HENDERSON, Nev. — The woman, now 50, found herself with a dilapidated 50-year-old newspaper article that encapsulated an unfulfilled promise made by America. To preserve it not as a keepsake, but as evidence, she laminated the article. The faded photograph featured a little girl from rural America who once clung to her family’s pet Yorkshire terrier, with round brown eyes and pigtails that earned her the nickname “Buttons.” Beside her stood her proud parents — her father, an Air Force veteran who survived a German POW camp during World War II and had adopted her from an orphanage in Iran when he discovered her at just two years old. They brought her to the U.S. in 1972 on a tourist visa, but in the eyes of the law, she had overstayed her welcome, effectively rendering her illegal and vulnerable to deportation.
“My dad died thinking he raised his daughter right, never realizing it set me on a path of uncertainty and fear,” she reflected. The use of the nickname serves to protect her identity due to her precarious legal status. The message she received from her adoption was clear — “You’re an American,” it proclaimed — but the U.S. government failed to acknowledge her as such. Every newscast about political promises to round up undocumented immigrants unsettles her, leading her to contemplate the terrifying prospect of returning to Iran.
“I wonder what a detention camp would be like,” she pondered aloud. Meanwhile, her friend Joy Alessi, who herself is a Korean adoptee, was quick to reassure her that they had a plan in place involving lawyers and supportive Congress members. Despite this, both women knew the grim possibility of deportation loomed due to legal flaws that have plagued many like them for decades.
Having grown up in military families, both women had been taught to cherish the nation that granted them new lives, yet as adults they experienced a harsh reality when they learned that the adoption process didn’t guarantee citizenship for many international adoptees. Once filled with hope, they both hid in silence for years, until the political urgency surrounding immigration led them to connect with others who also faced the daunting uncertainty of their status. Stories of hardships and discrimination emerged from their newfound community, revealing the struggles of living without basic rights typically afforded to citizens — such as employment, healthcare, or even simple interactions with governmental agencies.
The population of adoptees who find themselves in this precarious situation is unknown but estimated to range from 15,000 to 75,000. They hail from various countries, with a significant number adopted from South Korea. Many have faced similar indignities, including job rejections and panic over potential government interactions. The Adoptee Rights Campaign was born from these shared experiences, receiving unexpected backing from diverse organizations, ranging from the Southern Baptist Convention to various liberal immigration advocates. Together, they confront a situation that Congress has neglected, with little recourse for those who have been adopted yet remain non-citizens.
Buttons and her peers are advocates for the cause, carrying around personal documentation that proves they belong. At 54, Buttons maintains a stable life with a corporate job and a home, but the specter of deportation hangs over her, particularly as the political climate shifts. “I hold on to this article as proof — but it’s hard to stay hopeful when the government won’t acknowledge our existence or provide citizenship,” she lamented.
The issue stems from a decades-old oversight wherein international adoptees were granted new birth certificates that suggest they have all the rights of biological children, yet their immigration statuses remained unaddressed. The inadequate policies have plagued families for years, creating a systemic issue that Congress recognized yet failed to remedy. They passed the Child Citizenship Act in 2000, which offered automatic citizenship, but only for those who were under 18 at the time it was enacted, leaving older adoptees in limbo.
The American adoption system itself has fostered this plight. Former adoptees have shared narratives of losing their citizenship status alongside those they formed familial bonds with upon arriving in the U.S. Despite advocacy efforts and the growing recognition of the issue, legislative attempts to rectify the situation have repeatedly been stalled out by partisan politics.
As these conversations unfold, the hope of better treatment grows dimmer for families like those of Mike and Laura Lynn Davis. With Mike deported to Ethiopia, Laura Lynn fights tirelessly for their reunion. The couple built a life founded on love, yet their dreams have become fraught with bureaucratic struggles and geopolitical realities that threaten to tear their family apart.
Meanwhile, individuals such as Emily Howe dedicate their lives to helping others navigate the complexities of citizenship laws. Howe, herself an adoptee, provides representation to those who find themselves in similar situations, urging that repairing the system shouldn’t be akin to luck — it should be a right. Adoptive families, once buoyed by enthusiasm, are now filled with anxiety over what political tides might bring.
In this tense atmosphere, the personal stories of adoptees continue to resonate. Many have devoted their lives to advocating for change, working together in hopes of creating a more inclusive system. Yet, as those who have already faced harrowing consequences make their voices heard, the collective reminder remains: Every individual, regardless of how they came to this country, deserves the chance to call it home.
As these struggles unfold, the sentiments from adoptees ring true: Citizenship should be more than a matter of paperwork or timing. The dream of the American identity must extend to all who were granted the opportunity of a better life, regardless of their origins.