To the older girl on the bus who harassed me with the taunt “trash can baby” upon learning about my adoption, thank you. I say "thank you" because from that moment on, I realized something: I am more special than you.

As I was adopted at three months old, my family is all that I’ve known. From an early age, my mother talked to me about my adoption with the hopes to make me understand how I was a little different than some of my friends. We would talk about my birthmother who got pregnant when studying for her Masters Degree at the University of Maryland and decided that giving me up via an open adoption would be the best decision for our lives. We would talk about how although I didn’t come out of my mommy’s belly, I was still her baby. We would talk about how my adoption made me a little more special than other kids. While I now believe that my mom threw in that special bit in order to placate feelings of abandonment and isolation that can arise in adopted children, my 5-year-old mind equated “special” with “better” and ran with it.

While most children my age tended to introduce themselves with generic fun facts (i.e. I like ice cream, My dog’s name is Max, I have a sister, etc.) I chose to introduce myself as, “My name is Harleigh Bean and I am adopted.” While most children responded indifferently as many didn’t grasp what I was revealing, occasionally, I was met with resistance. Other kids would try to tease me, saying, “Your mom didn’t want you,” “Your parents aren’t really yours,” and “Your mom probably left you in a trash can.”

Unfortunately for them, my little brain had already formulated a response. (Cue, special = better mindset.) To those who openly refused to accept that I was adopted, I responded with arguably the best clap back in history: “My parents chose me, yours just hoped for the best.” As just seeing shocked faces wasn’t enough for my kindergarten self, I like to dig the knife in a little deeper, continuing, “I mean, my parents picked me out specially. Yours just got what they got.”

While I’m sure my mom was mystified about the number of calls she received from school informing her that I had (once again) been sent to the Head of School’s office for repeatedly “bullying” other kids for not being adopted, I secretly think she was a little, tiny bit proud. At the age of five, we had already been through a lot together. For a week, I had refused to call her mom and instead chose to address her as Ms. Janice in response to other children telling her that she was not my real mother. When I got older, she told me that she cried every night during that week. I think she was rather content upon hearing that her little girl had started openly accepting her adoption, albeit a little too “openly.”

Though "bullying" other kids about not being adopted might have not been the best option for showing pride in myself, it got the job done. At the very least, I got a good story out of it.

So to all of my fellow adopted kids out there, just know that you’re a little more special than the rest.