First Day of School

In the process of writing and publishing, then traveling for the weekend for a wedding, and everything generally moving at the speed of light, it hadn’t occurred to me that my co-workers, many of whom are also friends on social media, would see and be reading my posts.

            I feel that it’s important to reiterate that I’m an extrovert by nature, and not afraid of people or public situations. Given my union activism, it would prove difficult to speak to officials and lobby for education if I were. I will often read a situation before responding, but when I do, I tend to speak my mind—about educational issues.

As for my personal life, and the events that occur outside of school, I don’t share much with people I only consider colleagues. In terms of my personal life, I prefer to be well into the shadows, out of the line of sight. Given the past few years, and all the awkwardness with my mom and dad’s divorce, then the insanity with my mother’s love life, a painful breakup with an ex last year for me, I don’t feel the need to share with everyone what’s going on with me for good reason.

Additionally, there have been times when at the lunch table where conversations have drifted toward questions about LGBTQ+ issues, and, as the resident member of that community, I’m the default spokesperson. While there have been moments of genuine interest or concern for me, I’ve also seen people literally shut off, turn away, or disengage when I speak about what it’s like to be gay. Or when I talk about going on a date. Or, if I speak about anything that involves something which makes them uncomfortable, which, as it turns out, is a large swath of my personal life.

That judgement is why I don’t love talking about my personal life or areas that overlap with my personal life with people with whom I am not close.

            Therefore, walking into school Monday was difficult. Again, I struggled with the idea that people were staring at me. But, the students didn’t know what was going on. And I walked into my room without anyone around. I was being paranoid.

            Except this time I wasn’t.

            I started my morning routine and walked into the teacher’s planning area. It felt as if everyone who was there stopped what they were doing and started staring at me. Some weren’t. But some were.

            And then began the conversations...

“Oh, I read your blog…”

“That’s so crazy!”

“What’s going on? What blog?”

So, first thing on Monday morning, I had to recount everything I knew about my current situation with work colleagues I largely don’t see outside of the building once I leave for the day.

It would be rude of me not to acknowledge that everyone who spoke to me mostly did so in a way that shared concern for my situation, and not entirely out of probing for lurid details about my life. Mostly.

Like much of this experience, knowing that people cared was comforting, even if I did have to articulate my pain a few hundred times. Ok. It wasn’t a hundred—it just felt like it.

At least I wasn’t entirely crazy for thinking people were looking at me anymore.

Getting into my typical daily routine was also helpful, and teaching was a welcoming distraction. Students would learn, and I would teach them, and that part of my life would progress as normal.

And then lunch came.

I was dreading it. Stuck in close-quarters, with no escape from people who would want to talk about it. Except, no one did, as the people I eat lunch with who I’m also connected to on social media were absent that day.  No one knew…yet. Small mercies.

I made it through the day. It was going to be ok.

Day two had fewer comments from co-workers, and I began to feel that I would be able to revert to some sense of normalcy.

Until I got to lunch.

            I walked in and saw a mostly full table, which meant everyone who typically came to eat lunch was present. I heated up my food in the microwave, and sat down. I was taking my first bite when my coworkers finished speaking about something. And then it began.

            “Jonathan… Wow. Just wow. How crazy to be going through all of this!”

            Now, more than ever, it felt as if a spotlight had zeroed in on me.  There was nowhere to hide, no corner to slink into.

            “Uh… Yeah. It’s all pretty crazy.”

            There’s no way I didn’t look like a deer in headlights; I certainly felt like one.

            So, naturally, those who I’m not connected to via social media started asking the obvious question… What’s up?

            Such a little question. Yet, obviously so loaded.

            I couldn’t ignore it, so I did what I’ve been doing in all of this—I met it head on and began to explain.

            Everyone was naturally dumbfounded and offered their support and concern, but I’ve never felt more naked or exposed in my life. To not only have colleagues know something so intimate about you, but to be placed in a precarious position by being prompted to tell them—it was beyond difficult.

I was still wrapping my head around the insanity of my situation, so to try to casually discuss my life with people I solely see within the confines of the school building, and then act calm, cavalier even, about my adoption was almost more than I could handle. I wanted to scream at them, to lash out, but that’s not fair.

Then again, what part of this process has been fair?

I would like to again point out that I know that my co-workers are, overall, kind and are sympathetic to my situation. These people, especially, were shocked and genuinely amazed at what I’d discovered.  I do not blame anyone for their desire to know about my situation, given that I’m also publishing it online. I’m continually reminded about how many people are showing caring, at least in their way. However, this lunch still taught/reminded me of two things.

