by T. Jacira Paolino
The Holes In My Being
Some people grow up with complete souls, but mine looked like Swiss cheese until I was 29.
You see, I didn’t ever have Aunt Sally’s red hair or Uncle Jim’s big nose. I didn’t have stories about my grandparents’ parents immigrating to this country because I didn’t know who they were.
I had nothing to tie me to this earth before I was born. My family history started with me… anything that came before was an unknown, a mystery. I could never fill out the family history part of those questionnaires at the doctor’s offices…. I would just put, “Not Applicable”.
I am an adoptee.
Back 30, or even 20 years ago, that was something you would never admit to in public without expecting to hear snickers behind your back. Being adopted was the equivalent to being illegitimate, born out of wedlock, an orphan, or worse, but it always came with a stigma attached to it. Times have changed a lot. Now it is not only common, it is nearly fashionable for women to have children without fathers or the benefit of marriage. But it was very different back in the 1950’s and 60’s.
I remember the bedtime stories my mother used to tell me. I’m talking about my real mother… the one who raised me. The one who gave me up for adoption is my birthmother. My real mom would sit in the rocking chair with me in her lap and hug me as we rocked in the soft light of the nightlight. I could see the kit-cat clock with it’s diamond studded tail swishing back and forth as I listened to my mom tell me the story of how she waited for me, wanting so much for me to become a part of the family. She and my dad had decorated the nursery, bought the crib, the swaddling clothes, and were waiting until one day when the attorney called and said I had been born. Five long days later they went to the hospital to pick me up and bring me home. She always made sure I knew how very special I was.
I wasn’t alone…
There was another adopted child in my kindergarten class. He was special like me. His name was Johnny. He and I had a special bond… we understood about the holes in our being. As we were growing up we could only stand silently by when our friends would talk about their ethnic heritage. I remember looking in the mirror many times and trying to see if I could figure out which country my birthmother might have come from. I didn’t look Greek like my friend Thalia, and I didn’t look German like Helga. I imagined myself in a throng of people, seeking, always looking to see if there was someone who looked so much like me that I might recognize her. Would I be able to recognize my birthmother in a crowd?
I spent more than 20 years wondering before finally deciding to search. But where could I begin? I didn’t know where to start, and I had no information to go on. I was scared to ask my parents as I didn’t want to upset them, but finally, around 1980, I felt I had no choice.
Telling my parents…
Their reaction was worse than I could have imagined. My mom got very offended and started yelling at me, calling me ungrateful. My father stormed out of the room in disgust. I tried several more times to talk to them about it, to try to make them understand that I was not trying to replace them, I just felt an overwhelming need to know why I was given up, where I came from, what my roots were.
Finally, 3 years later, like throwing a bone to a hungry dog, a letter appeared in my mailbox one afternoon. It had a handwritten note from my father on it that said, “Hope this puts an end to your wondering”. It was a photocopy of a typed letter from the attorney who arranged my “gray market” adoption… a private arrangement between him and the doctor who represented my birthmother.
The letter said only a few things about my birthparents. It said my birthmother was 100% Polish, that she had left home upon the death of her mother, that she was Catholic, and was born on June 12th. It went on to say my birthfather was Spanish and Irish – Black Irish – and had attended a couple of years of college (this part later turned out to be false).
The Search
Armed with that information I began my search in earnest. I contacted a group in Chicago, where I was born, called “Truth Seekers in Adoption”. They assigned me a helper who would pull local records for a small fee. Through a complex system of cross checking birth records and court case logs, we found my birth surname.
Because we knew my birthmother’s mother had died, the first thing we looked for was all death records for a female, catholic, Polish woman who would have died before I was born, using a range of about 2 years prior to me being conceived. We searched the Polish newspapers for obits and eventually narrowed it down to 3 possible people. We then started tracing the surviving kin and in one of the cases, the deceased was survived by her husband and 4 children: 3 girls and a boy. Because men don’t change their names when they marry, we contacted the son’s ex wife, under the ruse of having worked in a candy store with one of the sisters. Working it into casual conversation, I mentioned that I couldn’t recall which one of the sisters had the same birthday as me… June 12th, and she blithely said, “Oh, that’s Lori”. Without knowing it, she had just told me who my birthmother was. She then proceeded to tell me that Lori lived in Libertyville, Illinois, but was planning a vacation to Palm Desert, California in a month, and then she kindly provided me with Lori’s phone number.
I was trembling so hard when I hung up that phone that I had to take deep breaths to get control again. It took me three days to get up the nerve to call her.
The call…
I had rehearsed what I would say: Is this Lorraine? She would confirm that it was. Then I would say, “Before I tell you why I’m calling, I want you to write down my name and phone number.” That was in case she panicked or had someone near her who she didn’t want to know about me and she hung up …that way she could call me back later …of course, if she wanted to. There was always the chance that she wouldn’t want to talk to me at all, and I tried as best I could to prepare myself for that possibility.
Once she had written down my name and number, and repeated them back to me, I would ask her if the date July 18th meant anything to her.
At that point she would probably react one of two ways: “Yes, is this who I think it is.” Or “…No, and I don’t want to continue this conversation.” Either way I would have at least heard her voice. Just in case, I set up a tape recorder so I could listen to it again, if that was all I got.
And so finally, I made that call.
“Hello. Is this Lorraine?”
“Yes. Is this a sales call?”
“No, it is not a sales call! Before I tell you why I’m calling could you please write down my name and phone number?””Why?”
“Please, could you just do it and then I will tell you why.”
“OK…”
“Now that you have my name and number, does the date July 18th mean anything to you?”
…I waited for one of the two reactions I had prepared myself for. I held my breath… but she said, “Oh! You must be my daughter! I was just talking to my son, Al about you the other day!”
I was in shock! Her reaction was so cool and non-chalant! And even better… I had a brother to boot!
Meeting my birthmother…
A month later I flew out to Palm Desert to meet her and her husband. Her husband had been wary …and doubtful that I was who I claimed to be. He was ready to have me checked out from his end, just to be sure, but when I got off that plane, he told me that he no longer needed to do that because I looked exactly like Lori had when he had met her and she had been my age.
We sat together every night while I was there, talking until late. She showed me old photos of her mother and father, her sisters and brother. She explained to me that she had gotten pregnant and that my father had walked out on her. She was scared and had no money to take care of me, and she decided to give me up for adoption.
During her pregnancy, she lived in a small apartment in downtown Chicago. She told her father that she was working as a bookkeeper for a band while they were on tour around the country. She had a friend who was a pilot and he mailed letters to her father from different cities, so that he would believe my birthmother’s story. She told her neighbors that her “husband” was in the army stationed overseas.
When she came home from the hospital without me, she told them that the baby had died in childbirth, therefore giving life to a lie she would have to live the rest of her life. I could feel her relief to finally be able to tell the truth and to rid herself of the burden she had carried for so many years.
And finally, for the first time in my life, I no longer had holes in my being. I had roots, and a family history, and relatives who went back before I was born. And you can see the family resemblance! I have my mother’s nose, my father’s blue eyes and dark hair, and I no longer have a Swiss cheese soul.
