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

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