:: Printing & Duplication Policy ::

I entered the third floor of Denver’s State Capitol building not noticing the grand steps leading up to the door, nor the copper and marble architecture surrounding me above and below. The vastness of the building, this treasured landmark was last on my mind as I prepared to speak in front of a Judiciary Committee at 1:30 that afternoon.

As I sat with my mother in chairs against the wall and watched the door marked Room 357, our conversation drifted with gossip as certain others came to sit among us, waiting. I knew several of them, those who had come to testify for the bill that I had come to oppose.

No significance presented itself as the door to Room 357 opened and we all began to file in. The Senator’s, the aids, the interns, all of whom did this kind of thing everyday seemed unscathed and certainly without attachment to the issue at hand.

Six Senator’s, one Chairman, one Aid, Seven Interns, and twenty-three people signed up to testify all filled the room.

For three years I’d been speaking to large groups and had faced tough audiences before. As I sat, waiting, the reality I would later come to understand had yet to surface and this, for me, was just another day of speaking.

I was there, in the Capitol, to testify my opposition to bill HB1286 which, if passed, would put into place the option of birthmothers being able to sign pre-birth relinquishment petitions and avoid having to go to court. This bill meant that relinquishments would be final after just 72 hours of giving birth. The argument posed for those in agreement with this bill was simply, “This will help birthparents move on with their lives quicker, it will make it easy for them.”

My reasons for opposing this bill, aside from the above statement being ludicrous, were two-fold. One, I believe that pre and post-placement counseling as it is desperately needs to be evaluated. Secondly, I opposed this bill because I believe adoption agencies have a serious conflict of interest and by eradicating the court process, a birthmother would have no way of knowing if she’d been given what was rightfully hers.

I was set politically, prepared to go in and speak for what I believed. There were little emotions inside of me, for this was a place of politics and quick wit if you were to be heard. I was there to speak on behalf of the hundreds of birthmothers I’d worked with when their agencies had failed them. I would speak for them.

I was third in line to testify. The two previous testimony’s before me were emotionally provocative and those two birthmothers had poured open their hearts and revealed their stories of placement. While I felt incredibly proud of them for having the strength to do that, I knew in my own heart that the Senate had little connection and very little sympathy. I would have to do something different if I was going to be heard.

My name was called. I approached the long table filled with laptops and microphones and recording devices. I took my seat next to Senator Dyer. Thanked the committee, the chairman, and acknowledged Senator Dyer.

And that’s when it hit me. They were going to pass this bill. How much of what I had to say would honestly influence them enough to forget about their commitments to magistrates and agencies who flooded the state’s tax fund every year? What would I be able to say that would have such great influence that they would turn their own self-serving tables to step in line with me?

I realized suddenly … I was here for me.

It was my day to stand up and speak, and to be heard, and to be validated as a birthmother. After twelve long years … I would have my closure. I would stand up for what I believed in; for myself.

I would get closure from being jilted of counseling. I would get closure from everything I’d endured and gone through at the hands of adults who knew better. I would be strong, I would be proud, and I would finally say what I needed to say so that I could move forward in honor and grace.

After my testimony, I left the table and returned to my seat. My mother’s name was called. She stood from her chair, tears in her eyes and simply spoke, while holding my hand, “Senator, Committee, I concur with the previous testimony.”

I may have walked out of that room that day without the victory of a win where this bill was concerned. But instead, I walked out of that room that day with an even greater victory.

In the State’s Capitol, twelve years after last seeing my son, I proclaimed with great dignity, showing my face, and was proud that yes, I am a birthmother … and you will hurt me no more.

My mother took my hand as we stepped to the elevator. I suddenly realized that two things had happened that day. My mother stood up for me too. And I could finally forgive her.

As we walked down the steep cement steps outside the Capitol, the sun was out and shining and pigeons gathered for their daily feed. The city was alive with artists and politicians, business people, and mothers with children in strollers.

And I was free.

Copyright © 2003 Courtney Frey