Some names and locations have been changed to protect identities of some persons in this story.


I see my spiritual self gazing down from Heaven onto the earthly landscape below. I have been here many times before. It is all so familiar as I stand in the open, grass-covered field. The field is heavily surrounded by thick woods. It is a clear, moonlit night in early summer. I hear crickets chirping. I am wearing a T-shirt and shorts. I scan the clear and darkening sky. The stars shine brilliantly against the black veil of the summer sky. There is a hint of reflected sunlight from the horizon adding delicate illumination to the otherwise dark background. The Milky Way is prominent and I see many of my favorite constellations: Pegasus, Andromeda, and Lyra the Lyre. I am here for a reason. I am waiting, but for what? To go home. Yes. Suddenly, miraculously I see it! There, just over the hill, moving slowly along the Western horizon: a brilliant orange ball.

The apparition moves silently over the treetops and heads directly towards me. My heart beats wildly. My legs are rooted to the ground as if I am one of the majestic oak trees standing like sentinels over this place - the place of my salvation. My body is enveloped with surges of emotion. I have waited so long for this night. I sense the presence of occupants in the bright orange orb, and I am able to join in their telepathic communication. They see me! I wave my arms wildly with the desperate enthusiasm of a shipwrecked sailor stranded on an island. They are only a few feet away now! This ghostly ship is about to land, and I am finally going home. Without warning, the ship is gone. My family is gone. I am disconnected. I fall onto the dew covered grass and sob, filled with the knowledge that failure plagues me as it always has. How many times will this happen before I am saved? Someday they will be back. They can't leave me here forever. They know I am not one of these Earthlings. I don't fit in on this world. I don't belong here. Please come back. Don't forget me. I need you. Please don't abandon me. I was abandoned once already. Spare me from facing it again.

This is a dream that had persisted throughout much of my life. As a child I sometimes believed that I was not from this planet, but had been a castaway from a another civilization. I had many variations on that dream, but the subject was always the same. In addition to this, certain things would trigger within me a sense of disconnected abandonment. I would cry during the scene in the "Wizard of Oz" where the Wizard fails in his attempt to send Dorothy back home. The fact that the Good Witch comes through for Dorothy by showing her that she had the power to go back all along may have been somewhere in the back of my mind later in life during my search for my personal Kansas.

"Who am I?" Ask yourself that question as you sit on a secluded beach on a warm summer day - white puffy clouds skimming slowly overhead; ethereal wisps traversing a blue background. Watch them. All the while, the only sounds you are vaguely conscious of are the monotonous sound of the waves crashing onto the shore and the insistent squawking of hungry seagulls. Who. Am. I. Three simple little words when all by themselves. When put together as a question, however, they contain the potential for unleashing a powerful force. There are many ways in which a person can approach the question. Some people will give a predictable and straightforward answer to it. A scientist might attempt to include an explanation of genetics and firing neurons interacting in the brain. However, when answered honestly and with reflection, most people will probably come up with a fairly accurate and complex description of themselves without resorting to a simple label or a set of biological processes. In addition, the question can invariably be answered differently at various points in a person's life. We are not stagnant entities. Each day we perceive and learn more, changing through our experiences with the world and the other people in it. However, the basic core of "who we are" usually remains a constant. This core of values gives us a foundation upon which to build a home: the place where we are familiar and comfortable.

Our personal values are like our homes in many ways. While the exterior color of our homes may change, and the furniture may be replaced with new styles, the foundation usually remains the same. However, sometimes the foundation crumbles and a new set of values replaces the old and we must start to rebuild from scratch. While generally a painful experience in any sense, the final outcome can be either a positive or a negative change, depending on what course the construction takes and what unforeseen obstacles interfere with the process.

