Pandora's (check)Box

Monday, after my grandmother’s birthday party, I received a text from my father.

“Jonathan….. you were absolutely right. I just reread my letter to you… yes it was all about me… which I am sure only hurt all the more.  I just sent you a short letter to explain and ask forgiveness. You should receive it in a day or two.”

Some might feel anger at a text like this one. Others might feel confusion.

I laughed.

Pardon my decent into madness, but why wouldn’t you just text an apology if you’re going to write out an apology? Why wouldn’t you just call and say that? Wouldn’t it be easier?

But then again, I imagine that nothing about this situation has been done the easy way, so why would the acknowledgement of wrongdoing be any different?

I was at home when I got this text, and relayed it to my roommate, R, and his girlfriend, D. I explained my thoughts to them as well.

Since writing seemed to be my father’s method of communication to me, I decided tonight was the night. I started writing my first posts for the blog.

I’m an English teacher. I have a Bachelor of Arts in English Education and a Master’s Degree in the Humanities. I have never actively kept a journal, nor have I written many stories. I find it difficult to carve out the time in my life for myself, and writing a blog demands resolve to write regularly. I thought that the challenge was one I was willing to take.

I enjoy telling stories. I love to read. But, somehow, finding the words outside of an academic paper was incredibly challenging and completely foreign to me.  What happened if my writing was bad? What if no one read the blog I would write? Rejection was a real fear about this, especially since so many people seemed to know about it. If it wasn’t received well, I wasn’t sure what to do.

More importantly, what if people actually read it? I’d be putting a lot about myself out there, given that I wanted to honestly describe the experience I was going through. Was I ready for people to share their own opinions and ideas about everything that has happened?

I will admit—there is a slight fantasy in my brain (and it’s still there) that somehow my biological parents will find my blog and read it. Then they’ll contact me, and we’ll meet, and everything will be wonderful. (Well, that or that someone will read this and turn it into a mini-series. Either way. Maybe the mini-series will help me find my bio parents? I have dreams!)

Believe it or not, I’m not a naïve person. My life has not worked out in a fairy tale perfect setting. Surprised? Yeah, me neither.

But then I had a new thought. What if there are other people go thought a similar situation? What if they don’t know what to do, and might need to know that someone has had a shared experience, which helps them know they aren’t alone? That would make this worth it.

Oddly enough, this thought also helped me realize that if there was a chance of the blog empowering others, I should also begin to do things empower myself.  So, I developed a checklist of things I need to start doing in order to assist my journey. It reads as follows:

·         Write my blog (read above as to why).

·         Find a therapist (because if I didn’t have things to work through before, I definitely do now.).
Find a new doctor (since I need to start from scratch with my medical history, I might as well begin with a new doctor. Why not go through all of this with someone who knows as much about me, biologically speaking, as I know about myself!).

·         Get a massage (my shoulders are like granite. It’s actually scary.).

·         Find a copy of my original Birth Certificate (so that I might be able to know where my parents were born, in an effort to find them.).

·         Contact American University’s Alumni department to see if one or both parents attended (maybe peruse a yearbook and find out what they looked like?).

·         Research Adoption details in Maryland (what exactly are my rights and abilities as an adoptee? I have no idea.).

·         Find biological Parents (obviously a long-term goal. And a challenging one at that.).

·         Try not to throat punch my dad or anyone who knew (civility first. Though, I reserve the right to do this, should beyond infuriating experiences occur.).

With this loose outline of a plan, I began to plan out the rest of the week. A good friend was getting married in DC in the upcoming weekend. I planned to stay with another friend who lived in DC, close to the venue, and who also happens to live near American University. I could go into the library and look through yearbooks after the wedding and see if my parents were students.

And, I could actually enjoy the union of two people who are building their own family and revel in their love.

I also realized that I wouldn’t have school on Friday, so I could try to get an original copy of my birth certificate.

Between that original copy, and looking through the yearbooks, I was convinced I would be finding my parents within days. Perhaps “convinced” is too strong a word. I had hope that I could find things out.

