Snapshots

As a general rule, I don't post photos on my blog. But while looking through my old albums, I recently found this photo of myself and my birthfamily. In the picture, I am around 12 or 13 years old, sitting on the couch with my birthfather and birthsister. (I'm in the light pink shirt). They had come to visit us in NY.  I can tell by the decorations(cropped out) that it was Christmas time.

Our reunion was still young- the photo was taken long before the day when my birthfamily would shun me- unable to look their shameful past in the eyes.  Here, we are still enjoying eachothers company. But the picture is very telling. My birthfather is in the middle of the photo. He has his arm around my sister, who is seated at the left. Though we all look very much alike, it is obvious I don't belong. I am leaning into my birthfather, smiling nervously, trying ever so delicately to make myself a part of the family that is seated on my living room couch. But my birthfather does not place his arm around me. It is glued stiffly to his side. I sit, as I always have, awkwardly on the outside.

It says a lot about our reunion, and our separation.

Having been exiled out of my firstfamily has done some strange things to my personality, to my sense of self worth. Siblings on either side of me were kept and raised within the family. But not me. Understanding the reasons and the logic behind my placement does precious little in the way of making me feel better about it.

When we first reunited, I was welcomed into my birthfamily (though some of the family members, I learned later on, were very reluctant). I visited dozens of times- taking the 4 hour plane ride along, immersing myself back into my family of origin. My adoptive parents accompanied me one time, and then allowed me to visit by myself. They understood the importance of their absence. Their biggest gift to me was their lack of interference. They gave me their blessing, but allowed me the space to explore my old life. It was a journey they knew I had to take alone.

And I was welcomed. Really, I was. My aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents all graciously allowed me back into their circle. Even my little sister, who would one day nearly ruin my reunion with her jealously, initially was thrilled to have me in her life. Slowly, though, things changed. My little sister was not ready to share her family, and she let everybody know it. The adults in her life sympathized. Why should she have to pay for her parent's mistakes? Thus began their second disappearance. Quietly, my phone calls went unanswered, my annual Christmas, birthday and Easter cards unreciprocated. I wasn't invited to their home anymore.

"Amanda has her own family," they said. "Her sister only has one. We owe her our loyalty."

And loyal they were. I didnt hear from them for years. Bewildered, I mourned the family I had lost a second time. My birthfather, powerless to change his family's opinion, spoke to me in secret. The only person who remained steadfast was my paternal grandfather- a docile old man with sparkling eyes, the only one in the family who was not convinced that I deserved a second exile. He called me occassionally, ignoring his wife, my grandmother, who protested when she saw my number on the caller ID.

That was my first lesson in the conditional state of familial love. I knew my birthfamily still cared for me, but they could not show it. They would ask my birthfather about me when my sister wasn't around. They reveled in my accomplishments secretly and silently. But caring about me and loving me wasn't enough to keep me around. Though that wasn't a surprise.  It was a concept I already knew.

But I also know that I could never have belonged. To them, I will forever be baby who was thrust from their midst. My exile was permanent- I just didn't know it at the time.

My sparkly eyed grandfather died a year or two ago. He was diagnosed with lung cancer in the summer, and didn't live to see winter. As he died, he called each of his grandchildren to his side. He said goodbye to each of them personally, sharing with them the story of their family, telling them about the God they loved and that he believed he would soon meet. As the patriarch of the family, he spoke to each grandchild individually, impressing upon them the importance of hard work and family pride. Each grandchild recieved a letter, a special goodbye before he left them.

Every grandchild, of course, except one.

Not quite the Brady Bunch

I don't write a lot about my brothers and sisters. I think that's because, most days, I don't acknowledge them as my siblings. Most days, I have just one brother- my adoptive parents biological son. But in reality, I share a biological mother with 8 other people on this earth. We range from ages 29 to five. Out of all of us, only 2 have remained within the biological family for their entire childhoods.  4, including myself, were placed for adoption. The rest were taken into foster care when our mother, despite her best intentions, surrendered to whatever demons plagued her.

I have only ever met 3 of my 8 siblings. I know my three sisters, two of whom are older. The younger one, who is now 18, is my full sister. I have a different relationship with each of them- ranging from stellar to nonexistant. We communicate without the intervention or involvement of our mother. And she never liked that. We are honest with one another- speaking candidly about our experiences. Our mother, terrified that we would judge her, bemoaned our communication.

"I am the mother!" she would tell us, "I need to be consulted!"

When we ignored her, explaining gently that we were all adults, and free to have relationships with whomever we choose, she would hang up the phone on us. Or, if she was feeling fiesty, she would give us an earful about what disrespectful little ingrates we were. It was always hard not to take it personally (and these episodes did, in the end, have a profound affect on my relationship with her).

One by one, she burned her bridge with each of us. Only the oldest of her children, my half sister Susan, had any sort of regular contact with her. The rest of us, wounded, did our best to forget. Pippi, who was also placed for adoption, has mastered the art of detachment. Our mother is not important- she could take her or leave her. Nicole, my full sister, has built a wall to protect herself. Our mother left her  to be raised by our father when she was three, and then popped in and out of her life. Even mentioning our mothers name unleashes such anger in her that we've all decided it's best not to bring it up.

Me? I rarely talk about her. And I've found, over the years, that people rarely ask. I am merely one of her many children, just another child that she left. It is unrealistic of me, I think, to believe that I am special to her. I am not the only child she gave up. I am not the oldest, I am not the prettiest, I am not the smartest, I am probably not the only blonde. And I'm certainly not the most compliant!

And so, I leave her be. I struggle, from afar, to understand what has happened. My mother's world was one of fantasy. She believed that fairies existed amongst the emerald hills of Ireland, that dragons inhabited the deepest caves of China. Mostly, though, she believed that her children, scattered across the globe in different families, would come back to her. That one day we would all reunite and find her. One day, all of her mistakes would be undone.

And we are coming back together. Without her. Slowly, but surely, we are fitting together the pieces of our family. In a year, Christopher will turn 18. And a few years after that, Samantha will too. And the rest will follow. I wonder if I will ever meet all of them? I wonder if they will ever want to know me. We each have different stories, different families, different lives. But we have one vital thing in common, and I guess I believe that only by coming together can we begin to understand what has torn us apart.