It's not over til it's over. When I thought about searching, decided to search, dreamed about searching, actively searched, it was always about finding my mother. She was the goal, the prize. Sure, there were peripheral thoughts and hopes, about a father, about siblings, grandparents, and that whole network of extended connections that make up a family. So, my so called reunion wasn't over yet, in my opinion. I had information now, about siblings, about grandparents, aunts and uncles.... I still had to find some of them, and make some more of those blasted uncomfortable, (vulnerable) phone calls.
I had lost the race, forfeited the prize, fallen short of the goal and come up empty handed. Have I mentioned that I hate losing? I was always told that if you work hard enough, if you have fortitude, and patience, if you never give up, you can have anything you want. It's a lie. My adoptive parents were first generation Americans, their parents were immigrants, Irish and Polish, and they were Depression Era folks. In the home I grew up in, concepts and words like "spunky","pluck" ,"bootstraps","buckle down", "productive" and "selfmade" were not only taught, but revered. The message was that life was a battle, but if you fought hard and smart and long, you could win. Period. You could have it all, whatever "all" was to you. It's a lie, sometimes you do have to accept defeat, no matter how much you rail against it, or try to construct into something other than what it is. It's not the defeat part that's difficult, defeat just is. It's the accept part that will send you sailing off into mental spasms, and something that looks like an outer deadening, but is really the inability to accept the unacceptable imploding inside, like some personal dwarf star working it's way towards black hole status. Conditioning says, keep going... bootstraps, pull em' up, ignore that little Hiroshima inside, there's work to do, and people to find, and a loss to shape into something else. Make it work. Get what you can and ...make....the.....best....of....it. It's a "hardscrabble" world, you know?
So, the rest of those to find. I'm going to try to lay it out in a coherent outline of sorts here, because when it comes to adoptees talking about their multi-families, confusion reigns. Most adoptees I know need pie charts and bar graphs, visual aids and a part-time admin to actually keep it straight, much less explain it to someone else. Here's your cheat sheet:
Paternal side:
2 Brothers
1 Sister
A grandmother
an Aunt
Maternal side:
a Sister
a Brother
a Grandmother
an Uncle
2 aunts
They each have their own story, their own offering to the altar of "reunion". Some have felt their pilgrimage to that altar more than others, and some have been dragged there screaming, by me, and thrown on the marble like some sacrifice. Some refused to go. I made a mess of most of it, in ignorance, in denial, in grief in fear and mostly, in need. I needed, and I needed a lot. I'm being dramatic. I don't enjoy needing, it's one of my least favorite words, and emotions.
Time to get to work. Bootstraps huh.... I suppose I'm supposed to yank them or something... I prefer stillettos.
Tamara
Echoed voices in the night
she's a restless spirit on an endless flight
wooo hooo witchy woman, see how
high she flies
~ The Eagles, Witchy Woman
Friday, September 24, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Looking down the barrel...
I was under no illusions that that last one was going to be painful. I am self aware enough to know that. What I didn't quite get was how debilitating it was going to be, in terms of every day life. Exhausted, scattered, a little bit nauseated, and actually, quite shaken.
I know that "getting it out" is a good thing, every pop psychology book written talks about that. Most theraputic modalities are based on it, to some degree or another. I've tried a lot of them, most to no avail. The "no avail" probably being directly in correlation with my readiness, I'm sure.
Am I ready now? I have no idea, none. If this is what ready feels like, ready blows. Ok, I allowed myself a little whining, I deserve it, I'm human too, even when I try to go robot, I'm still human. Is that even the question? Maybe the question is really, ready for what? So cool, just change the question to one you know the answer to....gotta love being in charge. The answer is.... Healing! Teachers pet, A+, brownie button, give Tam a cookie. I'm not sure what healing looks like for me. I've been this version of me for so long, it's integral for sure, probably chronic and certainly not something that I can remember as being different once upon a time. There are things I want to make better, to feel better, to accept, to fix, to salve and to move forward from...is that healing?
Whine alert: You know what really toasts my ass? I didn't do this. I have to fix it, somehow, if that's possible, but I had no say so, there's nothing for me to own up to, or make amends for, no tangible action on my part except to "become". Injustice always frustrates me, and there is nothing just about looking down the barrel of this healing crap.
Back to the healing thing, I really only have questions, not answers. Will there be a magical day when everything is "all better"? Doubtful, life really doesn't work like that. Instinctually, I have this thought that accepting it "as is" will be part of being healed. Maybe coming out on the other side, having felt all the feelings, experienced the emotions finally, embraced the injustice, voiced some truth, unmasked a few lies, defied some family to love me for "me actually". Is that it? I can do that. I probably won't like it, but I can do it.
I want to live a beautiful life. That's what she gave it to me for. There's a mission statement for ya.
There's more to this story...
Tamara
When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
And dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away
~Boston "More than a Feelin"
I know that "getting it out" is a good thing, every pop psychology book written talks about that. Most theraputic modalities are based on it, to some degree or another. I've tried a lot of them, most to no avail. The "no avail" probably being directly in correlation with my readiness, I'm sure.
Am I ready now? I have no idea, none. If this is what ready feels like, ready blows. Ok, I allowed myself a little whining, I deserve it, I'm human too, even when I try to go robot, I'm still human. Is that even the question? Maybe the question is really, ready for what? So cool, just change the question to one you know the answer to....gotta love being in charge. The answer is.... Healing! Teachers pet, A+, brownie button, give Tam a cookie. I'm not sure what healing looks like for me. I've been this version of me for so long, it's integral for sure, probably chronic and certainly not something that I can remember as being different once upon a time. There are things I want to make better, to feel better, to accept, to fix, to salve and to move forward from...is that healing?
Whine alert: You know what really toasts my ass? I didn't do this. I have to fix it, somehow, if that's possible, but I had no say so, there's nothing for me to own up to, or make amends for, no tangible action on my part except to "become". Injustice always frustrates me, and there is nothing just about looking down the barrel of this healing crap.
Back to the healing thing, I really only have questions, not answers. Will there be a magical day when everything is "all better"? Doubtful, life really doesn't work like that. Instinctually, I have this thought that accepting it "as is" will be part of being healed. Maybe coming out on the other side, having felt all the feelings, experienced the emotions finally, embraced the injustice, voiced some truth, unmasked a few lies, defied some family to love me for "me actually". Is that it? I can do that. I probably won't like it, but I can do it.
I want to live a beautiful life. That's what she gave it to me for. There's a mission statement for ya.
There's more to this story...
Tamara
When I'm tired and thinking cold
I hide in my music, forget the day
And dream of a girl I used to know
I closed my eyes and she slipped away
She slipped away
~Boston "More than a Feelin"
Event Horizon
I've been avoiding this all night. My house is spotless, plants are watered, grout cleaned, hell, I'm a single woman who works all day, there isn't that much to do around here, but I managed to engage in useless activity until 9:15, I think that's some pretty impressive stalling. It's not like someone is holding a gun to my head, saying "Blog or die", but it kind of feels that way tonight. Probably the subject matter. (Ya think??) Did I mention The Eagles are on again tonight? Stalling....
