Searching for Connection, Identity, and Community as a Honduran-Born Adoptee
I wanted her language, her understanding of Honduras, a family like hers. I wanted things she could never give me.
born I felt my heart wilt at the thought of her thinking less of me. If I explained that I’d been adopted, in her eyes I would no longer be someone like her. Maybe I would no longer be Honduran at all.
More in this series
Will my intestines turn the sacred bread into holy shit, or does the miracle not extend that far into the digestive process?