I am the same age as my mother when she gave birth to me. Twenty-four years and some-odd months later, I still know so much less about her than I wish.
She was a nurse, engaged to my cop father, with curly brown hair and a petite stature. According to the medical history provided to my adoptive family, she was the middle child of twelve, while he was the baby of four. The file listed only the basic information of health, appearance, and history. No identifiers. No mistakes.
I found out about my adoption when I was barely five years old. Growing up, it seemed like just another fact, nothing that would come to haunt me -- like knowing my best friend liked cats and had a tendency to break her wrist when she skateboarded. I liked soccer, surfing, and didn't know my birth parents. No big deal.
Once I hit puberty, finding out anything about where I came from was of utmost importance to me. I spent hours in the library, researching adoption laws, e-mailing Congressmen and Senators who voted in favor of adoptee rights, even joining websites that promised the Holy Grail of reconnecting family members. I applied to the Wisconsin department of Children and Family Services to "open" my records.
In the last seven years, I've been turned down six times.
I'm keeping my head up. The burning desire and curiosity, the need, won't die out. Compared to many, I'm lucky to have the knowledge I do, but, as selfish as it is, I want more. Just keep treading water, writing lawmakers, petitioning local governments, whatever I have to do to find a crumb of information.
Photo Credit: MrB-MMX.
That crumb could lead me to the cake.
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