Mom Mysteries

L could call any day now according to the schedule I told him I was going to have.  It makes my stomach queasy just thinking about it.  It isn't that I don't want to talk to him.  It is that I am so nervous about talking to him that my stomach boils to the back of my throat.  I am scared I am going to say something stupid that will make him hate me.  I am scared I won't say enough and it will be horribly awkward.  You would think a girl who spent years in the telephone business would be better at this.

I was younger than this when my mother died

Up to this point, I have avoided asking questions about my mother.  The first message he sent me said:

 I remember your Mother I saw her 1965. It was not a romantic relationship and I was cheating on my present my wife and I told her then.

All of the questions I had about her fell to the wayside.  I didn't have the guts to ask him anything more about her.  Maybe I felt like his wife was watching over his shoulder and I thought it rude to ask questions.  Maybe I felt like it was an indiscretion he did not want to relive.  Maybe it hurt my feelings that it meant my mother did not get meaningful love no matter where she turned, and that was too difficult for me to handle at the time.  I changed my line of questions to focus on him and I haven't asked a single thing about her.

There are so many unanswered questions about my mother.  I have asked everyone that I knew to ask and have come up with little to no return on them.  In the DNA/Adoption support groups they recommend that adoptees write down their questions and leave room to jot down notes while they talk.  This seems like very good advice.  Between the nervous jitters and my genuine fear that this may be the last chance I get to speak to this man - I am bound to forget something or leave something out that he may be able to answer.

My mother lived in Stanfield, Oregon prior to going to Portland, Oregon.  Some say she ran away from home.  Others say she went to attend school.  I don't know what she was doing nearly 4 hours away from home.  I know that this is where I was conceived and this is where she died.



Why was she there?  Was she working?  Was she going to school?

L says he could not be sure that he was the father.  It sounds like she had more than one lover at the time.  Does he know this for sure? or was he guessing?   L says that after he demanded a paternity test he never heard from my mother again.  This has several possible explanations starting with he either ticked my mother off, or he ticked my grandmother off when she heard about it.

My Grandparents adopted me so no one could ever come take me away from them.  I am not sure how I knew, but I always knew "no one" was L.  They were so dead set against him that they told me I didn't have a father and to just stop asking questions about someone that didn't exist.  He might have ticked my mother off first, but he ticked my grandmother off last.  His name was not spoken in my presence.  Now that I know what it is, I can assure you it was completely foreign the first time I saw it.  She won that war until November 27, 2015.

In my post: The Story on Paper I mentioned that my grandmother hid me away because she was afraid he might come to Stanfield.  I need to ask if there were any mutual friends between L and my mother.  Did he know she died?  How did he find out?  Did he know the minister that owned the house she died in?  Did he know the boy who killed her?  I would like to know if there was any way my grandmother could keep tabs on him.

Why is any of this important?

The short answer is "I don't know, but it is."  The long answer is that I have spent an entire lifetime identifying as a copy of her.  I don't think I am an exact copy, but I am enough like her.  People loved to hold me up to some standard that she set in "very quiet and very smart," and held it against me when they wanted to frighten me into "behaving" around males.  I grew up making up stories in my head about her life and her death to try to figure out who I was.  I needed her to be something good so I could believe I was good.  I think everyone does that.  My own kids do that.

I want to ask him where he met her, how long they had an affair, why he was attracted to her, why was she attracted to him?  I am content with the thought that they didn't love each other.  She 19 years and 12 days when she gave birth.  He was 25 and married.  It was 1965.  Was he aware of how she felt about him?

I am afraid to identify myself with him.

If I have a single nameable fear, it is identifying with him.  He is the nameless, the faceless and the loveless.  It isn't about forgiveness or letting go of resentment.  It is that identity that scares me.  I am afraid I will disappear once I claim him, because she is already gone and I am barely a representative of who she was.  If I start replacing my characteristics that were always said to be hers, with his, then I risk losing myself to becoming "no one."  I know that is much too deep for anyone to go, but these are the things that drift through my mind.  I raised my kids to be her legacy.  I don't think they see themselves that way.  None of her descendants would be defined by anyone but themselves.  That was my contribution. It was hell trying to prove I was worth wielding her face.  (I look a lot like her)

A dead mother and a dead grandmother saved me

It is easy to get into trouble when you are young.  It is even easier to get into trouble when one lives in the middle of the wrong side of the tracks.  I lived there.  There were drugs and booze and all kinds of troubled expectations from a girl in that place.  My only safety net was the belief that my mother and my grandmother followed me around like ghosts.  They watched every move I made.  I believe that made me be a better person than most people thought I was.  At the end of the day I could look into the mirror and believe they would be ok, if not pleased, with who I was.  I gave them as few reasons as possible to abandon me to lost hope.  There was no one and nothing else to cling to.  I know that now.  At the time, it was my mission to finish their work.  In many ways, I still strive for that goal.