However, before I get to the bottom of the box, I have to fully confront all of the darkness and chaos surrounding me.

Guess this is where I embrace the chaos?

Nature or Nurture? Wishing for the latter, but getting the former...

Sunday morning I began to get ready for my Yiayia’s 94^th birthday party. I was looking forward to seeing the family, but nervous because I wasn’t sure if everyone knew or not about me and my adoption. Either way, it was daunting, because I would either have to deal with their guilt for not having told me, or have to tell them, which is differently draining and exhausting.

Originally, I planned on driving with my father. Instead, I opted to drive myself at the repeated suggestion of many friends. It was a wise decision.

Upon arrival, I began to greet everyone who had joined us, including my father. It was the first time I’d seen him since I’d gotten my adoption paperwork on the previous Monday. And a few days after reading his letter.

We hugged, awkwardly, and then quickly continued to greet the other party guests and catch up from the last time we saw each other, which was Easter. It was oddly calming watching football, talking to the family, and seeing how everyone was doing all while eating great snacks and appetizers. I’m telling you, food makes everything better.

Prior to dinner, I was outside and began to talk to my Uncle J and one group of family members. J asked if I’d spoken to my father, and I responded yes, but that it was awkward. Naturally, the family members asked what was going on.

So, the first of a few explanations began, and I plowed head first into the events of the past two weeks, with a few details for context. Yup. Just found out I’m adopted through an anonymous email. No, don’t know where I officially come from. My mom is in Ireland with her likely controlling husband. My father is attempting to be helpful. They didn’t think I could handle the information. Yes, I’m doing ok… given the circumstances.

On the upside, they didn’t know about my adoption. On the downside, wait… was there a downside? Maybe that they didn’t know about the last five years and my family’s struggles with my mom, so my brief explanation altered how they saw her.

Oh well. I’m not dealing with falsehoods or lies anymore.

After we ate, I was in the kitchen, catching up with another family member who is also a teacher. I told her the basics as well, and she was understandably shocked. I began to explain further, but just as I got into the frustrations I was having with my father, my father walks up to me to tell me that he’s going to leave the party early.

You know, before we cut the cake for my 94-year-old grandmother. Thoughtful.

His opening parting lines, as he leans in to hug me, were “You should call your dad and check up on him to see how he’s doing in all of this.”

I’d been calm though so much of the past few weeks, to ensure I didn’t hurt his feelings, or seem ungrateful, or angry, or any other emotion that might make him feel uncomfortable and scared that I would somehow abandon him. Something in me snapped. I literally pushed him away, mid-attempted hug.

Me: “Did you really just ask me to check up on you, when you, at no point, have asked me how I am doing in all of this?”

Dad: “Yes I have!”

Me: “No, you haven’t.”

Dad: “Yes, I have. Did you get my letter?”

Me: “The five page letter you snuck into my adoption paperwork? Yes. I got that letter.”

Dad: “I asked you how you were doing in that.”

Me: “No. No, you didn’t. That letter was entirely about you.”

Dad: “What about in the first paragraph? I asked how you were doing there.”

Me: “No you didn’t. The entire thing was your case for why you’ve been a good father.”

Pause. Blink. Then…

Dad: “Well, when I get home, I’ll have to reread it.”

Wait… WHAT?!? How would he be able to reread my letter unless… unless….

Me: “You made a copy of the personal letter you wrote to me?!?” Incredulity, shock, and horror, all at once.

Dad, clearly not sure if this is the correct answer: “Yes…”

Me: “You are aware that the fact that you copied the personal letter you wrote and gave to me smacks of the highest levels of narcissism, right? We need to not have this conversation right now. This day isn’t about us. We will discuss this later.”

He was clearly stunned, but he continued to say goodbye to me and everyone else and made his way home.

L, the teacher, suddenly appeared in front of me and gave me a huge hug as I started to apologize over and over for what she just witnessed.

She, of course, responded that I shouldn’t worry about it. My reaction made sense. It was fine.

