Ok, I’m going in a little different direction today. I want to take a moment and introduce you to a couple friends of mine. They lived in Southern California. Or, maybe New England. I haven’t quite figured that out yet.
The first person’s name is Marc. He’s a data analyst for a consulting company. The company does work for some Silicon Valley companies. They help glean data and sift it in order to find trends that their clients can exploit in order to up their ad revenue. Marc also has training in programming.
The other person is Ann. She is a co-worker of Marc’s. She is a math prodigy. Numbers speak to her like music or art speaks to other people.
Marc was raised by a single parent. His father, like so many others, ghosted his family when Marc was young. His Mom worked two jobs to support them. That left Marc with considerable time on his hands while Mom was away. To keep him busy, his Mom enrolled him in Martial Arts at an early age. This gave him a community to belong to and role models that he could follow. He also enjoyed attending and involving himself in his local church parish. He had a fairly good relationship with the priest there. He had even considered entering the priesthood before he fell in love with computers and their potential as useful tools for life and commerce.
Ann came from an abusive home. She and her siblings were continually berated by their alcoholic mother and a father who simply didn’t seem to care. Ann, as the oldest, took the brunt of the abuse. At the same time, however, she worked hard to protect and support her younger sister and brothers. She found escape and peace in numbers. There was beauty in the patterns that they formed. Rather than being the drudgery that most kids experienced, Ann saw purpose and order. Her mind was wired in such a way that equations and formulae became friends she could count on to always remain consistent.
These two are not real people. They are characters in a story that I began a little over a year ago. After I completed the original draft of the story I set it on the corner of my desk. And, there it sits.
There are many times that I considered shredding the story. It was a valiant first attempt. But, it’s really not very good. I thought that perhaps I’d just start a new project and build upon my initial experience.
However, Marc and Ann keep coming back into my brain. The premise of the story seems sound enough. I just need to reconsider my approach.
So, with that in mind, I thought that I would breathe some new life into this tale. I’m not sure what’s going to come of it. It may still simply crash and burn. If I can introduce these characters, though, perhaps they, like Pinocchio, will come to life and become real people.
I came across that hashtag on twitter yesterday. Since I am one, I decided to see where it would lead. To say that I was unprepared for what I read would be understating things. The amount of hurt and anger radiating from these tweets would rival the sun’s heat. I was truly taken by surprise.
I didn’t experience the same emotions that many of these other adoptees did. As I reflect back on my childhood, I really don’t know why I didn’t have those feelings.
Abandonment. Loneliness. Isolation.
Perhaps my adoptive parents were just different than others. Maybe they cared enough that I didn’t consider myself anything less than their son. Even though they never hid the fact that I was adopted, they always treated me like their own. So, maybe I was special in that regard. I grew up with nothing but gratitude to them for giving me a chance at a good life.
I do remember asking about my birth parents. What I don’t remember are answers to that. Like many of the folks tweeting about this, my adoptive parents deflected that question. They tried to get me to focus on what I had with them. Not what I might have had in another life. I really can’t blame them too much for that. They had feelings that they wanted to protect. I suppose the prospect of rejection from the person that they felt they had sacrificed so much for was difficult for them. You see, my adoptive parents had tried for nearly a decade to have a child of their own. Physical issues didn’t allow that. They wanted to have children, though. So, they took the only avenue that was open to them. Adoption. For that, I should be grateful, I guess.
There was something missing, though. As a young child I had no idea what that was. I had neither the ability to process those feelings, nor the language to express them. So, for the most part, I stuffed them. I remember when I was 12 I was talking to friend who was also an adoptee. When I shared some of my regrets at not knowing anything about my birth parents, he told me not to think about them. His feeling was that his birth parents didn’t love him enough to keep him. So, screw them. They weren’t worth the effort to even consider. I accepted his logic. Hey, it made sense to 12 year old me!
And, I lived with that assessment. I never gave my birth parents another thought. Yeah, I was reminded that I was a type of singularity with no roots every time I went to the doctor and had to answer the question about family traits with, “I’m adopted.” But, even that became a point of pride with me. It made the doctor squirm a bit. I liked that.
When I got married I suppose my wife and I discussed the fact that we had no idea what kind of genetic issues might lie hidden in my closed adoption records. But, we didn’t let that stop us from bring new life of our own into the world. Yeah, it might have been helpful. We realized, though, that even in the most solid families with a great pedigree having children can be a crapshoot. Likewise, birth families with a history of physical and mental issues can produce a perfectly well-adjusted child. As they say, There are no guarantees.
What changed the equation for me was the night I received a phone call. The person on the other end introduced himself as the husband of my sister. Hmmm…I don’t have a sister. Or, do I? My first inclination was that this was a scam of some sort. Even though the voice gave me all sorts of details about the person he said was my birth mother, I had no way to corroborate those. I knew nothing about her.
We met that evening. I took my wife and we drove to the place that we had arranged. When we walked in I spotted them immediately. Over in the corner of the restaurant was a young woman who was more frightened than any deer caught in headlights. Yep! That’s her! We sat down and introductions were made all the way round.
The story of their surprise trip was, well, interesting. It turns out that our mother was emotionally handicapped. At some point she was, as my newly minted brother-in-law said, “Taken advantage of” by an older man. Voila! Enter Me. Our mother was living with her parents who were apparently abusive. They force her to give me up. Now, we need to understand that in the year that I was born was during a time when abortion was illegal. Mothers of children born in our circumstances were shunned and treated like whores. The social stigma of this was a price too high for them to pay.
