in Kansas City.

Not long before, she had discovered what the change was that had overcome her.

The morning sickness, the cravings and the general need to use the bathroom more often now made perfect sense.

"I was pregnant," Cummins said. "No doubt about it."

She had broken the news to the father; it was the last time she would see him.

As the baby girl grew inside her, Cummins had a decision to make.

Was she prepared to scratch everything for motherhood at 21?

Did she meet the qualifications of motherhood?

Finally, Cummins made a decision. She opted to hand her child over to adoption.

"I thought it would be selfish of me to keep and care for the baby myself," Cummins said. "I wanted it to have a better life."

- - -

The birth was anything but routine.

When Cummins went into labor, complications arose and a Caesarian section was necessary.

She spent six days in the hospital recovering.

In those days, mothers giving up their children to adoption were prohibited from so much as cradling them.

Nine months of sacrifice, and she couldn't even kiss her baby's forehead.

"It was heartbreaking," Cummins said. "Absolutely heartbreaking."

But Cummins had unknowingly laid the path her daughter would follow to find her 25 years later.

She gave birth to her daughter in a Kansas City hospital on the Kansas side of the state line, where original birth certificates and adoption records are readily available to adoptees.

- - -

Blue Springs resident Lori Smith doesn't recall the name of the movie or what channel it was on.

"I think it was a 'Hallmark Hall of Fame' presentation, but I can't quite remember," Smith said.

Smith was home briefly, visiting her mother in Raytown, when the movie aired.

It dealt with the reunification of a birth mother and her adopted child.

Smith had always known she was adopted.

When the movie was over, after swiping tears from her eyes, Smith asked her mother a question:

"Is there anything you haven't shared with me about my birth parents?" Smith asked.

The answer: a resounding yes.

She pulled from the closet a shoebox containing some very basic information. Her biological parents' names, occupations, physical features, education, etc.

It did not, however, tell her their whereabouts.

Smith looked the information over and silently returned it to its proper place.

She wasn't ready. Not yet.

- - -

A couple months would pass before Smith requested her adoption record.

Once she obtained it, she tried to ignore it. But it lingered. Finally, she did something about it.

The document said her birth mother lived in Springfield, Mo.

It so happened she had a friend living there.

So Smith picked up the phone, made a call and had her friend peruse the white pages.

The name was there: Sharon Fieker (Cummins' maiden name).

Weeks later, Smith visited her friend in Springfield. While there, she drove by her birth mother's home and parked the car. It was a friendly little home with a friendly walkway leading to the front door.

Smith didn't get out, though.

"I wanted to respect her privacy," Smith said. "I thought it would be selfish of me to invade her home."

Smith drove on, but she never forgot.

- - -

Months later, Smith accepted a position at the Kansas State School for the Blind.

At one of her first days on the job, her secret slipped in front of her supervisor.

Her supervisor asked her about it, encouraging her to attempt contact by way of telephone.

Smith consented.

Only she would not do it herself.

"I asked if she would call her on my behalf," Smith said. "I thought that would be for the best."

The supervisor placed the call and was laughing then crying then laughing.

"It was a see-saw of laughter and tears," Smith said.

Then the phone call was over.

"She told me Sharon would love to talk to me," Smith said.

Later that evening, Smith dialed her birth mother's phone number.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Then a click and a voice.

"Hello?" the voice said as sweetly as a rose in bloom.

- - -

That night, Cummins provided Smith will all of her medical background and answered all the questions that had been fermenting in the back of Smith's mind since she could remember.

The call endured well into the night. When they said their farewells, Cummins figured it would be the last.

"I thought it would be our only communication," Cummins said.

Several days later, Cummins received another call from Smith, this time to arrange a get-together.

She obliged.

Two weeks later, they were officially reunited.

That was 15 years ago.

Today, Cummins and Smith share a unique friendship, one that has been chronicled in a book titled "I Choose This Day - Mournings and Miracles of Adoption.

Every six to eight weeks, Cummins and her husband visit Smith at her home in Blue Springs.

