THE ADOPTION PAPERS Forward Prize for Best First Collection Jackie Kay tells the story of a black girls adoption by a white Scottish couple from three different viewpoints: the mother, the birth mother and the daughter. This unique and honest volume of poems has been adapted for radio. Also included in the book are new poems reflecting issues of sexuality, Scottishness and being working-class
Jackie Kay has been gathering a reputation for a few years as an outstanding young talent in British poetry and playwriting
could well become a key work of feminism in actiona wonderfully spirited, tender and crafted contribution to Scottish writing, to black writing, and to the poetry of our time. It is a work of the utmost generosity and truth ALASTAIR NIVEN, Poetry Review These are brave, honest, unsentimental poems Kays poetry can be loud with pain and rage, but sometimes its as though she whispers too, entering dreams, allowing herself a delicate imagery This book is full of fresh, remarkable poetry; its rhythms sing from the page, demanding to be heard ELIZABETH BURNS, The Scotsman Warm, tough, painful and often very funny poems FLEUR ADCOCK, Sunday Times Cover photograph:
A dramatisation of
The Adoption Papers was broadcast in BBC Radio 3s
Drama Now series in August 1990. Poems from this book have also been broadcast on
The Bandung File (Channel 4),
Wordworks (Tyne Tees Television),
New Voices (BBC Radio 3),
Kaleidoscope and
Time for Verse (BBC Radio 4), and on the Open University programme
Literature in the ModernWorld (BBC 2). Some of these poems were included in a collection for which Jackie Kay won an Eric Gregory Award in 1991, and some in a pamphlet,
That Distance Apart (Turret Books, 1991).
Acknowledgements are also due to the editors of the following publications in which some of these poems first appeared: Beautiful Barbarians (Onlywomen Press, 1986), Bte Noire, TheBlack Scholar (USA), Black Women Talk Poetry (Black Womentalk, 1987), Chapman, City Limits, Conditions (USA), Critical Quarterly,Feminist Review,The New British Poetry (Paladin, 1988), NewWomen Poets (Bloodaxe, 1990), Poetry Review, Poetry Wales, SpareRib, Sunk Island Review, Ti (Pi) International Poetry Review, and Wordworks (Bloodaxe Books/Tyne Tees Television, 1991). I would also like to thank Kathryn Perry, Wendy Young, Fred DAguiar, Carol Ann Duffy, Frances Anne Soloman and Helen and John Kay for their encouragement and criticism. And a special thank you to Louise Roscoe for her fine ear and sharp eye. The cover photograph is reproduced by kind permission of CNRI/Science Photo Library. It shows a false-colour light micrograph of human chromosomes, obtained by amniocentesis.
Contents
In
The Adoption Papers sequence, the voices of the three speakers are distinguished typographically:
DAUGHTER : | Roman typeface |
ADOPTIVE MOTHER : | Bold typeface |
BIRTH MOTHER : | Italic typeface |
THE ADOPTION PAPERS
I always wanted to give birthdo that incredible natural thingthat women do I nearly broke downwhen I heard we couldnt,and then my man saidwell theres always adoption(we didnt have test tubes and the rest then)even in the early sixties there wassomething scandalous about adopting,telling the world your secret failurebringing up an alien child,who knew what it would turn out to be I was pulled out with forceps left a gash down my left cheek four months inside a glass cot but she came faithful from Glasgow to Edinburgh and peered through the glass I must have felt somebody willing me to survive; she would not pick another baby I still have the baby photographI keep it in my bottom drawerShe is twenty-six todaymy hair is greyThe skin around my neck is wrinklingdoes she imagine me this way
I never thought it would be quickerthan walking down the mainstreetI want to stand in front of the mirrorswollen bellied so swollen belliedThe time, the exact timefor that particular seed to be singled outI want to lie on my back at nightI want to pee all the timeamongst all otherslike choosing a dancing partnerI crave discomfort like some womencrave chocolate or earth or liverNow these slow weeks onI cant stop going over and overI cant believe Ive tried for five yearsfor something that could take five minutesIt only took a split secondnot a minute or more.I want the painthe tearing searing painI want my waters to breaklike Noahs floodI want to push and pushand scream and scream.When I was sure I wrote a short notesix weeks later a short letterHe was sorry; we should have known betterHe couldnt leave Nigeria.I missed him, silly thingshis sudden high laugh,His eyes intense as whirlwindthe music he played me
I say to the man at the desk Id like my original birth certificate Do you have any idea what your name was? Close, close he laughs.
Well what was it? So slow as torture he discloses bit by bit my mothers name, my original name the hospital I was born in, the time I came. Outside Edinburgh is soaked in sunshine I talk to myself walking past the castle. So, so, so, I was a midnight baby after all. I am nineteenmy whole life is changing On the first night I see her shuttered eyes in my dreamsI cannot pretend shes never beenmy stitches pull and threaten to snapmy own body a witnessleaking blood to sheets, milk to shirts On the second night Ill suffocate her with a feather pillowBury her under a weeping willowOr take her far out to seaand watch her tiny eight-pound bodysink to shells and reshape herself.So much the better than her bodyencased in glass like a museum piece On the third night I toss I did not go through these monthsfor you to die on me nowon the third night I liewilling life into herbreathing air all the way down the corridorto the glass cotI push my nipples through
The first agency we went todidnt want us on their lists,we didnt live close enough to a churchnor were we church-goers(though we kept quiet about being communists).The second told uswe werent high enough earners.The third liked usbut they had a five-year waiting list.I spent six months trying not to lookat swings nor the front of supermarket trolleys,not to think this kid Ive wanted could be five.The fourth agency was full up.The fifth said yes but again no babies.Just as we were going out the doorI said oh you know we dont mind the colour.Just like that, the waiting was over. This morning a slim manilla envelope arrives postmarked Edinburgh: one piece of paper I have now been able to look up your microfiche (as this is all the records kept nowadays). From your mothers letters, the following information: Your mother was nineteen when she had you. You weighed eight pounds four ounces.