So, again, I've stepped away from this blog for the better part of a year.
This shit is hard, man!
Let's see. What dragged me back this time?
Oh, yes. Mysticism. I'm always intrigued by all forms of mysticism -- right now it's Earth Energies. Laugh if you must, but I truly dig it (unnecessary earthy pun). So I got interested in what my specific background was. Is. It is so varied that I began to wonder if the info I had from the adoption agency was correct. A mixture of Spanish, Portuguese, English, French, West Indian and Black on a tiny former French colony: St Lucia. Wouldn't it make more sense if it was Aruba or Curacao? So, I went back to the only three documents I have about me. And then my day fell apart.
The three documents that contain the entirety of my genealogical information are kept in a special file full of Very Important Documents That Must Be Guarded With One's Life. If I ever bring a document out to reacquaint myself with its contents I return it to it's hallowed spot immediately. Why? It took my years of waiting to procure these documents. Years of hoping some dedicated employee of xxx social service bureau would slog through the backlog of requests and process my claim. They have made it through three moves and 25 years of perusals. They are typewritten, for God's sake! Think about that for a moment.
I decided that, thanks to all the wonderful new technology, (Ancestry.ca) I might be able to find out some new information. Or verify some of the old info I've had for years. My mother was born in 1937 and the birth records don't cover that time period. But, I knew that she was one of nine kids and if I checked the D.O.B. of the oldest I could maybe surmise the year that my grandparents were married. Assuming they were the conventional people I trusted them to be. (I don't know what sort of free love was going on in St Lucia in 1923-25! ) I got my file folder and took them out, lovingly, rereading the scant information provided in them. But, wait! There were only two. The most general and preliminary ones. Where was the somewhat-detailed-yet-still-vague-and-non-identifying one? The one that detailed each of the other eight children: their D.O.B., gender, occupation? It was gone.
I searched everywhere. I asked Rob. ( I secretly(?) blamed Rob for the better part of the day. To be fair though I could not be angry with him. If he did in fact take the paper out, it would have been years ago when he tried to surprise me by doing a ton of research to find my mother for me.)
I felt a bit hollow. A new hollowness. There is a hollowness that comes from being adopted that I think I've alluded to before. A sense of being cut off from normal people. Disconnected. Floating through life without roots. Those papers had been like aerial roots for me. Not real enough to tether me. But they were a start, a support system.
Gone.
I lay about quite listless for a little while. I didn't want to do anything. I don't know why people turn to drink at times like this. You'd just feel full and have to pee a lot. Not interested. I did consider taking up smoking again -- after 18 years. But then there's that pesky cancer I survived. That would be hard to justify. I tried meditating. Didn't happen. I just lay around. Feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't cry though. I think because if I started I didn't know when or how I would stop. Anyway, after a few hours a thought slowly permeated the miasma. I got out my remaining papers, fiddled around on Ancestry.ca or .com or some damn site and I think, I think I may have deduced her first name. I won't go into the how and wherefores (Okay so my missing info said that she lived with her sister in Toronto until just before she had me. Long ago we had gone through census records to find two Caesar sisters living in Toronto. I cross-referenced some immigration and travel records and found a Goldie who came over in 1957 with a Harold and a Marilyn who came over in 1965. Goldie was a Mrs [so probably sister-in-law] and Marilyn was listed as a Miss. I know my mother was not married. I cross-referenced the list of Caesars we had gotten from the Toronto archivist [Rob's doing] and found the one who lived closest to the hospital at which I was born.) but I think I maybe discovered her name. Which is so much better than the details of all her siblings. This may open a few more doors. And records.
Thursday, 28 July 2016
On Meeting a Birth Mother at a Writing Retreat
So, hubby Rob was asked to participate at a Writing Retreat a couple of weeks ago. Yes, Rob is a published writer. (Q: Oh, so is that why you write? A: No! I have always written. Since I was a little kid. I just don't write fiction. Well, not long fiction. I have written many short stories, but any time I try to write something longer I end up writing about myself. So perhaps I have some stuff I need to work through. Thus, le blog.) [This is the conversation I always thought I would have once I started publicly writing. And sadly, I did. And I do.] He was to share some of his writing and lead a couple of writing workshops. The setting could not have been more idyllic: Curtis, Michigan. Not the mainland of Michigan, this was the Upper Peninsula. Yeah, I hadn't heard of it either. It was absolutely gorgeous! A resort town on the shores of Lake Manistique. I was struck by the fierce pride of the people of the UP (or Youpers, as they good-naturedly refer to themselves). They were quick to share names of other UP writers, filmmakers, artists. They had a charm and enthusiasm that seemed very familiar. Perhaps because I also hail from a peninsula? There is something about peninsular living. We live in an area of such breathtaking natural beauty and are completely happy to be hours away from the hustle and bustle that is synonymous with the famous city to our south.
