My birth mother is one of four sisters. In 1978, all four of those sisters gave birth. Only one let her child go, and then she had to face the other three, happily married with their babies. To lessen the pain, I was not spoken about. The brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles on both sides, without discussion all locked me away as a family secret. Not forgotten, but not spoken of either. The next generation, the one that I belonged to, had never known about my birth.
In the months since these tentative, initial emails, as news of my existence spread, I have been welcomed by the entire family with warmth and love. I have met my birth mother and father, and my brothers. It is strange and wonderful and sometimes a little scary. On this journey, there have been tears, and laughter, mostly laughter, and adjustment as I have come to know this large extension of myself, and there have been many realizations. The most significant for me has been how small and entwined my little world has always been.
My adoptive father, when he was trying for the ministerial job in 1984, was interviewed by a hiring committee. My maternal aunt, the first person that I made contact with, sat on that hiring committee. It’s odd that we work for the same board of education, and for years I lived a mere ten minutes from her. How many times did we pass each other on a street or in a store, never knowing? Her grown children, my cousins who are my age, and I share friends; one cousin having gone to school with someone I dated. My maternal uncle’s wife had even worked in my school on occasion. A woman who I’ve worked with, and known for thirteen years, is my distant cousin and knows more about my family than I do. But, I am learning about them, and through them about myself. I have yet to ask to see their toes.
108