Engineering Redemption: Adoption Policy in the 1960s

In 1969, the year men were sent to the moon and naked teenagers frolicked at Woodstock, I was secreted away in an Anglican home for unwed mothers in Toronto, Canada. The residence was part of a gothic mansion to which a modern extension had been added to meet the growing demand. It seemed fitting that my arrival should take place in the dead of winter. It was already dark by mid afternoon.

My mother was not allowed to accompany me to my allocated room, a rule created to protect the identities of the other residents. For the next four months I would take part in domestic duties and attend a compulsory church service each day. Study hours took place in the evenings; family members were allowed to visit on Sunday afternoons. I kept my loneliness at bay by imagining I was a character in a Dickens novel. Although the modern world of cars and the subway line was close by, I felt as if a glass wall had been erected. I could see through it but I could not cross that line.

I gave birth in the spring at a city hospital and there I said good bye to my infant son. Later I went to an office where I signed a closed adoption contract agreeing never to seek contact with my child again.

Closed adoption contracts and the involvement of church organisations in providing accommodation for expectant single women were not unique to Canada. By the 1950s and 1960s many Western countries, including Australia, had similar policies. They meant that young women, such as me, could return to school or a previous occupation with our secret kept and our reputations intact. In turn our infants were handed over to adopting couples. Birth certificates were changed and filing cabinets locked.

This approach was considered expedient and humane—a win-win for everyone concerned. Earlier in the century it was not uncommon for single mothers to be literally cast out in the street. Pregnancy was a sin that showed and it seemed fitting that these women should suffer along the road to redemption. Of course, given there was little hope of finding suitable employment or a respectable partner, their children suffered too. Nevertheless, it was largely believed that the struggle would improve the moral character of all involved. Few wanted to interfere with the hand of God.

But the 1960s was in some respects a more enlightened period, one in which people were more educated and who, perhaps as a result of two horrific world wars, had largely abandoned mystery and humility in favour of mastery and prediction.[1] While God’s judgements still hovered in the background, there was a desire for a more structured, orderly world and a belief that such a world could be created by human hands.

Psychology and sociology supported progress s this goal. By the 1960s a strong case had been made for the ‘blank slate theory’, a construct demonstrating that it was environment rather than genetics which played the dominant role in shaping character. Human beings were not born as particular things but rather as blank slates upon which any story could be written. It was up to society, and in particular mothers, to create the right sort of environment in which good character traits would bloom.[2]

This was ostensibly a noble idea and a social engineer’s dream. Deviant behaviour could be eradicated and anyone, regardless of race or class, could excel. The news was also a blessing for infertile couples. It meant that in a carefully engineered world families could be engineered too. In the past there had been a reluctance to adopt the illegitimate infants of strangers. There was no telling what bad seeds they might contain. It was better to wait until the child was older to see what character traits might unfold. But now such infants could be shaped to have the same desirable values and attributes as their adopting parents. If taken early enough such children would develop ‘as if born to them’ just as surely as if they had been their own flesh.

A documentary produced in Australia during the 1960s to promote adoption shows a couple collecting a baby from hospital.[3] The commentator’s voice has all the upbeat cheeriness used to narrate advances in conveyor-belt technology—and by that time the care of unmarried expectant girls and the adoption of their infants had become a conveyor belt. In the space of one year close to 500 infants were relinquished in New South Wales alone.

In some hospitals it was policy to place a pillow or similar screen across the mother’s face during delivery to block her view.[4] The rationale was that if she did not see the infant, she wouldn’t bond with it, making it easier to part with the child. Others were encouraged not to name their baby. In this way the infant would seem less real.

There was no government assistance available to single mothers in Canada or Australia at this time. The only option offered to me by my social worker was that I marry the boy, an option whereby I must close down my life and hook my existence to his. No parent of any girl in the Anglican home where I stayed encouraged a daughter to take this route.

