Essays, Fiction, Poetry

I recently visited Earth Sanctuary—a perfect place to reconnect with my soul and nature. There I found peaceful ponds, sacred stone circles, a labyrinth, Tibetan prayer and Native American medicine wheels—all nestled in a protected forest.  Perhaps, I thought, it would also be the perfect place to connect with my recently discovered BioDad, Michael,  who passed in 2015. After my NPE (not parent expected) discovery and after having found his family, I understood my gravitation toward all things Native American. Visiting this land, with its sacred Native spaces, had me hopeful and happy for a soulful adventure. Leaves crunched beneath my feet on the winding path. Deep breaths and deliberate steps… inhale… crunch, crunch, crunch … Exhale… crunch, crunch, crunch. Wearing low-tread sneakers instead of hiking boots was an intentional choice that forced a more mindful gait on the muddy, slightly hilly trail.  At each activity location, I said a prayer, left an offering, and felt lighter. The Native American prayer place surprised me. It felt familiar, though I’d never been to or seen one. Intuitively, I peeled off my sneakers and socks, then stepped barefoot on the flat rock at the pond’s edge. With hands outstretched and palms up, I closed my eyes and thought of Michael.  In my mind’s eye, I had a strong vision of the man whose genes created me. His face was clear from photographs shared by his family. The stories they’d generously shared of his struggles and joy created both peace and sorrow. One deep breath and a tear ran down my cheek. Two breaths, another tear.

That evening Ma ate clumsily from a bag of cheese curls and the orange dust caked on her fingers; crumbs hung from stray hairs on her chin.  Her left eyebrow tensed with each dramatic revelation the show brought. The episode was about the reunification of a mother and son after decades apart. They fell into each other’s arms and I became as tense as a pole. My heart sped up and a hard lump formed in my throat. I remembered the box in the upstairs closet labeled, The clothes Lisa came in, as though I purchased at a store with nothing before. A clean slate. “I never stopped thinking about you,” said the mother on tv. Tears escaped from my eyes. I wondered aloud over the years but had never asked the actual question. “So Ma, what do you actually, really,  know about my birth mother? She looked at me, one hazel eye lifted slightly. She breathed in carefully, turned to me, and switched off the tv. “Well, her name was Margaret. Your name before we got you was Libby. But we thought you were more of a Lisa.” My cheeks flushed. “Libby? Like short for something, like Elizabeth? Lisa’s better anyway.” “Nope, just Libby. Margaret was mentally ill; we know she lived for a while in the State Hospital. Also, we know that she may have been raped – or something.” Raped- or something? A tremble tightened in the pit of my stomach. “By who? Who raped her?” “It may have been another patient. They didn’t tell us much.” She sounded a bit too removed. “Seriously? Really? That’s really nuts huh?”

Being the child of an addict might be the most confusing experience in existence. You’re loved, but not tolerated. Wanted, but not pursued. You may be the subject of stories, tattoos, and drawings, but you’re basically strangers. I’ve struggled an entire lifetime with the unanswered questions. Not just why my dad left, but who he was— beyond the trauma, the mess he made. One of the reasons I became a writer was because my dad was a writer, before addiction took his life. I wanted to be like him, desperate for the identity he denied me through interaction. Otherwise, I wasn’t entirely sure who I was, who I was meant to be, or how I was supposed to enter adulthood with this haze of uncertainty consuming my life like a fog. I worked hard to get my act together. Working hard was the only way I knew to rectify the mess I felt had been made. I’d show him — I’d show everyone —I don’t need them. That’s when I learned I had a brother. In the wilder years of my dad’s existence, he found a girlfriend, impregnated her, and walked away. Twenty-six years later, I met Jonathon. Neither of us knew our dad. He died when I was 18 and Jon was 12, and closure became impossible. I was still clamoring for something concrete that would tell me who I was, and although Jon couldn’t do that for me 100%, coming face to face with a portion of my DNA in another human being was more restorative than I ever thought possible.

