Lucky bastard by Anthony Akerman, a reader impression

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This reader impression was written and sent to LitNet on the writer's own initiative.

Title: Lucky bastard
Author: Anthony Akerman
Publisher: Praxis Publishing
ISBN: 9780796149152

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We often read to know we are not alone. Not so?
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If you have ever read anything by Anthony Akerman, you’ll know that he can spin a yarn. In the Daily Maverick and on LitNet, he frequently writes about the most incredible moments – especially chance meetings with well-known people. He seems to have an infinite array of friends and family members who are somehow connected to someone, and Akerman has the knack of unpacking significant historical moments in a fun-to-read story. Simply put: Akerman is a storyteller of note.

How, then, would he write about his own adoption story? The answer is easy: like Anthony Akerman would, of course.

The facts of Akerman’s origin are no longer a secret: a famous winemaker fathered a child with his childhood sweetheart. That little boy was adopted, and he turned out to be a bloody good storyteller, known as, yes, indeed, Anthony Akerman.

These are the dry facts. Now, go forth and purchase Lucky bastard so that you can enjoy the entire story as told by Akerman himself. The story is typical Akerman: full of delightful facts, fascinating historical figures, suspenseful pauses and surprising encounters.

It is about adoption

Unsurprisingly, the text delves into the pros and cons of adoption. It opens with a preface giving the reader a rough sketch about adoption practices. It is not a glorious account. Akerman is rather scathing about many of the practices. He is not alone. Many others would agree.

The law had for a long time protected biological parents who had chosen to give up their kids for adoption. What were they protected from? Embarrassment. By not being identified, they’d never have to own up to having a child (out of wedlock).

I gave a copy of Lucky bastard to a dear friend of ours who was adopted as well – after checking with her whether she’d be interested. She was keen, she read it and she confirmed that it spoke to her. Her story started in Ireland and ended in South Africa via a stay in the East. I will not say more, for it is hers to tell. Of importance is that her life was very different from that of Akerman, and yet she absolutely was able to relate.

Akerman is especially critical of the fact that for a long time the identity of biological parents was withheld from adoptees. He was delighted when the laws changed.

That I that is not he

Akerman grew up in a good family. His parents had a fabulous love story, and the young boy could trace his ancestry back to Russian royalty who stemmed from the knights of Bessarabia. On the Black Sea, there still is a town called Akkerman (note the double k).

One of the Russian royals made it to England, and by 1761 the Akerman family (now with the single k) were in possession of a coat of arms. The Duke of Norfolk bestowed upon Isaac Akerman the right that his descendants would “forever hereafter” use the arms. The young Anthony was thrilled to discover his ancestry. He, too, would be an Akerman with the right of bearing arms.

Then, of course, he suddenly lost it all. He was told that he was adopted. He was no Akerman, after all.

Who was he? Who would his parents have been? What about the proud Akerman ancestry? This is where the book becomes interesting from a sociological perspective.

Teenagers, born in or out of wedlock, always face difficulties dealing with their own identity. Neurologists will tell you that the frontal lobes are completely rewired during puberty. Even a child with a solid family background rages against the world during this time – how much more would a self-perceived “bastard” feel disconnected?

Who would not be angry? One day, you are descended from royalty; the next day, you are a nobody with absolutely no idea who your parents are. Akerman sketches this period of rebellion with the kind of wry humour that a reader can expect from him.

I do want to point out that Akerman often refers to his behaviour during his teenage years as being typical of an adoptee. He quotes academic studies to support this. Many readers, though, will relate, no matter what their own origin story might be.

A life in theatre, here and abroad

Anthony Akerman grew up to become a well-known director and playwright. This being a biography means that the lucky reader gets an insight into this part of Akerman’s journey. I found it fascinating.

After spending time in the army, Akerman realised that he’d rather not be part of upholding the apartheid regime. By then, he had studied drama, and opportunities in the UK made him decide to venture boldly in pursuit of his dreams.