I could not fathom what my father had just expressed to me. Was he really that self-absorbed, or was he misunderstanding the situation that much? Had we somehow switched places, and he was the child who had been lied to for 33 years, and I was the parent?

What had I missed?

That interaction, which lasted less than three minutes, infuriated me more than almost anything else in this experience to date.

I needed comfort. I needed support. I needed love. Why didn’t he know or understand that as a parent I needed those things from him. If he had just asked me “How are you doing?” I probably had responded in kind. But without his inquiry, I felt that much more alone and hurt.

Why couldn’t my father understand that?

I tried to move forward as we sang Happy Birthday to Yiayia, acknowledging how I felt, but not letting it ruin my time with family.

I completed my final round of explaining my adoption to the last family members, and, in doing so, I started to feel better about this process. There was something almost magical about telling people who didn’t know, and hearing things like “It does explain how different you are from your parents.”

I hadn’t really considered that before. Was I that different?

I am an extrovert, through and through. Though, I like to listen to people, and engage in conversations about many different subjects, especially ones that are interesting to the other person. I really value people, and love learning from them. I don’t think of myself as overtly empathetic or compassionate, but I suppose I might be above average in both of those areas.

My father, however, makes me look introverted. He has repeatedly invited strangers home for dinner. He can walk into a room and talk to anyone. Literally anyone. However, his conversations tend to be a bit one-sided, and often are focused upon his work, his music, and his experiences.

My mother is a clear introvert, who has learned to function in social settings, thanks to my dad. She is often welcoming, when playing the hostess or guest, but finds large groups tiring, and often is a poor communicator with people who want to get close to her.

I’m energized in groups, but can handle quiet time too. When in social situations, I make a point to remember details about whomever I’m around. Details like what he/she does for a living, some of his/her interests, his/her names… I find it makes initial small talk easier when you can respond to someone by name.

But, where did I learn to treat people so differently from the way I was raised? I’m not perfect by any means, but I like to treat people like they matter… because they do matter.

Did that make for such a noticeable difference between me and my parents?

As I got to my car to drive home, I started thinking about this more and more. So many studies have been done into whether nature or nurture, biological make-up or experience, make us who we are. Did my experience only explain part of me? I was confident that I am a mixture of my parents.

Maybe I am, but what if my introversion/extroversion factors are not limited to the two people who raised me—maybe it’s more inclusive with both sets of parents? Maybe I am more of an anomaly because of my genetics teamed with my experiences made me into who I am.

Believe me—it’s a trippy thought. Maybe there’s more to my understanding of myself as being adopted than I realized. The need to reevaluate your understanding of yourself is a very outlandish thought.

But maybe, just a little, I was glad that I was not biologically related to a person who can flee to a European country when things get tough, or someone who makes copies of personal letters in order to review them later.

Perhaps that makes me a terrible son. Perhaps that makes me a logical person. Perhaps I should be studied (I’m clearly in a double-blind situation, so why not?)

Ultimately, I think it means that I’m just confused. But for right now, I’ll take a deep breath and accept that I’m my own person. People seem to like and love me for who I am. No matter what the reason, I’m blessed and honored to have their love and support.

And I will acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, my father is trying to say “How are you?” even if it comes out wrong, and even if in that wrongness, it hurts.

But, if I can accept that, it would be equally understandable and incredibly nice just to be asked, honestly and without prompting, how I’m doing by my dad.

Especially, since he has known this day would come for 33 years, but I didn’t.

Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Too bad it appears to be.

Letters and Fight Songs

The following evening my friend M and I had decided to get together. She wanted to see how I was doing. We originally were to meet and go out to eat. Instead, I wanted to cook.

I have found that cooking is one of my favorite types of therapy. First, I love good food. Second, I find chopping things very therapeutic, especially onions. Third, I love feeding people good food. To me, food is love.

So, cooking dinner for us was a much better option, since I’m still working on finding a therapist and I’d also be feeding one of my roommates (I worry. The boy needs to eat.).  Win-win.

