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‘We Always Called You
Jason’
by
Her name is Nancy H., Daughter of Helen H.,
daughter of Gene H., deceased. She is 52. She is once divorced,
once widowed. She is a tollbooth collector in St. Petersburg
Florida. She is childless. She is my Mother.
His name is Don J.. He is 66. He was a cop.
He was a tuxedo store owner. He somehow lost a thumb in an
accident. He has 4 children: Don Jr., John, Joe and Debbie. In
1999 he found out that he actually had 5 children.
I have always held the title of
“adopted” as a badge of honor. It makes me
different, it makes me interesting. In my family, it was never
the taboo topic that is portrayed in TV and other media. I was
never “special because I was CHOSEN”; I was just my
parents’ child. And adopted
I have spent my whole life answering
curious but ignorant, and often annoying questions:
“Do you like your foster
parents?” “I am not a foster child”
“Is your brother your real
brother?” “Yes, he’s my real brother.”
“No, I mean your REAL brother.”
And, depending on how I am feeling, I
answered this question two different ways:
1) “Do you ever wish you could find
your real parents?” “My adopted parents ARE my real
parents.”
2) “Do you ever wish you could find
your real parents?” “Yes.”
So I did.
As I went through my horrible rebellions as
a teen, I often fantasized about my “real parents.”
My Mother is a beautiful, lovely, brilliant woman (of course,
we all think that), who spends her life wondering about her
child, and tirelessly searches for me, realizing her terrible
mistake. In my imagination, this sounded so beautiful and pure,
fairy tale-like. When I found out that this story I made up in
my head was partly true, that she had in fact spent her whole
life wondering about me, and let it virtually ruin her, the
purity of my fantasy was tainted.
When I was 18, I began my search in
earnest. Many states, including Connecticut have search
services for adoptees and birth mothers who want to find each
other. My agency, Jewish Family services would, at my request,
find my Birth Mother, contact her, and tell her that I was
interested in finding her. She could then accept, and receive
my info, or decline, and that would seal the case forever. She
declined, or so I thought. That slap in the face was enough to
make me stop searching for almost a decade. The other slap in
the face was that the agency had not even attempted to contact
her, and had lied to me. I didn’t find that out for many
years though.
My reasons for the search at that time were
not the same a decade later. In 1987, I hated my parents, hated
myself, and was as destructive as I could possibly be. My
search was my attempt to escape my enemies, and find the family
I knew would love me and accept me. Who UNDERSTOOD me. Had I
found my Birth Family then, I would have made a mess of it, not
that I did a whole lot better in 1999.
I look like Nick Nolte. I REALLY look like
Nick Nolte. In my lifetime, hundreds of people have told me
that. Friends, talent agents, passers-by. One of the things
that non-adopted children take for granted is that they know
who they look like. Good or bad, they know why they have their
eyes, nose, hair, smile, degenerative heart condition, big
feet, big ass, small ears. Partly due to conditioning, partly
due to fantasy, partly due to a lack of anyone else to be
related to by blood, I was convinced that I was Nick
Nolte’s child. I read every bio, every movie’s
location, every everything, trying to prove that Nick Nolte was
in the Connecticut area on or around October 1968. There was no
doubt in my mind, and though I may have embellished some facts,
I could prove that it was at least possible that he was my
father.
Maybe he was in New York doing a play back
then, or maybe he was in school. Maybe he decided that a
weekend in exciting Avon, CT was just the thrill he needed,
after facing night after night of boring NYC, tedious LA.
Regardless, it was POSSIBLE that he was my father, therefore in
my head, true.
This kind of fantasy, as it turns out, is
very common with adoptees. I recently met a woman who spent a
long time convinced that she was Meg Tilly’s sister. And
it wasn’t Jennifer.
Through my 20s, I was content with this
fantasy, and felt less of a need to find my birth family. At
the same time I was rebuilding all the bridges I had burnt with
my family, and was beginning to understand what I now know: My
family, Neal, Sue and Mike, Esther, Louis (dec.), Goldie
(dec.), Leon (dec.), ARE my real family. I am my parents’
child. No blood is necessary.
