We Always Called You Jason

Her name is Nancy (Married Name), Daughter of Helen (Birth Last Name), daughter of Gene (Birth Last Name), deceased. She is 52. She is once divorced, once widowed. She is a tollbooth collector in St. Petersburg Florida. She is childless. She is my Mother.

His name is Don (Last Name). He is 66. He was a cop. He was a tuxedo storeowner. He somehow lost a thumb in an accident. He has 4 children: Don Jr., John, Joe and Debbie. In 1999 he found out that he actually had 5 children.

I have always held the title of adopted as a badge of honor. It makes me different; it makes me interesting. In my family, it was never the taboo topic that is portrayed in TV and other media. I was never "special because I was CHOSEN"; I was just my parents' child through adoption.

I have spent my whole life answering curious but ignorant, and often annoying questions:

"Do you like your foster parents?" "I am not a foster child"
"Is your brother your real brother?" "Yes, but not by blood."

And, depending on how I am feeling, I answered this question two different ways:

1) "Do you ever wish you could find your real parents?" "My adopted parents ARE my real parents."
2) "Do you ever wish you could find your real parents?" "Yes."

So I did.

As I went through my horrible rebellions as a teen, I often fantasized about my "real parents." My Mother is a beautiful, lovely, brilliant woman (of course, we all think that), who spends her life wondering about her child, and tirelessly searches for me, realizing her terrible mistake. In my imagination, this sounded so beautiful and pure, fairy tale-like. When I found out that this story I made up in my head was partly true, that she had in fact spent her whole life wondering about me, and let it virtually ruin her, the purity of my fantasy was tainted.

When I was 18, I began my search in earnest. Many states, including Connecticut have search services for adoptees and birth mothers who want to find each other. My agency, Jewish Family services would, at my request, find my Birth Mother, contact her, and tell her that I was interested in finding her. She could then accept, and receive my info, or decline, and that would seal the case forever. She declined, or so I thought. That slap in the face was enough to make me stop searching for almost a decade. The other slap in the face was that the agency had not even attempted to contact her, and had lied to me. I didn't find that out for many years though.

My reasons for the search at that time were not the same a decade later. In 1987, I hated my parents, hated myself, and was as destructive as I could possibly be. My search was my attempt to escape my enemies, and find the family I knew would love me and accept me. Who UNDERSTOOD me. Had I found my Birth Family then, I would have made a mess of it, not that I did a whole lot better in 1999.

I look like Nick Nolte. I REALLY look like Nick Nolte. In my lifetime, hundreds of people have told me that. Friends, talent agents, passers-by. One of the things that non-adopted children take for granted is that they know who they look like. Good or bad, they know why they have their eyes, nose, hair, smile, degenerative heart condition, big feet, big ass, small ears. Partly due to conditioning, partly due to fantasy, partly due to a lack of anyone else to be related to by blood, I was convinced that I was Nick Nolte's child. I read every bio, every movie's location, everything, trying to prove that Nick Nolte was in the Connecticut area on or around October 1968. There was no doubt in my mind, and though I may have embellished some facts, I could prove that it was at least possible that he was my father.

Maybe he was in New York doing a play back then, or maybe he was in school. Maybe he decided that a weekend in exciting Avon, CT was just the thrill he needed, after facing night after night of boring NYC, Tedious LA. Regardless, it was POSSIBLE that he was my father, therefore in my head, true.

This kind of fantasy, as it turns out, is very common with adoptees.

Through my 20s, I was content with this fantasy, and felt less of a need to find my birth family. At the same time I was rebuilding all the bridges I had burnt with my family, and was beginning to understand what I now know: My family, Neal, Sue and Mike, Esther, Louis (dec.), Goldie (dec.), Leon (dec.), ARE my real family. I am my parents' child. No blood is necessary.

When my bridges were back up, and my life good, The need to search came creeping back, this time because I wanted to know, rather than needed to know. I searched Birth registries for notes from my Birth mother. I talked with other adoptees. I became an EXPERT on finding people without knowing their name. In my search, I helped four other people make contact, and became a semi-celebrity in the adoption world. I just couldn't find MY Birth parents. I was outspoken supporting reunions. I kept an online journal that was read by thousands of people. I was receiving hundreds of emails a day, and my advice was passed along across this country.

Finally, as I ran out of conventional options, I went to the library, and went through the birth announcements, July 12, 1969, St. Francis hospital. I was not mentioned for obvious reasons, but the other 10 or so births that day were. Many of the families still lived in the Hartford area, so I called them. I asked them if they remembered sharing a room with a 5'6 blond woman, 18, (non-identifying information is usually available for adoptees), no husband with her. Everyone I talked to wanted so hard to be helpful, and I even got some leads out of it. One father was a rabbi, and he remembered my Birth Mother. He knew she was from Avon, CT, She was very pretty, but he couldn't remember her name. It was so long ago I'm sorry, good luck. Still, it invigorated me, and it made her real, as if my existence wasn't enough proof for my brain.

