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.