Where does L fit into that?  I feel like I have gone renegade.

He wants to hear my voice..

L and I have been exchanging information about his illegitimate birth.  It is ironic that he is in much the same boat I am in with my mother.  His father died when he was very young and he spent his whole life wondering what it might have been like to have him as a father.  He didn't say that, but I know.  I know because he's doing everything he can to find out as much as he can, to include getting a DNA test done.  He wants to find relatives.  I can relate to this!  I know this desperation.

My Dearest Daughter Anna, I am so glad I found you

That is how he started his last email.  I started crying.  My inner shield maiden shouted "Do not let this distract you from the battle!" and  that little girl who sits in my head said "Maybe he is for real.  Maybe I could be a Dearest Daughter to him.."  The conflict made me dizzy.  I couldn't even concentrate on what he was saying.  I read words, but each was an island and didn't interact with each other to have meaning.  My husband asked if I was ok and I couldn't explain what was happening on the inside of me.  How do I explain this?

Rejection is easy.  

I am familiar with rejection.  They tell me all the reasons they can't love me.  I tell them it is their loss in very polite words.  They feel smug because they don't believe they are losing.  I go lick my wounds over some dishes so no one can see me cry.  Then I dive deep into a project that requires concentration so I stop thinking about rejection.  I post lots of pictures on Facebook because there are lots of people who "like" me there.  If the first project doesn't make me stop thinking about rejection, I dive into an even more complicated project to reinforce the habit.  I am so good at rejection that I do it on autopilot.  And this explains why I know how to plaster walls, bake, sew, crochet, draw, paint, quilt, decipher DNA results, knit and a multitude of other ridiculous skills I have forgotten about.  Some people think I am creative.  Nope.  I am just a reject junkie who uses Youtube like an alcoholic beverage.  I get drunk on creative chaos for a while and then wean myself off to reenter real life.

I want him to love me.  I want to love him back.

That little girl inside my head is winning this argument.  She hasn't been loved unconditionally, by a living human parent figure, since she was eight years old.  She believes in miracles and she has been really patient.  Dearest Daughter.  When was the last time she was anyone's daughter?  Really a daughter.  Not just a temporary verbal kindness handed out like a cookie for good behavior.  It doesn't even matter that he has never kissed a boo boo or grounded me.  That little girl inside my head thinks she needs him.  She is wiggling around my Shield Maiden and ducking under the shield.  She is tugging on the spear and fighting my Shield Maiden from her unguarded rear.  She wants this so badly.

Back to reality Warrior!

I read the rest of his letter and reread it to gain clarity on dates and information regarding his conception.  His mother sounds like an interesting character and I would love to know more about her.  His father has a history that I would like to learn more about.  He was a German Catholic.  Wow!  That is not something you see every day.  L even told me some of his reflections on the events and revealed that he spoke to his nephew, but didn't reveal that he was related.  The information is very interesting and I need to correct some dates and put some notes in my family tree.

I hope to talk to you soon Just to hear your Voice. Thank you for searching for me too. I really didn’t believe your mother knew who your father was and I needed to know. I am so sorry I missed your growing up. Your Father L

He is sorry he missed me growing up.  That is not the first time he has said that.  I have been so good about skimming over those words.  My shield maiden has protected me very well all the other times.  But this time, that blasted little girl read those words and she got into the fray and started battling from behind. I feel like this little boy..

I told him he could call me anytime he wanted to and gave him my schedule and my phone number before the Shield Maiden could let out a battle cry.

How do I communicate how this feels?  Words are worthless.  I say them and they fall like nonsense out of my mouth.  I just cry.  It is the only thing that makes any sense.  I have been crying off and on for two days now.  I can't even explain why.  I might have to pull clean dishes out of the cupboards soon.

