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…