Anyway, I was in a really good space. I had just faced one major fear two days before at our choir concert by singing a duet out loud in front of real live people. And I didn't die! (-AMR) You see, my whole plan in choral singing was never to be heard. Just blend. I was horrified when Rob (who is also in the choir) would say after a rehearsal, "I could hear you tonight" with a smile in his voice. To me, that meant I was singing too loud, too clearly, too something. But this semester we were doing a rendition of the U2 song I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (interesting...). I have been belting that song out in a succession of living rooms (all my own) for over 25 years. I knew every nuance of that song. And I had to sing it. So I did. It was nerve-wracking and vomit-inducing. But man, it felt good. And I know now that I will be able to do that again and again.
So, back to the retreat. I was still on a high from the concert. From facing my fears. And here I was with an opportunity to do it all over again. If I could gather the courage to read some of my writing it could help dispel the perception that I was just Rob's + 1 at the retreat, but as I hadn't really planned ahead and brought anything, the only piece I could lay my hands on so far away from home was this blog.
Really? Could I actually share that? My one piece that was so gut-wrenching to write that I hadn't revisited it for almost a whole year? You know what though? Facing fears can be kinda addictive. I mean, really! What is the point of being here anyway? On the planet here, I mean. I never remember quotes, but one that will always stay with me (probably because it's only two words) is by E.M. Forster: only connect. That is what I strive for. So I read my piece on the first night of the retreat. And again, I didn't die. (-AMR) I was so touched by the response. It was warm and positive. People described it as "dynamic" and "powerful". Rob said it set the tone for the whole weekend; one of honesty and safety. But there was one response that totally blew me away. It was from a birth mother.
No, don't get excited. Of course she wasn't my birth mother! Just one of many women who have given up their babies. I've met so many adoptees; how funny to just now be meeting a birth mother. Who knows? Maybe I've met many, but they just haven't offered that pertinent little kernel of info. This incredibly brave woman shared some of her story with me. She was gracious enough to say that she had never thought of the other side of the story; how unfair it was to the child. I was grateful that she didn't feel that she had to describe the whys and wherefores of her decision. But she did share that they had found each other later in the child's life, that it was a good reunion and continued to be a meaningful relationship until his untimely death. (That was unexpected! I had never thought of the child dying.) Yet there was no regret in her voice. No remorse. And there was no judgement in mine as I thanked her. She had made her peace with the whole situation.
I wondered how much it cost her to tell her story.
I got so much from that weekend! There is just something about unabashedly sharing your thoughts and words that is so freeing. One woman (who wanted to give me a hug after I read my piece) told me at the end of the weekend that she thought I was able to write things that not everyone is able to articulate. I hope that will always be the case.
I made some friendships there that I feel certain will last for a very long time. I remember conversations I had with each and every one of them -- some after a few glasses of wine, some over knitting, some around the bonfire, some after our morning walks, some after an innocent misunderstanding. I know that others felt the same way. In fact, a writing group was created right there and then at dinner one night!
I will always treasure them.
Anyway, I was in a really good space. I had just faced one major fear two days before at our choir concert by singing a duet out loud in front of real live people. And I didn't die! (-AMR) You see, my whole plan in choral singing was never to be heard. Just blend. I was horrified when Rob (who is also in the choir) would say after a rehearsal, "I could hear you tonight" with a smile in his voice. To me, that meant I was singing too loud, too clearly, too something. But this semester we were doing a rendition of the U2 song I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For (interesting...). I have been belting that song out in a succession of living rooms (all my own) for over 25 years. I knew every nuance of that song. And I had to sing it. So I did. It was nerve-wracking and vomit-inducing. But man, it felt good. And I know now that I will be able to do that again and again.
So, back to the retreat. I was still on a high from the concert. From facing my fears. And here I was with an opportunity to do it all over again. If I could gather the courage to read some of my writing it could help dispel the perception that I was just Rob's + 1 at the retreat, but as I hadn't really planned ahead and brought anything, the only piece I could lay my hands on so far away from home was this blog.
