Continued from As the world turns
I spent my childhood puzzling over where I came from. I knew the official story. Mother had been married before, so Joan’s father was different than my own. That was supposed to account for our entirely different looks. But it didn’t fully account for the fact that I lived in a household of three people, not one of whom share a single feature.
I had never seen a photo of my father. In the midst of one of our epic battles while mother was out, Joan yelled something about my father. I don’t remember the details. I’d probably threatened to go find him and live with him or some such nonsense which frequently flew from my mouth in times of desperation. What I remember is spittle gathering in the corner of Joan’s mouth—a sure measure of her excitement. “You want to see what your father looked like? Huh? Huh? You just wait little sister, I’ll show you!” She dashed out of the room and returned too quickly.
“Here, take a look. Look at your faatha!” (she had picked up the diction of aristocracy) She jammed the photo at me and despite my obscene curiosity, I clamped my eyes shut and squirmed free of her grasp, determined not to look. I sensed that if there was something Joan wanted to share while we were imitating gas and matches, then it was meant to do maximum damage. There was something about my father I shouldn’t see, at least not at that moment and in that manner. I assumed he’d been an ugly bastard and that I’d inherited his looks, the way mom sometimes accused me of having inherited his “god-damned stubborn streak.” It was either believe that or wonder if I’d been adopted. But that didn’t fly either. Why in hell would anyone willingly take on a miserable kid like me?
Family resemblances unsettled me, a reminder of my own aberrance. My best childhood friend was the twin of both her younger sisters. Even my junior and senior high school best friend resembled her dark-haired, dark-eyed sister, despite her own white-blond hair and slate-blue eyes. But I looked like I’d been dropped into my family as an afterthought. At least that was the way I felt until I finally met other members of my family during a visit to Germany with Yry when I was 27.
Mother had asked me to join her on this epic journey to the old country, her first since she’d left Europe at the age of 11—my first ever. Finally the names on aerograms and greeting cards metamorphosed into warm bodies. We were gathered at Tante Nelly’s flat in Duisberg, Germany for a celebration of Yry’s arrival. Cousin Lore and her mother lived comfortably together in this little flat. We spent the day sight-seeing with Lore, while Tante Nelly spent the day cooking. In the evening Cousin Hermann and his wife arrived and we six sat around a large, round table to feast on Nelly’s cooking. She’d been to the market and purchased fresh white asparagus, a fine delicacy in Germany, and had prepared the most divine homemade chocolate pudding I’d ever tasted.
Karen Krause said:
Life is complicated….families are intensely so. We can live an entire lifetime & never get it….just struggle to make sense of it all & often barely survive emotionally. It boils down to each of us having a unique role we never auditioned for…..and then just playing it out.
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rangewriter said:
Well said, Karen.
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Keith said:
Linda, I was searching for the right words and liked what Karen said. We did not “audition” for our family roles. Keith
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Jane's Heartsong said:
I never looked like anyone in my family but I was adopted. it didn’t help that my adoptive mother and I did not always get along and both of us said things that caused deep wounds..After many years of searching and sometimes having well-meaning people guess at who my mother was, and that was wrong, by the way, I finally made a connection through a social worker and talked with my birth mother on the phone. This was in my 30’s or 40’s and was a half-hearted search for many years. It was half-hearted because I was afraid of what I would find. Then after two conversations on the phone, guided by the social worker, where both of our identities were protected, the files were closed and I sent my address to the social worker, who in turn sent it to my birth mother. I did not get my birth mother’s address because she was afraid, partially due to her daughter’s disapproval and it took a year before she summoned up the courage to write me. We did keep in touch for a while via letters and then the letters faded out.I don’t know if she is alive or not but it was good to connect for a while and find out a little about my history I don’t regret the search and I respect the other family’s wishes to not take it further. It is amazing how information or misinformation can shape how we feel about ourselves. Now that I have shared this with you, you can probably understand how your story strikes a chord with me.
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rangewriter said:
Wow, you have shared a lot, Jane. What a story. Your comment about the hostile words exchanged between you and your adoptive mother made me realize how tenuous that relationship might be. All teenage girls go through that painful pulling away process. Ugly words seem to be the hallmark of that process of self-definition. But those words must land even deeper in the hearts of adoptive mothers/daughters.
And the rest of your story, the eventual connection with your blood mother, reminds me of a strangely similar circumstance in which a friend of mine took it upon herself to track down the birth mother of her boyfriend. The son had a phone conversation with the birth mother’s husband (not necessarily his father). Later there was a stilted conversation with his mother and then no contact. I have wondered if this would have been better left undone. He seemed quite at peace with his situation and has deep love and respect for his adoptive parents. Now, I wonder if he feels a stain or secondary rejection.
These things are so complicated. I don’t think anyone should presume to meddle in another’s ancestry. 😮
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Jane's Heartsong said:
Your post really opened my floodgates! I totally agree about friends wanting to help. My fiends offered and I said absolutely not. they would have been pushy and transgressed boundaries and perhaps caused damage. The social worker was the best way to go, having years of experience being gentle and keeping confidentiality. Mine was not the Oprah moment that I was perhaps hoping for. The actual event of talking the first time was a reality check; we were strangers and conversation was, as you mentioned, stilted. We stayed in touch about 2-3 years by letter and it fizzled out..
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rangewriter said:
I wonder if you and your adoptive mother ever worked out a loving relationship? I never felt close to my mother. As I matured, I respected her immensely, but in close proximity for too long things would always get tense. I think I saw in her all the flaws in myself! And still do.
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gerard oosterman said:
Where babies came from was always shrouded in mystery when I was young. At one stage I was told they come by train. It wasn’t till an older boy set me straight that I learnt about the tyranny of sex.
Now that there is more past than future, I am delving in my grandparents heritage from both sides. It’s nice to know something about them. My great-great-great grandfather had a soap factory in Amsterdam. It is of some comfort to know that detail. I can see him stirring large oak vats of different liquids.
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rangewriter said:
The sad fact of human social development seems to be that most humans don’t come to value their ancestry till it’s devilishly difficult to track down.
I’m seeing big vats with bubbles drifting out the tops.
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denisebushphoto said:
Wonderful story-telling Linda. I love the way I can read an excerpt just from time to time and still enjoy it so!
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rangewriter said:
Thanks for sharing that with me Denise. I often worry about people popping in occasionally. I would think it would be very confusing. Maybe I should stop worrying. 😉
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Playamart - Zeebra Designs said:
This has been on the screen since you wrote it — wow, it really touched my heart… now the next one is loaded, and i will enjoy it at home – and will hopefully be back next week!
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