To New Beginnings...

January 1, 2018

When I started writing, I didn’t know why I had a desire to put my emotions and words down on paper. I thought, I suppose, that it would help me process what had happened, which it did. I thought it might also help others who might have experienced similar things, and I’ve been assured by many that it has.

I realize now that I needed to write for me—to connect to a world that is much larger than I am.

I needed to document, for myself, what this journey has, is, and will continue to be. That doesn’t mean I’m not glad it’s helpful to others, but I need to do this for me.

I will go into more detail as I continue to write, but I need to say first that last year was the most difficult of my life. Explaining things, over and over again, to so many people, even those who’ve read the blog, did drain me. Though, I think I might have been able to handle that if that was the only difficulty.

What has been so hard to describe and what has been so difficult to explain is something that I wasn’t truly understanding until now. It’s pertinent to explain that I’ve spent my Winter Break visiting friends in Colorado. And I’m also crying on an airplane as I write this. I think you’ll understand why.

You see, the all-encompassing problem with my adoption has never been my adoption. It was the reality check that finalized what I hadn’t understood yet about my life and my family.

Finding out about my adoption forced me to see that what was missing from my life is the concept of a home—like the kind where your heart is. My home had been slowly eroding for years, because of a lack of real relationship to anyone in my family (through both lack of relationships and/or distance) which is apparently very common in adoptees. After I found out about my mother’s affair, and knowing that I had very little closeness to my father, when my parents finally officially divorced, and then sold the house I’d grown up in, I didn’t understand how lonely I felt.

This is not a lonely of a bad night when things haven’t gone correctly. This is the kind of bone-weary loneliness of someone who has no one to lean on, should there be any kind of issue arise, other than himself. The biggest lie I struggled with was the world in which I was raised not only no longer existed, but it hadn’t really existed at all.

What do you do when all the things you’ve based your foundations on are found out to be false?

And then what happens when you begin getting messages, with varied frequency, telling you how you should feel, or what “really” happened?

What happens when people you thought were always going to be in your corner never even reach out to see if you’re ok?

I cannot tell you where I, or this story, will end up. I’m a work in progress as much as everyone is. However, thanks to this trip this holiday, I’ve suddenly had an epiphany.

You not only have to make your own happiness, you have to make your own happiness a priority.

I’ll be honest—I like trying to do as many things possible to make other people happy. I’m starting to slowly realize that this has not made me happy, though I thought it would. This too is apparently something adoptees do, consciously or subconsciously, because it’s a way of addressing a constant fear that they might be taken away from the families and lives to which they have found their place.

Thus, an overachiever, who has always struggled to say no, who has worked his way through school since he was 14, has taken on more and more responsibility in various aspects of his life because he thought he had to, not necessarily because he wanted to.

For this reason, I have continually worked at the things which I do for my career, which are the things that are predictable, and therefore consistent in my life. In doing so, I’ve neglected finding a romantic relationship, relying on my friend-family to feed the part of my soul which needed love and support.

I have also realized that, though supported by others in many ways, I’ve worked to make my own success happen more than I realized. So, now I need to choose myself before I choose others, because I want to have my own home, shared with someone who loves me, to build my own individual support system.

Therefore, I’m writing this blog as a way to no longer just document my story, but to keep me accountable to finding my own happiness. One of those ways is to continue to share my story, so others can see there is a light at the end of any tunnel.

But know that it helps when you realize that sometimes the love you can’t find for yourself is in unexpected places, and being welcomed as a cherished friend/adopted family member is all you need to begin to right yourself. You just have to realize that love is there, and accept it.

Ultimately, the greatest lesson learned for me has been that family is not about blood, it’s about those who we let in, and who let us in. Like all things, family is what you make it. And I might not know where I came from, and I might not have the same home-base that I grew up with, but I have a family, and it’s bigger than I ever imagined.

And until the day that I have my own home, with my own traditions, I know now that I have a family that loves me, and that is enough to start me on a new path on this January 1^st, which begins with finding out what and who truly makes me happy.

Happy New Year.

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.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

The next week at school was fairly uneventful, and as Friday approached, I became increasingly excited to begin unraveling the mystery surrounding where I came from. Once I got my original birth certificate, I would have more specifics about who my biological parents were, and would hopefully have more information about them. Perhaps it may include their address at the time I was born, or maybe their birth location—both things which could prove useful in finding them.

