Guardian Angel
An appropriate extract from "The Way We Never Were" to mark Mother's Day
Thinking about it, Beryl Linehan probably had more influence on my life than anyone else, outside of my immediate family. She is one of those of whom people will sigh fondly if you mention her name – a selfless, caring, strong and courageous woman – my dad calls her a modern-day saint. I will never know the full story of my adoption, but I do know that this woman was instrumental in it, both persuading my mother that it was the best option for me, then making it her business to find me the right parents.
Around the time the matter of my future was being discussed, my parents, several hundred miles away in the north of England, had been waiting for 7 years to adopt a child. They had almost done so on several occasions, but each time it had fallen through, for various reasons – they had been about to adopt a young deaf girl, but she had gone to parents who knew sign language, which mine didn’t. Approaching forty, they were about to become “too old” to be considered as adopters. If they didn’t get someone soon, they would remain childless forever.
My parents have always felt that they got me by the skin of their teeth, and I know the process they faced was difficult and intrusive. It infuriates me even today that you read of parents being asked ridiculous questions, and of social workers undertaking ludicrous feats of social engineering in putting families together. I understand that it’s in the interests of children to be placed with a family with similar characteristics to them, be they racial, social or whatever, but that can go too far. There isn’t an equivalent, whereby the state looks at natural families and dictates whether they’re doing things correctly or not. I know of many families where there are several natural siblings, brought up in the same way by the same parents, who take completely different paths in life. Two of my friends at school were twins: one is straight, one lesbian; one didn’t go to university, the other has a higher degree. In my parents’ case, they say that serious doubt was at one stage cast on their suitability to adopt me, because both of them were considered to be highly educated (though in my mother’s case she took her degree part time through the Open University, having not had the opportunity to do it earlier in life.) The social worker genuinely believed that this would put pressure on me, that I was going to have special educational needs and that it would be detrimental to me (rather than encouraging/aspirational) to grow up with “high achieving” parents. My mother and Beryl clubbed together to persuade her that they would be able to provide me with any help that I needed, not least because of my mother’s teaching experience. Reluctantly, they say, the social worker agreed. The ironic thing is that, years on (and thanks largely to my parents' encouragement and meticulous care), I have exceeded everyone’s expectations – I have a Masters degree as well as an undergraduate degree, a legal qualification and have been lucky enough to travel to two continents with work. Perhaps I’m an example of why the so-called experts should be a little more reasonable and have the humility simply to do their best and not to attempt to play God when creating new families. My mother wrote to Beryl soon after I received my second degree, knowing how thrilled she would be, as I had studied Christian Ethics at a Catholic institution and was awarded my certificate by Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’Connor. I like to think that Beryl felt a sense of pride, and possibly even smugness, at my success, though I doubt she did as she was far too modest a person for that. However I know she kept the letter, as it was this very letter that eventually led to my brother tracking me down.
After I was successfully bundled off to the North with my new parents, Beryl subsequently rescued my brother, too. We’ve never had an adequate answer of why I was placed for adoption and he was not, as he never returned to his mother, and her relationship with our father had broken up by then. Instead, he stayed within the care system, in a sort of limbo – not adopted, not at home. After unsuccessful foster placements Beryl did something that sounds characteristic of her: she decided she would do a better job than anybody else of taking care of him, so she took him home as one of her own. He grew up, like me, in a loving family with several foster siblings. Like me he played musical instruments and was sporty – as a teenager he was an impressive swimmer (I stuck more to music). He also became fluent in sign language, because one of his foster brothers was deaf. Still one of the most intriguing coincidences in the whole saga is this: at fourteen, bored, trapped and itching to leave the small community in which I lived (I did indeed run away to London as soon as I could, and am still here), I made one of my regular trips to the local library to try to find something to occupy my time. I found a book on sign learning sign language and taught myself the alphabet and a few basic signs. Not far away, the brother I was yet to find out about was chatting away to his sibling using those very same, little-known gestures.
I met Beryl once, but didn’t know who she was. It was the Feast of the Assumption and I had been invited to sing Schubert’s “Ave Maria” at a local church. A couple of rows back was an older lady, and as I approached the second verse she started crying. I was a little startled at the time, and joked to my mum afterwards that I must have been rubbish, because I’d made someone cry. I assumed, I suppose, that it was a barmy old woman of my grandmother’s ilk, a devout Catholic moved to tears by the Blessed Virgin. I didn’t know that afterwards she had gone up to my dad, embraced him and, nodding to me, said “I did that.”
Beryl was our guardian angel. I like to think that she had always hoped we would be reunited: by becoming my brother's foster mother and keeping channels of communication very much open with my own mum, there was always a very real possibility that one day we would be together again. I’m just sad that this happened after her death. It is perhaps my greatest regret in life that I never said thank you, that I never hugged her and got to tell her just how deeply grateful I am to her, and that she didn’t live to see two of her greatest success stories get to know one another. I hope, somewhere, she knows.