From the UK, it was only a short hop to the Netherlands, and there Akerman found a kindred community. He learned Dutch and spent many years living there. Not only did he involve himself in theatre, but he got involved in the anti-apartheid movement, too.

This part of the book reads like a true Anthony Akerman story. It is fascinating to meet the well-known characters Akerman had dealings with, and to discover equally fascinating unknowns along the way.

To be honest, my only real gripe with Lucky bastard is that I’d have loved to have read about even more of this time in Akerman’s life. I do know, though, that many written pages got chucked out during the editing process, so perhaps we can look forward to a second biography focusing on his time in theatre.

A change of laws and a new journey of discovery

While Akerman lived in the Netherlands, the South African adoption laws changed, and adoptees were allowed to trace their origins. He did.

Get Lucky bastard, as this story is not for me to narrate. Have tissues handy when you get here! That first call from his mother. That first meeting with his dad – gripping stuff.

Adoption: The good, the bad and the awkward

Why do people adopt?

  • One reason is when a couple is incapable of having their own kids.
  • Another is to provide someone with a chance.

Before the fall of apartheid, white couples were carefully selected and paired with the biological parents. If one of the adoptive parents had blue eyes, a baby whose birth mother or father had blue eyes would, for instance, be placed with that couple. Hair colour was also considered, and so was education and class. Adoption opportunities did exist for black parents, but as with most things under apartheid, the resources for white kids were so much more.

As birth control grew more accessible and the role of the church decreased, girls began enjoying sex without the worry of falling pregnant. By the time apartheid finally fell, the church had also lost its grip on white society, and unwanted white babies became fewer.

As race laws were removed, black kids came up for adoption. Today, white parents are most likely to be offered black kids for adoption. My partner and I experienced just that.

For a few decades, this system of interracial adoptions worked well, but of late, ethnicity is rearing its ugly head again. This has nothing to do with Akerman’s book per se, other than warning that the ethnicity preachers will leap at the difficulties Akerman and others like him experienced, to suggest that white on white adoptions are difficult enough, and adoptions across the colour bar should be barred. That, of course, is utter nonsense.

And yet, we also need to understand that the search for identity, as experienced by Akerman, could manifest in ethnic curiosity by a black adoptee in a white household. When that happens, adoptive parents ought to be supportive, even when they themselves are uncomfortable with ethnic branding.

Raising adoptive kids is hard and, yes, often awkward as well. Many books on adoption look only at the sunny side. A book like Akerman’s, therefore, is a valuable read. It should certainly not discourage parents from adoption; it should rather make adoptive parents aware of the needs their adopted kid may have.

An important tool

While Akerman’s story is an important tool for those who try to understand their kids, it also has surprising literary value. RR Ryger’s novel Die hol gevoel is one of a few true cult classics in Afrikaans. The main character, Lytton, is an adoptee. He is so desperate to find himself that he becomes a drifter.

Lytton is not sketched in a sympathetic way. I wonder whether a rereading of Die hol gevoel, with a lens focused on Lytton’s search for identity as provided by Akerman, may not help a reader to understand better that hollow feeling that drives Lytton to extremes.

More than adoptees may experience a hollow feeling

Adoption laws have changed for the better, as Akerman’s book shows. Yet there still is a curious lack of transparency when it comes to various forms of fertility treatment.

A couple close to my partner and me tried to become pregnant. They needed sperm. They were able to source sperm from sperm banks, but the child born from that sperm would never be allowed to trace her/his biological dad. How is that different from what Akerman experienced?

The specific couple had even approached me as a potential donor, knowing that I’d be involved in their child’s life. I merely had to remind them that they would like to have an intelligent kid, while my IQ barely beats room temperature, and they opted for an anonymous donor instead. Their child may at some time experience feelings similar to what Akerman so lucidly describes, even though they are not adopted. Give them Lucky bastard.

We often read to know we are not alone. Not so?

See also:

First sip: Lucky Bastard by Anthony Akerman

André Brink’s Kennis van die aand – published 50 years ago – was the first Afrikaans literary work to be banned

On some women writers

“Wrong Fugard”

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