So, I left the last installment with a phone in my hand. I had been unable to find a listed number for my biological father, but luckily, resourceful Kathy waved her magic microfiche wand and came up with a list of aunts, uncles, sisters and brothers. We weren't positive about some of the siblings, but we were confident about the aunts and uncles. So I had the name, address and phone number of an uncle in Napa. I believe Amy had the name and number of her father by that time. Neither of us had any idea where our mothers were yet, but we were confident we would soon, actually, we were kind of delirious, almost disbelieving, running around the house, punting each other off the computer, grabbing "Kathy" (on the phone) out of each other's hands midsentence. It was chaos, like only two female adoptees on the brink of reunion can do chaos.
I had my number, I called immediately. Got an answering machine and left "that" message. It kind of goes something like this: "Hi, this is going to be an unusual message, but my name is Tamara Whitmore, I am calling for Bill Crossman, I believe he is my Uncle. I am looking for John Crossman, who I believe is my biological father, I was surrendered for adoption in 1963. Please call me back at ###-###-####: I know this is weird, but even if you aren't who I think you are, can you call me back and tell me so, thanks." Yup, just dropped it off, Tam-style. Amy is a more cautious, careful individual, I think she waited awhile, let it sink in, did it when she knew she was ready... in other words, was a grown up, and probably sounded a lot less like a Jerry Springer show when she made her call.
That evening I got a phone call back from a really nice lady named Tilly, who introduced herself as Bill's wife, and told me that I had, indeed, reached the correct people, and that her husband was the brother of John Crossman, my biological father. I start firing questions at her (I really wish I had been better prepared for this whole reunion thing) and she answered most of them as best she could, but she didn't have much info, and refused to give me my biological father's phone number. She politely declined, and said she was going to have my Uncle call me when he got home. Oh boy, here we go.... time for another little "self talking to"... Tam, you said you would be willing to be rejected, you might be wrecking his life, he might have a wife that doesn't know about you...blah blah blah. Ok, so I DID say all those things, and to God, no less. It was a crushing blow, but I figured I convince Uncle Bill to be intermediary or something... I needed information about my mother!!! I also needed a medical history, something most folks take for granted. I hadn't come this far to just stop, so I geared up to sweettalk ol' Uncle Bill til the cows came home if I had to. I planned it, I practiced it, I willed it, I begged God, yet again, for it, I was gonna pull out all the stops...but I was going to beg, plead, charm, convince that darn Uncle of mine to help me. I'm a willful girl. If you know me, you already know that.
The Uncle Bill call comes in a couple hours later and the first thing he says is "I always wondered what happened to you" and I launch into my spiel... about how I don't mean any harm, and I'll be respectful and I just want info and he interrupts me and says "Sweetie, I'm not worried about him, I'm worried about you".. huh? Worried about me? and his next words were pretty prophetic, in hindsight.. he said "Your father is not a nice man" I think I was silent for a moment, did a little regrouping, realized what I had been told, and just asked for the #.
Again, no prep, no thinking about it, no taking a minute to breathe (I really need to work on that), I pick up the phone, and rush face first into hell. I just didn't know it yet. I'm going to take a break for a minute and make a few disclaimers: I have until now, for the sake of the story, and clarity, refered to John Crossman Sr as my biological father. He's not. I usually refer to him as my sperm donor.... I suppose I could live with paternal DNA source, but he's no father. Not to anyone, although he has several children and step children. I'm gonna save that story for another time, but you'll get what I'm talking about soon, I promise. I had a great Dad in my adoptive father, huge shoes to fill, I never expected nor desired Mr. Crossman to take on that role, but I did expect him to be a regular sort of guy, and I did expect him to treat me decently. I am his flesh and blood after all, although for beings like him, I think folks call their offspring "spawn". I despise him.
I didn't know I despised him yet though.... so I make that call. Uncle Bill had already paved the way for me, so the first thing I hear again is "Hi Baby, I always wondered what happened to you?" Apparently, lots of people wondered what happened to me throughout the years, although no one bothered to FIND OUT. He seemed really happy to hear from me, and was forthcoming with the precious information I had waited my whole life to hear.... what happened? (or at least his version, there are several)
Linda's story (the sperm donor version):
She was 14, he was 20. Yeah, 1st ew. He claims he really cared about her, and she came from a single parent household without much supervision (Gramma's name? check) She got pregnant and wanted to keep me. He loved her but didin't marry her, dodged the why not? question. I was born on the day they buried JFK. He wasn't there. He did come to visit, and got a job at Sears to try to support us. At 6 weeks old, "the Social Workers" came (I am assuming CPS) and took me from her arms and placed me in a foster home. Why? He didn't know. He speculated that she wasn't a "good girl" (asshat, the rapist thinks my 14 year old mother wasn't a good girl) He left after that, because he was so "destroyed" by it, and went into the Army (read abandoned the 14 year old that he raped, and her baby). He knew that she then "took up" with his best friend Gene Anderson (nice, another 20 year old jerkoff) who got her pregnant (brother Ron, confirmed Kathy's magical skills again) and married her. He said he thought that once Gene married her, I went home to her, and had been with her since. Never bothered to check though, did ya? I'm sitting in wooden silence, trying to integrate the age differences... I totally stalled on that, just couldn't get past it. To my credit, I did manage to get some more info, and not go to jail. He also told me I had a little brother Johnny, only 3 years older than my son. He neglected to tell me I also had another brother and sister, until much later. I'm not proud of this, but I figured I better be nice to him until I found my mom, so I made my goodbyes.
How do you incorporate being the product of a rape, statutory or otherwise, into your being, into who you are? Am I now, somehow, intrinsically tainted? Because that first spark of life that was me came from something wrong and ugly, something that my values automaticallly file in the "most vile" file? What do you DO with that? I'll tell ya what... you stuff it. Way way down deep. Adoptees are good at that, we have the technology, so to speak. Hardwired to flip the feeling switch and march on like grateful little soldiers. So I did.
Gene Anderson was easy to find. Of course, I called him right away. He was very pleasant, and gave me the rest of the story.
Linda's story (the 2nd jackass version w/a little Gramma thrown in):
So, yep, Gene got Linda pregnant 3 months after I was born. (statistics say that this is actually not all that uncommon, the mothers grieve their children so much, they seek to replace them, in case anyone is judging my mother) and he married her. Since she was a minor, the powers that be who were holding me hostage in foster care said that she could have me back if she wanted. My adoptive mother had always used this phrase when I asked questions "they told her you were getting too old, and aware, and she needed to make a decision". Gene says he told her she could have me back if she wanted, and she decided to relinquish (After holding out for almost a year with no support, against all odds??) When I met my Grandmother later, she told me that Gene told my mother that "he didn't want another man's face running around his house". One of the strange things about reunion, at least for me, is all the "minor players" feel really guilty and embarrassed and try to make their own cases. I leave it up to you to decide what you believe, because we will never really know. There was one other thing Gene Anderson had to tell me, he asked me "you know about your mother right?".... and I told him that I didn't, that was what I was doing (did the man think I cared about chatting it up with him about my surrender???).......... and there was a long pause, and, for once, I didn't say anything..... and the man who didn't want my face running around his house had to do his duty, pay his karma..... and tell me that my mother was dead.
