Backstory

Our identities are inextricably tied to the stories our families tell about who we are, where we came from, when we arrived in this land, and details about personalities, work ethic, and cultural heritage. From an early age, we hear stories about Gram Bickey and Uncle Joe and Aunt Alice, about the ice cream store that our grandparents owned, about working poor growing up, and about the rise to middle class economic success. We are told we are just like Aunt Laura or Grandma Helen or Dad, and we look like Cousin Chris or Cousin Barbara or Cousin Sara. We see our noses when we look at Mom and our chins when we look at Dad and our earlobes when we look at large family Christmas portraits. 

Stop.

Go back.

Think about those stories. Now imagine that you aren’t anything like your family in personality or physical characteristics. There are no matches. No physical resemblance. No personality similarities. No “I get that from you” moments. Imagine that when you were young, sometimes those differences created tension and unease.

“Why can’t you just listen?” (Or obediently do what we are telling you to do.)

“Why do you always have to learn the hard way?”

“Why can’t you just write happy things?”

Imagine being made to feel small for your rambunctiousness, for your stubbornness, for your headstrongness, for your independent determination to figure things out for yourself. Like something is wrong with you for being who you are. 

Never imagining that one single interaction could change all of those feelings and reverse all of the hurt. Always wondering what it would feel like to know that you belonged. To lift the sense of being an outlier in your own family.

I feel like I need to make a qualifying statement about how much I love my family before I progress, but as Anne Lamott so succinctly stated, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

This quote lives on my office door and I frequently make my students read it as I remind them of this vital fact. To write truthfully and creatively about yourself is to tread on potentially dangerous territory because someone’s feelings might get hurt. But we own our stories. And although I do love my family, I also have deep seated feelings and a long memory. And this is MY truth.

Fast forward.

This past Sunday, at 10 a.m. in North Park outside of Pittsburgh, PA, on a gray and overcast rainy day, I met my birth mother face to face for the first time.

Embedded in that first fierce and strong hug was a lifetime of longing.

“Since I last held you, I’ve wanted this,” she said into my hair, her tears wetting my neck. “I love you.”

Tears sprang to my eyes, surprising me with the force of emotion behind them. “I love you, too.”

She pulled back and caressed my face, laughing and crying. “You’re so pretty. So pretty.”

I looked into her eyes and saw mine. “You have blue eyes,” I said, smiling and allowing myself to feel the weight of the moment as my tears flowed. “I have your eyes.”

She smiled, looking me full in the eyes with absolute acceptance. We hugged for a long time and it felt good. In that hug and in the next seven hours, I started to understand more about who I am, where I come from, why I am the way that I am, why I look the way I do.

We have the same eyes. The same smile. The same nose. The same non-lobe earlobes.

We have the same stubborn determination. The same penchant to think and weigh decisions carefully before committing to a course of action. The same preference for not wearing jewelry, for booths over tables, for gardening, for animals, for taking chances, for loving deeply.

For the first part of the visit, we sat knee to knee, holding hands, sharing stories and laughter and insights. Nerves melted away into a warm comfort of understanding.  I started to feel like I could really breathe. Or finally exhale.

She lifted her hand to caress my cheek. “You have my skin!”

“That explains why I look so much younger than my age. And seeing how beautiful you look gives me hope.”

She showed me family photos of my half-sister and half-brother, aunt, uncle, grandparents. I took photos of her photos and studied the faces. I saw my chin, my nose, my facial shape. I heard about these people and their stories and characteristics and felt something I’ve never experienced before that I think many people take for granted – acceptance that my personality, physical looks, and emotional characteristics stem from a long line of people with similar personality traits, physical appearance, and psychological characteristics. In my specific case, I come from a determined, opinionated, and headstrong German people.

That was a surprise. The German heritage.

My family is Irish and my parents were told by the adoption agency that I was Scottish and Irish and that my birth father was French Canadian.

That wasn’t quite true.

Turns out my birth father was possibly of French descent, but was an American marine. He also denied my paternity, which is why his name doesn’t appear on my original birth certificate. And my birth mother’s family is mostly German with a bit of English and Scottish.

