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My
Peeps are Whiteys PAGE
TWO:
Since my dad was a lawyer he was able to handle all the adoption papers through his firm. This means he had all the files, photos, birth certificates and letters in his office. All I needed to do was ask for my file and he could bring it home, avoiding the need for a private investigator or bureaucratic dealings with the State. I don't know why I never asked him for it before. I guess I didn't want to hurt my parent's feelings. Like asking for the papers would somehow insinuate that they had done a bad job being my parents. But my husband and I had decided to try and have a baby and as soon as I thought about passing my DNA on, it really made me wonder. What the hell am I passing on? So I did it. I recently asked my parents for my file and much to my surprise, they said "sure." I had always imagined that they feared me finding my biological family and secretly worried that I would abandon them, like trading in an old reliable car for a sporty new one. In my head, the handing over of my adoption papers would be a very formal affair, maybe after dinner at our family table, prefaced with a speech about how much they love me and how I am truly their daughter, DNA doesn't matter. But, it didn't go like that at all. My parents are long time season ticket holders to "Best of Broadway," a theater group in San Francisco. As kids, my sister and I saw every musical that came to town. A new show called Lennon was premiering in San Francisco before heading to Broadway and they invited me to go with them. My dad arrived at the theater carrying his gigantic briefcase and as he struggled to tuck it away under the seat in front of him, he mentioned that he had my file. It was three minutes before the show was going to start and my mom said, "Well, let's see it, Ronald." I held back and let them review it all, squirming in my seat not to peek; I never imagined I would find out my nationality just minutes before a John Lennon musical. But as they "Oooohhh'd" and "Aaahhh'd," and showed the photos to the strangers seated in front of us, I couldn't resist. "Okay, let me see," I said, surrendering to my fate. There were three photos of my biological peeps: one black and white of my bio-mom in her senior high school portrait; one color photo of my bio-dad at a party, the person next to him cut out so it was really ½ a picture; and a third color 4 X 4 of the both of them standing on a suburban lawn. In this third photo, he was dressed in a suit, she in a yellow mini-dress and they looked like they were going to a high school formal. There were three rays of sun damage splayed like fingers across the print, leaving a ghostly sheen to their faces. The musical started with the song, "All You Need Is Love" as I sat there with the photos on my lap. The woman in the photos didn't look like me, even though my parents both thought she did. I didn't feel anything when I looked at my bio-mom. No instant bond, or "Ah ha, this is what I look like!" To tell you the truth, it was sort of a disappointment. The mystery was gone. Bio-mom was not the exotic islander I envisioned. She had blonde hair! And she was wearing a cross! Bio-dad was only a bit darker. My peeps were whiteys! I saw a little bit of myself in my dad, especially when I was a kid and had a pixie haircut. But I felt totally removed from them both physically and emotionally. Nothing felt resolved, just extinguished. All of my fantasies dissolved, my curiosity cured, my unique self now not so incredibly unique. I suddenly felt average. I pondered my blandness while "Imagine" echoed through the Theater. During the intermission I scanned the adoption papers further. My bio-mom was German/Irish and bio-dad German/Italian. I guess that Italian gene was pretty strong, but German? I couldn't feel less German. I hate schnitzel and sauerbraten and have no sense of superior order in my life. Where is the woman from Guadalajara or Sevilla or Mykonos that was supposed to be my bio-mom? I felt duped. And they were Catholic. I don't feel Catholic. I can't stand that whole guilt, suppression, do something wrong, admit it and be forgiven so you don't end up in hell stuff. I feel more a Polish Jew than anything else. The show's finale peaked on the song "Starting Over". I suddenly realized that it is history -- the stories I share with my family, the knowingness of what is familiar, the foods we eat, the songs we sing, the fact that we are Jews who celebrate Christmas, Easter and Passover -- that is what makes me… me. These are my peeps! Family is more than your DNA; it is who you share your past with. Maybe if I find my bio-parents someday, they too will be writers or dog-lovers, or have a habit of eating ice cream for breakfast. But for now, living with the question is better than knowing the answer. At the end of the musical, my parents jumped up for a standing ovation, wildly applauding and whistling. I followed their lead and rose from my chair clapping. I looked down at the photos of my bio-mom on my seat one more time, and noticed her nose. She had perfectly round nostrils.
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The
way they found me was just as obscure. My mom received a random
call from an ex-neighbor who wanted to come and visit her. She was
surprised to hear from this woman, who had moved away many years
ago and hadn't spoken to my family in ten years. During their visit,
the woman was playing with my sister, and my mom mentioned that
she and my dad were thinking about adopting another baby. The woman
said she had a neighbor in LA who was pregnant and intended to give
the baby up for adoption. That baby was me. My mom never heard from
this ex-neighbor again. She was like a human stork that delivered
news of a baby and then poof, she disappeared.
I
was born in Orange County, CA in 1971. When the hospital called
to tell my parents that their baby was born, my dad was the only
one home. He is very proud to be the only father in the world who
knew about the birth of his daughter before the mom did. He was
practicing impressionist painting at the time, and was so excited
by the news that he scrawled a cryptic canvas for my mother announcing
my birth. Using the palette knife he had been holding when he answered
the phone, he scratched out the words, "Congrats... Baby Girl
7 lbs 8 oz. 2/18/'71," in thick, uneven dark blue paint. He
left it for my mom propped up on the kitchen table. That canvas
is now framed in my bedroom, a perfect memento commemorating my
existence. 
