#271
Tonight is the last section of my birth story and the last week of the Indiegogo. I realized after I read the ending that it was the ending for a year ago, not for today. I will try to write something for next Monday, but know that this is not the end because I have learned so much in the past year doing this project. There was no way I couldn't grow by hearing the stories that I have heard. I am doing two more interviews this week. It doesn't feel like there is an end to any of the stories. They are a moment in time defined by when they were written.
Two Two years or so later, Anne Henry of Try realized
there was a misspelling of my daughter’s last name. The detective had written in long hand and we
had misread his handwriting. We searched with a different name. Immediately received an address and found
her, a young woman living on Christopher Street in the Village. How perfect.
My great uncle, Louis Bouche, lived and painted on Christopher Street
for decades and as I had created this fantasy of her being a painter, it fell
right into place.
I di I did not really know what to do with the
information. It was 1998, I was now 45
years old, and she was an adult with her own life. I called her phone number and heard my
nieces’ voices, very similar tone in her voice, it was so familiar. I hung up.
I decided I needed to write a letter.
I ha I had a lot of friends, a therapist and a mother
supporting me in this work. I finally
had the letter I could send. I addressed
the envelope, put a stamp on it and threw it in a mailbox and again felt that
sense of something wrapping tightly around my torso, not letting anything out
or in.
Thr Three months later I got home from work late, went
to the mailbox, saw an envelope that looked like a card from my niece, Sarah. I smiled, went inside, the phone was ringing;
I picked up the receiver, said hi to my friend while opening the card. It was one of my favorite Matisse paintings “Nasturtiums”
and a short but articulate and strong response signed by my daughter. I was stopped, shocked, giddy, and unsure of
how to respond. It wasn’t a rejection,
but it was self-protective and honest. She
wanted to know how I knew I was her birthmother and what did I want from
starting this journey with her? She did
not want to investigate further without knowing for a fact that I really was
her biological mother. When I first
mailed my letter my fantasies were of great bonding trips to NYC to meet her or,
finding the missing parts of our hearts together. After a month I fantasized the rejection, the
why would I want to know you, you already gave me away? But slowly the fantasy was less dramatic more
realistic, calmer. The letter proved to
be tempered and honest and self caring.
What more could I want? She was
alive.
I wrote back and told her that she had given me what I needed, to know
she was alive and healthy, that she had had a healthy family to support
her. I sent her a photo of myself
holding one my nephew, Ember when I was her age. I thought maybe she might see herself in one
of us. I sent her a long, well thought
out letter and have never heard another word from her. She did not respond at all.
My guess is my vague answer about how I’d discovered her name was not
clear enough and that she was doubtful that I was who I said I was. Since then through social media, I have seen
pictures of her, of her wedding and I know where she attended college. I have read articles she has written for
on-line zines. I am amazed that she and
Jason have never met because their lives encompass the same worlds. They’ve probably attended conferences
together not knowing they were cousins.
I’ve also realized it was not my father’s genes she’d inherited, but her
father’s and my mother’s and that neither Ember nor I look a whole lot like
either of them. I had chosen the wrong
photo to send her. I should have sent her a photo of her grandmother at her age;
she would have seen immediately who she looked like. The only other time we tried to contact her,
was when a small group of nieces, nephews and siblings gave my Mom a 90th
birthday party. We sent my daughter an invitation to the event
suggesting she might like to meet the woman she does look like before she
dies. Mom now had Parkinson’s and was
not going to last much longer. But there
was no response to this either, and when I think about it now, I realize that
an overwhelming thing to do to someone.
So Why write this book now? Now when another 15 years have passed. I have never married, nor had another child,
although many kids would say I was an important adult in their lives. I have had a successful professional career
and am blessed with amazing friends. So
why write a book that reawakens that place in my heart I’ve kept so well
protected? For two reasons: one, the
truth needs to be told. Birthmother stories are not all the same, they are as
different as can be, but they are never about that wicked selfish girl
abandoning her baby, unwilling to love.
And the well kept secrets create infection inside, it makes us hurt
ourselves in funny ways and does not allow our actual stories of courage and
pain to be told. Our stories need to be
told for everyone’s’ sake. It is part of
the healing process for all involved in adoption. And adoption itself needs to be changed in
this country to facilitate that healing and prevent further trauma.. It is hidden behind media lies of selfless
women and babies who found true families, a fairy tale taken from a few
stories. I am pro-adoption and want to
see it as a real choice for women who cannot take care of a child. In order for that to happen, truths need to
be told and policies need to be created that work, that keep babies attached to
their heritage, allow adoptive families to raise their children, and give a
stronger loving voice to birthmothers who are now given terribly mixed
messages.
And And two, information is necessary. Adoptees are
screaming to have their closed records opened.
The primary reason to keep them closed is to protect the birthmother’s confidentiality. But not all women want that secret kept. More often than not they understand the
importance of knowing one’s identity, one’s medical records, having the choice
to know from where you came. Records
need to be opened for those who need or want them. My daughter should know that she had a
paternal grandfather and a maternal grandmother who both died of Parkinson’s. She should be aware of the symptoms. She does now have the option of knowing, if she
so chooses, only because of my search.
Most in her situation would have to fight to find that identity. It is their birthright to know their genetic
and medical histories. The policies
surrounding this must be changed.
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