Dear birth mother and father, How are you? Where are you? Who are you? I grew up with two Italian-American parents who have given me the world and more. I had as happy a childhood as anyone, the majority of my time spent running around outside in the grass and sunshine of a small, safe New England suburb. I have had many identities as an athlete, student, traveler and artist. I am in my third year of college in New York City. From the outside my life looks fantastic, a true American dream. I’ve gotten everything I’ve ever wanted—moving to this big city to fulfill bigger dreams—and I should have absolutely nothing to complain about. I have been so fortunate, physically, financially, emotionally. I have the most caring and supporting family. I have no reason to be sad. And yet you cannot help how you feel, can you? You cannot apologize for your emotions because you are not in control of them. Or you can have control of them, but only after some time. I’m not sure—I’m still trying to figure that out. But the uneasiness and anxiety over my past is something I still struggle to understand every day. I have no immediate reason to be anxious, but I am. Few people would guess this, because outwardly I am fairly energetic and optimistic. It is inside my own head, especially when I am alone, that this fog comes over me and I feel an unending loneliness, even with the knowledge that, not too far away, there are people who care a lot about me. I guess I used to cry about this a lot, when I was four—at least that’s what my mom told me this past winter break. I just learned, after twenty years, that I was not merely put into a foster home; I was abandoned in a park. Forest Park, a truly ironic twist of fate, given that my home in America is a five-minute drive from another Forest Park.

There were so many things already happening The night a gibbous moon Peered down at a young woman Poised on the brink of a pregnant pause There were already fishermen in the tiny village Getting ready for the next day’s catch There were already pious congregants in the small church Getting ready for that evening’s prayer There was already a Cancer sun and Aries rising Getting ready to fate the earth Already a destined heartbeat rising Already a pre-ordained ocean tide rising And down by the beach There was already a boat waiting To ferry away whatever foundling Came earth side that night Because there were already The sideways glances and whispers Already known crucial players missing in this act How is it that before the infant Even had the ability to wail and protest There was already the both/and Of inexpressible joy and sacred heartache A duo of life long friends waiting for her And even before there was a mother’s Clenched jaw and concentrated travailing There was already a cord being cut And when the time came to take her first divine breath And arms and land were there to catch her With the finality that only life can give It seemed already woven into her story The counting of how many rebirths Until she makes it back home

I used to think in paragraphs, sort of dream in sentences, always in love with the way words work. In high school, Mr. Riley taught us how to string sounds together regardless of meaning. I fell in love with lilting Ls, rolling Rs, phrases like “cinnamon vanilla turquoise.” I loved speeches in the movies, and in real life, where every word packs a punch to create sentences that change the world. Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Julio Cotazar, and David Foster Wallace served as totems while I prayed for guidance at the keyboard. Essays were a voice for me, a way to process events, both traumatic or hilarious, and create a record of my life in a world where I often felt unheard. Screenplays were a way to create images and dialogue where written words were not enough. I was getting support from people I admired. I was getting paid for pieces about all the stupid thoughts in my head about the events in my life. People asked about a book. I was looped into pitch meetings. It wasn’t always positive; hearing “no” always stung, but it meant I was putting myself out there. And then a man called my husband, and my husband called me, to say: my whole life has been a lie. There was a convoluted story about a group of Christians in the late 1970s, betrayal, secrets, heartbreak. The man explained he was sure that I was his daughter; the man who raised me was, in fact, not my father. As one might imagine, drama ensued. Everything stopped inside me. Paragraphs and word play were replaced with whispered phone calls, difficult emails, awkward conversations, countless questions, a million tears. Try as I might, I don’t feel like there is anything to write about because everything to write about is loaded. Secrets and shame are the throughline. My lost identity is the lede. My book proposal for a memoir about the relationship between mothers and daughters? Null and void. My mom said please don’t put this on Facebook. My dad said please just wait before putting pen to paper about any of this.

My dad, is my dad. I said what I said. You can’t change my mind. My therapist has tried to—or at least to change the words I use to describe my father. Over my lifetime, I’ve called my father daddy. I’ve referred to him as my father or Steve. But he was my dad. My dad was an NPE. He grew up with a drunk mother and without ever knowing his own biological father. He bore his stepfather’s surname and wasn’t welcome at the stepfather’s family homestead over the holidays, unlike his two half brothers—his stepfather’s sons. I find it interesting that my dad referred to his own missing biological parent as his “sire.” He seemed to be a stickler for labels and calling things by their proper names, although I suspect, in his case, his choice of label was heavily peppered with anger and resentment. He never knew his father. Or why he left. Or why none of his father’s family sought him out. But my dad—he was my dad until I was almost four years old. But then he abandoned me. My therapist thinks that because he left me, and because he never resurfaced, his title should be nothing more than sperm donor. She thinks by calling him dad I give him too much power and influence over me. There is language in NPE, adoption, and donor conceived circles to describe family members and relationship roles, but it’s complicated. Words and roles—like dad, father, donor—just aren’t simply defined anymore, and I’ve had trouble unpacking the roles and titles in my life.

