Closure, or a new beginning?

When I told my parents and family about hearing back from my birth mother, the reaction was overwhelmingly positive, supportive, and cautious. They want me to take it slow and not get overwhelmed. And they are all using the term "closure" quite a bit. The word closure suggests an end, a resolution.

My friends, conversely, are just excited and relieved for me. They are using terms like "open door," "new path," "beginning."

So which is it? The end or the beginning? To me, finally communicating with my birth mother, getting to know her, and possibly having the opportunity to have a relationship with her is primarily an open door, a new beginning. But it is also in many ways a resolution - a mystery solved. But in my mind and heart, this qualifies more as a beginning. It is interesting to me that my family considers it more of an ending.

Thus begins the complicated nature of birth families and adoptive families coping with first contact between child and birth mother. I know that every adoptee in this situation has likely experienced something similar to varying degrees, if they are fortunate enough to have a supportive family and willing birth parent. But the rhetor in me can't resist analyzing the difference in language used to describe this moment. Why would my family primarily focus on closure while I focus on beginning? Because it IS closure - much-needed. That is true.

Perhaps it is just me, specifically. Maybe not all adoptees WANT a relationship with their birth parent(s) beyond the basic facts - particularly medical histories. Perhaps my family (as other adoptive families might feel) don't want "their" kid to have any real relationship with a birth parent for fear of being left out, left behind, or dropped entirely. Territoriality? Defensiveness? Fear that things won't work out and I'll be hurt? Fear that I won't consider them "family" anymore?

As I wrestle with the dichotomy of closure versus beginning, I am more inclined to embrace what many Indigenous scholars refer to as both/and - this is both closure AND a beginning. Not just one or the other. But when I speak about it thusly, again my family (who I know have my best interests in mind) is cautious and encouraging me to go slowly and just enjoy getting "answers to my questions." Again, the focus on superficiality - basic information - getting answers - embracing the end of this lifelong mystery.

I have expressed this to my family and will likely have to revisit the idea frequently - they are my family and always will be - and I love and value them as such. However, in my mind and heart, I do not think of "family" the way that many people do - I have always had a much more open interpretation of this word.

For instance, I know that some people who were born into and raised in "blood" families will only consider someone who is blood-related to be "family" - everyone else who falls outside this description is not "family" and never will be - these people may be invited to family dinners, but will never be considered "family." That's fine and that works for some folks - not me. And I think this stems from the fact that from birth, my concept of family has always been "those who care for you, love you, and advise and support you in any and all situations." This is a much-expanded concept from the limited blood relation version.

So, although my family may be wondering if they are about to be replaced, all I can do is emphasize how expansive my concept of "family" is and let them know that I may be adding people to this distinction, but I will never replace anyone. I have several friends whom I consider to be more "family" than "friends" based on the aforementioned definition. Once the level of closeness and dedication in a friendship transcends simple friendship, those people are added to my "family" category.

Will my birth mother (and her daughter - my sister - who is also interested in contacting me with the intent of us getting to know each other) become "family" some day? I have no idea. According to those who believe "blood" means family? The answer is a foregone yes. To me, I have no expectation either way - because this is a situation that is entirely new for all of us and I refuse to give in to any impulse to set parameters with expected outcomes. This situation is beautifully fluid and I am thoroughly enjoying the process of discovery.

Now to explain this to my family...;)

Two gifts

Opening a Facebook message is so common, so typical, so....uneventful.

Imagine my surprise after nine months of waiting and hoping for a response from my birth mother to open a most unexpected message. (In this socially-networked world, of COURSE I would find her on Facebook. Of course.) But after carefully composing a thoughtful and sincere, hopeful but noncommittal, message and hitting send, I waited. And waited. And waited.

My mom and several of my friends suggested, “Maybe she’s not on Facebook that often.”

Several months passed as I accepted the fact that she must have her reasons for not wanting to communicate. 2012 became 2013 and I had come to terms with that. I was trying to be at peace with this reality. And then I opened Messenger to her response.

Jim was arguing with Comcast on his phone as I read her message. And read it again. Disbelief. A strange sort of relief welling up. The monumental nature of the moment disconnected from the commonplace manner of communication. Jim hung up and looked over, asked if I was ok.

“My birth mother wrote back,” I said, handing him the Chromebook with the opened message on screen.

The confirmation that she was, indeed, my birth mother, gave me a certain level of satisfaction that I always feel when I’m right (which is almost always...just ask anyone who knows me). :)

But it wasn’t until I called my mom and read her this part of my birth mother’s message that I broke down and spoke through tears and hitching voice, not realizing until that moment of vocalization of these words how desperately I’d needed to hear this:

“You need to know that I loved you sooo much and giving you up was the hardest decision I ever made. It literally broke my heart!! When I was told that you were getting adopted just before Christmas I felt they were getting the best present EVER!! I think about you all the time - wondering how you are, where you are, what you've done in your life, if your childhood was good. I'm so thankful that you indeed had a wonderful childhood and loving parents. It is wonderful to know how successful you are in all aspects of your life. That certainly gives me tremendous peace of mind!!. . . Thank you for contacting me, I've always hoped this would happen.”