When my bridges were back up, and my life
good, The need to search came creeping back, this time because
I wanted to know, rather than needed to know. I searched Birth
registries for notes from my Birth mother. I talked with other
adoptees. I became an EXPERT on finding people without knowing
their name. In my search, I helped four other people make
contact, and became a semi-celebrity in the adoption world. I
just couldn’t find MY Birth parents. I was outspoken
supporting reunions. I kept an online journal that was read by
thousands of people. I was receiving hundreds of emails a day,
and my advice was passed along across the country.
Finally, as I ran out of conventional
options, I went to the library, and went through the birth
announcements, July 12, 1969, St. Francis hospital. I was not
mentioned for obvious reasons, but the other 10 or so births
that day were. Many of the families still lived in the Hartford
area, so I called them. I asked them if they remembered sharing
a room with a 5’6 blond woman, 18, (non-identifying
information is usually available for adoptees), no husband with
her. Everyone I talked to wanted so hard to be helpful, and I
even got some leads out of it. One father was a rabbi, and he
remembered my Birth Mother. He knew she was from Avon, CT, She
was very pretty, but he couldn’t remember her name. It
was so long ago I’m sorry, good luck. Still, it
invigorated me, and it made her real, as if my existence
wasn’t enough proof for my brain.
Using some of my new evidence, I got in
touch with a woman who “found” adoptees and birth
parents. My guess is that she works for the state or the
county, and to make ends meet, she looks up confidential or
sealed records.
Midday, whispering voice on the other
end of the line:
“Get a pen, Nancy H., Avon, CT.
Good luck.” Click. Never heard from her again, never knew
her name.
Now I knew, now what? I looked her up in
the phone book, but no Nancy Harris. I knew this would happen.
She is married, she has moved, she is dead. I was no better off
than I was 10 minutes ago. And H.?? Doesn’t sound Jewish,
though I have always been told that I don’t look Jewish,
though religions don’t have looks I suppose.
Avon High School probably archives their
yearbooks right? What if Nancy still lives in town? What if she
is a teacher at the school, what if I open up a past she wanted
secret? Am I about to ruin a life? She is married with
children, and I am her secret that she never told. I made the
selfish decision that it was my right to find out, regardless
of the consequences, something that I later criticized in
others, and my criticism got me my first, and only (Thank God)
death threat. I would advise others to avoid death threats at
all costs. They are terrifying and very unpleasant.
The librarian was very nice, and the fact
is, as evidenced by Springers, and Oprahs, and Rikkis, people
eat shit like this up. She couldn’t WAIT to look up Nancy
H. , class of ’65, maybe ’66, maybe ’67, oh I
don’t know, can you look them all up for me please? Sure.
Hold on.
The fax machine in the Human Resources
Department, Little, Brown and Co. was surrounded by my
co-workers as the snip-click-snap of the paper fed through it,
etching my first ever relative on the page. Slower than I
thought possible, and wouldn’t you know it, upside-down,
so I saw my Mother’s hands, breasts, neck, before I saw
her face. It took forever.
She was beyond beautiful. Innocent, shy
smile, hands folded, bouffantish hair.
Same eyes as me
Same nose as me
I looked like someone for the first time in
my life. It was magic. I was looking at my Birth mother.
The excitement of the picture kept me sated
for a while, and my original plan, prior to finding out her
name, and subsequently her picture was to ONLY get a picture. I
just wanted to find out why I looked the way I did. The search
is like a drug, the high wears away, and one needs more to
achieve the same level of ecstasy. I thought the name and
picture would be enough, but I was soon on my way towards
finding and meeting my people.
In the notes under Nancy’s high
school picture was a dedication to Helen, her Mom, my
Grandmother. This was my only new lead to finding them.
There are a lot of Helen H.’s in
Connecticut. I know because I talked to almost every one of
them. For the record, based on my experiences, People named
Helen H. are extremely nice overall. If you ever meet one,
chances are you will go away happy. Every one of them that
wasn’t my Grandmother was sympathetic, helpful, and
wished me all the best. After I found MY Helen H., I ended up
calling many of them back, as they made me promise to do so if
and when I found mine.
“Is this Helen H.?’
“Yes, who is this?”
“ I am not sure I have the right
Helen H.. Do you have a daughter named Nancy?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“ If you have a daughter named Nancy,
then I think I am your Grandson.”
Silence
“Hello?”
“Is this Jason?”
“No, Matthew.”
“ We always called you Jason.”
This is nearly verbatim, the first
conversation I had with a blood relative.