Gone. In one split second, the world as I knew it...... just...sort of..disappeared. My vision tunneled, and the room swayed back and forth a little, and Rachel, Amy's daughter, walked in the room, she must have heard the conversation or something, and put her arms around me, and I don't remember much else. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I still haven't. What did I do with this? Not just the 1st loss of my mother, or the 2nd, but the 3rd, final, irrevocable act of taking her from me....of taking what is so very mine, more mine than anything else away from me again. Not just the losing a human being, a parent.... but a dream, really, the only one I had.
Why can't I cry for my mother? Did I push it down somewhere unimaginably deep inside me, to survive it, to keep going, to still be Tam, to still be able to go to work and live and love my kid? I think so, and foolish girl that I am, I thought it would stay there.
But I can feel it knocking...maybe that's what this purging is all about.... it's lurking there, like some looming Event Horizon and the choice of when and how I face this won't be a choice anymore.
Tamara
So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time
The Eagles
So, I left the last installment with a phone in my hand. I had been unable to find a listed number for my biological father, but luckily, resourceful Kathy waved her magic microfiche wand and came up with a list of aunts, uncles, sisters and brothers. We weren't positive about some of the siblings, but we were confident about the aunts and uncles. So I had the name, address and phone number of an uncle in Napa. I believe Amy had the name and number of her father by that time. Neither of us had any idea where our mothers were yet, but we were confident we would soon, actually, we were kind of delirious, almost disbelieving, running around the house, punting each other off the computer, grabbing "Kathy" (on the phone) out of each other's hands midsentence. It was chaos, like only two female adoptees on the brink of reunion can do chaos.
I had my number, I called immediately. Got an answering machine and left "that" message. It kind of goes something like this: "Hi, this is going to be an unusual message, but my name is Tamara Whitmore, I am calling for Bill Crossman, I believe he is my Uncle. I am looking for John Crossman, who I believe is my biological father, I was surrendered for adoption in 1963. Please call me back at ###-###-####: I know this is weird, but even if you aren't who I think you are, can you call me back and tell me so, thanks." Yup, just dropped it off, Tam-style. Amy is a more cautious, careful individual, I think she waited awhile, let it sink in, did it when she knew she was ready... in other words, was a grown up, and probably sounded a lot less like a Jerry Springer show when she made her call.
That evening I got a phone call back from a really nice lady named Tilly, who introduced herself as Bill's wife, and told me that I had, indeed, reached the correct people, and that her husband was the brother of John Crossman, my biological father. I start firing questions at her (I really wish I had been better prepared for this whole reunion thing) and she answered most of them as best she could, but she didn't have much info, and refused to give me my biological father's phone number. She politely declined, and said she was going to have my Uncle call me when he got home. Oh boy, here we go.... time for another little "self talking to"... Tam, you said you would be willing to be rejected, you might be wrecking his life, he might have a wife that doesn't know about you...blah blah blah. Ok, so I DID say all those things, and to God, no less. It was a crushing blow, but I figured I convince Uncle Bill to be intermediary or something... I needed information about my mother!!! I also needed a medical history, something most folks take for granted. I hadn't come this far to just stop, so I geared up to sweettalk ol' Uncle Bill til the cows came home if I had to. I planned it, I practiced it, I willed it, I begged God, yet again, for it, I was gonna pull out all the stops...but I was going to beg, plead, charm, convince that darn Uncle of mine to help me. I'm a willful girl. If you know me, you already know that.
The Uncle Bill call comes in a couple hours later and the first thing he says is "I always wondered what happened to you" and I launch into my spiel... about how I don't mean any harm, and I'll be respectful and I just want info and he interrupts me and says "Sweetie, I'm not worried about him, I'm worried about you".. huh? Worried about me? and his next words were pretty prophetic, in hindsight.. he said "Your father is not a nice man" I think I was silent for a moment, did a little regrouping, realized what I had been told, and just asked for the #.
Again, no prep, no thinking about it, no taking a minute to breathe (I really need to work on that), I pick up the phone, and rush face first into hell. I just didn't know it yet. I'm going to take a break for a minute and make a few disclaimers: I have until now, for the sake of the story, and clarity, refered to John Crossman Sr as my biological father. He's not. I usually refer to him as my sperm donor.... I suppose I could live with paternal DNA source, but he's no father. Not to anyone, although he has several children and step children. I'm gonna save that story for another time, but you'll get what I'm talking about soon, I promise. I had a great Dad in my adoptive father, huge shoes to fill, I never expected nor desired Mr. Crossman to take on that role, but I did expect him to be a regular sort of guy, and I did expect him to treat me decently. I am his flesh and blood after all, although for beings like him, I think folks call their offspring "spawn". I despise him.
I didn't know I despised him yet though.... so I make that call. Uncle Bill had already paved the way for me, so the first thing I hear again is "Hi Baby, I always wondered what happened to you?" Apparently, lots of people wondered what happened to me throughout the years, although no one bothered to FIND OUT. He seemed really happy to hear from me, and was forthcoming with the precious information I had waited my whole life to hear.... what happened? (or at least his version, there are several)
Linda's story (the sperm donor version):
She was 14, he was 20. Yeah, 1st ew. He claims he really cared about her, and she came from a single parent household without much supervision (Gramma's name? check) She got pregnant and wanted to keep me. He loved her but didin't marry her, dodged the why not? question. I was born on the day they buried JFK. He wasn't there. He did come to visit, and got a job at Sears to try to support us. At 6 weeks old, "the Social Workers" came (I am assuming CPS) and took me from her arms and placed me in a foster home. Why? He didn't know. He speculated that she wasn't a "good girl" (asshat, the rapist thinks my 14 year old mother wasn't a good girl) He left after that, because he was so "destroyed" by it, and went into the Army (read abandoned the 14 year old that he raped, and her baby). He knew that she then "took up" with his best friend Gene Anderson (nice, another 20 year old jerkoff) who got her pregnant (brother Ron, confirmed Kathy's magical skills again) and married her. He said he thought that once Gene married her, I went home to her, and had been with her since. Never bothered to check though, did ya? I'm sitting in wooden silence, trying to integrate the age differences... I totally stalled on that, just couldn't get past it. To my credit, I did manage to get some more info, and not go to jail. He also told me I had a little brother Johnny, only 3 years older than my son. He neglected to tell me I also had another brother and sister, until much later. I'm not proud of this, but I figured I better be nice to him until I found my mom, so I made my goodbyes.
How do you incorporate being the product of a rape, statutory or otherwise, into your being, into who you are? Am I now, somehow, intrinsically tainted? Because that first spark of life that was me came from something wrong and ugly, something that my values automaticallly file in the "most vile" file? What do you DO with that? I'll tell ya what... you stuff it. Way way down deep. Adoptees are good at that, we have the technology, so to speak. Hardwired to flip the feeling switch and march on like grateful little soldiers. So I did.
Gene Anderson was easy to find. Of course, I called him right away. He was very pleasant, and gave me the rest of the story.