Light, water, love. What a plant needs to thrive, to grow. Common needs for humans. But what if you didn’t get what you needed to grow? Would you somehow persevere? I didn’t have what I needed to grow. I had the basics: food, shelter, clothing. They were fragile, not always in quantities that lead to secure knowledge of comfort. Clothing was mostly from garage sales or purchased with credit cards that would later have to be cut up. Shelter was a house that was mortgaged several times over to pay for a gambling addiction. Food was portioned, and bellies were filled with bread and butter to supplement basic nutrients. Love was hard earned. It was conditional to behavior. Feelings of animosity and jealousy led to separation, physically and emotionally. My adult self recognizes the disfunction, the probable mental illness, the absurdity of the accusations. I did not feel loved. I moved out three weeks after high school graduation, and I was given a tree a short time after that. A houseplant ficus tree. I cared for that tree. I gave it light, water, love. I made sure it had a sunny window in every rented apartment and basement space. As it grew, so did I. Finally, living in a house to call home after I married, the tree thrived, and so did I. It grew so big and tall that it had to be replanted, cut back, split, and repotted many times over 30-plus years. It became a member of the family, fondly known as “the tree.” It stood in as a Christmas tree more than once. The tree lived at a trusted friend’s house when it got too tall.

I radiate a warm glow in the photo—a farmer’s tan from hours of playing outside in the Texas sun. A neighborhood friend had documented the moment via disposable camera. It’s hard to remember what occasion we were marking—an eleventh birthday party, perhaps, or the end of the school year. Whatever the event, my smile is wide, genuine, and my brown eyes are scrunched into happy almonds in a heart-shaped face. This photo never meant anything special to me then, but now I wonder how could I—how could my family –not have questioned my true heritage? I’m 34 years old and I’ve just discovered by way of an at-home DNA test that I’m 25% Japanese. This revelation launches me into a frenetic investigation— activating an old Ancestry.com account, sending cryptic text messages to my parents and brother, and diagramming possibilities on the back of a napkin. After all, my maiden name sounds like a type of sausage and Mom is a freckled redhead, clearly the offspring of Scottish-Irish farmers. Growing up, I’d never been questioned about my whiteness, although there were comments that I tended to tan in a more olive tone than did my younger brother. Since we played outside for 6 hours a day in the southern heat, no one thought twice about it. After hours of frantic speculation, I get a text message from my mother, with whom I have shared the surprising ethnic breakdown. She says, “Can I call you later?” It’s on this phone call that she shares the truth—there was an ex-boyfriend who was half-Japanese just before she and Dad got married. She’s Googled him to find an obituary from 2012. He’s survived by a brother, a wife, and his Japanese mother. Mom sends me the link. The need for information consumes me. Through the names and locations in the obituary, I

I was scheduled for surgery on March 25, 2020, but because of the quarantine, the surgery was canceled. My condition declined and I politely and persistently encouraged my surgeon to appeal to the board. The appeal was successful and the surgery was and I had the surgery on April 17. It was a much different experience then I could ever imagine. I wasn’t afraid of the surgery. I’ve had several operations in my lifetime. But what I wasn’t prepared for was being alone—completely alone—immediately after my surgery and the entire night I spent in the hospital. The nurses and patient aides were attentive. If I needed something, I pushed the button, and they were able to help with pain meds or small amounts of food. But I was alone. Because of COVID-19, my husband was not allowed to be with me. He dropped me off at the door at 6 AM and I didn’t see him again until the next day when he came to drive me home. I spent the entire night alone and in pain and had no one to comfort me. I imagine that my birth mother may have felt the same way the night she gave birth to me. I tried to get comfortable, but couldn’t. I tried to sit or lie in different positions, but it didn’t help. I was in pain and I cried. I barely slept. I felt nauseous at times and struggled to drink even the smallest amounts of water. My heart ached for my loved ones. When the nurse did come in, she was quick and efficient but didn’t stick around for small talk. She didn’t provide any kind of nurturing or offer encouraging words. I cried more and thought about calling someone, anyone, but I didn’t want to be a bother. Adoptees do that—we feel bad asking for help, as if we should be able to handle everything or because maybe we are not deserving of basic human compassion.