When they're together, Cummins is not introduced to Smith's peers as "mom" but "birth mom."

To her children, Smith's adoptive mother is "Grandma," Cummins is "Grandma Sharon" and her mother-in-law is "Me-ma."

"I've never had any intention of replacing Lori's adoptive mom," Cummins said. "She is her mom and a really wonderful mom at that."


| VIEWPOINT |

Smith and Cummins share their feelings on an open-records policy for adoptees in Missouri

Smith:

It was an open-records policy that allowed Smith to locate her birth mother swiftly and assuredly.

Yet Smith is not sure whether such a policy ought to be implemented in Missouri.

"For me, mutual consent is key," Smith said. "If Sharon didn't want to talk or meet with me, I believe that's her choice.

Smith's birth father has declined contact, which she acknowledges.

She said the policy currently established in Missouri should, if nothing else, provide adoptees access to their birth parents medical history.

"In today's world, medical science allows for many preventive measures against predisposed conditions," Smith said. "If the birth parents wish for identifying information (name, date of birth, place of birth and last known address) to be removed, I believe that's their choice, but they shouldn't be able to deny their adopted children their medical background."

Cummins:

For Cummins, one of the greatest moments in her life was when she accepted a call from a 913 area code.

"I never got calls from Kansas," Cummins said. "I figured it was either a telemarketer or someone special who I hadn't spoken with in a long time."

The person was calling for Cummins' adopted daughter.

"I am in favor of open records for adoptees in Missouri and every state," Cummins said. "The most wonderful chapter in my life would not have been possible without it."



Link to article

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

MICHIGAN: Rules Limit Connection Between Kids and Biological Parents

WOOD-TV, Grand Rapids, December 18, 2007
Rules limit connection between kids and biological parents


By TONY TAGLIAVIA

GRAND RAPIDS -- Bonnie Baker Harris has witnessed some remarkable reunions, like the one between Steve Flaig and Chris Tallady.

"Sometimes it can get quite emotional," Harris said.

She is the post-adoption specialist for the Bethany Christian Services Adoption Agency. As part of that work, she helps adopted children and biological parents connect.

"I would say we get several calls every week," Harris told 24 Hour News 8.

Those calls can result in a connection, especially for children whose biological parents ended their parental rights after September 1980. In those cases, as long as a parent hasn't asked not to be identified, his or her child can get the parent's name and last known address through the adoption agency.

For the children of parents whose rights were terminated before September 1980, information can only be released if a biological parent specifically allows it.

So what if there is no permission or denial on file?

"That is a very, very common outcome," Harris said. "The state has put into place what's called confidential intermediary services."

That person works as a go-between without telling either party who the other one is.

As Steve Flaig and Chris Tallady's story shows, sometimes an intermediary can be helpful, even when names and addresses are available. In their case, it led to a happy result.

"Best Christmas present ever," Chris Tallady said.

Her son's response?

"I can't wait to get to know each other better."


Link to article

Thursday, December 13, 2007

TENNESSEE: Tennessee Law Pioneered Adoption Records Access, December 12, 2007

THE TENNESSEAN,
December 12, 2007


Tennessee law pioneered adoption records access
New report says birth parents, children benefit from knowledge

By JANELL ROSS
Staff Writer

Tracey van der Spuy can't remember a time when she didn't know she was adopted.

The word has always been a part of what van der Spuy — who was handed over to a Tennessee couple at 6 weeks old — calls her "story." But in 1991, when van der Spuy felt the first of her three children moving inside her, that stopped being enough.


"It's hard for me to explain," van der Spuy said. "But for the first time in my life, I really needed something more. I needed to know where I came from, I needed to know about me."

A groundbreaking report released last month, a compilation of long-term studies on adoption, says birth parents who give up their children benefit psychologically from finding adoption records, as do those children. Because of long-standing beliefs about the value of secrecy in adoption, adults who were adopted as children are the only individuals in the United States who, as a group, do not have routine access to their birth certificates.