Anne Petrie, a journalist who has documented accounts of Canadian experiences, cites an example of a young woman asked by staff to make a two-column list of what she could and could not provide for her baby. The ‘could not’ column was quickly filled. She couldn’t provide financial security; she couldn’t provide a home. In the ‘could’ column all she could write was ‘give it love’.[5] Petrie laments that while these young women were often asked to call upon their highest maternal feelings in order to understand why they should give their babies away, it was never discussed what they were to do with all that love once their babies were gone.

One wonders about the participants in this scenario, as the pain inflicted was often obvious. Or was it that so many of us, including the young mothers, wanted that pain, and while justifying it in a context of social welfare were actually honouring more deeply held convictions? Attitudes towards women remain rooted in Judeo-Christian orthodoxy—an orthodoxy that harbours a fear of female sexuality outside the confines of heterosexual marriage. Even today such sexuality, while encouraged on one hand, is often seen as deserving any trouble it incites.

As for the concept of motherhood, in the 1960s it was defined in terms of the suburban housewife, a role that fitted well with the goals of social engineering (we had to be there to mould those children) and a booming economy (we had to keep those working men healthy and buy the domestic products that were being produced). Yet these goals also reinforced subservience to males—another Judeo-Christian belief.

Single motherhood threatened this social order so that despite the earnest social workers and clean hospital sheets, these women would remain sinners in need of redemption. In the Old Testament the word is associated with delivering or severing a slave from bondage and the ransom required, as when God redeemed the Israelites. In the New Testament the bondage relates to slavery to sin. Christ paid for our release with pain and suffering, an act that is also played out on the shoulders of others.

Suffering for the sin of engaging in sex outside marriage was in danger of being sidelined in a more secular world and so the pain and punishment became more covert, with almost everyone a willing participant in the theatre. Petrie writes that by signing the adoption contract unmarried mothers were signaling an unspoken understanding of the moral order. Giving up a baby was penance. Any extra suffering increased the lesson’s worth.

Space Travel and Garters

Social construction, a theoretical movement within the study of consciousness, has been exploring the notion that humans are not self-contained individuals interacting with the external world. Instead we create a notion of self by justifying our behaviour to the predominant social order of the time.[6] If this is the case then the conscious ‘selves’ that supported the closed adoption policy in the 1960s are not the same conscious ‘selves’ being created today.

While recognising that it is difficult to freeze frame any era or speak for everyone in it, the particular self that was me in the 1960s was acutely aware of utopian hope. My parents were working-class people who migrated to Canada from Scotland, where my father had worked in the shipyards and my mother in various factories. Their thinking, as was common along the banks of the River Clyde, had its roots in 1920s socialism. While concerned with ethics, they had abandoned aspects of religion seen to be linked with social hardship. There was no virtue in suffering. Genuine goodness came through acquiring knowledge and applying it to create a better life that could be shared by all.

They were not alone in their aspirations. Faith in human endeavour was echoed in classrooms, in newspapers and on radio and TV. Results were evident: immunisation was putting an end to polio and small pox; while the provision of milk in schools meant children would not grow up with bandy legs. Unlike my grandmother, my sister and I would not die early from tuberculosis, a common condition in Glasgow’s cramped and sooty tenements during her time.

John Gray, Professor of European Thought at the London School of Economics, writes in his thesis Straw Dogs, Thoughts on Humans and Other Animals, that faith in the ability of humans to create utopia on earth is not the logical outcome of any kind of scientific reasoning but rather an adaptation of Christian orthodoxy, which holds that salvation is open to us all. Such thinking does not take into account the animal limitations of our nature. Indeed the more we advance the more we get it wrong and perhaps on no grander scale than during the last century as scientific knowledge increased. What we seem to understand least is ourselves and our hidden agendas. Our true creativity appears to be in creating paradigms against which we can justify our actions. According to Gray, our concepts of justice are about as ‘timeless as fashion in hats’. When society’s customs become unsettled, the dictates of justice change.