Using some of my new evidence, I got in touch with a woman who "found" adoptees and birth parents. My guess is that she works for the state or the county, and to make ends meet, she looks up confidential or sealed records.

Midday, whispering voice on the other end of the line:

"Get a pen, Nancy (Birth Last Name), Avon, Ct. Good luck." Click. Never heard from her again, never knew her name.

Now I knew, now what? I looked her up in the phone book, but no Nancy (Birth Last Name). I knew this would happen. She is married, she has moved, she is dead. I was no better off than I was 10 minutes ago. And (Birth Last Name)?? Doesn't sound Jewish, though I have always been told that I don't look Jewish, though religions don't have looks I suppose.

Avon High School probably archives their yearbooks right? What if Nancy still lives in town? What if she is a teacher at the school, what if I open up a past she wanted secret? Am I about to ruin a life? She is married with children, and I am her secret that she never told. I made the selfish decision that it was my right to find out, regardless of the consequences, something that I later criticized in others, and my criticism got me my first, and only (Thank God) death threat.

The librarian was very nice, and the fact is, as evidenced by Springers and Oprahs, and Rikkis, people eat shit like this up. She couldn't WAIT to look up Nancy (Birth Last Name), class of '65, maybe '66, maybe '67, oh I don't know, can you look them all up for me please? Sure. Hold on.

The fax machine in the Human Resources Department, Little, Brown and Co. was surrounded by my co-workers as the snip-click-snap of the paper fed through it, etching my first ever relative on the page. Slower than I thought possible, and wouldn't you know it, right-side up, so I saw my Mother's hands, breasts, neck, before I saw her face. It took forever.

She was beyond beautiful. Innocent, shy smile, hands folded, bouffantish hair.
Same eyes as me. Same nose as me. I looked like someone for the first time in my life. It was magic. I was looking at my Birth mother.

The excitement of the picture kept me sated for a while, and my original plan, prior to finding out her name, and subsequently her picture was to ONLY get a picture. I just wanted to find out why I looked the way I did. The search is like a drug, the high wears away, and one needs more to achieve the same level of ecstasy. I thought the name and
picture would be enough, but I was soon on my way towards finding and meeting my people.

In the notes under Nancy's high school picture was a dedication to Helen, her Mom, my Grandmother. This was my only new lead to finding them.

There are a lot of Helen (Birth Last Name)'s in Connecticut. I know because I talked to almost every one of them. For the record, based on my experiences, People named Helen (Birth Last Name) are extremely nice overall. If you ever meet one, chances are you will go away happy. Every one of them that wasn't my Grandmother was sympathetic, helpful, and wished me all the best. After I found MY Helen (Birth Last Name), I ended up calling many of them back, as they made me promise to do so if and when I found mine.

"Is this Helen (Birth Last Name)?'
"Yes, who is this?"
" I am not sure I have the right Helen (Birth Last Name). Do you have a daughter named Nancy?"
"Yes, who is this?"
" If you have a daughter named Nancy, then I think I am your Grandson."

Silence

"Hello?"

"Is this Jason?"
"No, Matthew."
" We always called you Jason."

This is nearly verbatim, the first conversation I had with a blood relative.

We talked for a few minutes, where I lived, what I did, small talk. The she asked if she could call me right back. I said OK, but I was a little surprised. I would've expected her to keep talking to me, to need to keep me on the phone so I didn't disappear again.

I hung up and waited. And waited. And waited. Was she trying to send me a message that I shouldn't have called? Was that it? Was that the only conversation I would ever have with her? Would I never find my Mother? I was starting to panic. I called her back.

She was out of breath. She had been in the attic, looking for an Atlas, so she could see where Somerville, MA was located. Where 74 Pearson Ave was in Somerville. Where her Grandson lived. This was my first foray into the fairly eccentric world of the Harris family. The family tree and the 20-year-old pamphlet on how to bowl tenpin like the pros came later. The 50 pounds of oranges and grapefruits sent UPS overnight in a crumbling box to my new home in Seattle came after that.

She had held me for 30 minutes on July 12th, 1969, sitting in a rocking chair at the hospital. Then they came and took me to my parents. She had hugged me and cried on me, and said everything she could think of to get me started on my life. She had kissed me. We had met before. For 30 minutes.

She wouldn't give me Nancy's number. She wanted to call. I was eager, but I understood. No need to give two Harris's heart attacks in one day.

Before I go on, I want to make it clear that this is not a fairy tale. This is not the reunion story that adoptees fantasize about. Have I met or had contact with my Birth Mother, Father, and Brothers? Yes, Was I invited into the fold, where I am safe and secure with my new family? No. I do not want to be. I have a family, and one thing that seems to be forgotten or overlooked by adoptees and Birth parents is that the people that you search for and long for, and love in the abstract are strangers. You do not know them and they don't know you. Before my reunions, I had it stuck in my head that I would pull into the driveway, or step off the train, and they would run to me, tears in their eyes, and hold me, hug me.

"Welcome back, son, you're safe with us now, and we'll never be apart again."