Really? Could I actually share that? My one piece that was so gut-wrenching to write that I hadn't revisited it for almost a whole year? You know what though? Facing fears can be kinda addictive. I mean, really! What is the point of being here anyway? On the planet here, I mean. I never remember quotes, but one that will always stay with me (probably because it's only two words) is by E.M. Forster: only connect. That is what I strive for. So I read my piece on the first night of the retreat. And again, I didn't die. (-AMR) I was so touched by the response. It was warm and positive. People described it as "dynamic" and "powerful". Rob said it set the tone for the whole weekend; one of honesty and safety. But there was one response that totally blew me away. It was from a birth mother.
No, don't get excited. Of course she wasn't my birth mother! Just one of many women who have given up their babies. I've met so many adoptees; how funny to just now be meeting a birth mother. Who knows? Maybe I've met many, but they just haven't offered that pertinent little kernel of info. This incredibly brave woman shared some of her story with me. She was gracious enough to say that she had never thought of the other side of the story; how unfair it was to the child. I was grateful that she didn't feel that she had to describe the whys and wherefores of her decision. But she did share that they had found each other later in the child's life, that it was a good reunion and continued to be a meaningful relationship until his untimely death. (That was unexpected! I had never thought of the child dying.) Yet there was no regret in her voice. No remorse. And there was no judgement in mine as I thanked her. She had made her peace with the whole situation.
I wondered how much it cost her to tell her story.
I got so much from that weekend! There is just something about unabashedly sharing your thoughts and words that is so freeing. One woman (who wanted to give me a hug after I read my piece) told me at the end of the weekend that she thought I was able to write things that not everyone is able to articulate. I hope that will always be the case.
I made some friendships there that I feel certain will last for a very long time. I remember conversations I had with each and every one of them -- some after a few glasses of wine, some over knitting, some around the bonfire, some after our morning walks, some after an innocent misunderstanding. I know that others felt the same way. In fact, a writing group was created right there and then at dinner one night!
I will always treasure them.
Monday, 29 September 2014
"And you may ask yourself, Well… how did I get here?"
So, what is the opposite of ancestry? "Hey, I've never thought of it that way. How interesting," mutter a thousand genealogically obsessed people with family trees like bloody sequoias. In this age of DNA and Ancestry.com it is the most natural thing in the world to revel in the surfeit of information available. All you need is patience and wifi and you can find out anything your heart desires.
Well, that is not the case for all of us.
Sometimes it doesn't bother me. I had a very loving upbringing surrounded by five siblings. And I was the baby. (Oooh, the widdle baby!!) I mean, I was loved! But I'm grown now and am raising two beautiful boys of my own. And I totally love it when I see myself in them. The smallest thing that I can identify as originating from me fills me with insane joy. I have roots! But, no. I don't have roots. I have branches.
Being adopted means not having roots, not having ancestry. I was not begotten or begat. There was no Sarah who "knew" Judah kind of nonsense. I am the product of no one. And the longer I live the weirder that seems. And the angrier it makes me.
I am not legally allowed to know anything about my ancestors. That seems like a shitty deal to me.
For the longest time I told myself that I didn't want to meet my biological mother. (Why is it never the father? Do adopted boys daydream about not meeting their fathers?) I just wanted to know what she looked like. I still can't decide if that is the most horrible vanity or just a symptom of the aching need to be related to someone. I figure, I was an interloper the first time we met and I didn't want to rehash that relationship again so I would be happy just with a picture and some info.
About 20 years ago I did get some non-identifying information. I found out a few things: my ethnicity (which was a mind-blowing revelation) and the circumstances surrounding my adoption (which could have served to educate Alanis Morissette as to the actual meaning of irony). The funny thing about information is that you can never really have enough. I began to wonder whether my heart could handle meeting this woman who bore me. But it wasn't just my heart. How would I fit my head around her? I love my mother. (For future reference, when I say my mother/Mum/Momma, I will always mean my adoptive mother. She is the only mother I have ever known and she is the only person who can ever have that title. When I refer to the woman who gave me life, I will always refer to her as My Biological Mother. Clinical maybe, but we do what we have to). How could I have two mother figures? What if I fit into my biological mother's life better than my Mum's? What if I found out that she married my biological father and they went on to have five kids and they all lived happily ever after on the island paradise of St Lucia (where she really is from)! I mean, it's too exhausting to think of all the possible outcomes. So I'd let it go.
But I'm getting older. And now there is the real possibility that she may already be dead and I'll never know more than I know right now. And again, that seems shitty to me. Not when everyone else has the option of tracing their lineage back nine generations!