We talked, caught up on daily life, and I shared what I’d found out over the past few days. About how I’m related to someone named after French royalty and someone else who shares a name with a wildly popular fictional television character. About how my biological father called to check in on me, according to my grandmother. About the fact that I might have a brother in the ether somewhere. About how surreal my life has become.

She wanted proof of the names, so I got the folder out and started going through it. I showed her the comments from the state’s representative wanting to also be adopted by my parents, and how unbelievable the statements were. Then we got to the end. Where the letter from my father was resealed and waiting for me.

We had split a bottle of wine three ways. The wine, teamed with M’s proximity, gave me the pluck to peruse the pages with my people.

So, I began to read my father’s letter out loud.

First, because it would’ve been rude if they were just sitting there as I read silently to myself. I mean, it was five pages. I read quickly, but it's still rude if people are gaping at me as I do so.

Second, I had an inkling that this might not be something I want to keep to myself.

I was right.

To begin with, as an English teacher, I was intrigued at the physical way the letter was laid out. The margins changed, paragraph by paragraph. They indented back and forth, almost like a game of Asteroid had been played on the page. The more I looked at it, the way the words were presented on the page seemed to mimic the back and forth of my father’s struggle with this situation.

I won’t quote the entire letter, but I will state that the short of the long letter was that it was a case for why my father was a good father to me. It had evidence, it pleaded, it even asked questions.

Questions like “Who would you be if not for me?”

That question was not the supportive catalyst I believe my father meant it to be.

So, I did what I’ve done and will continue to do throughout this process. I laughed. It was not quite hysterical laughter, but it was close.

You see, while there was evidence, much of it was either out of date or inaccurate. I’m an English teacher. This stuff matters to me on principle. All specified events were from before I was a teenager. Mainly because this was primarily when my father was most active in my life.  There were dates of activities listed when my father believed I had experienced them, such as choir tours or family vacations or weekly trips to music lessons.

At first glance, it was a kind gesture. These are moments of our shared past which showed a familial connection, where we might have bonded over these events.

Except, many of the dates and ages he specified were incorrect.

A more important realization was triggered in my brain—that just as so many things in my father’s recounting, the events—including factual accuracy—are fluid as they relate to him, because it’s about the outcome (namely, how he is perceived), not the events themselves (which are trivial details, but eventually and ultimately lead back to him).

Except, this time it is not about him. It’s about me.

If he’s playing fast and loose with my history in a letter designed to sway me into talking to him about what he’s going through (yes... what he's going through. Not what I'm going though), ignoring what I need—namely the truth, He ultimately has decided to put his story before mine, which means that I’m secondary to him.

The message of this letter, as I reread it, was that my tale revolved around him—how he found me, and what he’d done for me, because he’s the hero. And not just any hero, but God’s hero.

And I take offense to that.

If there was any doubt I’d be sharing my story in some way publicly, this ended that internal struggle. I was the hero of my own damn origin story, and would continue to be.

My problem with this letter and what it represents centers around this: If the reason I wasn’t told about my origins was that I couldn’t be trusted not to run away, and that wasn’t true or ever going to be true, the story was now being changed to better fit that narrative.

While I’ve already established that I believe that I need my father in my life, I also, at least theoretically, need my mother too. But that doesn’t help the current narrative of my father, because he’s the only one here and as the main person featured in my story, my mother doesn’t really factor in anyway.

But this also introduces another, more important problem—whose story do I allow myself to believe is the truth? A man who bends history to his will to suit his needs, or at least three people (so far…) who have very similar, though more vague, details about my biological parents?

If only I had someone else who also adopted me to give me specific details.

Oh wait… Too bad she’s missing in Ireland.

The narrative I was being told (not asked, or shared with) that I wouldn’t be who I am without my father’s involvement in my life (which apparently and abruptly stops after around age 12, according to the letter’s timeline (which also begs the question how was I able to function as an adult on my own for the past 20 years without direct instruction or involvement, given no seemingly specific knowledge about anything past that point?)). According to the letter he snuck into my adoption paperwork, I clearly needed him in my life, especially since God placed me in my father’s arms, both literally and figuratively.

