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.