First, I am not someone who enjoys pity. I enjoy comfort, or support, or sympathy, or empathy to something I’m going through. I do not enjoy having someone look at me and, with a slight smarminess, ask me “How’s it going?” knowing full-well that nothing for me is going well, and implying that everything for the person asking is fantastic. It’s rude and unkind. Every one of us has struggles; some people’s struggles just are bigger than yours some days. It doesn’t mean that you are above anyone else because tomorrow might be the day your karma is checked.

Second, I have also learned to be careful about when I ask anyone about something personal, lest I inadvertently overwhelm or hurt them with my attempt to show concern. Compassion, as well as tact, I continue to find, are things in short supply these days, and are often overlooked because of good intentions to offer sympathy, whether real or feigned.

After I divulged my story, I inhaled my lunch (gotta love the 25 minute lunch breaks of a teacher, especially when in this case I was left with about ten…), and returned to class, my fears revived that everyone was staring at the new adoptee, because after that spotlight session, they were.

A few deep breaths, and I reminded myself….

I’m fine.  It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Maybe one day soon, I won’t just have to pretend that this mantra was true.

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.

The Rainbow Connection

As someone who is gay, coming out is a life-altering rite of passage. For years, you will likely have avoided the truth, pretended that you are normal, and that if you just try to be straight you can survive. Slowly, you are consumed by the fear that your friends and family won’t accept you. Before you come out, you panic, and examine every word and phrase that you say, ensuring that you haven’t given away your secret. When you finish all of that, accept that you need to be honest and truthful with yourself and those around you, and finally tell people, the relief that you are finally living your truth is indescribable.

Most people don’t even have a coming out experience. They are who they are, and can live their lives without needing to explain anything about who they are. If they do, they have one coming out experience so as to live honestly. Because of the letter from Xena, I was in the midst of my second, which is why I was increasingly furious that I was going to have to do it all again.

I mean, I didn’t have to tell people I’m adopted. I have a decent poker face. I could internalize this information and live my life, right?

Except, I couldn’t just live my life with a secret of this magnitude. If you’ve had to go through the process to explain to others about why being gay isn’t a choice, and it is part of who you inherently are. Admitting something about yourself to others, when others don’t have to (and often never will) do the same with you fundamentally changes you. Once you begin this endeavor you cannot fathom staying silent anymore. You have a need to be honest in all things. Anything untruthful becomes distasteful and dangerous to your well-being and sanity, as you have survived the double-life you once lived.

I was beginning to understand more and more why me being adopted bothered me. It wasn’t the adoption. In many ways, the adoption was both an answer to many questions and a relief. It was the fact that because I was never told, I was party to an inadvertent lie.

I was not OK with that.

While I’m well aware that for a lie to be an actual lie, there has to be intent to deceive. But, because a lie had been created about me, my circumstances, and it therefore involved me, which made me party to the lie, whether or not I wanted to be. When I introduce myself to my students, or to new friends, invariably what I believed to be my ethnicity and cultural identity came up. I was proud to be British. I was proud to be Portuguese. I loved describing myself in playful oxymoronic statements, like that I love coffee, but often drink tea.  Regularly, I would joke that I’m sort-of Hispanic, because of a misunderstanding on a government form.

Now, it was both a joke and not a joke. My identity was in flux, as was my integrity. I could no longer claim to be any of the things my parents were, because they were not my biological parents. I felt uneasy talking about anything which related to my perceived identity. But I struggled with the idea of standing in front of my students and being anything other than genuine with them. How can I encourage them to live honestly, if I have not been living honestly, even if I didn’t know?  Perhaps these were irrational thoughts, but I still struggled with them as I thought about getting back to “normal” life.

I was deep in these thoughts after my work out on Tuesday. As I got into the shower, one of my work-out buddies pointedly and unexpectedly asked if I was OK.

Clearly, I was not.

Guess my poker face wasn’t that good after all. It seemed a little too literal to expose myself to someone who is between acquaintance, friend, and co-worker while in the shower. I wasn’t ready to discuss this yet with anyone who wasn’t very close to me.

But, that doesn’t mean that I was incapable of laughing when one of my coworkers arrived in my classroom with a copy of Are You My Mother? by Dr. Seuss.

Some people might have found this in poor taste. I, however, thought it was hilarious. Even more so, because it was also available in Spanish. I mean, I might be Hispanic now. Who knew? Not I. At least not yet.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I took a picture of myself reading it and sent it to a few friends. I may have suggested that it would be my holiday card this year. Even better—I could make business cards and hand them out to strangers.

I may not be ready to discuss this with people yet, but my dark sense of humor has gotten a bit of an upgrade.

So…

I am curious…

Are you my mother?