The 1950s and 1960s could be seen as comprising one of Gray’s historical corridors along which the dictates of custom were challenged. A booming economy supported our utopian aspirations while simultaneously challenging the total vision. The teenager was born during these years, a concept that kept the nuclear family intact longer and inspired the production of records, movies and magazines. At first all appeared innocent enough as Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello frolicked on the beach but, as Petrie writes, here lay the contradiction. Young girls still destined for marriage and motherhood now had an intermittent period where they needed to be popular, a role linked with sexual attractiveness, even when society wanted them to remain chaste.

During the 1960s the sexual messages became more overt. Petrie notes that society wasn’t prepared to face up to this contradiction, particularly as sex was driving the sale of products. Instead those girls who were caught became convenient scapegoats for expiating a collective sin. It was as if they were the only ones having illicit sex.

Years after I had relinquished my child I made contact with a classmate who told me that there had been suspicion that my absence from school might have been related to pregnancy. So she and others steered clear of me. ‘We were terrified of you,’ she said, ‘because we were having sex with our boyfriends too. You were a reminder of what could happen to us.’

In that rapidly changing landscape one memory stands out. I am watching the moon landing on a large screen at City Hall. I have been released back into society and I am wearing pantyhose. Pantyhose had just become available in shops and I am enjoying the ability to walk and sit with ease. There is no need to tug at my short skirt to hide the garters that once held up my nylon stockings. I feel giddy and free.

In hindsight, this scene becomes a symbol of the journey society had taken. During the voyage society had taken on the appearance of being secular, a costume in keeping with the desired destination. Yet despite the outward garments, religious orthodoxy had remained a foundation garment along the way. There had been an almost collective cognitive dissonance as it tried to reconcile the two.

When the anomalies in that shaky paradigm could not withstand further scrutiny, things changed very fast. The Whitlam government ushered in legislation to financially support single mothers in Australia. Canada was among other countries that did the same. Very quickly the availability of white babies for adoption virtually disappeared.

In the month my child was born, abortion was legalised in Canada and that year birth control became available too. Soon the home where I stayed became a residence for delinquent girls and later, in an ironic move, a place where single mothers could learn parenting skills. But as society moved to create policy that better reflected humanitarian goals, those who had relinquished a child were trapped in a decision that could not be aligned with opportunities just beginning for others.

Masking Attitudes

By the 1960s provincial governments in Canada insisted that a caseworker be attached to every young woman residing in a home for unmarried mothers. Staff trained largely in theological matters began taking courses to meet these requirements. Petrie points out that this does not mean that they automatically embraced a secular approach. Instead staff chose a particular viewpoint within what they were being taught to fit the religious values of their institutions. This was not difficult. At that time psychology and sociology embraced assumptions that female sexuality outside marriage was related to some sort of maladaptation, delinquency or general simple-mindedness. The boys didn’t really factor at all.

In the 1930s and 1940s Freudian theories had espoused the concept of psychopathical maternity. Women who fell pregnant outside marriage did it on purpose as a result of unconscious hostility. Later in the century such women were being defined as psychically weak people with deficient egos or unresolved Electra complexes. Ruth Martin, who wrote on marriage and sexuality for Australia’s Women’s Day during the 1950s, suggested that the single mother should be treated as an alcoholic as hers was a social problem that should be tackled sympathetically—a description that conjures up visions of addiction and the availability of sex. Dr Marion Hilliard, once chief of Obstetrics and Gynaecology at the Women’s College in Toronto, was not so coy and has been quoted as saying that ‘when a single mother renounces her child for its own good, she learns to pay the price of her misdemeanour’.[7] This would presumably straighten out our deviant tendencies quick smart.

Others minimised the effect of separating mother and baby. It was easy to assume that because a young woman hadn’t wanted to be pregnant in the first place and would have opted for an abortion if this option had been legal, that she would be just as happy to have her problem removed. They were giving us the opportunity to put this behind us and get on with our lives. If only it had been that simple. At the First National Conference on the Mental Health Aspects of Persons Separated by Adoption held in Sydney in 2002, Dr Chesterfield Evans presented his experiences as a young medical student witnessing an unmarried mother delivering a child. He said that she kept looking around desperately for her baby after it was whisked from the room then asked the audience if they had ever seen how a dog behaves when its puppies are snatched away.