Putting God’s plan aside for the moment, I’m looking for truth, but am being asked to trust people who have kept truth from me or outright lied to me my entire life. How can I ever believe that they were being honest with me again? And how can I know that it’s the actual truth?

The only way I will know for certain is by researching everything myself in order to find out the truth on my own, in my own way (well, not on my own, exactly. On my own, initially perhaps, with help from some great friends who are family. Good thing I have a few of those!).

I have already worked hard to bring myself to this point in my life. I’ve been working since I was 14 to pay my way through school (private school and college—great combo for your bank account). I played in my college orchestra to receive scholarship money, and worked two jobs while attending undergrad full time and maintaining a high GPA to ensure academic scholarships too. I have paid my own way through graduate school, while teaching full time.

And I have struggled with the need to please my parents in everything I’ve done because I have never felt adequate, because it was expected of me to succeed and never falter. I have strength that I never realized, and I’m not about to falter now.

The struggles I’ve faced have been challenging, and I feel that I’ve done many of these things without much direct support. As I share my story, the obvious support I have has been evident. Because of it, I know I can look into the specifics of who my biological parents are and where they came from on my own too.

I now realize and accept that I may have been granted opportunities thanks to the people in my life, but I am the one who utilized them and authored my own success.

No one else.

I get to choose my own path and my own story from this point on.

I will fight.

I will win.

I will find out the truth.

(Cue the intro to Game of Thrones. Or the theme music to Harry Potter. Or the intro to Hamilton. Or Rachel Platten. Whichever.)

Jon Potter-Hamilton, formerly Snow, at your service.

Just you wait…

The Divine Secrets of the Yiayia Family-hood

Two days after I received all the adoption paperwork, I traveled to visit my grandmother, her son, and his wife.

Suddenly it made much more sense why we referred to her as my adopted grandmother.

You see, with my mother’s family in the UK, and my father’s family spread out, Yiayia (It’s grandmother in Greek. She’s Greek. Yay for a diverse and disconnected heritage!) lived next to us when I was brought home. She became my grandparent proxy, and has been there through everything important in my life. She has lived with her son and daughter-in-law for many years, which is how we were introduced. They now also blur the family line for me, acting like aunt and uncle and pseudo-parents too.

We spend multiple holidays throughout the year with my grandmother’s family. After almost 20 years and the addition of all of the children, and grandchildren, other family members, and friends gathered, celebrations like Thanksgiving, Easter, and other events are only real to me when we are together. They are all another example of why an adoptive family is not foreign to me, and why I am still so baffled by this experience. They all love me, and I love them, and we’re not related. It doesn’t matter.

Upon arrival for dinner we greeted each other warmly, and hugged, and chatted for a bit. I could tell that J and P were both wondering what prompted my call for dinner on a school night in the middle of the week. But, being kind, they didn’t push me, which is good since I am still no good at casually dropping my adoption into conversation.

P suggested I go get Yiayia from her rooms for dinner, which would be in about ten minutes.

Instead, I said, “OK… but before I do I need to let you guys know something.”

They both stopped and looked at me. “Um… Ok…”

“Before I get Yiayia, I wanted you to know that part of the reason I wanted to come over to dinner tonight was, besides wanting to spend time with you, was that I just found out that I was adopted.”

My heart was in my throat again. I really hate having to say this, especially to people who likely knew. However, their reaction made this time worth it.

“Oh thank God! We’ve been fighting with your parents for years about telling you.”

 A tension I hadn’t officially noticed in my stomach and my back suddenly unclenched. They knew… but they also actively said something to my parents about telling me? That was new. And important. And… I cannot express how much positive emotion sprang from this realization that people I love fought for me to know about myself. To this point, no one else had reacted this way. I was almost speechless.

“You fought with my parents about telling me?”

“Of course. You had a right to know!”

And, right then, if possible, I loved them both a little bit more than I did before.