No wonder I like bratwurst and beer. :)

Interlude.

I’m still processing the German, not Irish distinction. Being an American, it’s not as if my family’s former nationality plays a large role in my identity, but in many ways it does. My family is proudly Irish and they bring it up frequently enough to notice. Perhaps this was a relief of sorts that the girl they had adopted shared this nationality. But now that isn’t true and my parents brushed it off and are taking it well. 

Families give us our first sense of identity through the stories they tell us as we grow up. Those stories are repeated at family dinners and picnics and vacations to the point of becoming legendary tales that are retold to re-establish that communal sense of belonging. 

What happens when the story changes?

At the end of our daylong meeting, we discussed the Facebook discovery. I found her on Facebook. I had her name and it took me three hours of Internet searching. She recounted how much she has wanted to meet me, but that it had to be my decision. She never wanted to give me up, but did so because it was the right decision for me. She always hoped I would contact her. She has always loved me.

I can’t begin to express how much healing has begun now that I know. The mystery is solved. My story is changing and I will be better for it.

A new story begins.

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.

Solving life's little mysteries

My life has always had a mystery at its foundation. And a giant clue came into my possession this summer that may be the key to unlocking the answer to one question I've never really felt compelled to honestly verbalize for the lump in my throat: Who is my birth mother?

I've known I was adopted since before I could comprehend words. This is because my parents started telling me at about the same time they started reading to me. And I'm fairly certain that they started reading to me as soon as they adopted me at four months old.

By the time I started grade school, I understood what being adopted meant and in the 1970s, it meant that you didn't talk about having been adopted, such was the social stigma. Fortunately, we have come a long way, baby, and that particular stigma has turned into a badge of honor - I was adopted; ie, my parents definitely WANTED me. No doubt there. We live in a world of open adoptions now, but in 1970, mine was closed. Sometime in the 1980s, the PA courts planned to close all adoption records and make obtaining valuable information such as birth parent names very difficult. Anticipating that someday, I might ask this question, my parents wrote to the courts and got my original birth certificate, which they did not look at. Rather, they handed the envelope to my uncle, who apparently looked at my birth mother's name and said, "It's really close," meaning, it was really close somehow to our family name of Lynch.

Then my uncle placed all of the documents in an envelope pre-addressed by my dad with our home address, and mailed it home. My parents placed that sealed envelope in their bank's safe deposit box and started telling me about it in my 20s. I declined obtaining the envelope, reasoning that the woman cared enough about me to give me up instead of being a 20-year-old single mom who would struggle to raise an infant with the help of her parents. She probably didn't need to hear from the girl she gave up all those years ago. She had me, named me (I also know my full original name - it is nothing like my name, the one that you all know me by), and gave me up to the state. While I was installed with a foster mother and before my parents were alerted to my presence, I've been told that she bought me things and sent them to the foster home. I have also been told that she was probably in the court room a year later, the day the judge made my adoption official.

I have never wanted to find her - out of respect. Respect for what must have been a very difficult decision. Respect for her privacy. I don't want to bring this woman pain by showing up one day and surprising her. But now that my parents have given me the envelope and I have opened it and viewed the name of the woman who gave me life, I find myself compelled to know the rest of the story.

I am a story person, you see. I like the details. And there are details about me and my past that I would like to know. This is my chance to complete the missing pieces of my story. So I leapt and registered with an online adoption registry and have contacted a nonprofit adoption agency that conducts searches in Pittsburgh.

I don't know how this story will end. Finding a birth parent is an emotional journey that can be laced with disappointment - she may have passed away, she may refuse to speak with me, she may not be found at all. That's the negative side. The positive side might be meeting and talking and learning about the woman and her story - the practical (medical stuff) and the real (how exactly did I come to be?)

Throughout my entire existence, I've wondered if I look like her. If she is creative and outgoing like me. If she is stubborn and just a bit arrogant, but very generous - all qualities of mine. I wonder if she ever married. If I have half-brothers or half-sisters somewhere. If she likes cats or dogs. Travel. Photography. Intellectual challenges.

So many questions. And today begins a new chapter: the search. I am ready, more than I have been before, whatever the outcome.