‘It runs in circles,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘And humans are mammals too.’ [8]

*

I did not witness any young woman in the home where I stayed who was not concerned for the welfare of her child. The blank slate theory offered some comfort as to the ‘rightness’ of what we must do. We hoped to give birth to blue-eyed boys because we had heard that they were in greatest demand. There was a better chance that these infants would be adopted straight from hospital into the very best homes. Babies who weren’t adopted in hospital were placed in foster homes until a final decision was made, an environment that could interfere with the casting process. A good mother wouldn’t want that.

It was not surprising, given we were living in church homes, that our active imaginations would also locate this apparently secular logic in a religious paradigm. It was not lost on us that we had been shut away, the sight of us an abomination and that at the centre of this shame was the sexual act. My first experience with complete mortification was during an interview with my case worker who asked me to name the father of the child and to detail each place and time where a sexual act occurred—in his parents’ bedroom when they weren’t at home, in the back seat of the car, in the basement on a blow-up camping mattress—as she scribbled with her pen. This I assume was to lead the boy into making a financial contribution towards the care of the child, although it was equally effective in reminding me of my wilful complicity and the depth of my transgression.

Like others I sought forgiveness and turned to biblical stories about mothers who had proven their worth by giving their babies away. Moses’ mother had accepted the loss of her son rather than risk the child’s murder in a purge. In another tale two women argued over the ownership of a child in King Solomon’s court. The king threatened to settle the matter by drawing his sword and dividing the child in two. Of course the real mother (the important words being the real mother) pointed to the other woman and cried, ‘Give the baby to her.’

These stories rationalised our dilemma and served as powerful symbols of redemption through sacrifice. We had been branded as sinners, therefore we were not the sort of women who could care for children. However, if we undertook the selfless act of giving our babies away then we would be redeemed, reborn as virgins, and returned to our previous lives. In turn the children would be saved as well and raised in middle-class homes, eventually to contribute to a safe and ordered society in which we would all be a part.

Suffering in silence was also part of the deal for some. It was considered almost a virtue not to cry out during labour or reveal the pain of separation. I recall girls returning from hospital to collect their belongings. They were quiet, their heads bowed—like ordained nuns who had passed the test.

Colluding with Our Saviours

I was not allowed to see my infant son after he was born. The birth had been difficult and there was a suggestion that I would only cause him more harm. My mother had attended the earlier stages of labour but was not allowed into the delivery room and could only come to the ward during set visiting hours. When other babies were wheeled into the ward for feeding, I sat alone and watched. Eventually I became hysterical with grief.

An Indian doctor intervened and my child was brought to me to bottle feed. During one of these sessions I was asked to sign a circumcision form. Circumcision was not a tradition in my family and even back then I had fairly strong views about the operation. However, although at that stage I had not signed a relinquishment form, I was told that I was not my child’s mother and had no right to make such a decision. His adoptive family would want him circumcised and by that time, it would be too late. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage already,’ said the nurse wielding the pen.

Indeed I had done enough and wanted to be delivered from this terrible state. I remember the office in the Department of Community and Social Services where I was to sign the relinquishment form, the white square of window behind the social worker’s head. Her words were a drone. If she was offering me a way out, I did not want to hear it. Such a choice was the devil’s temptation. I must do what was right.

Sadly I had not taken into account the real endings of those biblical stories because both have happy outcomes. Moses eventually reclaimed his mother and his people. King Solomon, recognising the real mother as the one prepared to relinquish her child, handed the baby back. But in my contract Moses would remain in the palace forever and King Solomon’s sword would always remain poised.

*

In 1976 New South Wales established an Adoptive Persons Register and Ontario opened a similar facility in 1980. It seemed that the supposed science of closed adoption had not stood the test of time. Children did not necessarily become like their adopted parents and many longed to know their origins. But as filing cabinets were unlocked more than names were released. Birth mothers began telling their stories—stories that suggested these children were part of a ‘stolen white generation’ and that in the pursuit of finding babies for infertile couples, relinquishing mothers had been left open to abuse.