I was born William Joseph Olson in Sioux Falls, South Dakota on September 27, 1979, when my mother was only 20 years old. Because she’d been intimate with two men, she couldn’t be certain who my father was. One of the men, Brent, had been her senior prom date, and the other, Howard, was eleven years older—a man she saw when he was home on leave from the military. Her father despised him, and though she prayed he wasn’t my father, she suspected he was, thinking she remembered the night I was conceived: Christmas Eve 1978. Howard had already been married and had a daughter, but my mother believed he was divorced at the time she became involved with him. A dental technician, he was the older brother of my mother’s close friend Alice from high school. During his visits to Lennox, he’d take my mom out on dates, usually to the races. When he wasn’t drunk, my mother says, he was a great guy. When it came time for my mother to fill in the birth certificate, she chose to leave the father’s name blank. That decision profoundly influenced my life and my self image. As a poor single woman, she needed state assistance, but the state required her to provide the name of the person who might be my father. She named Brent, but a DNA test ruled him out. That could only mean the man my grandfather despised—Howard—was my father.

Dear Dad, In my dream house, you are there. You were there all along. Always. You carried me on your shoulders and taught me how to ride a bike, how to swim, how to fish. You told bedtime stories and silly dad jokes to make me laugh. You let me hand you tools when you fixed the car. You took my teeth from under my pillow when you thought I was sleeping and replaced them with crisp dollar bills. You smiled, standing there in your best suit as I came down the stairs in my fancy dress and Mary Janes, ready for my first father-daughter dance at school. I made you pictures that you hung on the wall at your office and bought you ties for Father’s Day. I made your coffee just the way you like on Sunday mornings and brought you iced tea when you mowed the lawn. We watched old movies and munched popcorn. You helped me with my math homework and comforted me when my first crush broke my heart. We went out for ice cream. You taught me how to drive stick shift. You cheered at my graduations, and teared up as you walked me down the aisle on my wedding day. We danced to Daddy’s Little Girl at the reception. When I found out I was pregnant, you were thrilled. You helped my husband paint the baby’s room and put the crib together. You paced the hallway when I was in labor and you were the first person in the room to kiss your grandchild. You came over so I could take a shower since the baby kept me up all night. I found you, with your first granddaughter nuzzled up on your chest, both of you sound asleep on the sofa. You were there for every holiday. Every birthday. Every grandparents day at school, choral concert, dance recital.

I circle my birthday on the calendar every year. As the date draws closer, its approach feels increasingly like warm, heavy breathing on the nape of my neck and I begin to think about it daily, as much as I don’t want to. The breathing on my neck intensifies. I work hard to bottle up anticipation that bubbles up from my soul. When it is a week away, anxiety skyrockets. Try as I might to banish all birthday thoughts and emotions from my mind and body, I’m unable to. The more I try not to think about it, the more I do. Thank you, irony. Then it arrives. It’s here! The big day! Time to celebrate! Celebratory texts and Facebook posts begin rolling in. Regardless of what’s planned for me on this most wondrous of days, I don’t need to guess what this day will be like or how I will feel. It’s my birthday after all. October 10th is here. Yippy. Anxiety levels now reach all-time highs, or, to be precise, match the same highs set each preceding year. I don’t know what to do with myself. There is one certainty with my birthday: I will find a way to sabotage it. As sure as the sun rises each morning, my birthday will somehow become a fiasco. For most of my life it has been like this. I wish it would stop, but it won’t. Like a family of pit vipers slithering over each other in a dark den, something buried in my subconscious moves, waiting for a chance to strike. I’m riddled with emotional pain and loneliness even though I’m blessed to be married to a superhero and am a father to two wonderful children who go out of their way to do nice things for me. I feel as if I am seeking something that cannot be found.