Such straightforward sentiments shared with such openness and honesty. I wasn’t prepared for that which I desired most. All day, I periodically and spontaneously cried, sometimes so strongly that Jim wondered if this was really good news. I assured him it was.

I attempted explaining that this first contact had been my goal for so long that now that the moment was happening, it was just overwhelming. Exciting and joyful, but weighty, momentous, and overwhelming.

Something my dad said stuck to me like a wasp sting all day until I broke down once again around 11:30pm and I started articulating the frightening and relieving truth. My dad said, “Now you can lose that chip on your shoulder.”

Although it sounds really negative, there is some truth to this statement. I’ve been fighting against something my whole life; a phantom that I always feared would hold me back, make me less valuable and worthy and successful than my peers; a phantom that drove me to achieve, to push myself, to work hard, to accomplish much, sometimes to the detriment of personal relationships.

Personal relationships require a considerable level of vulnerability and ability to trust, neither of which were in my repertoire of skills. My walls were constructed well and people were always held at arm’s length. I couldn’t let anyone in, felt disconnected in deep ways from everyone around me, and didn’t trust anyone enough to let them see any weakness. It wasn’t until I went to Auburn that I truly forced myself to let people in, to allow myself to be vulnerable, to offer trust and attempt to form real bonds. I doubt that my Auburn girls will ever know how terrifying it was for me to open up, be vulnerable, be weak in moments in their presence. I don’t think they will ever understand how much they helped me heal. Because of the relationships and friendships I was honored to form in Auburn, I was much more open and willing to trust and truly give people a chance to see me once I got back to PA. This really has been a lifelong battle.

When I was in grad school, and even until recently, I know that some of my friends must wonder if I ever sleep because I’m constantly achieving something. There is no logic to this drive; it emanates from a fundamental fear that there is something about me that isn’t good enough. This is purely emotional and not at all true. Intellectually, I understand this thought is bunk. But practically? Well, those who know me know what I’ve done, what I’ve accomplished, how I’ve pushed myself.

When I got my current job and moved back to PA, I decided to try and slow down and just enjoy my life. I found love again and that has helped to slow my pace. But as I consider my birth mother’s response, I have come to the conclusion that she has given me two precious gifts.

Her first gift was giving me up so that I could have the life that I’ve had. Her second was responding and confirming that she did love me, want me, and has always thought about me; her words are a salve on my heart and a soothing wind on my spirit; her message brings with it permission to slow down, enjoy my life, and stop fighting because the phantom (while useful in many ways) was never really there.

And for that, no matter what transpires in the coming months, I thank her from the depths of my being.

The danger of a simple story

Last night, I finally broke down and watched The Hunger Games on Netflix streaming. Despite yawning and losing interest at several points, I stuck with it because I've heard so many friends and students talk about how amazing the books and movies are. My take? Meh. I've seen this story before - post-apocalyptic fiction? Mad Max (movie), Equilibrium (movie), A Clockwork Orange (movie), and Fahrenheit 451 (book and movie) for starters - all with stronger storylines, more interesting and well-developed characters, and less predictability. Also fun to watch.

A couple of people asked me if I've read the Hunger Games books. And the answer is no. Just as I haven't read Harry Potter or Twilight. I admit that I am a reading snob of sorts - that I don't find simplistic storytelling in any way fun or even worth my time. But, I also understand that I have lots of smart friends, students, and colleagues who enjoy these stories as brain candy - an escape - a slightly elevated and more fanciful version of reality TV - stories that require no thought, no real time investment, and certainly no memory (as they are ultimately forgettable the moment you finish them).

My question for you: Why do we constantly make the distinction between "fun" and "not fun" reading? When we do this, we drive people away from amazing stories that are well worth the thought and time investment. Why are stories that are beautifully written with skillful language play, complex characters and situations, and a level of unpredictability in outcomes considered "not fun"? I have never understood this and it honestly drives me batty when I hear people say that - because to me, good storytelling with all of those qualities I listed IS fun. I read the way I watch TV - I don't watch reality TV, I don't watch vapid sitcoms, and I get bored with programming that offers me nothing. I will turn the TV off and play Scrabble on my Kindle Fire or read if I run through all of the channels and see nothing of interest - and that is happening more frequently now.

As a college professor, I see the results of allowing kids to just read simple stories for fun - when they get to college and are asked to read more complex material (fiction or nonfiction), they can't do it - they don't understand. Because their brains have been trained for simplicity - ease of understanding. Kids who read simple stories will never consider complexity "fun" - and that is a shame because the quality of stories available is broad and deep - and they will miss out. Take Louise Erdrich's The Round House - a YA novel that won a National Book Award - I wonder how many parents will choose this brilliantly constructed, truthful, dramatic, poignant, (and yes, humor-filled) story for their YA this summer? My guess is none. Not only is it a Native American writer writing about an all-too-frequent problem on reservations - rape - it is also complex and thought-provoking - and has a lot of ambiguity - no clear-cut answer. And that's uncomfortable, right?

