Nothing is truly mine except my name
Whatever you choose to claim
of me is always yours;
nothing is truly mine
except my name. I only
borrowed this dust.
From Passing Through by Stanley Kunitz.
Interesting that a poem that has nothing to do with adoption can zero in so well on something so intrinsic to the experience. Interesting that it is written from the point of view of someone who also lost his birth records, in this case to a fire. Although the papers are gone, he knows that the name they documented is important, that it's the one thing that's truly his.
It's no different for my kids, or for any adopted person. What, for the love of God, is so hard to understand about that?