Two years ago, I discovered a birth father I knew nothing about after taking a 23andMe DNA test for fun. I hired a genealogist to locate him and, against her expert advice, went to his home to meet him when he ignored my phone calls. This man’s interest eventually overcame his denial and we began a relationship as father and daughter. With him came aunts, an uncle, cousins, a brother, sister-in-law, and a nephew—instant family! As I met each of them, in turn they welcomed me with the typical Scottish declaration, “Welcome to the clan!” 23andMe had reported I was 50% Scottish, and now it was official. With a major life cycle transition, there’s usually an official event: a wedding shower, baby shower, baby naming, a birthday party—a welcoming of a new stage or a new person, with all the accompanying pomp and circumstance of tradition. Interestingly, my official welcome to the clan occurred over the Jewish New Year— Rosh Hashana—also a time of new beginnings and discovery. The very nature of a new year is a beginning, albeit symbolic if not psychological. When we have a difficult year, we can’t wait for the official ending and symbolic beginning of the next revolution around the sun—almost as if beginning again acts as a type of psychological barrier, representing an end to the difficulty. Yin and yang depict the necessary opposites of light and dark forces inherent to all aspects of creation—the seasons, cycle of life, to name a few. A new beginning occurs on the heels of something ending. When I took the 23andMe test, I had no way of knowing the loss at 22 years old of the father who raised me would be the ending to this new beginning.

It’s been about 18 months since I discovered the man on my birth certificate was not my biological father and I joined the growing tribe of people who are lucky enough to call themselves NPEs, or Not Parent Expected. I thought once I discovered who my biological father was and had time to process my feelings, I’d be able to put this NPE nonsense behind me. It took me about six months to be sure I’d found the man behind half of my genes. I gave myself another six months to let it all sink in and then, I hoped, everything would return to how it was before my DNA surprise. Great, I thought, let’s wrap that rollercoaster ride up, stuff it in a box, put it in the deep recesses of my mind, and slam the door shut. I processed. It was time to move on. But I couldn’t. When my best friend died of cancer 15 years ago, I was eventually able to work through my grief. She’s still in my heart, and sometimes something reminds me of her and I smile. Smile! With my NPE status, I compressed all of those emotions and tried to consider myself “over it.” But it wasn’t working, I still couldn’t smile about it. In DNA NPE Friends, an NPE Facebook support group, a fellow NPE asked everyone to list just one word to describe how they feel about their NPE experience at that moment. The emotions you feel when you discover you’re an NPE are intense and change over time. I tallied the more than 600 responses and generated a word cloud. What struck me most was the number one feeling—lost. As soon as you realize you’re an NPE, you lose your tether to the world. To the family you grew up with. To the person you were just moments before. You are adrift. You are confused and overwhelmed. I remember reading a description of an experience in the “Twilight Series” that reminds me of what it’s like to discover you’re an NPE. In “Breaking Dawn,” Jacob describes what it feels like to “imprint” on Bella and Edward’s baby daughter Renesmee the first time he sees her. “Everything that made me who I was—my love for [Bella], my love for my father, my loyalty to my pack, the love for my other brothers, my hatred for my enemies, my home, my name, my self—disconnected from me in that second—snip, snip, snip—and floated up into space.”

Many adoptees dread an elementary school project that seems to be universally assigned — the family tree project. The teachers ask children to research their roots and family origins to find out where they came from and what their heritage is. Most children like me, adopted during the baby scoop era, lived in families in which we were simply expected to assume our place in the adoptive family and take our identity from it. I first encountered the family tree project when I was in 2nd grade. It created consequences from which I not only never recovered, but which also shaped my future in unforeseeable ways. I have a strong memory from that school year. I asked my mom, “What am I?” I meant what nationality was I, where did MY people come from? Kids at school were talking about this and I could not join the conversation. Stephanie was German, Korey was Korean, what was I? She had no answer for me other than the vague and slightly suspect information given to her by the social worker who arranged my adoption. It wasn’t good enough for me.

my body remembers the shiver of separation the moment of release from anything and everything I ever knew my body remembers the renunciation the retraction the ricochet of loss pain becomes an echo of that loss that thunders through my skull screaming forcing me to remember what my body refuses to forget