            As the low-key excitement built all week, I did receive the letter from my father. It arrived Wednesday, but I didn’t feel the need to read it right away. I wasn’t ready.

            Even having expressed how I felt, albeit briefly, that his previous letter was really about him, having my father acknowledge that something was amiss, I was concerned what he might say. My immediate go-to, as a cautiously optimistic person, is to believe the best in people. This means my default with any issue with my parents is to attempt to blindly trust them when there is a problem.

Almost every time, that reaction has not served me well, and I’ve been incredibly hurt, expecting a different outcome from what occurred. Mostly, what I’ve wanted is to have a parent approach me when we have had a problem and address it in a way which models appropriate behavior, such as apologizing, because he/she was the parent, and I was the child.  

Instead, I have had to almost unilaterally approach my parents to apologize for any wrongdoings, even if I was the not the one who initiated or exacerbated the problem.

Every. Single. Time.

It’s just one of the many ways in which I’ve played a part in my relationship with my parents which was tantamount to a role-reversal. I needed to move past the issue at hand, so I’d be the one to apologize so we could all move forward. I was willing to acquiesce and concede, as a parent traditionally might, to keep the peace.

It amazes me that this pattern of behavior, which began long before I was able to drive, I considered normal. I’ve been repeatedly hurt by this by both of my parents for so long because I was always willing to believe the best in their intentions. But after all of this information about my adoption, I was wary to allow myself to feel any type of acceptance or relief from anything my father said in his letter.

What he wrote might be wonderful, or it might ignore the issue. But, knowing him, there would be, at best, an infliction of pain, even if unintentional, no matter what he said.

So, I waited. I didn’t need to read it right away. It’s what many friends counseled me to do as well. Just wait a few days. It would be fine.

After sleeping in on a Friday holiday, I was ready to begin my journey in literal self-discovery in a few different ways. First of all, I decided that today would be the day that I began to publish my blog. I had started writing and editing the first few posts over the past week, and was ready to begin telling the world what I had found out.

I wasn’t entirely sure what response I would receive, or even if anyone would read it. But either way, I knew that I needed to share my experience. If it helped anyone deal with their own experience, it was worth it. But, it would be even more worth writing if it helped me find my biological parents.

So, hours after the first post published (timed posts are a wonderful feature to this site), I got up, made coffee and breakfast, and then sat down with my roommate, R, and his girlfriend, D. I decided I needed to meet things head on, which meant reading the letter from my father before getting my birth certificate. However, I didn’t have to do it alone.

This time, there were only two pages, but those two pages were still predominantly about him, though, he did repeat the phrase “It’s all about you!” numerous times. That’s growth, right? Except most of this letter still wasn’t really about me. Was it that difficult to ask for an apology?

I thought about this as I got ready, hopped into my car, and drove to the local Department of Health and Human Services. I found my way inside, and filled out what I assumed was the appropriate form to get a physical copy of a birth certificate. I waited patiently for the front office person to finish a call before I pleasantly smiled at her and explained what I was there for—an original birth certificate with my biological parent’s names.

“Oh, I’m sorry. We don’t have that. Actually, the original probably doesn’t exist anymore.”

My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

“Well, once someone is adopted, the adoptive parents become the child’s parents. Their names go on the birth certificate, and the original is destroyed.”

I couldn’t believe this. “Destroyed?!? With no original record of it?”

“More than likely. Though, you could try calling the main office in Baltimore—they might have it there, but they probably don’t.”

“Oh… Ok. Thank you.”

Remember how I was hopeful and thought my minor super-sleuthing would help me find my biological parents so quickly? I suddenly realized how naive I was.

Given the peculiarity of the situation, why did I think that anything about this was going to be easy?

By early afternoon it became apparent that people had read the first post. A lot of people. Many of them began to comment on both the post and on my Facebook, or send me a Facebook message, or text me, if they had my number. That made things more real somehow; it also made everything incredibly more daunting.

I started to read posts and comments, which ranged from the previously mentioned “We didn’t want to say anything” and “It wasn’t our place…” but now included few new additions—specifically many people who said “Oh… I thought you knew.”