That's something Tennessee lawmakers changed more than a decade ago. It took a massive 1996 rewrite of Tennessee's adoption laws, a pair of civil suits and a state Supreme Court ruling, but Tennessee became the first state in the nation with a broad, court-tested adoption records access law.

In 1997, van der Spuy became one of the first Tennesseans to receive a copy of just about every document pertaining to her birth and adoption. Lawsuits filed soon after delayed other requests.

Since then, about 5,000 adopted adults have made similar requests. Nearly 2,500 have received requested information. Children who are the product of rape or incest or whose parents' rights were terminated because of abuse or neglect can't access the records.

"Tennessee was a precedent setter," said Adam Pertman, executive director of the Evan B. Donaldson Adoption Institute, the Boston-based research organization that released last month's report. "It set the standard for a law that protects the interest of everyone involved — birth parents and those who have been adopted alike."

Laws hide history

In 1917, Minnesota passed the nation's first law limiting access to any records related to an adoption. The idea: Children made available for adoption were often born outside marriage. Public access to that sort of information might affect the child's adoption prospects and later life.

Later laws in all but two states — Kansas and Alaska — sealed original birth records from the view of even those who were parties to the adoption. Secrecy was an essential marketing tool used by baby brokers to appeal to infertile prospective adoptive parents, said Caprice East, a Nashville interior decorator and adoptee who led the charge to change Tennessee's law in the 1990s.

East, a dark-haired woman with dimples, grew up in a Tennessee family of fair-haired freckle- faced children born to her adoptive parents. As a child, East was often asked about the origins of her dimples.

"They would pat my head, and all I could really do is smile," she said. "In reality I had no idea. It may sound silly, but I wanted to know where those dimples came from. I wanted to know where I came from and why I was given away. But that secrecy was in the way."

In 1951, the Tennessee legislature passed a law sealing birth records. The bill was sponsored by a legislator who had adopted children.

In 1996, the law changed after East's tireless campaigning to get her own records, but the struggle for records access wasn't over.

A collective of unidentified birth parents, an adoptive parent and Nashville-area adoption agency A Small World filed a federal lawsuit challenging the constitutionality of Tennessee's more open law.

After a series of appeals, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear the case and a similar suit was filed in state court. The battle over adoption records in Tennessee became fodder for national news. In 1999, The Tennessee Supreme Court ultimately upheld the new law and opened a floodgate of adoption record requests.

Tom Atwood, president of the National Council for Adoption, a nonprofit group that lobbies on behalf of adoption agencies, including A Small World, said his group doesn't oppose openness."But we don't believe that birth parents that have been promised privacy and who expect privacy should have that right stripped from them unilaterally."

He said some are concerned that Tennessee's law and others like it might "degrade" adoption, making it a less attractive for some than abortion.

Court records and federal health data reveal a different picture.

In most states where adoption records have become more accessible, adoption has increased and abortions have decreased, the Donaldson institute's study found.

Tennessee abortions dropped from 17,989 in 1996 to 14,175 in 2004, according to the most recent Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data available.

'Is that child OK?'

Birth parents need to be sure a decision made as teens will not permanently bar knowledge of their children's well-being, said the institute's Pertman, an adoptive father.

Holly Spann, a Nashville resident who surrendered a child at age 17, agrees. Spann refers to herself as a "girl who was sent away," because as a teen, she moved to an Alabama home for unwed mothers, where she gave birth to her only child, a daughter.

"What I needed to know, what virtually every birth parent needs to know is, is that child OK?" Spann said.

She said she hired an agency to find her daughter, and they spoke on the telephone in 1995. The daughter didn't want to pursue a relationship.

Van der Spuy's story was different. Under the law parents have a right to bar their birth children from making contact. In 2000, van der Spuy learned that her mother did.

"You know, that's OK," van der Spuy said. "It has to be OK. The law guarantees me information about myself, information I wanted and needed, information for which I am grateful. It does not guarantee me a relationship."


Link to article