There are obviously no easy answers to the question "Who am I?" In my case, having been an adopted child, it became somewhat of an obsession. The factors contributing to my need to answer the question were many. What if you are an adoptee with no knowledge of your biological background, but you grew up in a warm and loving environment with your adopted parents where the adoption was openly accepted and discussed? Would there still be a problem answering that simple, three-word question? What if the adoption were kept secret, as it was in my case, even after being inadvertently discovered by the adoptee? What if it remains, as it did in my case, a forbidden topic, never to be discussed after the initial acknowledgment following a confrontation with the adoptive parents?

Harboring this secret suspicion that I did not "belong" to my parents was not an easy thing to balance in a child's mind. I was aware that I looked nothing like either one of them, or like any of my family members for that matter. Another odd difference I observed as a child was how much older my parents were than those of my friends who were my age. I might have wondered why this was, but I certainly couldn't ask my parents. My father was not one for satisfying the intellectual curiosity of a mere child. One of his favorite phrases was "children should be seen and not heard." In my childhood there was a closet that was deemed "off-limits." Naturally, I was forced to explore it. Searching thoroughly, I stumbled upon a book on the top shelf of the closet. Stuffed into this book were some very official-looking papers. At the top of the first page was the crest of the Catholic Church. In bold letters beneath this, the name of the Diocese stood out. I recognized all of this because at the time I attended Catholic School. Below the impressive letterhead, in smaller print, was the name of the agency: St. Theresa Home for Unwed Mothers. Then, there on a line by itself, sat all the proof I needed to make the final connection. Printed on the paper were the words "Baby David." David?

My identity as a human being and my entire self-perception changed completely and traumatically when I was eight years old as the realization of what I was looking at dawned on me. It was at that moment that the questions began: Who is David? Who gave me that name? Where are they now? How did I get here? Who am I really? Am I David or Mike... or both? During my search in the closet, I also unearthed adoption records for my sister, with whom I quickly shared the discovery. I had no idea that this discovery was going to be a major factor in shaping my entire personality. Put yourself in the position of an eight-year-old child trying to sort this out. Little did I know that this event was going to eat at me throughout my life as a termite devours a tree. The effects of that one moment manifested themselves again and again over the years in ways I couldn't understand. An eight-year old doesn't have the sufficient mental capability or foresight to comprehend the cause and effect relationship of such an important event. This effect began to to take shape at this time despite my attempts to confront the fact that I harbored two identities. The identity I had known for eight years was "Mike." The other, this "David" - he was born of a mother I did not know. And where was she? Why did she not want to keep me? What was wrong with me that she gave me away? The seeds of self-doubt and confusion were planted then, and the questions continued to confound me for thirty years. Growing insidiously within me, they often undermined my ability to deal with people, situations, and life in general. The issue always remained a subtle nagging; something I could never quite put my finger on.

I have memories, visions really, in which I see shadowy images floating through my mind like phantoms from "The Twilight Zone." Sometimes I see images of nuns in big traditional "habits." Sometimes I see white sheets on what looks like a bed. There are people present during some of these visions, although who they are is not clear. These images are the oldest part of me. They are an eerily unsettling facet of my life that I have carried with me always. There are other images as well. In one, I am taken from the place in the first vision by a man and a woman. I have another vision of a wooden bench with a man and a woman sitting on it. In that one, someone carries me to the woman and I am given some sort of toy. It's a small vehicle of some sort. A car, or maybe a truck. I see that in my mind at the oddest times. As a child, I never told anyone about these apparitions. I kept them my own dark secret because of their weird quality. I doubted somehow that anyone would ever believe me even if I could summon the courage to reveal them.