We talked for a few more minutes before I went to get my grandmother for dinner. They suggested that I tell Yiayia before dinner, so we could all talk at dinner. I agreed.

I climbed the stairs, suddenly lighter than I anticipated. I gave my grandmother a hug, and I told her what I’d found out. She hugged me, genuinely happy that we could finally be truthful. She also told me that I was and would always be her grandson. Nothing changes that.

It’s amazing how hearing little things like that make such an intense impact on you.

I burst into tears.

For anyone who knows me, and for those who don’t, I will remind you all that I generally have a short range of emotions. Excitement, frustration, and sarcastic. That’s pretty much it. I don’t love human contact, unless we are very close, and can count on one finger how much I cry, on average, per year.

I liked to think that it was my cold, cold British heart that only showed affection to dogs and horses. Except, I can’t officially claim that any more. So, I guess I have 33 years of emotions to experience. And I started feeling many of them at that moment, while hugging my grandmother.

We made it downstairs, and started eating. And I had 1,000,000 questions. I started by explaining what my father had told me, trying to be clear about every detail he’d shared.

After I was done, Yiayia offered what she knew. My grandmother’s version of events was very clear, and matter of fact… and different from the events my father shared.

Not everything was different, because she wasn’t involved in the meeting or the adoption paperwork. However, there were things she said that made more sense, and aligned more with what Xena and my friend E had said.

“If I’m not mistaken, your mother as a student at American University in Washington DC. Possibly your father too. They were both musicians, as I’m sure your father told you.”

“No… he said my biological father might have played oboe… but nothing specific about either of them. And, remember, my biological father didn’t seem to want much to do with me.”

“That’s not true.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

“That’s simply not true. I was at your house at least once, possibly twice, when he called to check up on you. I remember specifically because your mother didn’t know how to respond to him.”

“Seriously?!?”

“Yes. Please don’t think he didn’t care. He cared enough to make sure you were alright.”

This changed everything. He wanted to make sure I was doing OK? Does that mean that my father didn’t meet him on a subway platform to sign me away? I mean, someone who cared probably wouldn’t do that, would he? Or maybe it was just guilt for signing me away on a metro platform.

Either way, it gave me hope that if I ever found him, he might want to talk to me. And that changed everything because it was the motivation I needed to start looking for him.

But it also meant that my father’s version of events needed to be called into question. His narrative was flawed.

The rest of the evening was spent discussing and dissecting what I knew, what I didn’t know, and what my current plan would be to begin researching my biological parents, in order to find them.

Two big revelations of the evening:

The first came when P, J’s wife, asked me unexpectedly, “Out of curiosity… How did your mother react when you came out to her?”

“Not well. After I told her, there were three days of crying, and avoiding me, and both of us generally feeling awful. She came into the guest room/office area of our house, since I still lived at home. I was grading, and she needed to use the fax machine. When she saw me, she gave me a terse ‘Oh. Hello.’

I looked at her after a very awkward pause and asked her the following. ‘Mom… do you remember how you always told me as I grew up that you would love me no matter what? That even if I were a murderer you would love me?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘I just wasn’t sure if me being gay would be worse than that.’

And she stopped for a moment, and looked at me for the first time in three days. As she took the paper from the fax machine, she stopped again, looked at me and gave me this encouraging gem:

‘Oh… Well… Don’t get AIDS.’ And then left.

I think that pretty much sums up how she took my coming out.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah… not the best, most welcome reaction.”

I suddenly realized this is probably why I was so hesitant about telling people about this, and other life-changing situations. It stemmed to my mom’s reaction when I came out. I also realized that I was allowing myself to have that reaction.

That had to stop.

If I was allowing it, then I could stop allowing it. I could empower myself to tell everyone and take back the power of this situation by telling my story. It’s one of the main reasons why I started writing this blog.

The second realization came when J asked me about how I was reconciling the different version of events, between my father and everyone else, and how I realized it also applied to my adoption.

