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.

Near the end but closer to the beginning.

I heard my sister's voice the other day.

There was something achingly familiar in the cadences of her speech, the tone of her voice. I recognized her- though I know that's impossible. Something about her reminds me of someone I've heard many times.


I got her letter and I read it 100 times. Though the social worker who had censored our letter had crossed out a lot of identifying information , there was just enough for me to find her myspace, and then, her facebook.

I felt something with her that I've never felt with my other siblings. Perhaps we are more alike, or maybe it's that we come from similar places, similar families. I couldn't tell you what it is.

She and I have spoken every day since. A part of me is sad to have found her. It makes me sad to hear the voice, to see the photos, of someone else who shares my past. Another part of me is overjoyed- happy because I feel that I can incorporate her into my future.

She and I are different. We grew up in different places, with different families & cultures. We've never been together at Christmas, Thanksgiving, or Easter. Until recently, we didn't even know about each other. I live in the East coast- she the West. We have different color eyes & hair. We have grown up without one another.

I am cautious. I know how badly these things can turn out. I know that blood does not ensure love, does not promise trust, or friendship.

But when I hear her voice, when we talk and laugh and joke- I recognize something in her. A glimmer, a sparkle- a reassurance that this was meant to be. We are different- but there is something vital, primal even- that connects us. I see a thread of myself in her.


The two of us have seen many things, felt many sensations, and traveled very far. We come from the same place. My greatest hope, my sincerest wish, is that we can continue on together.

Briciole.

This time next week I will have finally had contact with my sister. It’s official. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that I’ll have read her letter by EARLY next week.

I got the call yesterday, while I was in the movie theatre seeing “Funny People” (which was actually more sad than funny.. I don’t recommend it.) I walked out of the theatre, and checked my cell phone that had been turned off during the movie. And, lo and behold, I had missed a call from the Catholic Charities. I could have kicked myself. I didn’t , of course, but I did use a bit of profanity when I realized that the office was closed for the weekend and that I couldn’t call back. I immediately chcked my voicemail:

“ Hello Amanda? This is SusieQ from the Catholic Charity- I want you to know that I received a letter from your sister, and forwarded it to you this morning. It should arrive early next week.”

I literally almost cried. It’s still only the “anonymous letters” that the charity is forcing upon us until we iron out all the legal kinks to obtain “direct contact”- but I don’t care! I don’t care if the charity opened the letter meant for me, edited out all identifying information, and then stuck it back into an envelope and sent it to NY. I don’t care if it looks ridiculous after being edited by the charity, just like the letter I sent to my sister surely does.

“Hi sister! My name is Amanda____. I live in ___. I go to ___ university. I am ___ years old. I grew up in ___, which is a borough of ___.”

I don’t care if all the identifying information my sister has shared with me in that letter is crossed out, or whited out, or CUT out for that matter. I don’t care what it looks like! I’m not interested, really, in where she lives, what she has, what her surname is, or what kind of education she’s received ( though I already know that she went to college and has at least a bachelors.) Of course I want to know everything- but these things that I know will have been edited out are not really what I’m looking for.

I want to know what she loves, who she loves, and what her passions are. I want to know what she knows , how she feels, and what she wants out of life. Is she married? She could be! Does she have children? What languages does she speak, what was her favorite subject in school?

I hope that this letter that is already on it’s way is only the beginning. It’s merely an introduction, a greeting, a shaking of hands. Nice to meet you, it may say, and who knows where we go from there?

The title of this post is “briciole”. It is the Italian word for “crumbs,” or “fragments.” That is what this letter will be. Bits and pieces of information, the small, seemingly insignificant fragments of her life that she has chosen to share with me. Tiny windows which I can look through- just to get a peek of what I’ve longed for for months.

You take the pieces and you put them together. Slowly slowly, bit by bit, we reconstruct the fragments of our lives. The briciole of our pasts that, once entwining, will hopefully meet once more.