Thinking about it, Beryl Linehan probably had more influence on my life than anyone else, outside of my immediate family. She is one of those of whom people will sigh fondly if you mention her name – a selfless, caring, strong and courageous woman – my dad calls her a modern-day saint. I will never know the full story of my adoption, but I do know that this woman was instrumental in it, both persuading my mother that it was the best option for me, then making it her business to find me the right parents.
Around the time the matter of my future was being discussed, my parents, several hundred miles away in the north of England, had been waiting for 7 years to adopt a child. They had almost done so on several occasions, but each time it had fallen through, for various reasons – they had been about to adopt a young deaf girl, but she had gone to parents who knew sign language, which mine didn’t. Approaching forty, they were about to become “too old” to be considered as adopters. If they didn’t get someone soon, they would remain childless forever.
My parents have always felt that they got me by the skin of their teeth, and I know the process they faced was difficult and intrusive. It infuriates me even today that you read of parents being asked ridiculous questions, and of social workers undertaking ludicrous feats of social engineering in putting families together. I understand that it’s in the interests of children to be placed with a family with similar characteristics to them, be they racial, social or whatever, but that can go too far. There isn’t an equivalent, whereby the state looks at natural families and dictates whether they’re doing things correctly or not. I know of many families where there are several natural siblings, brought up in the same way by the same parents, who take completely different paths in life. Two of my friends at school were twins: one is straight, one lesbian; one didn’t go to university, the other has a higher degree. In my parents’ case, they say that serious doubt was at one stage cast on their suitability to adopt me, because both of them were considered to be highly educated (though in my mother’s case she took her degree part time through the Open University, having not had the opportunity to do it earlier in life.) The social worker genuinely believed that this would put pressure on me, that I was going to have special educational needs and that it would be detrimental to me (rather than encouraging/aspirational) to grow up with “high achieving” parents. My mother and Beryl clubbed together to persuade her that they would be able to provide me with any help that I needed, not least because of my mother’s teaching experience. Reluctantly, they say, the social worker agreed. The ironic thing is that, years on (and thanks largely to my parents' encouragement and meticulous care), I have exceeded everyone’s expectations – I have a Masters degree as well as an undergraduate degree, a legal qualification and have been lucky enough to travel to two continents with work. Perhaps I’m an example of why the so-called experts should be a little more reasonable and have the humility simply to do their best and not to attempt to play God when creating new families. My mother wrote to Beryl soon after I received my second degree, knowing how thrilled she would be, as I had studied Christian Ethics at a Catholic institution and was awarded my certificate by Cardinal Cormac Murphy O’Connor. I like to think that Beryl felt a sense of pride, and possibly even smugness, at my success, though I doubt she did as she was far too modest a person for that. However I know she kept the letter, as it was this very letter that eventually led to my brother tracking me down.
After I was successfully bundled off to the North with my new parents, Beryl subsequently rescued my brother, too. We’ve never had an adequate answer of why I was placed for adoption and he was not, as he never returned to his mother, and her relationship with our father had broken up by then. Instead, he stayed within the care system, in a sort of limbo – not adopted, not at home. After unsuccessful foster placements Beryl did something that sounds characteristic of her: she decided she would do a better job than anybody else of taking care of him, so she took him home as one of her own. He grew up, like me, in a loving family with several foster siblings. Like me he played musical instruments and was sporty – as a teenager he was an impressive swimmer (I stuck more to music). He also became fluent in sign language, because one of his foster brothers was deaf. Still one of the most intriguing coincidences in the whole saga is this: at fourteen, bored, trapped and itching to leave the small community in which I lived (I did indeed run away to London as soon as I could, and am still here), I made one of my regular trips to the local library to try to find something to occupy my time. I found a book on sign learning sign language and taught myself the alphabet and a few basic signs. Not far away, the brother I was yet to find out about was chatting away to his sibling using those very same, little-known gestures.
I met Beryl once, but didn’t know who she was. It was the Feast of the Assumption and I had been invited to sing Schubert’s “Ave Maria” at a local church. A couple of rows back was an older lady, and as I approached the second verse she started crying. I was a little startled at the time, and joked to my mum afterwards that I must have been rubbish, because I’d made someone cry. I assumed, I suppose, that it was a barmy old woman of my grandmother’s ilk, a devout Catholic moved to tears by the Blessed Virgin. I didn’t know that afterwards she had gone up to my dad, embraced him and, nodding to me, said “I did that.”
Beryl was our guardian angel. I like to think that she had always hoped we would be reunited: by becoming my brother's foster mother and keeping channels of communication very much open with my own mum, there was always a very real possibility that one day we would be together again. I’m just sad that this happened after her death. It is perhaps my greatest regret in life that I never said thank you, that I never hugged her and got to tell her just how deeply grateful I am to her, and that she didn’t live to see two of her greatest success stories get to know one another. I hope, somewhere, she knows.
Labels: adoption
posted by RLS at 2:15 pm
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