Linda's story (the 2nd jackass version w/a little Gramma thrown in):
So, yep, Gene got Linda pregnant 3 months after I was born. (statistics say that this is actually not all that uncommon, the mothers grieve their children so much, they seek to replace them, in case anyone is judging my mother) and he married her. Since she was a minor, the powers that be who were holding me hostage in foster care said that she could have me back if she wanted. My adoptive mother had always used this phrase when I asked questions "they told her you were getting too old, and aware, and she needed to make a decision". Gene says he told her she could have me back if she wanted, and she decided to relinquish (After holding out for almost a year with no support, against all odds??) When I met my Grandmother later, she told me that Gene told my mother that "he didn't want another man's face running around his house". One of the strange things about reunion, at least for me, is all the "minor players" feel really guilty and embarrassed and try to make their own cases. I leave it up to you to decide what you believe, because we will never really know. There was one other thing Gene Anderson had to tell me, he asked me "you know about your mother right?".... and I told him that I didn't, that was what I was doing (did the man think I cared about chatting it up with him about my surrender???).......... and there was a long pause, and, for once, I didn't say anything..... and the man who didn't want my face running around his house had to do his duty, pay his karma..... and tell me that my mother was dead.
Gone. In one split second, the world as I knew it...... just...sort of..disappeared. My vision tunneled, and the room swayed back and forth a little, and Rachel, Amy's daughter, walked in the room, she must have heard the conversation or something, and put her arms around me, and I don't remember much else. I didn't cry. I couldn't. I still haven't. What did I do with this? Not just the 1st loss of my mother, or the 2nd, but the 3rd, final, irrevocable act of taking her from me....of taking what is so very mine, more mine than anything else away from me again. Not just the losing a human being, a parent.... but a dream, really, the only one I had.
Why can't I cry for my mother? Did I push it down somewhere unimaginably deep inside me, to survive it, to keep going, to still be Tam, to still be able to go to work and live and love my kid? I think so, and foolish girl that I am, I thought it would stay there.
But I can feel it knocking...maybe that's what this purging is all about.... it's lurking there, like some looming Event Horizon and the choice of when and how I face this won't be a choice anymore.
Tamara
So put me on a highway
And show me a sign
And take it to the limit one more time
The Eagles
Monday, September 20, 2010
Aunty Florine's China...and Angels among us
Wow, I ran like hell after that last one....forgot to sign my name and everything. What a spaz.
So, I knew that once I started, these things would start piling up in my head like a 45 car pile up on I35 on a glare ice day. (All my Minnesnowta peeps nod) Today has been like that. Running in circles around the house, accomplishing nothing, thinking about adoption, and mine in particular. It is mine, you know? I didn't do it, make it, instigate it, ask for it, choose it, go to court for it, want it or not want it. Regardless, it's mine. I own it. It was bequeathed to me, like Aunt Florine's old china or something. Really though, the only record of it, is some adoption papers from 1965 that I swiped from my parents strongbox, and a dusty old original Birth Certificate somewhere in Solano County, with the name Tamara LaMoine White on it, hidden, because it has been deemed secret, by the State of California. It's possible I feel a need to document that thing I have to own a little more, flesh it out a little (pun intended). I'm a person, an adopted person, and for a long time, I towed the "company line", and wound up 46 years old with no clue as to exactly what that thing I own actually means to me.
Searching (yeah I know, not much of a segue).... like I said in my last posting, I always knew I would, I just didn't know HOW I would... or more specifically, how I would afford to search for my mother. "Back in the day".... 81-82 to be specific, we didn't have the internet, children and we had to use things like USPS, you know, that thing that brings you all the Macy's ads? Ok Tam, stop being a smartass. An old smartass to be exact, poor Anaiyah, these are the "Gramma cards" she's been dealt.
So, like I said before, I posted what I had in every registry I could find, and waited. There's a lot of waiting involved in searching, interminable, gut-wrenching waiting. Waiting that slowly morphs.... from hope, to bewilderment, to disappointment, to dismay. Dismay at the lack of results, and something else.... this nagging fear, this anxiety that slowly gnaws away at all that is lovely, all that is healthy, all that is alive in any given moment. First, you check that mailbox every day, with this eager, adrenaline anticipation romping in your chest. The thoughts: "It's going to happen, it's finally going to happen. Dear God, let it happen, I promise I won't freak out, I promise I will accept it, whatever it is (fateful words) I promise I promise I promise" I made a lot of pacts with God back then.
After a couple months, I had talked myself out of that particular tree, knowing that the disappointment was going to crash me, and the feeling had moved lower, down into my stomach, still fluttering, but a little bitter too, almost metallic. Still hopeful, but labeling myself "realistic", I still checked the mail every day, just not with that same eager anticipation, because something died just a little every time I turned that key, and this is where my head started talking to me. It's just a whisper at first, so soft and low you don't really realize it's there.... "maybe they were right"...."you might ruin her life, she's moved on"..... I was terribly afraid of harming my mother. I had been told all my life, by my adoptive parents and society in general, that mothers who relinquished did so for two reasons: the first being, because they loved me so much they wanted me to have a better life, with possessions and money and a Dad.... and the other was to have better lives for themselves, to go to college, to move on, to have families of their own (?), and that they didn't talk about us, they "put us out of their minds", that for us to "show up" could destroy their current families, that they would have to "confess their secrets" to their husbands and families, that the new siblings would hate us and be jealous. Wow, just rereading that, that's a lot of whispering.......and apparently, I had drunk plenty of the KoolAid. Just a side note for the civilians, all those whispers are a bunch of garbage, and if you think about it critically, who do they serve?
So years go by, and Tam does life. Does life, but always updating those registries when we moved, and we moved a lot, as my ex was in the military. I was a young mom, had a philandering husband and plenty on my plate... but "it" still reared it's ugly head occasionally. According to my ex, I got a little crazy around my birthday every year....and I'd have to say that was a fair assessment. Birthdays are special, but they are extra special to adoptees. That was "our" day, mine and her's. I always wondered if she thought about me on that day. I always hoped she knew I thought about her. Somewhere in those 14 years of my first attempt at a marriage I did that little breaking and entering thing into my parents strong box. Whenever Tom traveled, he would look in all the phone books and call all the Carole Whites, God bless his cheatin' heart for that, I mean it. I updated all the registries again, with the wrong name. Her name was Linda Carole White, damnit. Although, I know now, she didn't look, or register, I still can't help but wonder if her real name had popped up somewhere, maybe she would have followed the trail back to me. That's one of the most frustrating things about being an adoptee, way too many unknowns, the "what ifs" will haunt you if you let them. I even went to the Solano County Registrars office once, and looked at the book, on the day of my birth. Super high tech, not. There was just a big black marker line drawn thru the name at the top of the list of babies born that day, and mine was typed in again at the bottom. (and you all know I flipped that page over, tried to rub out a name, held it up to the light, and was nicely escorted out) A big black line.
I've had the Eagles playing on my iPod while I've been writing, and when I took a break, the song "Desparado" was playing......have you (adoptees especially) ever listened to those words? "now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table, but you only want the ones that you can't get" "your pain and your hunger, they're driving you home" "your prison is walking through this world all alone"........ I'm becoming melodramatic, been cooped up in this apartment too long I think.....
OK, this is the part where it actually happens, the "event" so to speak... and it really had nothing to do with any effort on my part, frankly. My "game plan" had always been to hire a private investigator, because I was so clueless and overwhelmed by it all, it was just a matter of affording it, and I was close. My son was grown, I didn't have to feel guilty about spending the money on a "frivolous" thing. I was closing in on it, and preparing myself. Preparing myself for rejection. I used to have talks with myself (doesn't everyone do that?) ... promising again, that I would be respectful, that I would accept whatever she could or could not give, that I would be ok if she didn't want to know me (yeah right). Hey, I tried.