My adoption was never brought up by my parents. My recollection of how the adoption issue was finally brought up is a little clouded. I do recall that a considerable amount of time elapsed from the time of my discovery of the papers to the day of reckoning. I remember that my sister and I were sitting in the kitchen. She started talking about an incident that had happened to an adopted girl who lived in our neighborhood. This girl had been picked on by some of the other kids because her parents were not her "real mommy and daddy." "So? What's wrong with being adopted?" my mother said. My father was silent. He just sat at the kitchen table reading his newspaper. Then, with the blunt honesty that only children can get away with, my sister blurted out the million-dollar question: "Are we adopted?" She and I both knew the answer to that question. My adopted mother's terse reply was "Yes." I suddenly felt very uncomfortable inside. I never told my parents that I had found the papers in the closet. I wanted to then and there, but I couldn't do it. A strange pain and hurt came over me. My parents then tried to explain something to us, but I didn't want to hear it. Whatever it was, it was a brief discussion. I only remember the acknowledgment of our adoption. The topic was never brought up again, at least as far as I can remember. I began to feel very different after that day, however I didn't know precisely what the difference was. I only knew that it was not a pleasant feeling. Life goes on, though...

So, I was disconnected by blood to my family. If nothing else, I was a completely different person genetically than I had previously thought. I decided that I should take a share of the responsibility, and force the issue further with my parents. I told myself that I should keep bringing up the subject until they were willing to talk about it. Perhaps they would be more open about it than I was willing to assume? I thought I might be able to get some concrete answers as to why they adopted me and my sister. I did not follow through and my thoughts were never transformed into actions. Basically, it occurred to me that I might learn more about myself by simply asking the right questions. I don't place all the responsibility on my adoptive parents, the agency, or the system. While they all certainly played a part in my adoption, I believe that the individual still retains a great degree of control over the course of his own life. Much of the confusion I subsequently endured throughout my life might have been prevented had I acted on these impulses. Unfortunately, I never did ask my parents to help clarify the things running through my head. Their initial reaction had left the distinct impression that the subject was not going to be easily discussed. I never discussed it with anyone else. In the end, I found it was just better to leave the subject alone entirely in the presence of my friends. No one wants to be bothered with those kind of problems at nine or ten years old. I certainly didn't. And that was another good reason to bury the issue. And I did bury it. I tried my best to forget about it with the hope that it would just go away...

Although treated as if I were part of the family, I was not one of them. When someone would talk about certain traits being "in the blood," I would feel uncomfortable. Their blood was not my blood. I had an entirely unique heredity. I didn't know where it came from. As I mentioned, I had always felt a sense that something was not quite right. I was always trying to make sense of something I couldn't really explain, and this caused me to harbor an undefined anger. Well, after I found the adoption papers this anger manifested itself fully. Who or what this anger was directed towards escaped me, but it remained a major facet of my personality. Fighting battles in my head against an unnamed foe was a daily routine.

I had the sense that I had been cheated of something and I wanted revenge, but against who or what I had no idea. I would fight every day to control the anger. I thought if I could just identify the cause of it, I could deal with it; I could confront the demon. The issue is not whether or not what I sensed was "real." The issue is that I believed this was the case, and that belief was not dispelled as I grew older. In fact, it was reinforced in many respects, and the pattern caused me to become dependent, stifling my ability to move toward independence at an age when I should have. I certainly was not the easiest person in the world for them to relate to during my childhood years. This confusion and the nagging urge to "find David" would resurface again and again throughout my life. At times the urge would be powerful. Other times, it would lie dormant, just below the surface. This prompted me to make an important decision; I would search for my biological parents. I made this decision shortly after finding my adoption papers. However, I put one very important condition on this resolution: I would only begin to search after my adopted parents were dead. Incidentally, I also resolved that if I ever had a son, I was going to name him David...

Some people may question the feeling of "disconnectedness" I'm trying to convey. Many people subscribe to the "Nurture, not nature" argument. In their opinions, culture supersedes biology in the development of the individual. However, I have met other adopted persons who have expressed the same feeling of being disconnected. Their feelings are similar, even if they grew up in a more warm and loving environment than I did. Some of these adopted persons have reunited with their families; some find that they were very lucky not to have been kept by their natural parents. The issue is the knowing, regardless of how positive or negative any contact or the knowledge gained may be. I struggle to describe the strange sense of not being where you belong. Words are not sufficient to convey the feeling. It is something undefined, gnawing at you. Today we have surrogate mothers who were impregnated with implanted sperm. Soon, we may have cloning or totally artificial creation of human life. The issue of paternity will become clouded in such cases. New ethical issues loom on the horizon. However, if the products of these experiments are aware of their lineage, they are still a step ahead of an adoptee who has no knowledge of his or hers. This is a fundamental point. Even Frankenstein's monster was told how he was created. And he knows his creator...