            I knew that sharing my story would be a risk for many reasons. So many people know my family, and would know details that I still hadn’t been told in entirety. I also knew it was a huge exposure of my soul to people I both know and don’t know. However, what I was not prepared for was the vast number of responses from people to whom I haven’t spoken more than a greeting in years. I was not ready for their opinions, for their views of the situation, for their misunderstanding of what was driving me to write. I was especially not able to comprehend the lack of compassion so many people had for this situation, which is my situation, and not theirs.

           

            Having so many more people reach out and let me know just how many of them knew about my adoption was painful. How could so many people, those who were at one point active participants in my life as well as essential strangers, know something about me that I didn’t know? And, more importantly, why would they feel the need to weigh in on my adoption, as well as my reaction to it? Most everyone who knew have known for years (many of them for 33 years, in fact) where as I hadn’t even had 33 days to process this. What did they expect?

Additionally, while it was nice to have people reach out, having to write out a response, or verbalize one, was exhausting. I felt annoying saying to people “Just keep reading. More information will be in the upcoming posts” but I couldn’t rehash details with people I’d barely spoken to in days, if not years. Furthermore, knowing that I planned to keep writing, I didn’t want to have to keep explaining the same thing to people, over and over.

It was, and still is, exhausting, physically and emotionally.

            Yet, even though I felt drained, I had to remind myself that anyone who had a reaction ultimately cared about me in a way that was greater than I had anticipated.  The outpouring of support, love, and kindness was apparent in the vast majority of these posts, and, as a result, I felt that I had done the right thing and needed to continue writing, even if it took much of my energy.

While parts of the day felt like I’d taken a few steps backward, I had taken one giant step forward in publishing my story. Eventually I’d find things out, even with a minor set-back like not being able to access my original birth certificate.

I mean, I didn’t see how there would be any other additional problems. Surely, I’d met my quota of them for the year.

Why do I tempt fate so easily?

Let's start at the very beginning....

Believe it or not, this journey started with an email.

A four-year-old email.

From a stranger named Xena.

No, not that Xena. She’s not real. And this is all real. Seriously. My life is too ridiculous to not be real.

This begins with me attempting to delete what was clearly a spam message in my Facebook Messenger. Unbeknownst to me, there is a special folder for messages which are sent to you, but from those to whom you have no connection. So, I began by deleting a message from a young man from Africa who “was in need of a help…”

There was another message from a former neighbor, chastising me for treating my mother poorly (much, much more on that later (I promise you, I’m not treating my mother poorly. Which, I suspect you’ll believe more if you keep reading)). A third was very sweet—from the mother of a former student who was inviting me to her daughter’s birthday party (I’m a teacher). And, finally, the message from Xena. That was sent in January of 2012. It had been sitting in this special folder for four years.

I don’t know exactly why I didn’t delete it immediately. But, given that I read quickly, the first sentence seemed personal, so I kept reading.

“J--,

I write to you in secret, under a false name for a reason. Yet, please know this is from so many people, not just one. You are loved...by so many. Over the years your church family, friends, and loved ones have seen you grow into a wonderful person. Like many, I remember when you were a little boy. Your parents were so proud of you, they loved you so much. You were filled with talent and that was nurtured by them. However, your parents have something that tears them apart daily. 30 years ago your mother wanted nothing other than a baby. After trying unsuccessfully, your father learned of a music student who was young and pregnant (if I remember correctly both of your biological parents were musicians). She did not want to keep the baby. Your father made contact with the girl and asked to her baby a home. After attending her birth, he brought you home to a church and a family who instantly fell in love. Your parents never talked about "telling you" because it never came up...until your mother proudly announced to everyone that would ask that she would "never" tell you. You were her son and that was all that mattered.

Over the years, your adoption has been openly discussed among those who "knew J-- and F-- when". Except when your mother was around. Your father has often discussed in private circles wanting to tell you, and has even pleaded with your mother, but out of respect, he has never said anything. This email isn't being done to upset you, or "ruin" your life. On the contrary, this is to give you an insight of to who you are -- truly. Everybody deserves to know this. Your mother will probably deny the truth, to preserve herself...because she believes you truly are her blood. But the rest of the hundreds of people who know and care for you, would tell you differently. If asked. Including your father. This email will not go any further. You can choose what you wish to do with this information. Just know that it is 100% the truth.”

