Pensieri.

The first night I met my birthfamily, it snowed.

We had the visit planned for months. We decided that they would come over Christmas break. A huge snowstorm had hit New York City only a few days before they arrived. Driving from JFK to our house, they got lost in the frosted concrete jungle, and my father had to take the old Volvo out to get them and bring them home.

My room had never been so clean. I scrubbed the white and blue marble floors, rearranged all of my stuffed animals on my bed, folded my clothes, and even cleaned the dust out from the creases in the blinds. I waited in my bedroom, and stared out the window, feeling the cold glass against my nose and cheeks. When they opened the door, my dad came in first. Then, E my birthsister, and then finally, D, my birthfather. I stared, frozen to the floor like the ice that clung to our windows.

I remember rushing up stairs to play with the dog and E in my room. I remember hearing my parents and D go into the living room to talk.


And that's it. I have a few pictures from that visit. E wears a red shirt, and smells like vanilla and sugar. I have my long blond hair straightened, I am wearing a knit white sweater and dark jeans. My dog is young, puppy-like. The Christmas tree is still up, adorned with the white lights and antique ornaments.


But other than these few photos and scattered memories, the visit is lost to me. Sometimes, D or one of my parents will bring it up, and they will recount moments that I have no memory of.

My mother tells me that I cried for weeks afterwards. I don't remember this. I don't remember any of it. I can't recall how long they stayed, what we did, or what we said.

These memories are buried deep in my subconscious- lost to me forever. It is amazing what our brains will do for us to relieve our pain, to alleviate our stresses, to dress our wounds.

My reunion has not been easy. In fact, it has been the hardest thing I've ever done. This journey, this path to the truth, to my self-entirety, has been long. And it all started on that snowy day when the icicles hung thick from every window pane. When the snow was so deep we could hardly walk, when the air was clear and my mind unburdened. What would I give to return to that moment, anxiously cleaning every crevice of my bedroom, looking out my window, waiting. What I would give to think like I did back then. I ask myself, now, years later if I would have gone through with it. When my father drove to pick them up, to guide them to the sister and daughter they had relinquished long ago, would I have let him had I known that I'd never be the same? I want to return to that moment--with my hand on the doorknob, ready to let the family that left me back into my life. With what I know now-would I have opened the door?

one night to be confused.

I returned today from the visit with my sister.

She's awesome- funny and witty and intelligent. Gutsy and opinionated and strong. She is many things that I am, many things that I recognize, and many things I strive to be.

But even with my gains there is a loss- a sense that even though we have reconnected that we can never contain all the years without each other, all that has been lost. This reunion, this reconnection, is merely a band-aid. A foolish attempt at finding ourselves within each other.

We have come from the same place- the same clan, the same beginnings, the same blood. Her history is my own, my past her past. Within us lie something primal, some connection, that can only be seen in the curves of our bones, the arches of our eyebrows, the warmth of our smiles.

I have found her, yes. But she is lost to me forever. A few people , a few of her nice friends who I was introduced to, were amazed at our reconnection, astounded that our story would have what they considered to be a happy ending.

" You're SISTERS," they would exclaim. " You're sisters and you've found each other. This is beautiful. You're together again!"

But they are projecting- reacting emotionally to the thought of being separated from their own siblings, from their own sisters whom they love. They are thrilled at our reconnection, at the fact that we've "fixed" our separation, that we've overcome the hurdles life has placed in front of us- that after 25 years of being apart we are finally together.

I don't believe this. What we could have had, what we almost had, is gone forever. Sisterhood, for us, is unattainable. Too much has been lost. Today, though I am thrilled about knowing Stef, about having a relationship with her, I also grieve the fact that we can never "go back"- that we are struggling to define our relationship simply because there is no definition. Where did we end and something else begin?

Palombella Rossa

I have a hard time correlating the words “loved” and “wanted.” My birthparents were not children when I was born. already had cousins. I was not the first child to be born, and I certainly was not the last. My birthparents gave me up, my birthgrandparents and aunts and uncles all watched. Many of them were there when I left. I was loved, perhaps, but not enough. I was wanted, maybe, but not enough.

A few months ago, my Italian friend Giorgia gave birth to her daughter. She is 23, and was unmarried when the baby was conceived. She got married a few months ago at her families urging. Her daughter,Cinzia, is beautiful. I received photos today. She is younger than my birthparents were at my birth, she is less financially stable. I saw that baby today, with her pretty red hair and her family all around her, and I thought to myself, “not me.” I saw Giorgia, and her daughter, and her new husband (also a friend) and her family, and I thought “Why is it okay for them? Why did my family not try like that for me?

Babies who are wanted and loved by their families in their entirety are not given away. My sister was born a mere few years after me, under the same circumstances. She was kept. She is a loved and treasured member of their family, the favorite grandchild, beloved by all.

I accept my adoption. I cannot change it. I am a happy ,well adjusted, member of society. I love my adoptive family. I fit in perfectly. I am the favorite grandchild, the beloved daughter, the loving sister, the “fun” aunt. But there is a part of me, a deep and angry part, that is enraged and hurt at the thought of being cast away. I will never be a part of their family, I will never be accepted back. Not really. I never was meant to be.

I was my birthfathers first child, his parents second granddaughter. They looked at me, the newest, most fragile, and most vulnerable member of their family- and they pushed me away. I live everyday with the knowledge of my original inadequacy, the deep sadness of knowing that all those who were supposed to love me, protect me , cherish me, and never leave me- did exactly that. To this day, even after meeting my birthfamily and understanding the motivations for my placement- I remain astounded at this betrayal. It cannot be contained.