Who Am I?

My husband, Martin’s, midday phone call jolted me out of my usual routine.  “There’s something personal I learned about you. Do you want me to tell you now or when I come home from work?”

     My curiosity piqued. “Tell me now.”

     “Are the children down for their naps?”

     I had a routine rest time for our younger ones after lunch—a much-needed break for me. It had been a busy Tuesday morning getting our home back to normal. Our nephew Tony, the youngest son of my sister Mary, had been our guest on Memorial Day weekend 1981. He had left early to the Greyhound station in downtown Sacramento on the bus with Martin on his way to work.

     I returned to the phone after herding them to their rooms. “They are in bed,” I said. “What is it?”

     “Tony told me you’re adopted!”

     His words exploded within me. Strong emotions rose like a volcano, and both laughter and tears erupted at the same time. I could not speak for several minutes. Then I blurted out, “God prepared me for this.”

     Two situations had flashed through my mind. During my recent pregnancy I asked my mother, Dorothy, the name of the doctor who delivered me. She said she did not remember. I recalled every detail of the births of my children, and it seemed strange she could not tell me the name of my doctor.

     For the first time in my life, I said, only to myself, “Am I adopted?” I never shared this uncomfortable thought with anyone and soon forgot it—until that moment.

     Also, I recalled two stories I had just read about adoption, the only books coming my way after the birth of Lisa, our last baby. A lovely lady from my Friday morning prayer group came up to after a meeting, like on a mission, and gave me China Cry by Nora Lam with the words, “Read this.” Then she walked away. It was an unusual encounter.

     Martin brought home the second book, Crying Wind by Crying Wind. He had seen it at a bookstand at Raley’s, our local grocery store, and bought it for me because of my interest in Native Americans. While I nursed Lisa, I devoured both, sneaking in time to read these fascinating memoirs about women relinquished at birth.

     “Where is Mom?” I often heard through the door. While my baby dozed, I remained in our room and finished the next chapter. The demands of seven children left little time for reading.

     Stunned by Martin’s call, I managed to go through the rest of my daily chores in a numb state of shock and disbelief.

     After the children’s bedtime, when again I had time for myself, I looked for more confirming evidence. I scoured the well-worn pages of my baby book, The First Seven Years, lovingly assembled by my parents. I noticed that the dates on the Western Union telegrams of congratulations were October—not August, the month of my birth. No photos existed before two months. Why hadn’t I seen these things before?

     The last vestige of denial blew away because of that two-month discrepancy—the celebration of my adoption, not my birth. I really am adopted!

     A host of questions emerged. Who are my biological parents? Do I have siblings? What happened to me in my earliest stages—during the pregnancy, my birth, and first two months? They hung over me like storm clouds.

     Most changes are gradual, not easily put into an exact day—not true in my case. I see that moment in time, the Tuesday after Memorial Day, May 26, 1981, as a landmark and turning point. Truth came in, shocking me and at the same time freeing me. It was like a beam of light radiating into a secret, dark cavern, coated over for years with cobwebs of lies and innuendos and dust-laden with guilt and duplicity.

     Overwhelmed with a wide array of thoughts and feelings, I felt adrift in a strange sea, my moorings wrenched from me. I started to float away with no boundaries or bearings, lost in a sea of questions with no known answers. I became a voyager on a trip I had not planned or desired, thrust on an adventure of a lifetime that might yield answers or even more questions with no solutions. The boat left the shore of certainty that day and threw me into an ocean of confusion and doubts about my identity.

     Who am I? 

     What I had always thought of about myself disappeared in the sentence, “You are adopted.” That wave of words washed away my sense of self like a violent breaker knocked over a sandcastle, only leaving a slight shadow in the sand. There was a void, and nothing yet had taken its place.

     Up until to that moment, I had seen myself as the only biological child of Alfred and Dorothy Scully. I looked like them. They told me my birth story, that I was born to them in Chicago on August 15, 1942. Everyone in my world confirmed this. No one had ever contradicted this story. Many photos affirmed these relationships.

     My husband’s laser-sharp words pierced the darkness that had been built around my identity—a passageway to truth, which had the potential to uncover what really happened before I became my adopted parents’ child.

     I felt unhinged.

     My cultural identity shattered. I thought of myself as being an Irish American with a trace of English blood. My mother Dorothy (Dot/Dotty) Corey boasted Irish backgrounds on both sides. Her mother, Katherine (Kit) Dempsey, had a small percentage of English ancestry from Newfoundland. My father, Alfred (Al) Scully, descended from an Irish immigrant, Daniel, who came over with his brother, Maurice, after the Potato Famine in the middle of the nineteenth century. His mother, Josephine (Josie) Hogan. also had the same ethnicity, being second or third generation. What culture am I really? Am I Irish?

     Then another strong beam of light pervaded my chaos. You are still you. Even if you don’t know who your parents are or their culture–you are still you. Circumstances can change. People can too, but you are the same person.

     This new truth anchored my drifting. I could rest in the essence of who I was without knowing every detail of my history, relationships, and background. I breathed a sigh of relief. I am still me.