I felt acutely uncomfortable with such claims. No-one took my baby. I signed that form of my own free will. It was only later that I found a file in the attic containing newspaper articles and a letter to the Children’s Aid Society in Canada that I had begun to write. It began, ‘I don’t know how you can sleep at night after what you have done to me …’ The rest of the page had been stabbed with my pen.

What had they done? Clearly I could not find the words to articulate it nor did I want to acknowledge to myself that I was clipping out articles in the first place.

*

I did find my son, a tentative reaching out on both sides, fearful that we might break something as we dismantled that original contract. I will always remember that first meeting. We were both overwhelmed. My son said that he did not know where to begin as he had never before been in a room with anyone who looked like him. That was more than seven years ago and our relationship has grown stronger along the way. Other reunions have not gone that well, perhaps because both parties hope for a particular kind of validation that the other cannot give.

Dian Wellfare, founder of Origins, an organisation that lobbies on behalf of birth mothers, wrote in her paper ‘Wake Up Little Suzie’[9] that single mothers were initially told that they would be the best kind of mothers by giving up their babies. Later in another social context, they became the sort of women who could give a child away. A double branding so to speak. We would always remain whores.

An apology is now owed to women who were placed in the position of making a choice that was no choice at all. Compensation is also warranted for those struggling with mental illness as a result. Yet I worry about the ‘victim’ status often assumed in an effort to be seen as deserving of such recompense. What can emerge in this scenario is an image of the violated virgin who subsequently had her baby removed—the same almost faultless virgin we wanted to be years ago when we added up the times we had sex on our fingers trying to determine if we were a little less sinful than the girl in the next room. The underlying premise was that the less sex you had the better mother you could become, until like the Virgin Mary you have no sex at all.

Women who relinquished children must be wary of slipping into the same old constructs in a desire to be understood. There is no need to shear away our sexual natures in order to present ourselves as loving, concerned mothers. Claiming all of ourselves is true redemption, a severing of bondage to those who would punish us for a non-existent sin, and particularly if that bondage is to a previous self still caught in a cruel contract.

Notes

1. Ellen Herman, ‘The Paradoxical rationalization of modern adoption’, Journal of Social History, vol. 36, no. 2 (2002), pp. 339–77. Herman implicates the social sciences in what she calls the ‘arrogant and utopian goal’ of bringing life under confident control. Back to article

2. Steven Pinker, The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature, Penguin, London, 2002. Pinker deconstructs the blank slate theory, pointing out that ‘It has distorted the choices faced by mothers as they try to balance their lives, and multiplied the anguish of parents whose children haven’t turned out as they hoped’: p. x. Back to article

3. The Chosen Child, aired by the Australian Broadcasting Commission in 1966 and used as a background to the Lateline Program ‘Birth Rights’, 8 October 1997. Back to article

4. New South Wales Parliament, Legislative Council, Standing Committee on Social Issues, Releasing the Past: Adoption Practices, 1950–1998, Parliamentary Paper no. 600, Sydney, December 2000, pp. 97–8. Back to article

5. Anne Petrie, Gone to an Aunt’s, Remembering Canada’s Homes for Unwed Mothers, McClelland & Stewart, Toronto, 1998. Back to article

6. John Shotter, ‘The Social Construction of Remembering and Forgetting’, in David Middleton and Derek Edwards (eds), Collective Remembering, Sage Publications, London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi, 1990, p. 123. Back to article

7. Jane Hillyard Little, No Car, No Radio, No Liquor Permit: The Moral Regulation of Single Mothers in Ontario, 1920–1997, Oxford University Press, Toronto and New York, 1998, p. 35. Back to article

8. Held at Liverpool Hospital, NSW, 2002. Proceedings are available at http://www.originsnsw.com/mentalhealth/index.html. Back to article

9. Dian Wellfare, ‘Wake Up Little Suzie’, Presentation by Origins Inc. NSW, Parliament House, Victoria, 1998. Back to article