Dear Mom

It has taken me 49 years to begin to know you.  After Grandma died, no one wanted to talk about you.  When they did, I heard a lot of generalizations, but when I asked for examples, they could give me no stories.  You were smart.  You were naive.  You were quiet.  It didn't quite fit with the description of drug user, promiscuous, and irresponsible, but those were also words that were used.  I never stopped loving you.  Grandma told me to never stop loving you and I listened.

In the summer of 1965, you had an affair with a married man.  He didn't love you, but you loved him.  The evidence supports what M told me.  You kept his name a secret because you didn't want to ruin his life.  You loved him enough to let him go.  You loved him enough to bear the brunt of your punishment alone.  In all honesty, you could have had an abortion in secret, and saved yourself so much scorn.  You were in the center of where girls in trouble went to rid themselves of their problems.  You didn't.

In March of 1966 you walked into a hospital, had a baby, and walked out of a hospital as the "sister" of that child.  This is how things were done back then.  You had no husband.  You had no means of support to take care of a child.  Your choices were to give me to strangers or give me to your family. I understand why you made the choices you made.  You didn't leave the option of getting the paternity test L requested.  Instead, you kept me close, endured the shame and let them make assumptions about you.  Thank you.

You worked in a mental hospital, taking care of retarded people.  According to M, you loved them.  You were kind to them.  You had compassion.  Some of the family insinuated that you just left me for your parents to take up the slack.  M says you tried to come see me, but the tension was so thick that all you did was fight with your parents when you visited and they made it impossible for you to have any peace to just see your child.  That's when you got a promotion that took you to Salem so you could afford to come back to get me when the time was right.  That time never came.

The word on the street is that you died in a ministers home.  He was not a real minister.  He was one of those "quack" ministers.  He was probably a drug dealer.  I haven't found him. As I sift through the facts, I notice these street words have little validity.   I also haven't found the young boy (at the time) that killed you.  I know his name and I google him every so often.  If I do, I will tell him that I forgive him.  It was an accident and if you loved him, so do I.

I have missed you so much...

I lost a baby in 1986.  He was a boy.  I would have named him Corey James after my pretend husband when I played Barbies.  I wanted to die.  I wanted to be where the only two mothers I ever had were.  The Army gave me 30 days to suck it up and get back in uniform.  I spent the first few days talking to you in my head, because I knew God hated me and even Jesus couldn't help me.  After that I went to the bar and stayed drunk for about a year, except when I was on duty, of course.

I think that is when I stopped believing you were a person with zero ability to make a good decision.  You made some very understandable decisions.  To be pregnant one day and have nothing to show for it the next is the worst feeling I have ever encountered.    You kept trying.  You tried until you died.  So I kept trying and will continue to try until I die.

So if you are watching, don't worry about me.  I got this.  I am not going to hurt L and I am not going to hurt his family.  He got his paternity test he asked for and he didn't have to bother with me while he saved his marriage and his family.  I just might get my feelings hurt, but I have been there and done that before.  I learned how to recuperate minus the alcohol.  I know you tried to save me from the pain, and I appreciate it.  Half of me is you.  Remember that, if I ever frustrate you.  All my life I have been told "Like mother, like daughter"  They might have said that in scorn, but I wear it in pride.  If you ever want to talk... just ring me in my head.

Love,
Anna

What now?

Christmas Bouquet with no name

L and I have exchanged a few messages.  I don't think he understands how DNA works, because he asked me how I am related to his grandfather.  He probably has no idea how adoptees and biological hunters discover their relatives.  It seemed strange to him that I have biological markers on my tree that are his relatives.

I have a feeling that when the time comes that he wants to discover information about his own father, he is going to need a lot of technical help dealing with the DNA matches.  It is a lot to wrap your head around and he isn't sure of the very basics.  If Child2 doesn't take the reins, I might help him out.  It will help both of us.

I got the most beautiful bouquet of flowers with no name on them to indicate who sent them.  We think it was L.  I lit the candles on Christmas night and we ate our dinner with them right in the middle of the table.  That is the first time anyone has ever sent me flowers for Christmas.  I have never had a family member send me flowers, except my husband.  It was a nice first.