Fast forward to 2002, One day, I'm sitting at the computer with my roomie and dear friend Amy, looking at a website about horseback riding in Yosemite. I remember it clear as day. This instant message pops up from someone with the AOL screen name CA BERTH SEARCH or CA BIRTH SERCH (ok, maybe not clear as DAY) and it said "are you still looking for your parents?" We were logged on to Amy's computer. I looked at my dear friend, with whom I had shared secrets, hopes and dreams, failures and misgivings and said "Ame... are you adopted?" to which she answered "Yes" to which I answered "Me too" to which she answered "No shit?" at which point I almost knocked her off her chair and said "ANSWER THEM!!" She did, and our newly found search angel, Kathy, got a "twofer", that being two searches for the price of one, the price being nothing. Nothing. Not a damn dime. Not money for stamps, not ten bucks for her internet service, nothing, nada, zip, zero. I had never heard of such a thing. Amy had posted on some site that I apparently missed, and Kathy, wonderful, amazing, resourceful, sneaky, altruistic Kathy, had found her, and by luck or Divine providence, me, as well.
An aside: I was raised in a very Catholic home, I believed in God before this happened, but after that day, I BELIEVE. There was no chance in it, in my opinion. And for all the bible-thumpers that believe it's God's will to rip a kid out of a mother's arms and give it to another that they have deemed more suitable, or proper, or Christian.... all I have to say to you is this Matthew 19:6. "What God has wrought, let no man put asunder".... it ain't just fer weddings, dipstick. Scripture doesn't just apply when you can afford to have someone design your "birthmother book".
Anyhow, this wonderful Kathy, search angel of the most extraordinary ilk, had all kinds of cool info and resources. For one, she knew that in CA, your amended (fake) birth certificate had all of your adoptive parents info on it, but one thing was the same..... the # on it. With the stolen names I had, my birth date (thank God it was real) and the help of some bootleg microfiche she had smuggled out of somewhere (I defy you to use the phrase "bootleg microfiche" 3 times in a coherent sentence tomorrow) that contained the CA birth indexes, she found me...... and her..... and him, within two days. Within two days, Amy and I both had the complete names of our fathers, and the phone # of a family member to contact. I owe Kathy my sanity, my current identity, my heritage.... and if you asked her why she did it, she said because she found her mother 18 months too late, and didn't want that to happen to another person. The true measure of a human being, is how much they give through their pain, how they transform it. Angels on earth.... they're here.
So now what? You have to pick up the phone, that's what......
Tamara
You better let somebody love you, before it's too late" The Eagles
So, I knew that once I started, these things would start piling up in my head like a 45 car pile up on I35 on a glare ice day. (All my Minnesnowta peeps nod) Today has been like that. Running in circles around the house, accomplishing nothing, thinking about adoption, and mine in particular. It is mine, you know? I didn't do it, make it, instigate it, ask for it, choose it, go to court for it, want it or not want it. Regardless, it's mine. I own it. It was bequeathed to me, like Aunt Florine's old china or something. Really though, the only record of it, is some adoption papers from 1965 that I swiped from my parents strongbox, and a dusty old original Birth Certificate somewhere in Solano County, with the name Tamara LaMoine White on it, hidden, because it has been deemed secret, by the State of California. It's possible I feel a need to document that thing I have to own a little more, flesh it out a little (pun intended). I'm a person, an adopted person, and for a long time, I towed the "company line", and wound up 46 years old with no clue as to exactly what that thing I own actually means to me.
Searching (yeah I know, not much of a segue).... like I said in my last posting, I always knew I would, I just didn't know HOW I would... or more specifically, how I would afford to search for my mother. "Back in the day".... 81-82 to be specific, we didn't have the internet, children and we had to use things like USPS, you know, that thing that brings you all the Macy's ads? Ok Tam, stop being a smartass. An old smartass to be exact, poor Anaiyah, these are the "Gramma cards" she's been dealt.
So, like I said before, I posted what I had in every registry I could find, and waited. There's a lot of waiting involved in searching, interminable, gut-wrenching waiting. Waiting that slowly morphs.... from hope, to bewilderment, to disappointment, to dismay. Dismay at the lack of results, and something else.... this nagging fear, this anxiety that slowly gnaws away at all that is lovely, all that is healthy, all that is alive in any given moment. First, you check that mailbox every day, with this eager, adrenaline anticipation romping in your chest. The thoughts: "It's going to happen, it's finally going to happen. Dear God, let it happen, I promise I won't freak out, I promise I will accept it, whatever it is (fateful words) I promise I promise I promise" I made a lot of pacts with God back then.
After a couple months, I had talked myself out of that particular tree, knowing that the disappointment was going to crash me, and the feeling had moved lower, down into my stomach, still fluttering, but a little bitter too, almost metallic. Still hopeful, but labeling myself "realistic", I still checked the mail every day, just not with that same eager anticipation, because something died just a little every time I turned that key, and this is where my head started talking to me. It's just a whisper at first, so soft and low you don't really realize it's there.... "maybe they were right"...."you might ruin her life, she's moved on"..... I was terribly afraid of harming my mother. I had been told all my life, by my adoptive parents and society in general, that mothers who relinquished did so for two reasons: the first being, because they loved me so much they wanted me to have a better life, with possessions and money and a Dad.... and the other was to have better lives for themselves, to go to college, to move on, to have families of their own (?), and that they didn't talk about us, they "put us out of their minds", that for us to "show up" could destroy their current families, that they would have to "confess their secrets" to their husbands and families, that the new siblings would hate us and be jealous. Wow, just rereading that, that's a lot of whispering.......and apparently, I had drunk plenty of the KoolAid. Just a side note for the civilians, all those whispers are a bunch of garbage, and if you think about it critically, who do they serve?
So years go by, and Tam does life. Does life, but always updating those registries when we moved, and we moved a lot, as my ex was in the military. I was a young mom, had a philandering husband and plenty on my plate... but "it" still reared it's ugly head occasionally. According to my ex, I got a little crazy around my birthday every year....and I'd have to say that was a fair assessment. Birthdays are special, but they are extra special to adoptees. That was "our" day, mine and her's. I always wondered if she thought about me on that day. I always hoped she knew I thought about her. Somewhere in those 14 years of my first attempt at a marriage I did that little breaking and entering thing into my parents strong box. Whenever Tom traveled, he would look in all the phone books and call all the Carole Whites, God bless his cheatin' heart for that, I mean it. I updated all the registries again, with the wrong name. Her name was Linda Carole White, damnit. Although, I know now, she didn't look, or register, I still can't help but wonder if her real name had popped up somewhere, maybe she would have followed the trail back to me. That's one of the most frustrating things about being an adoptee, way too many unknowns, the "what ifs" will haunt you if you let them. I even went to the Solano County Registrars office once, and looked at the book, on the day of my birth. Super high tech, not. There was just a big black marker line drawn thru the name at the top of the list of babies born that day, and mine was typed in again at the bottom. (and you all know I flipped that page over, tried to rub out a name, held it up to the light, and was nicely escorted out) A big black line.