...As a child, riding my bike was an escape, and the time it gave me alone I spent thinking my own thoughts. I walked in the woods, and I found there was a great inner serenity when I took those walks. I felt "in touch" with the world and I could take time to think about things that interested me, without distraction or feeling that I had to live up to something. I was at peace during those times. I enjoyed walking along the beach for the same reason. The beach was even more stimulating than the woods. The crashing of the breakers against the sand or rocks was soothing in its endless repetition. The water pounding repeatedly to the shore provided a reassuring stability to ease my inner chaos. There is no ambiguity to the ocean. It follows a natural cycle which continues unabated day in and day out. I dreamed of being a great artist or actor, someone who was recognized as being important - of having some value. I was a very introspective person, and I thought very deeply about a lot of issues. I tried hard to understand complex things, such as the origin of the universe and the role of humankind in the cosmic scheme of things. This deep introspection caused many people I came in contact with to think of me as being distant and haughty. Others saw me as being rude and uncaring. I wasn't. I was simply caught up in trying to process whatever it was I am trying to resolve. I enjoyed reading. My favorite topics were history and science. Reading was a refuge and it allowed my imagination to soar. I pondered questions removed from my daily existence. This deep introspection had many benefits. However, there was also a very detrimental aspect to it. It contributed to further to my distancing myself from other people...

One negative result of this type of self involved behavior is that I built up walls between myself and other people. If I really liked someone, I tried extra hard to impress them. But if I was unsure of their feelings, or felt that I was getting too close to them, then I placed a barricade between us. I distanced myself because doing that protected me from the inevitable day when they would stop liking me and push me away. This fear of abandonment and rejection often overshadowed my ability to deal with people well into adulthood...

... For a long time I thought about becoming a police officer. I wanted to be many things while I was growing up, an actor, writer, teacher . I even felt strongly pulled toward the priesthood for a few years. My father wanted me to be a dentist, but I couldn't stand the thought of spending my life peering into peoples' mouths. I entertained thoughts of becoming a research astronomer for a while, but poor grades in math and science prevented me from pursuing that. I decided to become a police officer. Why? There are reasons I am aware of, but I sense there are also some of which I am unconscious. These unconscious reasons are tied in with my feelings about myself and my need to belong. Consciously, I realized that being a police officer presented the opportunity to work outside, as opposed to in an office, which is something I dislike. I have a hard time sitting in one place for long periods. Police work also gave me the chance to serve my country in a capacity in place of military service. This satisfied my need to feel that I could contribute something to the world in which I sometimes felt so alien. I was full of the idealism which pervaded my generation, but most of my friends never considered being cops. Also, being a cop allowed me to belong to a select group. Wearing a uniform sets me apart from society as a whole. The uniform gives me an identity within a closed fraternity. The same is true of a priest where the collar and ceremonial vestments give a sense of being part of something much bigger. This was certainly a major driving force behind my career choice. Wearing a uniform would allow me to fit in at last. The uniform would validate me as a person, and I could use it as a shield for my emotions. In the role of "cop," I have to be in control at all times. Thankfully, I let the more rational reasons for being a police officer guide me through my career. I was in law enforcement for over twenty years until my retirement in 1998 and I never had a serious complaint made against me by a citizen. I did my job to the best of my ability as I have always done. I was rewarded with promotions and given considerable supervisory and administrative responsibilities. I am proud of my accomplishments. I felt comfortable dealing with people. I was sure that being a police officer was the right career path for me...