Has our society been on a downward slide away from complexity and ambiguity since the 60s? WWII? The European invasion? I'm not sure when we started to slide, but we really ought to make an effort to stop.

Mark Bauerlein (The Dumbest Generation) talks about Harry Potter being more "social happening than a reading trend" because "kids read Harry Potter not because they like reading, but because other kids read it" (43). Even more bothersome is the lack of attention to other books: "If only we could spread that enthusiasm to other books. Unfortunately, once most young readers finished Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, they didn't read a book with the same zeal until the next Potter volume appeared three years later" (44). Reading simple stories because other people are reading them and then not finding anything else to read because those other stories are too hard, too complex, and most importantly, not Harry Potter (or insert any favorite vapid character here)...this is a problem.

Adults who pick up these books are adults - they've been through school, they're looking for a little brain candy and a little escape from daily BS....I get that, I really do. I just can't get into it. I blame my degree for that - and a lifetime of reading more and more complex stories and finding absolute joy in feeling something when I read. This is also how I approach stories when advising students or teaching stories to students.

When I was at Auburn University, I had the opportunity to teach contemporary World Lit - my students ended the semester by reading Song for Night by Nigerian writer Chris Abani. To a student, it was their favorite reading of the entire semester...and also the hardest, most troubling, most complex, most disturbing, and most beautiful. Maybe as a society we've gotten dangerously away from expecting anything of our kids - of demanding that they challenge themselves intellectually - and expecting them to find joy and pleasure in the discoveries and feelings that result from that challenge.

Two of the most challenging novels I read for fun when I was 12 - 13 years old were The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara and Watership Down by Richard Adams. These books impacted me then and stayed with me, subtly influencing how I see the world, the way that any memorable, substantive story can. Ability with language is enhanced by reading more complex stories - and by authors who use language expertly and lyrically to construct their stories. We fear complexity in language too much - this directly relates to students at college not understanding basic words like ubiquitous.

Stories that get into your head, churn things up, make you think, question, and wonder, and then stay with you - this is the hallmark of "not fun" reading...and that is a travesty. This is the type of fiction we should all be reading, but especially the younger set. We should expect more of the younger generation and encourage them to run toward complexity and learn to love it instead of shrinking from it. I really do see the connection between embracing complex, hard, difficult stories at a young age and the ability to grasp, understand, and solve complex, hard, and difficult situations as an adult.

Our experiences don't exist in a vacuum and the last thing you want is for your kid to say to her professor that she's one of the only people who ever expected anything great from her - that she was never challenged until now and appreciates the opportunity to rise to the occasion and greater expectation. This happens more frequently that you might imagine - and one of the solutions is what I suggest - start by expecting younger people to read and enjoy more complex stories - treat them as fun, because they are - and that sets the stage for a lifetime of deep and meaningful reading enjoyment and so much more.

What it means to be a writer

Writers feel deeply. We listen, absorb, observe, learn, watch, and feel. We feel when our friends suffer. We feel when our families hurt us. We feel pain, joy, ecstasy, and rejection organ-deep, soul-deep, bone-deep. We feel.

And when we feel, we write. We write, and we revise, and we re-write, and we consider as we feel. We think about larger implications and small moments of significance. When friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues, and random strangers relate their stories, their experiences, their pain, and their joys, we listen, absorb, observe, learn, watch, and feel.

And when we listen and absorb, we relate these moments to other moments, making connections (always making connections), considering how one moment or idea relates to another, sometimes seemingly unrelated, sometimes painfully and directly related. Ideas. Moments. Experiences. Stories. Felt stories.

Felt stories become part of our fabric, challenge what we think we know, push us to question what is right and wrong, unrelentingly demand to be acknowledged and used for a greater purpose than a singular, individual, selfish one. Great stories deserve to be heard, told, repeated, and shared. Small stories deserve to be heard, told, repeated, and shared. Because there is always a lesson.

And when there is a lesson embedded in a story or experience (and there always is), writers ruminate and mull and question and feel and often take that story or experience and find a way to work it in to their writings.

Because that is what writers do. We feel. We respond. We question. We challenge. We write.

If you want to be a writer, this is the only path. If you are afraid to challenge, to question, to listen and absorb and observe and hear stories and then share those stories for a purpose beyond yourself, then you will never be a writer.

If you fear censure, shaming, embarrassment, job loss, death threats, shunning, others' moral high ground, and negative opinions of your character, then you will never write anything of interest or import. You will not be a writer.

When you are a writer, you must take risks. And knowing that everything you write for public consumption might be shunned or cause heated response is essential to your survival as a writer. To be safe, and write easy, friendly, happy things is not to be a writer.

Writers push boundaries. Writers make moves, tiny to massive, in order to influence what other people think, to challenge conventions, to require of our fellow citizens a greater questioning of everything we accept and consider sacred. For a writer, there is no such thing as a sacred cow. All subjects must be open for exploration and use. If they are not, then you are not a writer.

To be a writer means sticking your chin out to the world, your spirit quaking with resolve, feeling the icy wind of disapproval, and writing anyway. To do anything less means you are not a writer.