I've had the Eagles playing on my iPod while I've been writing, and when I took a break, the song "Desparado" was playing......have you (adoptees especially) ever listened to those words? "now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table, but you only want the ones that you can't get" "your pain and your hunger, they're driving you home" "your prison is walking through this world all alone"........ I'm becoming melodramatic, been cooped up in this apartment too long I think.....
OK, this is the part where it actually happens, the "event" so to speak... and it really had nothing to do with any effort on my part, frankly. My "game plan" had always been to hire a private investigator, because I was so clueless and overwhelmed by it all, it was just a matter of affording it, and I was close. My son was grown, I didn't have to feel guilty about spending the money on a "frivolous" thing. I was closing in on it, and preparing myself. Preparing myself for rejection. I used to have talks with myself (doesn't everyone do that?) ... promising again, that I would be respectful, that I would accept whatever she could or could not give, that I would be ok if she didn't want to know me (yeah right). Hey, I tried.
Fast forward to 2002, One day, I'm sitting at the computer with my roomie and dear friend Amy, looking at a website about horseback riding in Yosemite. I remember it clear as day. This instant message pops up from someone with the AOL screen name CA BERTH SEARCH or CA BIRTH SERCH (ok, maybe not clear as DAY) and it said "are you still looking for your parents?" We were logged on to Amy's computer. I looked at my dear friend, with whom I had shared secrets, hopes and dreams, failures and misgivings and said "Ame... are you adopted?" to which she answered "Yes" to which I answered "Me too" to which she answered "No shit?" at which point I almost knocked her off her chair and said "ANSWER THEM!!" She did, and our newly found search angel, Kathy, got a "twofer", that being two searches for the price of one, the price being nothing. Nothing. Not a damn dime. Not money for stamps, not ten bucks for her internet service, nothing, nada, zip, zero. I had never heard of such a thing. Amy had posted on some site that I apparently missed, and Kathy, wonderful, amazing, resourceful, sneaky, altruistic Kathy, had found her, and by luck or Divine providence, me, as well.
An aside: I was raised in a very Catholic home, I believed in God before this happened, but after that day, I BELIEVE. There was no chance in it, in my opinion. And for all the bible-thumpers that believe it's God's will to rip a kid out of a mother's arms and give it to another that they have deemed more suitable, or proper, or Christian.... all I have to say to you is this Matthew 19:6. "What God has wrought, let no man put asunder".... it ain't just fer weddings, dipstick. Scripture doesn't just apply when you can afford to have someone design your "birthmother book".
Anyhow, this wonderful Kathy, search angel of the most extraordinary ilk, had all kinds of cool info and resources. For one, she knew that in CA, your amended (fake) birth certificate had all of your adoptive parents info on it, but one thing was the same..... the # on it. With the stolen names I had, my birth date (thank God it was real) and the help of some bootleg microfiche she had smuggled out of somewhere (I defy you to use the phrase "bootleg microfiche" 3 times in a coherent sentence tomorrow) that contained the CA birth indexes, she found me...... and her..... and him, within two days. Within two days, Amy and I both had the complete names of our fathers, and the phone # of a family member to contact. I owe Kathy my sanity, my current identity, my heritage.... and if you asked her why she did it, she said because she found her mother 18 months too late, and didn't want that to happen to another person. The true measure of a human being, is how much they give through their pain, how they transform it. Angels on earth.... they're here.
So now what? You have to pick up the phone, that's what......
Tamara
You better let somebody love you, before it's too late" The Eagles
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Why Search?
I have been asked more than once, what made you search? Such a simple question, with such a complex answer. Let's just say, I always knew I would. Really, I fantasized about it as a little girl, envisioning a reunion with my Mother. Different days, different scenarios, but the fantasy, and the drive to find her was always there. I had this deep down feeling, which blossomed into an unhealthy conviction, that once I found her, everything would "be alright (all right?)". Even sitting here, I ask myself, "what, then, was wrong". Ok, this is the place, where, Tam, the quit-smoker of several years, lights up a Marlboro Light. (I had someone bring me a pack yesterday, when I started this blog-thing)
Smoking cigarettes has always been my fall-back during stress. There's something comforting about it. My sister Kelly, also my mother's daughter, says it's because she smoked while she was pregnant. (Save the judgement, she was 14 in 1963, going through something no little girl should have to go through) My adoptive mother also, used to hot-box us in the station wagon... so to me, Mother equals smoking/nicotine, and probably, lung cancer some day. I had a shrink tell me once, that I was "undermothered"....well there ya go, a built in excuse, gotta love that. Ok, ok, I digress, I'm stalling....
What was wrong? So, I could probably take the easy road, and blame it on my adoptive mother. Was she a little harsh? Yep. She was a LOT harsh. Was she a little crazy? Yep. She was in her late 40's, early 50's while I was growing up. Menopause anyone? As someone who is intimately familiar with the ol' hotflash and diminishing estrogen at this point, I get it. She was also a lot of other things.... like resentful about her infertility still, and tremendously insecure about her status, in all arena's of her life. She wasn't fun, and she wasn't nurturing, and she wasn't my mother. (which probably didn't help much, to be perfectly honest) I never felt like she was. I felt like my adoptive father was my Dad. I adored him, still do. It didn't make sense, so I blamed it on her. They say, hindsight is 20/20, my hindsight is still kinda myopic, but I have learned a little since then. About bonding between a mother and child, about the hormones that are present at birth and during breastfeeding. I was with my mother for 6 weeks before being placed in foster care, then allowed to see her until I was a little over a year. I already had a mother, and I hadn't forgotten. Deep on a cellular level, I hadn't forgotten, I still haven't, and I still rage inside (and sometimes outside) over it. Many people, believing the marketing of the adoption industry (at the time, and still today) think that a baby is a blank slate. Babies are marketed as such, by a billion dollar a year adoption industry. 50K can get you a lil blank slate of your own. Bullshit. How in the world can you spend 9 months inside the body of another human being, and not feel a tremendous loss when that human being goes away? If you have an ounce of logic, you get that. I went on another tangent again, sort of, so I know I'm totally stalling now... get to it girl (Marlboro #3)
I searched because I wanted my mother. I searched because I thought that would make everything ok again. I thought I could put the pieces back together, and that once I was in her presence, I would understand who I was, who I am and what I was supposed to do. I thought that I would look like someone finally. I thought she would tell me about my ancestors, and why my face gets all red when I cry, and why she had to let me go. I thought she would love me, and be proud of me. I thought she would negate all the damage done in those years. I thought 18 (46) years wouldn't matter. I thought she would be happy. I thought she would be alive.
Be Well~ Tamara
If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found. ~Author Unknown
Smoking cigarettes has always been my fall-back during stress. There's something comforting about it. My sister Kelly, also my mother's daughter, says it's because she smoked while she was pregnant. (Save the judgement, she was 14 in 1963, going through something no little girl should have to go through) My adoptive mother also, used to hot-box us in the station wagon... so to me, Mother equals smoking/nicotine, and probably, lung cancer some day. I had a shrink tell me once, that I was "undermothered"....well there ya go, a built in excuse, gotta love that. Ok, ok, I digress, I'm stalling....
