I was born in the backseat of an
Oldsmobile. My mother was in labor for 15 minutes, not long enough for my
father to drive us to Grady Hospital in downtown Atlanta. I popped out during
the Drifters’ song “There Goes My Baby;” and moments later, there I went. In
the emergency room parking lot, I was whisked away by a nurse, complying with a
pre-arranged adoption pact and who was under the assumption—as were most
adoption “experts” in 1960--that cutting ties should be done in an abrupt and
swift fashion like pulling off an old Band-Aid. I would never see my natural
parents again. At least that’s what everyone thought.
My adoptive family always had
the appropriate number of cars, boats, housekeepers and country club parties;
they were skilled at complying with “old money” standards. Those who had “new
money”--such as show business folk or overnight get-rich schemers--were
naturally inferior to us, or so I was told. By adopting me, my parents were on
track for procuring a suitable number of children for a respectable family:
two. My brother was adopted a couple of years later.
To the neighbors, everything
looked primed and painted, but I was well acquainted with the wood filler and
industrious termites beneath the surface. Partly, my negativity stemmed from a
perception that I was an outsider with an entirely different value system. I
did not qualify as the black sheep of the family for only one reason: sheep
tend to be followers. I was more like the independent, black cat, who went my
own way.
From grade school to high
school, my classmates regularly criticized me for supporting the civil rights
movement, for rejecting communism conspiracy theories, for failing to be
enamored with all Republican candidates, and for not accepting Jesus as my
Redeemer, despite the fact that I attended religious services six days a
week.
It galled my friends when I
lusted over the flashy, sequined evening gowns that the “new money” movie stars
would wear to the latest premiere. Then I’d show up at the school dance wearing
one and watch the whispers percolate throughout the room.
I felt ideologically out of
place regardless of whether I was at home, school or the local mall and
wondered why. Many studies point to a connection between biology and criminal
behavior, but what about biology in relation to simple, run-of-the-mill
beliefs? Could a person have a genetic predisposition towards particular moral
values and favored activities? Could “nature” make a person more likely to support
universal healthcare, gay marriage, educational vouchers or the National Rifle
Association? Could DNA be a factor in a person’s distaste for vintage
automobiles or her attraction to sports?
The answer seems to be yes.
British and Australian researchers determined that twins who are reared apart
think similarly on subjects ranging from sex, religion, politics, divorce,
apartheid and tough-mindedness; and twin research at the University of
Minnesota confirmed the finding. “Nurture” has little influence on a child’s
personality. In The Blank Slate, Steven Pinker makes the case that as
much as 70% of the variation between individuals, in areas such as political
leanings, personal philosophy, intelligence and personality, are derived from
genes.
According to the Washington
Monthly, a study conducted by Bruce Sacerdote found that biology rather
than environment correlates with income. He learned that “being raised (as an
adoptee) in a high-earning family doesn’t seem to have much effect (on the
income of the child when she grows up), while being born (as a natural child)
to a high-earning family does.” Did this mean I might have to give up those
big-ticket gowns and go from being “old money” to “no money?”
Adult children often seek out
their natural parents in order to address health concerns, such as to determine
whether cancer or heart disease runs in the family; but I wondered if it could
help a person better understand herself? I aimed to find out and started the
search for my natural parents at the age of 25.
The process was jammed with
roadblocks. Adoption records were closed; in other words, I was not supposed to
gain access to names or identifying information. Although the bulk of my
detective work took place by phone from my home in Los Angeles, at one point I
traveled to the Atlanta adoption agency that had placed me and persuaded an
employee to divulge the names of my mother and father.
When I was told “Wilson,” I
anticipated a needle-in-the-haystack search and realized I had not even arrived
at the farm. Today, there are two and a half million listings on Google with my
father’s exact first and last name.
As I sleuthed after data, I
picked up helpers along the way. Amiable strangers in Georgia, Maryland and
Virginia—most of who lived in residences that were once occupied by my mother
or father--volunteered to devote investigative hours and legwork to my pressing
mission. I made calls. They made calls. In the end, I found my father’s former
college and got his contact number from alumni records. I located my mother via
a Baltimore school that had employed my grandmother.