I sat on the couch speechless for a few seconds.

I was adopted?!? Seriously?!?

I mean, we’ve all had those moments where we wished that we, perhaps, weren’t really related to our family. But… to not actually be related to the people I considered mother and father? Could it be true?

I ran upstairs to my roommate, and shoved my phone, with the message cued, at him.

“Read this…”

“Wha…..?”

“Read this. Now.”

“Ok…”

“If this is true, what is my family medical history?”

I mean, in general, I’m fairly even-keeled and level-headed person. I immediately recognized that the most pressing question I had was, of course, about my family medical history.  That I had been offering my doctors the medical history of the people I believed were my parents my entire life was the most important problem I observed. Not who my parents actually are. Not why my parents lied to me for 33 years. Not how I could find out information about who I am. No. My medical history was much more important.

Huh. I guess that’s what emotional shock feels like.

I mean, suddenly I began to wonder who my real parents could be, and also how many people really knew about this, why my mother had told me about all the things I shared with her side of the family, and a million other things at once.

What is my ethnicity? I mean, I was raised my entire life thinking I was 50% British, and 50% Portuguese. If I’m actually a minority, and could’ve gotten scholarship money, I’m going to furious.

But, this couldn’t be real, right? What are the chances that someone would really write me with a fictitious Facebook account to tell me about this secret that my parents had neglected to tell me for 33 years? Negligible… right?

Except… except… except, so many thing started to rearrange in my brain. I mean… It would make sense.  My father is 50 years older than I am… My mother 39… My dad’s other two kids are much older than I am… 60 and 56 respectively…

I called a few friends, who were incredulous at this revelation. Yet… one immediately asked what my parent’s eye color is (both, in case you were wondering, are brown) and then asked what my eye color is (Green-hazel. I know. I’m stupid.). But this surely couldn’t confirm that they adopted me, right?

I left with my roommate and his wonderful girlfriend (again, keep reading to find out why) to get to our destination, close to the wedding we were attending the next day.

Cut to me laughing unexpectedly, and, honestly, slightly maniacally at things which were not particularly funny, throughout most of the next eight hours. I’m sure it was delightful for my companions. I also have new appreciation for what going mad feels like.

After accepting that I’m not getting a response from Xena, and I’m not going to call my father and ask if I’m adopted on the phone, I finally decided to pick the scab of this situation somewhat creatively. I called one of my oldest friends, E, whose family is strongly interconnected with mine. As she’s slightly older than I am, perhaps she had heard something? I call her and begin walking in circles in the rental house’s back yard.

So, I relate my story.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Comfort? Horror? Shock? Disbelief? Those would all be typical responses to this revelation, wouldn’t they?

Instead, the response I got was this: “How do you want me to respond?”

The wall of perceived reality in which I had lived for the past 33 years began to crumble.

“Um… well, given what you just asked, I think I beginning to understand whether or not this is true or not. But, I need you to respond honestly…”

“Ok… So, I promised myself that if you ever asked me, I’d tell you the truth.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that I’m adopted?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes… You’re adopted.”

“How long have you known?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever not known.”

“Oh…” I begin to slightly hyperventilate. “Oh…”

I got myself together as she consoled me a bit, and I kept it together until we said our goodbyes. Then I called my friend M, whom I’d spoken with earlier. This is the point which my brain comprehended what I’d just been told.

I’ll be honest, I fell apart. Full on sobbing, racking breaths, which, for me, is almost worse than death. I am (thought I was) British—we (they) don’t show outward emotion. I’m sure it wasn’t fun for my friend to hear me uncharacteristically fall apart on the phone, when we were over 100 miles away. I mean, I didn’t find it fun.

At this point, my roommate’s girlfriend, D, notices my distress. She literally ran to me and hugged me. I really needed that, though I’m generally not a fan of human contact. I was partly stunned that she cared, and partly stunned that she recognized that I needed that hug.

I continued talking to M for a few more minutes, as I calmed down. After calling a few other close friends and discussing this rather unexpected turn of events, and randomly picking a fantasy football team (completely random. I forgot, and auto-drafted many people. Priorities. Just because I was adopted, doesn’t mean that I didn’t need to pick a good fantasy team).

After finishing the important thing, the draft, I decided to retire for the evening.