This is a farce. When you meet your Birth family for the first time you meet people that you don't know. You meet people, and are met by people who could never live up to the 20 or 30 years of utopian scenarios that your imagination made true. In my experience, my Birth family were very nice to meet, but I got more from the names and the photographs than I ever did from the people. This is not meant to be bitter; it's simply what happened.

Nancy didn't want to talk to me when Helen told her the news. Birth Mothers feel so guilty about giving up children they were unable to care for. Birth Mothers feel they abandoned their children. Birth Mothers assume that we hate them for "rejecting" us. Nancy was no different.

In fact, I find the opposite true. Let's walk the timeline. Nancy was pregnant. Nancy went through all the discomfort and pain of pregnancy, knowing that she would receive no reward for her pain. Nancy endured the stigma of an unwed pregnancy in 1968-1969, maybe the whispers as she passed by, maybe the jeers, definitely the alienation. Nancy had morning sickness, and stretch marks and maternity clothes, and probing doctor's visits. Nancy endured the pain of childbirth. At the end of all that, she loved me enough, a Mother loved her son enough, to put her own needs and desires aside, and do what was best for me. Even if it meant a lifetime of guilt, pain and loneliness. If there is a better example of true pure love for a child, let me know. Birth Mother's should be proud of their deed, of their expression of parental love.

Helen and I talked often while Nancy prepared herself for the inevitable contact. I would talk to Helen, and as soon as I hung up, I am sure they would be rehashing every word said. I sent, and began receiving pictures, family trees. I was given the history of the Harris family. Nick Nolte has left the gene pool! Helen and Gene Harris had one child, Nancy, who after me, though married twice, never had another child. Helen had never been a Grandmother until the day I called. She was the opposite of Nancy in her reaction. She was excited, and very pragmatic about the whole situation. She was a bit standoffish, but that is just her personality. She is the type of mother you would call Mother or Grandmother, rather than Mom, or Nana. She is very New England, very proper. When she was widowed at a fairly young age, she didn't, and probably had no intention to remarry. She is big. Very tall, very strong. Not fat, but large. She looks like an older version of the girls in my high school that played field hockey. Practical white hair that you can tell was originally blond. She wears pants, and no makeup. She is who she is, and if you don't like it, she doesn't care. I think she would be described as snobbish, but that is a mistake. She is indifferent. She is herself. She is Helen. When I met her for the first time, I think I am the only person in her life that was able to shake her up a bit, to make her lose her composure.

I was finally given Nancy's phone number in St. Petersburg Florida. This was the pinnacle of my search, and I was terrified to call. But I did. I am so glad that she was scared too. Nancy has never been a Mother. Everything she knows about mothering she learned from proper Helen and TV. In our first conversation, we skirted many of the questions I had.

Who is my Birth Father? Did you marry him? Why did you give me up? Do you miss me?

We just talked, and I remember that in her nervousness, and in her need to make a good first impression, she talked to me in that Leave it to Beaver, My Three Sons mother voice. She kind of sang her words. It was like having a conversation in Gone With The Wind. She had a kind of poetic justification for the end of each paragraph of our discussion. She was so scared, so guilt-ridden, and hid it so well.

She had been married to an extremely prominent lawyer in the South, and had recently divorced him. She now lived with a retired cop named John. John was dying. She stayed home to care for him. He seemed like a great guy, and as we talked more often, I could tell that he truly loved her, and she loved him. Then he died. Nancy seems to be passed over by luck at every turn. She cannot win, and she is a sad, sad woman. Not bitter, just someone who has given up, someone who knows that "it" will never happen for her, regardless of what the "it", is.

Though she and I talked often in the beginning, we never really connected. She was very open talking about people and things, but her feelings are something private for her. She does not talk about them. She tells the story of my conception, my birth and adoption, of her life almost in the third person. The physical details, the facts, are told bluntly, even the embarrassing ones. The affair with the much older, married cop, the pregnancy, the birth. She leaves no details out, but she is reading a story, a report, and the emotions are completely withheld.

She was eighteen, and found boys her age immature. She was a secretary, and a handsome manly cop, age 33, would come into her office and flirt with her. She knew he was married, but he was mature, he was what an eighteen-year-old girl would consider worldly, manly, and desirable. They had secret dates, they had sex, she got pregnant, she stopped returning his calls, he showed up at her work to charm her back into the affair, She gave him the cold shoulder, and never told him about the pregnancy. She had me. She gave me up. The end.

His name is Don Johnson, thankfully not THAT Don Johnson. He is not a nice man. He is a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was a 33-year-old man that wooed, dated and (had sex with) an eighteen-year-old girl. He was charming and used his charm, and his uniform to get what he wanted. When I was conceived, he had four other children at home, and the wife that he is still married to today. We have had one conversation, and here it is.

"Is this Matt?"
"Yes."
"This is Don Johnson. I hear you want to talk to me."
"Yeah, you're my Birth Father."
"So I hear. This isn't a good time, can I call you back?"
"Sure."
"OK, I'll talk to you."
Click.

He never did call back, and I can't say I am disappointed.