...My desire to find my true origins had remained with me throughout my life. It would surface during casual conversations and sometimes when I was alone. Like a toothache, it would unendingly throb, reminding me of its existence. This was a pain I could only endure for so long. I knew that eventually, like a tooth, it would have to be extracted. The alternative was to suffer needlessly. The issue subsided a bit after my marriage and the birth of my children. I was busy with them and with building my career, but the recurrent dreams and fantasies would still rise up at the oddest moments. If I saw a movie about adoption or heard the word, they became even more vivid. In the early '80s, I was in the first years of working at my present department. At that time, a strange and nearly obsessive drive took hold of me. I became interested in astronomy again. I took my telescope to the firing range and gave impromptu tour of the heavens to my fellow officers. I read everything I could find about cosmology, space exploration, physics and other related subjects in an effort to understand more about the origin of the universe. I spent hundreds of dollars on books, and I would bring them to work with me and read in my cruiser while waiting for calls. The more I read, the more I became upset because I realized that science has not yet fully answered the questions I had. When I was satisfied that science was not going to provide my answers, I turned to religion. I read the New Testament cover to cover, something I had never done, even in Catholic school. I pondered the words in search of answers, but religion, too, failed to put the questions to rest. I then turned to philosophy. I read selected works of Descartes, Locke, Hobbes, Nietzsche, Spinoza and a myriad of others. I pondered their ideas and compared them to the ones I had found in the religious and scientific writings. I was chasing after something I didn't understand. My mind was littered with discarded ideas and was trying to deal with constant bombardment from new ones.

I was often very distant from Nancy at this time. She couldn't understand what I could possibly be thinking about. When I would try to explain, she couldn't grasp what I was saying. It wasn't that she couldn't comprehend, she simply couldn't see why it was so important for me to have the answers. She told me once, "Mike, you think too much about living." She said she wished I could enjoy life more. She was concerned for both our sakes. I wanted to explain it to her, but I just couldn't. I believed that most other people didn't think like I did. They seemed not to be troubled about any of the questions that possessed me. They could just go on with their lives without any concerns above and beyond the immediate ones of making a living and having fun. I wanted to be like that too. I took David to see the movie "E.T." The idea of the alien trying to return home had a profound impact on me. Many people were touched by the movie, as evidenced by the number of people who were crying in the audience. It was a very touching movie, and I cried, too. There was another reason for my tears, though, which not many people in the audience would have understood. The movie reminded me of my recurring dream of going home. For a long time after seeing the movie, the dreams became more frequent, and my thoughts about having been adopted were brought more fully into my conscious, everyday thought. I tried to dismiss the subject during the day, but the dreams continued. Rarely has a movie had such an influence on me. I came to realize that the older I got, the less of a chance I would have of finding anyone who could tell me about my past. My natural mother might die before I found her, or might already be dead. I tried not to think about that. I suppose I was just afraid of being shocked by what I would find. Fear of the unknown is a haunting fear. What if I found out that my natural parents were drug addicts or alcoholics or worse? How would that effect me? I thought maybe I was better off not knowing. What if I found them and they didn't want to see me? Could I handle that rejection? All of these conflicting thoughts pervaded my mind. Most of the time I buried them and went on with my life...

In 1988 I found out that my next door neighbor was adopted. He was 65 years old at the time, but he decided even then to begin his search. He located a half-sister and several other family members who were still alive. He missed seeing his mother by two years. The reunion with his family was a very positive one, and he had a huge party with members of his new family and his own seven children and their families. It was a joyous occasion for him. I was envious, and the event brought the thoughts of finding my own family to the surface again. I actually went as far as speaking to an attorney friend of mine and talking to my neighbor about the process involved. I didn't pursue my dream, though, because I was in the midst of being promoted at work, which was a very time-consuming process. I rationalized that if my neighbor waited until he was 65, then surely I could wait a little longer. Once I got settled in my career, then there would be time to continue the quest. I always had an excuse to put it off, but I knew I had to eventually undertake the search. What I did not know was that the time would not be of my own choosing and that it would take an outside force to push me down the road. That encounter is another entire chapter of my life that I choose not to discuss here...

Credits: Michael Avallone