I related it to a gigantic game of telephone, where it would appear that my father’s version of events was also echoed and altered by his own experience. Given that he is now the sole person who knows any first-hand knowledge, and how in everything he told me about my adoption, he was the central figure of how I joined his family. This, I continued, is not surprising, given that my father tends to have narcissistic tendencies, and often changed events when it suited his purpose.

I cited a few specific situations that had occurred in one way at their origin, and then another way years later when each story’s events were no longer relevant and needed to be adapted to perpetuate his series of events.

J laughed and said “Oh… so you are aware of that. Good.”

This is the second reason I needed to write everything down.

It’s no longer anyone’s story but mine. Everyone in my life are players in this production. And I did need as much information from people who were around at the time of my adoption to share with me everything they knew. However, their understandings of events are clouded both by over three decades of time passing, and of love and affection for my parents and me, and of the echo chamber that happens when people talk amongst themselves about a given situation and, eventually, their stories conjoin into a more unified series of events.

The final realization for the evening: I have more support than I realized before walking into dinner. I’m really lucky. Even though there is no one else who knows what I’m going through. Not really.

Well, except for the possible half-brother Yiayia seems to believe my mother gave birth to and gave up for adoption the year before I was.

He might know.

Yeah. Bomb dropped.

Not exactly a piece of cake...

After a weekend’s break from all of the insanity of the previous week, I decided that I was ready to get my adoption paperwork from my father after school on Monday. Before I did, though, I had planned to meet one of my oldest friends for coffee.

We agreed to meet at a local Starbucks, catching up on our lives, as the school year is a busy time for both of us as we are both teachers.  As we spoke, I knew I had to drop the bomb that I was no longer sure was a bomb. I still hadn’t perfected a way to ease into the information, so I just smashed the wall instead.

“So… I found an email last week from four years ago. It told me I was adopted.”

“Oh…”

The level of butterflies someone must have in his/her stomach before asking a semi-life altering question is really nothing compared to this anxiety of everyone, even your close friends, potentially knowing so much more about you than you do. It’s unnerving, and terrifying, and saddening. And it’s something I’ve now had to go through, and may continue to go through, repeatedly. Forever.

And, I decided, no matter what her response was, it was the last time I would feel it (Now, I can’t say that the feeling has disappeared entirely, but I’m gaining more and more grace in realizing that everyone must carry on in daily life, and if it involves keeping a secret, it means keeping a secret. Otherwise, we couldn’t function. Welcome to humanity!).

“You knew, didn’t you? It’s ok if you did. Apparently everyone knew. Except me.”

“Well, I didn’t know for sure… My dad made a comment once. It was strange, and what he said clearly implied something about you being adopted, but I didn’t ask the follow up question to know for sure. If I had, and I found out for sure, I would’ve had to tell you. And It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

It’s never going to be entirely easy for me to hear a response like this again. The “I knew, but I didn’t want to tell you” response. I still can’t fully describe it. It’s not anger, exactly, but more a mix of frustration, confusion, hurt, with a slight burn of an anger chaser, and all because people were afraid of sharing the truth. And even though it’s from a good, though misguided attempt, at kindness, it still is a very trying, bittersweet experience and still stings.

We discussed so much.  It was good talking about everything that had happened with someone who has known me for almost my entire life, especially the new context it gave me about so many things. It allowed me to start to think about some of the things that my mother had said to me, or situations where people’s reactions to things made much better sense, or even comments I vaguely recollected from classmates in elementary school.

We said our goodbyes, and I went off to get whatever adoption paperwork my father had for me. I let him know I was coming and drove over.

The anticipation for what would be in that file was almost overwhelming.  I walked into my father’s condo, greeted him with a half-hearted hug and asked for the paperwork. He gave it to me, but asked me to dinner.

He had to be kidding—I couldn’t eat. I needed to read every single page that was enclosed in this folder.

I declined, and rushed home. I sat down and tore open the file.

There were so many random things inside. Thank goodness my father kept them all. Documents in legalese that detailed what was happening, or would happen soon after. Doctor’s receipts. Letters from my father’s lawyer. The adoption agreement. The final court proceedings. And, on these legal documents, the paperwork which had my parent’s names on it.

