Roots... As long as I can remember, I possessed a burning desire to know who I am, where I came from, what "they" looked like. Were they in love? Had I ever been held by "her" arms? What would my name have been? Did they like music? Did she love to cook?.. Those questions went on and on.
When I was a teenager, I remember asking my mother, Mary, for her blessing to search for my birth parents. My dad, George, had already passed when I was 13 years old, so it was up to her. I'm sure she wasn't sure what the right answer was since from each of her adopted children, we wanted something completely different. As far as I recall, my brother never wanted to know who his birth parents were. For me, it was a gnawing necessity to know from what gene pool I'd arrived. I'd imagine what sort of people they might be. Each time I traveled internationally, I'd wonder if my blood lines had roots that reached across that particular country or continent. Mom told me quietly, in her own loving way, that she understood my need to know.
I must have been somewhere between 16 and 18 years old when she presented me with my adoption documents, unearthed from the safe deposit box where my mom kept all her most valuable papers. My "non-identifying information" pages written by the adoption coordinator at Children and Family Services will forever be the number one, most-read document of my lifetime.
When I was a teenager, I remember asking my mother, Mary, for her blessing to search for my birth parents. My dad, George, had already passed when I was 13 years old, so it was up to her. I'm sure she wasn't sure what the right answer was since from each of her adopted children, we wanted something completely different. As far as I recall, my brother never wanted to know who his birth parents were. For me, it was a gnawing necessity to know from what gene pool I'd arrived. I'd imagine what sort of people they might be. Each time I traveled internationally, I'd wonder if my blood lines had roots that reached across that particular country or continent. Mom told me quietly, in her own loving way, that she understood my need to know.
I must have been somewhere between 16 and 18 years old when she presented me with my adoption documents, unearthed from the safe deposit box where my mom kept all her most valuable papers. My "non-identifying information" pages written by the adoption coordinator at Children and Family Services will forever be the number one, most-read document of my lifetime.
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