What was wrong? So, I could probably take the easy road, and blame it on my adoptive mother. Was she a little harsh? Yep. She was a LOT harsh. Was she a little crazy? Yep. She was in her late 40's, early 50's while I was growing up. Menopause anyone? As someone who is intimately familiar with the ol' hotflash and diminishing estrogen at this point, I get it. She was also a lot of other things.... like resentful about her infertility still, and tremendously insecure about her status, in all arena's of her life. She wasn't fun, and she wasn't nurturing, and she wasn't my mother. (which probably didn't help much, to be perfectly honest) I never felt like she was. I felt like my adoptive father was my Dad. I adored him, still do. It didn't make sense, so I blamed it on her. They say, hindsight is 20/20, my hindsight is still kinda myopic, but I have learned a little since then. About bonding between a mother and child, about the hormones that are present at birth and during breastfeeding. I was with my mother for 6 weeks before being placed in foster care, then allowed to see her until I was a little over a year. I already had a mother, and I hadn't forgotten. Deep on a cellular level, I hadn't forgotten, I still haven't, and I still rage inside (and sometimes outside) over it. Many people, believing the marketing of the adoption industry (at the time, and still today) think that a baby is a blank slate. Babies are marketed as such, by a billion dollar a year adoption industry. 50K can get you a lil blank slate of your own. Bullshit. How in the world can you spend 9 months inside the body of another human being, and not feel a tremendous loss when that human being goes away? If you have an ounce of logic, you get that. I went on another tangent again, sort of, so I know I'm totally stalling now... get to it girl (Marlboro #3)
I searched because I wanted my mother. I searched because I thought that would make everything ok again. I thought I could put the pieces back together, and that once I was in her presence, I would understand who I was, who I am and what I was supposed to do. I thought that I would look like someone finally. I thought she would tell me about my ancestors, and why my face gets all red when I cry, and why she had to let me go. I thought she would love me, and be proud of me. I thought she would negate all the damage done in those years. I thought 18 (46) years wouldn't matter. I thought she would be happy. I thought she would be alive.
Be Well~ Tamara
If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found. ~Author Unknown
Saturday, September 18, 2010
It's time...
It figures.... I wait until I am looped on phenobarbitol to begin my blog. I created this thing months ago, at the encouragement of a friend, and kept meaning to begin it, but never did. Funny, beginning things is always hard for me, once I'm in it, I can go like gangbusters, but I always have a hard time starting. Particularly if it's something important or meaningful to me, and I am under no illusions anymore, adoption, the topic, the subject, the act is probably the thing that has colored my life the most. As a child, and as an adult. Just a side note, I seem to have no problem ending things, in typical adoptee fashion.
So, here I sit at 6:13am, wondering what's the point. Seriously, I like having a purpose, a mission statement, so to speak, a vision of what the completed project will look like. Frankly, I have no idea. Will this be something just for me, to "get it out" so to speak. Probably not, I do that already, with friends and my trusty journal (Rach, when I die, please burn that thing, m'kay? You're younger than me, and I give you this task. You can read it, in all it's ugly glory) Will it be to educate "civilians" about adoption? About the truth, about what it's like? Maybe. Will it be some weapon of mass destruction towards the money hungry adoption industry? Probably not, I'm under no illusions about my power, but I might be capable of a little "bang" here and there... I'm fiesty, and have a little gunpowder left in me. but I simply don't have the money to wage that war... and it IS about money, don't kid yourselves. Will it be a place where my family of fellow adoptees can maybe relate a little and say "I feel that way too"? I sure hope so. Anyhow, we shall see what comes out. I'm not going to define it yet, I guess, so much for a mission statement, huh?
Some ground rules (and there's only two, I really don't like being edited, so I won't edit you:
We won't be telling adoptees to be "grateful" here. We have heard this enough, truly. Would you be grateful to have lost your identity, your heritage, your parents, your siblings, your opportunity to bond with your mother (serious repercussions) your original birth certificate, your sense of trust and wellbeing in the world?
We won't be calling mother's of adoption loss "birthmothers". I know you're thinking, why not? Isn't that what they are? This is a term used by the adoption industry to coerce young women into relinquishing their children. I didn't know that either, until recently. I have been fortunate enough to come to know some mother's who have educated me about that term, some gently, some not so gently. I find it reprehensible to further hurt those whose lives have been forever altered by adoption. If you are an adoptive parent, you can give them that respect. You will here.
I guess what's next is some background:
I'm an adult adoptee. I was born in Vallejo, CA, my mother's name was Linda White. My father's name was John Crossman. She was 14 or 15 when she gave birth to me, he was 20 or 21 (nice!). I found out these details about 7 (?) years ago when my search for my family finally ended. I was adopted at 15 months old to EJ and Cecelia Connors, and grew up in Vacaville CA. I have a brother, Steve Connors, who is 20 years older than me, so we didn't grow up together, he was in college and then in Viet Nam while I was little. I grew up in a 4 bedroom home, middle class neighborhood, second home on a lake in northern MN. All my needs were taken care of physically, materially. My Dad was an amazing father and friend, I can't imagine not knowing him, and he is responsible for much of the good that is in me (this is part of the paradox inside this adoptee, at least). My adoptive mother was....meh.... she was kinda crazy, very controlling and intrusive, incredibly insecure, and very, very powerful, as only the incredibly insecure can be. I know some of my childhood friends are probably thinking I am being disloyal, or dramatic, but I lived there, and this is simply my truth. She's now 91 and has Alzheimer's, and I hold no resentment anymore (ok, maybe a little).
I never remember being "told" I was adopted. I just always knew. When I asked why, I was told she was very young, that I was in foster care, and they finally told her that she had to make a decision, because I was becoming "too aware" (as if I weren't aware from day one) I was never told why I was in foster care, or what happened. I was told that my parents had tried to adopt for years, and couldn't because my Dad was in the military, and they were never in one place for very long. My parents were significantly older than most (in their mid/late forties).
I searched in secret from the day I was 18. It was like fumbling around in a dark, strange room. I didn't have the internet, or any information, except my own. I didn't know what my name was, or what her name was, only the birthdate and place on my fake birth certificate. So, I signed up for all the registries, went to the Solano County Registrar's office (I'll tell you later, about the dark, black line in the book) and waited, and "did life" as best as I could. At some point, I finally broke into my parent's strong box (adoptee superbastard breaking and entering skills) and found pencilled on an envelope, containing my adoption papers, the names "Carole White" and "Crossman" in my adoptive mother's handwriting. I assumed, somewhat correctly, that these were the names of my natural parents. The name White is a pretty common name, but it was something, and I ran with it, updated all the registries, looked in phone books, fumbled around some more. Finally, in my early forties, a seach angel dropped into my world, and within days, I had names, and phone numbers and it was on. (I'll flesh it all out more in further blogs, I'm on meds, remember? please be patient) Within days, I was speaking to my mother's first husband, who was also the father of my maternal siblings, and learned that my mother had already passed away. The destruction of a dream. The house of cards that was "Tamara" came tumbling down, and I have been picking up the pieces ever since. I'm still working on the foundation, in case you're wondering. Call it my midlife crisis if you will, "crisis" standing alone suffices just fine for me... trying to piece together the who's and the why's and the wtf's.
