This post originally appeared in the beautiful blog Life Stories Today, click THIS LINK to read it on Rachael’s lovely site.
November is National Adoption Month, and as an adoptee, I am pleased to share my story with the world in hopes that it may inspire some, and help many.
“If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people.”
– Thich Nhat Han
When I read this quote, I ask: what if we have two families? Which has the most influence over who we are and who we become?
I was adopted at birth by an older Jewish couple who already had a girl they adopted and named Blanche four years earlier. My adoptive parents Ruth and Harry lived a comfortable life in New Jersey and owned a thriving business that my father ran. Ruth was an auburn-haired beauty with hazel eyes and a pretty smile. Harry’s pleasant face wore a ready smile and was framed by silver hair. I never understood why people thought they were my grandparents.
My parents told me I was adopted at age two, but I forgot about it until a mean-spirited classmate taunted me with the information in sixth grade. My mother confirmed my adoption but preferred not to share it, as she was a private person. Life continued as it had until I was thirteen. By then my father had incurred huge gambling debts, forcing us to sell our house and many treasured possessions.
After the house sold, my parents separated. My mother, sister, and I moved to California to be near my uncle, Blanche returned to New Jersey shortly afterwards. Ten months after their separation, my father died. My mother died sixteen months later, and I became an orphan at fifteen.
Among my mother’s belongings lay my adoption papers, but the idea of finding my birth family never occurred to me. I mourned the only parents I had ever known, as I was shuttled between relatives.
Fast forward forty-one years. After developing a rare health disorder, I decided to find my birth family. Armed with my birth mother’s name, I searched the Internet and found a cousin who led me to my mother, brother, and sister. My birth father died thirteen months earlier, but he and my birth mother married ten months after I was born and remained married fifty-five years—twenty more than my adoptive parents.
Who are my ancestors? Are they Ruth and Harry, the older Jewish couple who raised me, or Angie and Bob, the naïve teenagers who gave me life? What traits did I inherit from each?
My birth mother, Angie, was a petite, first-generation Italian Catholic dark-haired beauty. My blue-eyed birth father Bob stood tall and slender and had a headful of wavy blond hair. His Lutheran parents were of German and Dutch heritage.
I inherited Bob’s fair skin, blond hair, food preferences, love of rock and roll, and his friendly nature. He liked to help others but also had a quick temper.
I have my mother Angie’s mouth, literally and figuratively, as when colorful language bursts forth, her hazel eyes, her tenacity, and love of fashion, although our tastes differ. She thinks I’m “stiff” because I prefer classic clothing, as did my mother Ruth. A good sense of humor blessed all three of us.
Ruth collected antiques and taught me to appreciate music, the arts, history, and books. Her superb cooking and baking led me enjoy to food, and her devotion to family and friends set a good example. She never spoke ill of anyone, an attribute I lack. She tanned so easily that she was often mistaken for Italian.
My father Harry had a generous spirit, helping others find work and taking my sister and me on Sunday outings that always ended with dinners out. I enjoyed the new cars, gifts, and stray animals he brought home, but I did not share his enthusiasm for betting and games of chance. To this day I will not gamble.
I inherited my resilience from both mothers and my birth father. Ruth went to work to feed us when Harry’s business failed. Angie lost three children and her husband, but she endures. Bob contracted polio while a young husband and father and vowed to walk and work again. He did both.
Angie and I both become nervous when we entertain, get upset easily, and are sensitive. She still sleeps with the covers pulled over her head, as I did as a child. Neither of us would leave the house before we did our hair, applied makeup, and dressed appropriately.
She and Bob lived in a modest home only five miles from where I grew up. Despite serious setbacks, they were generous and valued the same things my Jewish parents did—family, good food, education, friendship, music, and their religions. They encouraged my siblings, John and Barbara, to study music, art, and attend college, just as Ruth and Harry encouraged me.
I had nothing in common with my sister Blanche except our eye color and our parents, but I am a blend of my birth siblings. John and I were only seventeen months apart, and we each loved books, movies, good food, dogs, travel, and most of all our families. We planned to write a book about our childhoods called Parallel Lives, but sadly, he died suddenly in 2010.
Blond-haired, hazel-eyed Barbara and I continue to grow closer. I admire her positive outlook, can-do attitude, and her culinary talents. She and Ruth have more in common in the kitchen than I have with either.
Who am I? I’m a blend of both families, the one in which I was raised and the one I met only ten years ago. When I look into my palm, I see lifelines. When I look into the mirror, I see both families reflected in my hazel eyes—the color I share with Ruth, Blanche, Angie, and Barbara.