My roommate was watching as I opened all of this. I can only imagine what he thought as the following happened:

I gasped loudly as I read my mother’s name. And then I started to laugh. We were back to the crazy, maniacal laughter from the day I first read Xena’s email, it seemed.

I kept reading, and continued laughing as I read my father’s name. And then I said (some say said aloud… some say shouted…) “You’ve got to be joking. You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

I then explained that my mother was apparently named after someone who met the business end of the guillotine for wanting people to eat cake, and my father’s name was now synonymous with a famous TV drug dealer who was less of a baker, and more of a cook.

My mother’s name was Marie Antoinette? Seriously?

I was pretty convinced this story couldn’t get any stranger.

I have decided to stop thinking such things. The universe always seems to up the ante to prove me wrong.

I’ll admit. I was wrong. This was much stranger than I expected.

I suppose it takes a queen to make a queen. And I like to bake... and cook. So, I suppose that makes sense.

But as the laughter subsided, I slowly realized the universe’s crueler joke-truth in the paperwork. My biological mother, whose last name is very will different now than it was when I was born, did have a complete address from Washington DC, while my biological father’s details only included a city in Maryland.

Why would I see this as a joke? Because with the distinct possibility that my mother might have gotten married at some point, her last name has likely changed, as well as her address.

And the person whose name hasn’t likely changed never disclosed an address to begin with, and had a name that was both relatively common as well as recognizable to practically everyone on earth because of a television show. Google searches have provided little assistance. Believe me.

So I started reading through every word of everything. I was fascinated at the story these documents told. How could I not be?

As I came upon the paperwork for the final adoption proceedings, I had a moment of suspended disbelief.

First, the final adoption went through of August of 1983, which made the timeline my father shared with me inaccurate.

Second, in reading this document, it actually had a statement from the lawyer to the court, that, if, for whatever reason, the court didn’t grant my adoption to my parents, he implored the court to allow himself be adopted by my parents… 

Just like my father said when we spoke.

And it was in the documents. Legal court documents.

In so much of this experience, each time I take one step forward, I then immediately take one step back; the more information I gain, and less information it seems I have. The simultaneous feeling of knowing both more and less is so odd and difficult to describe. But, it’s why I keep describing it as cognitive dissonance, except deeper and more confusing, like I'm a living example of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle.

However, in this case, I was more confused and less confused, because at least one specific thing in my father’s story was documented—the statements from the state's lawyer. Yet, at the same time, the timeline he shared was not accurate. Then there's the lack of a physical address for my biological father, which seemed to indicate that, perhaps, my father was correct in saying that my biological father wasn't interested in me.

Or maybe he always came to the office to sign paperwork.

I didn’t, and still don't, know what to think.

Why was there seemingly contradictory information? Was I ever going to get an easy answer from all of this?

Apparently not. At least not tonight.

I waded through the final pages to find an envelope I had somehow missed before. It was titled “The Final Documents” and written in my father’s script. I flipped it over, and began to open it, assuming it was my final, approved adoption paperwork.

I also thought to myself, Wow. I didn’t realize that there were self-adhesive envelopes in the early 1980’s. Cool.

As I opened the envelope, I slowly realized it was a trap. It was a trap!

These were not documents about my adoption. They were a letter from my father.

A five page letter from my father.

You know, because I had asked for space on Friday night.

What better way to give someone some space than to write them a five page letter? It’s not obtrusive or cowardly at all.

I threw down the paperwork onto the easy chair and shouted a few choice expletives. By few, there was a string of ten to twenty words which would make sailors blush and ensure a movie be granted an R rating, spewed in very quick succession.

My roommate, I think, found it mildly amusing and slightly concerning. He asked what I found.

I explained why I was screaming curses as I shoved the letter back into the envelope and put everything back into the folder. I then promptly decided we needed to get out of the house and go eat something.

Oddly I wanted cake… with blue sprinkles....

I mean, it’s what Marie thought we all wanted. Who was I to disappoint?