Reunion's aren't all they're cracked up to be, let me tell ya... fraught with high emotion, secrets uncovered, myriad and sundry versions of the truth... and yep, more rejection. Rejection from both sides. God, I hate that word. I hate to receive it, and I hate it that I am so good at it too. It's built in, and it's damaging, whether on the giving or receiving end. I have family members who are interested in knowing me, who aren't interested in knowing me, who were interested in knowing me for awhile, who I'm not interested in knowing..... it's insane, and I wasn't prepared for it. I'm not sure if I'm prepared now, but I'm trying.
Ok, I'm about wore out, and it's time to head back to bed, and the horrific parade of reruns and talk shows that make up daytime television these days. But before I go, one disclaimer: If you are a member of my natural family or my adoptive family...none of this is meant to hurt you in any way. I am not casting aspersions, or telling lies or being dramatic. I'm just trying to figure me out... to sort out what this thing called adoption has done to us all, because it wasn't just done to me, it was done to you too, just not quite so "front and center". All I ask is that you hear me out with an open mind, or if you can't, be gentle in your judgements. The only thing I want is the truth, and to be well. Maybe that's my mission statement, who knows, I reserve the right to change my mind as it serves me, and the Greater Good.
Be Well~ Tamara
If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found. ~Author Unknown
So, here I sit at 6:13am, wondering what's the point. Seriously, I like having a purpose, a mission statement, so to speak, a vision of what the completed project will look like. Frankly, I have no idea. Will this be something just for me, to "get it out" so to speak. Probably not, I do that already, with friends and my trusty journal (Rach, when I die, please burn that thing, m'kay? You're younger than me, and I give you this task. You can read it, in all it's ugly glory) Will it be to educate "civilians" about adoption? About the truth, about what it's like? Maybe. Will it be some weapon of mass destruction towards the money hungry adoption industry? Probably not, I'm under no illusions about my power, but I might be capable of a little "bang" here and there... I'm fiesty, and have a little gunpowder left in me. but I simply don't have the money to wage that war... and it IS about money, don't kid yourselves. Will it be a place where my family of fellow adoptees can maybe relate a little and say "I feel that way too"? I sure hope so. Anyhow, we shall see what comes out. I'm not going to define it yet, I guess, so much for a mission statement, huh?
Some ground rules (and there's only two, I really don't like being edited, so I won't edit you:
We won't be telling adoptees to be "grateful" here. We have heard this enough, truly. Would you be grateful to have lost your identity, your heritage, your parents, your siblings, your opportunity to bond with your mother (serious repercussions) your original birth certificate, your sense of trust and wellbeing in the world?
We won't be calling mother's of adoption loss "birthmothers". I know you're thinking, why not? Isn't that what they are? This is a term used by the adoption industry to coerce young women into relinquishing their children. I didn't know that either, until recently. I have been fortunate enough to come to know some mother's who have educated me about that term, some gently, some not so gently. I find it reprehensible to further hurt those whose lives have been forever altered by adoption. If you are an adoptive parent, you can give them that respect. You will here.
I guess what's next is some background:
I'm an adult adoptee. I was born in Vallejo, CA, my mother's name was Linda White. My father's name was John Crossman. She was 14 or 15 when she gave birth to me, he was 20 or 21 (nice!). I found out these details about 7 (?) years ago when my search for my family finally ended. I was adopted at 15 months old to EJ and Cecelia Connors, and grew up in Vacaville CA. I have a brother, Steve Connors, who is 20 years older than me, so we didn't grow up together, he was in college and then in Viet Nam while I was little. I grew up in a 4 bedroom home, middle class neighborhood, second home on a lake in northern MN. All my needs were taken care of physically, materially. My Dad was an amazing father and friend, I can't imagine not knowing him, and he is responsible for much of the good that is in me (this is part of the paradox inside this adoptee, at least). My adoptive mother was....meh.... she was kinda crazy, very controlling and intrusive, incredibly insecure, and very, very powerful, as only the incredibly insecure can be. I know some of my childhood friends are probably thinking I am being disloyal, or dramatic, but I lived there, and this is simply my truth. She's now 91 and has Alzheimer's, and I hold no resentment anymore (ok, maybe a little).
I never remember being "told" I was adopted. I just always knew. When I asked why, I was told she was very young, that I was in foster care, and they finally told her that she had to make a decision, because I was becoming "too aware" (as if I weren't aware from day one) I was never told why I was in foster care, or what happened. I was told that my parents had tried to adopt for years, and couldn't because my Dad was in the military, and they were never in one place for very long. My parents were significantly older than most (in their mid/late forties).
I searched in secret from the day I was 18. It was like fumbling around in a dark, strange room. I didn't have the internet, or any information, except my own. I didn't know what my name was, or what her name was, only the birthdate and place on my fake birth certificate. So, I signed up for all the registries, went to the Solano County Registrar's office (I'll tell you later, about the dark, black line in the book) and waited, and "did life" as best as I could. At some point, I finally broke into my parent's strong box (adoptee superbastard breaking and entering skills) and found pencilled on an envelope, containing my adoption papers, the names "Carole White" and "Crossman" in my adoptive mother's handwriting. I assumed, somewhat correctly, that these were the names of my natural parents. The name White is a pretty common name, but it was something, and I ran with it, updated all the registries, looked in phone books, fumbled around some more. Finally, in my early forties, a seach angel dropped into my world, and within days, I had names, and phone numbers and it was on. (I'll flesh it all out more in further blogs, I'm on meds, remember? please be patient) Within days, I was speaking to my mother's first husband, who was also the father of my maternal siblings, and learned that my mother had already passed away. The destruction of a dream. The house of cards that was "Tamara" came tumbling down, and I have been picking up the pieces ever since. I'm still working on the foundation, in case you're wondering. Call it my midlife crisis if you will, "crisis" standing alone suffices just fine for me... trying to piece together the who's and the why's and the wtf's.
Reunion's aren't all they're cracked up to be, let me tell ya... fraught with high emotion, secrets uncovered, myriad and sundry versions of the truth... and yep, more rejection. Rejection from both sides. God, I hate that word. I hate to receive it, and I hate it that I am so good at it too. It's built in, and it's damaging, whether on the giving or receiving end. I have family members who are interested in knowing me, who aren't interested in knowing me, who were interested in knowing me for awhile, who I'm not interested in knowing..... it's insane, and I wasn't prepared for it. I'm not sure if I'm prepared now, but I'm trying.
Ok, I'm about wore out, and it's time to head back to bed, and the horrific parade of reruns and talk shows that make up daytime television these days. But before I go, one disclaimer: If you are a member of my natural family or my adoptive family...none of this is meant to hurt you in any way. I am not casting aspersions, or telling lies or being dramatic. I'm just trying to figure me out... to sort out what this thing called adoption has done to us all, because it wasn't just done to me, it was done to you too, just not quite so "front and center". All I ask is that you hear me out with an open mind, or if you can't, be gentle in your judgements. The only thing I want is the truth, and to be well. Maybe that's my mission statement, who knows, I reserve the right to change my mind as it serves me, and the Greater Good.
Be Well~ Tamara
If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found. ~Author Unknown
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