I learned one parent is a
university professor and author, and the other works for the U.S. Government in
Washington D.C. They gave me up for adoption because they were in graduate
school and did not plan to stay together. They didn’t.
In the end, I found parents—as
well as aunts, cousins and a grandmother—who have values and interests akin to
my own. They study philosophy, are environmental advocates, teach aerobics,
have similar taste in art and suffer from the migraine headaches that have
plagued me since I was a child.
My mother’s religious path
detoured in the same way as mine. We were both raised Christian, then attended
a Unitarian church for a while, and eventually converted to Reform Judaism.
Although my natural family is
rich in heart, their pockets are not totally bare; so genetically speaking, it
looks like I may be able to feed my “frock habit” for a few more years.
The ongoing connection with my
kin has taught me why I am the way I am, and why I am unlike those who raised
me. I appreciate my adoptive parents’ efforts, but have learned that one can
never have too many parents.
The short madam has written a certain piece which in the magnificence of its poesy and the authority of its syntactical architecture may surely rival the noblest effusions of antiquity.
Posted by: Incabloc Lumpajoy | August 11, 2007 at 08:48 PM
Well, I liked it. You know some people don't naturally stick by who and what they are, but spend ages challenging each aspect, its interesting to read a blog by someone who had such strong internal instincts and challenged everyone else instead.
As for you Lumpajoy, you sound like a twat being sarcastic about 'the short madam's' poetry. It makes you look like a fool.
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Posted by: adult chat | May 29, 2011 at 12:15 AM
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Posted by: adult chat | June 03, 2011 at 11:08 PM
This is a very interesting post. Alot of people have the misconception thinking that kids that were adopted are usaully special needs kids, problem child or physically ill. This is not true in many cases though. I was very thankful I was adopted and not biologically related to my adopted mother. She couldnt conceive and have two major menstraul disorders-
• Dysmenorrhea (painful menstruation)
• Menorrhagia (excessive bleeding).
• She had these illness since 18 and had to go through four major surgeries when she was 24 to remove the tumors clopped inside her ovaries.
• Between ages of 32-35 she was on bed arrest and at age 38 she has gone through major surgery to have one of her ovaries remove. It is said if this disease has not been treated well you can die from it. I take it as 'a blessing from God ' that i dont have whatever my adopted mother had or i would be going in and out of the hospital from the early age of 18.
• My original biological parents were really poor and cant afford to take care of so many babies, they were also giving away girls, because they had two many. My mom lied about conceiving me from the tummy instead of natural birth and showed me the scars on her belly from the surgeries she had before i was 15. I always had an idea i was adopted, something just doesnt feel right. As long as I can remember, whenever my mom disipline me and gets upset, she would always say stuff like 'go back to your birth mother', ' we should have adopted another kid instead' and 'adopting a random kid on the street is better than you'. I'm so happy im not cursed with the health and body of my adopted mother.
Posted by: lisa | September 06, 2011 at 03:42 AM
I found out why I like vintage autos when I found a birthfather who had the taste to collect them.
My 'find' experience mirrors Charlotte's.
Mental attributes, interests and desires are genetic.
Our environment provides choices and our genetics determines what we choose from the choices provided.
When we find - it is clear 'who' we are, and 'what' defines our affinities.
In fact, every molecule in our bodies is vested with the memory of our ancestors and their choices and experience that leave their neurological and electrical mark on our inherited nervous system.
One can feel out of place in an adoptive family. And the adoptive family usually thinks you will 'be like them' since they raised you.
Hopefully they have a brain and realize they have adopted someone's DNA that is not theirs and respect your adoptee RIGHT to be the PERSON YOU ARE.
Most adoptive parents don't get it since their action to adopt is fueled by high anxiety.
And you, the adoptee, are saddled with the responsibility to address this anxiety by 'being like them'.
We accept that animals we breed have lineage why is this absent from human adoption?
...because adoptive parents are using another human to address their neediness,
they do better at respecting difference when they adopt the family dog.
And, by the way, I always identified with animals- who are always adoptees.
Baby Girl Moroni
Posted by: Baby Girl Moroni | December 29, 2011 at 11:47 PM