I don't know what to expect now.  He wanted to wait until after Christmas to tell the rest of his family about me.  I don't blame him if he puts that off.  I have gone numb.  This is what I do when I expect bad things to happen.  I go emotionless.  If he contacts me, it will be nice, if he doesn't, nothing about my life will change.  "Meh.  It's whatever."  This is how I managed to roll with every punch to the gut I have ever taken.  Never let them see you wince.  If they know you have a weak spot, they will punch you there.  This goes double for emotional weakness.

They are very religious.  My experiences with highly religious people have not been good.  No one can reject you or make you feel lower than a religious person.  When they do it, they make you feel as though God himself is behind it all.  I am not just a typical sinner that can be forgiven.  I am the sin.  I can't undo my birthright.  Everyone speaks of the adulteress (who is not Mary Magdalene, by the way) that Jesus stood up for when the men wanted to stone her, but no one ever mentions any possible children that might have happened in her days of sinning.  

Deuteronomy 23:2"No one of illegitimate birth shall enter the assembly of the LORD; none of his descendants, even to the tenth generation, shall enter the assembly of the LORD.

By the old testament, I cannot be a Christian.  There is no saving me or my family.  That doesn't mean I have to be a bad person.  That has always been a choice.  That has always been my choice.  No one owns me.  If God chooses my destiny, I choose how I want to get there.  It's easy to be the horrible sin.  It is much more challenging to be the nice one.

Buddhism is easier.  They say "Suffering happens."  It happens even more if you dwell on your thoughts of suffering when you are not actually suffering at the moment.  The moral of the story; check in to see if you actually need to dwell on what might or did happen more than you need to pay attention to what is currently happening.  So I had a very nice Christmas and concentrated on enjoying my family instead of wishing the family that was thousands of miles away would be able to accept me.

All but one of my kids hanging out for Christmas

I don't have faith that L will be able to have any kind of close relationship with me.  I admit this thought is probably my own baggage being carried into the situation.  If I go by Buddhist teachings, I can only be harmed if I allow myself to hope things are different than they actually are.  This makes so much more sense to my situation than beating my head against a pearl gate I can never enter.  Begging God and Jesus to overlook a rule just this one time is a lesson in futility.  Learning to accept what is actually happening, so I can move on, is my only forward moving choice.

In Nordic mythologies every day is a battle to be fought bravely.  Now this is a philosophy I can sink my teeth into.  Women were as tough as nails and did not need a man to survive.  They were not slaves to a society that would berate them for being born with internal sex organs.  Illegitimate?  No problem.  Get your Axe and your shield and hop on that boat over there.  We have battles to win. When you die, you fight beside Odin, or you become a Valkyrie and pluck the bravest warriors from the field when they die.  Life is never without battles and death is no different.  Courage and honor were the most important characteristics before the Christians took over the North.

I think we lose the bigger message when we refuse to learn from all of the religions.  I think we lose good people when we condemn them to hell for being born.  I plan to prove that.  That is between me and God, whoever, or whatever God is.  I can't expect L to understand that.  He believes God has his hand on this.  I believe it has always been this way, because for me, the only change is that I know L's name.  L can afford to live in his world.  He is just the sinner.

"Don't hate the sinner, hate the sin."

I believe I was put on this earth to be a reset button.  My maternal family is so broken they don't even speak to each other most of the time.  When they do, it is lies or half truths and most of the time they do not trust each other.  Love is a competitive sport and only handed out as a reward for the one that wins the game.  This is most often the male child, since they get to have a head start.  No girl has won the game of approval for love.  There are consolation prizes and awards for participation, but the feeling of love, acceptance and being wanted are only given to one child per generation.

I am the hero of my story.  I am the game changer.  I threw out every rule and regulation.  I loved them all.  I am the lover of males and females, biological and not biological.  I am the mother of healthy relationships between my children.  I think L's DNA helped me out with that.  He may never be able to be anything that resembles a father to me, but he has possibly helped me be a really good mom and grandmother through genetics or epigenetics.  I don't see any examples like this on my maternal side.  I got what I really needed from him.  He owes me nothing.

Deep down, I believe in my heart that my mother and grandmother would be proud.  They would be proud of what I have done with my family.  They would be proud of what I have done with their family.  They would be proud of how I am handling L.  I have spent my whole life making reparations, through my actions, from the scorn they endured.  I am the holder of their DNA.