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?

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…