My Mum always encouraged me to look for her. Which is really incredibly understanding and loving, right? But a little part of me always thought, "Why do you want to push me away? Don't you know that I just want to be your daughter?" But of course she couldn't know that. She has biological relatives. She assumes (as I assume most people with biological relatives would assume) that I would want to find my "real family". Okay, so here's the thing. When you are adopted, your family is the people you grew up with. They are the ones you are close to and have shared your life with. That's what family is. That's all family can be to us. Encouraging me to look elsewhere for family always felt more like a slap in the face than a hand on the shoulder. Now, when my husband of 17 years encourages me to find my biological mother, it feels different. We have made people together. We have a vested interest in checking out what kind of material we're working with here. And he sees past my humour and stunning witticisms right to that hollow centre.
So perhaps it's time to search in ernest. I've been on the Adoption Disclosure Registry for 20 years. They finally opened the records in my neck of the woods in 2009. But seeing as they sealed them in 1927, that's 82 years of backlog to get through. The fabled matching up may take a while.
So, I propose to blog my way through this quest. I don't know how prolific I will be. It's tiring, soul-sucking work. Thus, there will be whining. But for all of you who are bored to death hearing the same family stories every Thanksgiving, come see how the other half lives.
Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
Well, that is not the case for all of us.
Sometimes it doesn't bother me. I had a very loving upbringing surrounded by five siblings. And I was the baby. (Oooh, the widdle baby!!) I mean, I was loved! But I'm grown now and am raising two beautiful boys of my own. And I totally love it when I see myself in them. The smallest thing that I can identify as originating from me fills me with insane joy. I have roots! But, no. I don't have roots. I have branches.
Being adopted means not having roots, not having ancestry. I was not begotten or begat. There was no Sarah who "knew" Judah kind of nonsense. I am the product of no one. And the longer I live the weirder that seems. And the angrier it makes me.
I am not legally allowed to know anything about my ancestors. That seems like a shitty deal to me.
For the longest time I told myself that I didn't want to meet my biological mother. (Why is it never the father? Do adopted boys daydream about not meeting their fathers?) I just wanted to know what she looked like. I still can't decide if that is the most horrible vanity or just a symptom of the aching need to be related to someone. I figure, I was an interloper the first time we met and I didn't want to rehash that relationship again so I would be happy just with a picture and some info.
About 20 years ago I did get some non-identifying information. I found out a few things: my ethnicity (which was a mind-blowing revelation) and the circumstances surrounding my adoption (which could have served to educate Alanis Morissette as to the actual meaning of irony). The funny thing about information is that you can never really have enough. I began to wonder whether my heart could handle meeting this woman who bore me. But it wasn't just my heart. How would I fit my head around her? I love my mother. (For future reference, when I say my mother/Mum/Momma, I will always mean my adoptive mother. She is the only mother I have ever known and she is the only person who can ever have that title. When I refer to the woman who gave me life, I will always refer to her as My Biological Mother. Clinical maybe, but we do what we have to). How could I have two mother figures? What if I fit into my biological mother's life better than my Mum's? What if I found out that she married my biological father and they went on to have five kids and they all lived happily ever after on the island paradise of St Lucia (where she really is from)! I mean, it's too exhausting to think of all the possible outcomes. So I'd let it go.
But I'm getting older. And now there is the real possibility that she may already be dead and I'll never know more than I know right now. And again, that seems shitty to me. Not when everyone else has the option of tracing their lineage back nine generations!
My Mum always encouraged me to look for her. Which is really incredibly understanding and loving, right? But a little part of me always thought, "Why do you want to push me away? Don't you know that I just want to be your daughter?" But of course she couldn't know that. She has biological relatives. She assumes (as I assume most people with biological relatives would assume) that I would want to find my "real family". Okay, so here's the thing. When you are adopted, your family is the people you grew up with. They are the ones you are close to and have shared your life with. That's what family is. That's all family can be to us. Encouraging me to look elsewhere for family always felt more like a slap in the face than a hand on the shoulder. Now, when my husband of 17 years encourages me to find my biological mother, it feels different. We have made people together. We have a vested interest in checking out what kind of material we're working with here. And he sees past my humour and stunning witticisms right to that hollow centre.
So perhaps it's time to search in ernest. I've been on the Adoption Disclosure Registry for 20 years. They finally opened the records in my neck of the woods in 2009. But seeing as they sealed them in 1927, that's 82 years of backlog to get through. The fabled matching up may take a while.
So, I propose to blog my way through this quest. I don't know how prolific I will be. It's tiring, soul-sucking work. Thus, there will be whining. But for all of you who are bored to death hearing the same family stories every Thanksgiving, come see how the other half lives.
Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.
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