In case you ever need to do it, or even if you’re just curious, here’s how it works:
You complete an extensive application requesting membership with a new family group. You’ll be asked about your belief system, your politics, your educational background, and your employment history. This includes your previous family groups if you’ve had any.
And, sure, some of the questions are silly. Does it really matter what kind of tree you’d be?
Trust the process, though. You have a lot to lose and to gain.
It'll feel intrusive. At least, it did to me the first few times. It’s good, though. Think of it as unpacking some of that cosmic clutter in your head.
Give them as much detail as you’d like. They won’t read it all, though. They make tens of thousands of new families a year. Someone else has given your answers in a different town, in a different state. There’s comfort in knowing you’re not alone.
In the meantime, you stay with your current family. Do your best to smile, to smooth over any rough edges. Daydream about the parents who are out there waiting, those aunts and uncles and maybe even siblings who are ready to welcome you.
Do you tell your current family? I’ve never found it helpful. They already know that something is causing you to drift away.
I’ve never seen a parent who didn’t already know.
After a few weeks, you’ll get a call to schedule an in-person interview. Don’t spend the whole interview bashing your current family members. You might send the message that the problem is with you. The old saying, “Wherever you go, there you are” applies. Why would they go to the trouble of helping you if you’re just going to be dissatisfied somewhere else?
In the waiting room, take a look around, but don’t make eye contact. If you see someone you know, don’t be surprised. Once I saw a guy I knew who had a big house, a beautiful wife, and the cutest kids. He sat there pretending to read a magazine. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it.
Expect more questions. What would you do if a relative made a sexist joke? Ignore him, or call him out on it? What if a family member needed money and you only had so much? Should people focus on healthy eating or eat what makes them happy? Are you happiest in large groups or small ones, or even by yourself? Are gifts important? Are you organized, or are you sloppy?
All of these things matter.
They’ll ask you again why you want a new family. Be honest, but tactful. Show a little vulnerability. You can’t stand how your mom considers you a disappointment. You can’t deal when your dad asks if you have a girlfriend and then looks her up and down when you finally bring her home. Your grandmother likes you better than your sister. You have no idea why, but you agree that you are more likable.
A good answer? Look down and shrug. Send the message that it’s too painful to talk about.
A bad answer? Blaming someone else. Your parents didn’t pay for your summer camp. Your brother said you were fat. Your cousin is a raging narcissist.
The agency has a high success rate. They want more satisfied families. They want to see positive reviews on that final customer survey. But they can only work with what you give them.
After the interview, a few weeks or a month might go by. Then you’ll get an invitation to a Sunday dinner with a possible family.
At this point, I recommend telling your current family group that it’s not them, it’s you, and that you’re considering your options.
They might consider changing when you tell them. But probably not.
You’ll get the address a few days before. Drive by and take a look. Is this a place where you can see yourself?
When you arrive for dinner, did they include any of your favorite foods from your application? That’s a good sign. Did they shake hands first and then give you a hug after the meal? How’s the conversation? Flowing or stilted and awkward?
No matter how many answers matched up on their application and on yours, there’s no substitute for the Sunday dinner test. Make sure you praise the food. Don’t say anything dumb, like “Can I have the recipe?” Nobody is going to give you the recipe if you don’t end up joining the family. If you get the position, you can ask for the recipe later.
If there’s an empty chair at their table, don’t ask.
After this, you wait. Check your emails and messages. You’ll have more time than you need because your current family will be grieving. Some applicants come home to find their stuff packed and already boxed after that Sunday dinner. I’ve heard of parents sobbing on porches and slamming doors and long, silent evenings frozen into stillness.
Once, I left on Mother’s Day.
Stay focused on your goal. Remember, this is not only for your own good, but for theirs, too. Above all, remain professional.
Maybe someday, they’ll thank you.
And if you don’t get this family position, there’s another one out there. You’ve already come this far. Don’t give up now.
Once it’s official, start packing. Submit two copies of your letter of resignation. One goes to your parents, for their records. (Don’t worry—you don’t deliver it in person. The agency mails it afterward.)
Should you bring family photos?
That’s a tough one. One guy said his new family altered an old family photo to add his picture after he joined them. There he was, only two years old, already with them, in living color.
He was one of them. A part of their tribe, all along.
Heather Bartos writes both fiction and nonfiction. Her essays have appeared in Fatal Flaw, McNeese Review, HerStry, LitroUSA, and elsewhere. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Baltimore Review, Ponder Review, Rappahannock Review, Relief: A Journal of Art and Faith, and other publications.
Photo by: Jordan Whitt