Birthright

I stood on the corner of 9^th and Ivanhoe, trying to imagine what the neighborhood had looked like the day I was born.  Today it was stale and unimpressive, but surely it must have been magnificent then. The original building was now a large condominium complex, so my imagination was the only tool capable of constructing the small home for unwed mothers where I was born. Luckily embellishing and constructing truth without details are familiar concepts to an adopted child.

I had revisited this site twice since my birth, but this time I was not leaving until my questions were answered. I desperately needed to re-create my own self portrait rather than stare at the blank canvas that had been mocking me for years.

As soon as I released my expectations, Act I began with a chilling scream. Though I covered my ears to provide them refuge, the sound still managed to slip inside my body and make my acquaintance. I asked for further understanding and immediatley the cries ceased.  In the window before me stood a young dark-haired pregnant woman. Our eyes never met, but I knew this was my birthmother from a time passed. She disappeared quickly, and I was left to imagine what it must have been like to live in a world that had shunned her for giving birth to a member of its own. I do not believe in a G-d, or a society who finds any shame in birth.

Once again the cries returned and I suddenly felt my body begin to ache with knowing. Tears came, and I fell to my knees. After a moment of silence, I heard my own newborn cries, and felt them quickly losing their innocence. We would only have two days together for the next 18 years.

I lay on the ground exhausted. With great speed, images began to hit me on the head as if to prove to my doubts that there was no mistaking the experience I was having.

The woman from the window was pushing a baby stroller towards the park, suddenly three young children identical to the siblings I now know so well were by her side.

A man indistinguishable to her first husband exited his truck and waved to me; the red mustang beside me was a duplicate of the one I had left in California the day before, even down to bumper stickers and Texas license plate. I was at a crossroads, being shown the life that was almost mine and the life I or others had chosen for me.

I walked toward the park, but was surprised when my steps continued past my intended destination, feeling guided to turn left and walk another half block. As I looked before me, I was shocked to be standing before a landmark from my remembered past. Growing up in Denver, I attended two synagogues that shared resources and teaching programs. The building across town had exposed my sweet disposition, while the relic in front of me produced only civil disobedience. As my teachers at Beth Joseph tried to teach me biblical and cultural stories, I would run through the halls at full speed, daring them to catch me. Unaware how to discipline me, and unable to explain my dual personalities, they would banish me from their classrooms and I would end up outside, leaning against the wall that now held me once again.

At that moment, I realized that the past I had been chasing had been trying to reach me for a long time, but I had missed its cues. All along I thought that the past, present and future were unconnected entities that needed to be searched independently, but in fact they are inseparable. The past and future and your thoughts about them are important, but the present is the only gateway that allows you to interact with and modify the other two.

I laughed and felt the wind that I had been relinquished into surround me and restore the lost pieces of my soul. Integration is a powerful lesson for an adopted child; once the process begins, details become more apparent, truth becomes more relative, and truly knowing yourself is inevitable. I don’t understand any person or policy that tries to deny another person this experience.