So, I was placed in some kind of orphanage. At least,that’s what I was told. When I was 6 months old, my adoptive parents entered. I had a rather pronounced birthmark on my upper lip. So, at that time I was considered “handicapped.” That didn’t stop this couple from taking me in as their own. Again, I should be grateful. I could have easily languished in “The System” for years. But, I was placed in a warm and loving home. And, I never really looked back.
After I met my sister, the time came for me to meet my birth mother. You see, the whole reason that my sister tracked me down was because our mother, besides her disability, was overcome with remorse for her lost son. She lamented the choice that had been made for her by her parents. So, my sister and her then husband thought that if they could locate me that would bring some closure and peace to our mother. So, we drove to their place and met her. The meeting was good, I think. Our mother was overjoyed at finally finding me. We did all of the first time meeting stuff with hugs all around and tears and all of that. We set up a time for them to come to our place and visit.
Then, I told my adoptive parents what was happening. I’m not sure what they felt. Hurt? Anger? Fear? All of the above. My mom said that she had feared this day. She asked question about what I had learned. When I answered them, she admitted that she knew the answers were correct because she had the documentation that identified my birth mother. She had my original birth certificate with the name that my birth mother had originally given me. She knew these things and never told them to me. Again, I can understand her actions. I get it. I’m not sure that I will ever agree with them, though.
Be that as it may, this is the life I’ve been given. I have no choice but to accept it an get on with it. And, it has been a good life over all.
There were things, though, that didn’t seem to add up. So, I began to seek counselling. Over the years those folks I talked to have all stopped when I told them of my adoption. All of them point to that one event as being the primary shaper of who I am. And, in every case, I doubted them. After all, I was only 6 months old! How much could that short time be problematic?
Well, apparently a lot. The lack of emotional connection in the earliest DAYS of life can have devastating effects on a person. How? In my case it is most pronounced in my own inability to form and maintain any close emotional connections with others. This has snowballed into people considering me aloof, selfish, closed, and distant. And, people are right! I am all of those. And, more.
Are they a result of my separation and disconnect from my birth mother? Maybe. Or, do they have their roots in the fact that my adoptive dad was also aloof and seemingly unable to make deep emotional connections? Maybe, I got hit with a double-whammy!
In any case, here I am over six decades later still wondering…still imagining.
Will anything be proven by anger, hurt, or any other negative feelings toward either my adoptive parents or my birth mother? Oh, hell no. That would only amount to me punishing me for something that I had no control over.
All I can really do is try to live into the life that I have created with my wife and our family. No, I don’t do it all that well. Like I said, close emotional bonds are not something that I am capable of. But, I can’t blame those who came before me for what I have done with the raw materials that I was given by means of both nature and nurture.
Hey, all! I’m going to divert just a tad today. Over the years I’ve attempted to write about, well, anything at all. Ok, I try to stay away from U.S. politics. That’s way to divisive even for me. That was one of the main reasons that I walked away from all social media a little over a year ago. The vitriol and hatred I witnessed was too much for me. I was loosing sleep and suffering from anxiety. So, yeah. I needed a season for self-care.
Recently, though, I returned to the fray. I am being far more selective of people and groups that I follow and interact with this time. I don’t want to end up chewing my fingernails and muttering to myself.
What I do intend to do, though, is utilize the wide influence of social media to promote my own writing. With retirement looming ahead, I am continuing to work through what I intend to do with my time. And, believe me, there are a multitude of options knocking on the door. I will not get bored!
My greatest hope is to step up with writing. Ever since I can remember words have been important to me. They are the clay with which I mold both statuary for aesthetics and beauty as well as the bowls and cups with which I eat and drink. In seminary I found that I could actually write well. Not great, by any stretch. But, I was adept at it and enjoyed doing it very much. So, to test the waters I began a blog. It wasn’t much to begin with. I jotted down thoughts and ideas that happened to be walking around in my brain. Now, over 450 blog posts later, I am more intentional about things that I write. I write with a specific audience in mind. Yeah, I still toss out the odd poem or essay from time-to-time. That’s just how my brain works, I guess. And, I will continue to do that.
So, back to the social media thing. I am going to use Facebook, tumblr, twitter, and maybe Instagram to post my work. My intent is to build an audience, a tribe, of followers who will be directed to my blog. I desire that people read, follow, and share with their friends what I write. Eventually, I hope to either morph the blog into an Author’s website, or create a new site as my home as an author.
Yes, I intend to use this blog and my social media accounts to write and promote my original content.
That said, I would not be disappointed if you all would ‘like,’ share, comment, or follow this blog and any content that I post to social media. Yeah, this is a brazen attempt at self-promotion. It’s awkward for me to do this. The page is turning to reveal the next chapter of my life. Using words to create worlds and universes are written into that chapter. I guess that I’m asking you to join with me as I journey into the unknown.
The Western mind had been trained to see things in Binary terms. Right/Wrong Good/Evil White/Black On/Off
But, what if the Universe doesn’t work that way? What if there can be Right/Right?
In most stories people who lead so-called “double lives” are generally cast as immoral. Or, at the very least, amoral. They can’t possibly be virtuous. In fact, theirs is a life defined by vice. It is vulgar and without any redeeming value.
The story that I plan to work on this year during NaNoWriMo is one in which I hope to look at the possibility that Right isn’t always quite Right. Perhaps there are degrees of “Rightness.” And, what happens when someone finds themselves with lives that exist in two different realities must straddle that gulf where what is Good and Acceptable in one reality may be entirely different that that in the other.
Can that person be called Virtuous?
Or, would that person be a Victim? Victimizer?
I don’t know for sure where the story will lead. That’s one of the cool things about creating worlds and stories to populate them. They can take on a life of their own. Perhaps, to the mountain peaks. Perhaps, into Alice’s rabbit hole. The journey should be interesting.
For who truly knows where Light ends and Light begins?
