An ongoing diary of my quest to find my biological relatives, at age 35, and as a single mom.
Friday, August 26, 2011
8/26/11 Friday night.
Thank God for God. Thank God for Elevation Church. Thank God that I can be a part of such a huge movement in our city.
8/24/11 Is handwritten really better?
After reading the letter a few times over, both out loud, and silently from behind my computer screen at work while on a break from the monotanous task at hand, I decided that I should just sit on it for a bit, re-write it, by hand, which I started yesterday and now spans over four pages of a college ruled notepad, not very pretty I know. But, dainty stationary pages would be rediculous, and probably force me to write less.
I should marinate on it I have been told by more than one friend and at random times. I was also advised by a close friend not to allow Colette to read my blog, which makes complete sense, and not for the reason that he gave, but for the sheer fact that I don't want to make the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention. Although, receiving a letter from her long-lost daughter is spine chilling enough.
Also, the presence of the word stalker might be a bit scary for her. I know, and people who know me know, that it's said partially in jest, but she doesn't know my dry sense of humor.
By the time I have it finalized, she will have been long since dead, probably from old age, and will be nothing more to me than a faint black and white picture and a faceless name.
I really need to get on it. This weekend I don't see any time to work on the letter. It kind of freaks me out for lack of a better description. It makes me nervous and shakey to write the letter, and ultimately, I'm left feeling completely vulnerable and isolated, stressed out.
So in my frustration coupled with the fact that I have to take care of a four year old by myself everyday of my life, which I love doing, but need some occasional help with, for my sanity, I crack open a beer to relieve some tension.
Does that do the trick? No. It just makes me less inclined to work on the letter, causes me stumble across words, thereby decreasing productivity, and leaves me one day further from meeting the woman who gave birth to me all those years ago.
Thirty five is a big number when you are thinking in terms of years, not in days, not in minutes, certainly not in money. Add a thousand to that number and you will know what it has been like for me, probably for most adoptees, those who have been blessed with abundant opportunities and surrounded by loving and caring people, like I have. Obviously, I can't speak for anyone else, as we are all shaped by our experiences, but I do NOT think we are defined by them by any means. that's a totally different subject that I won't even skim at this point.
I need to make finishing the letter a priority and dropping it in the mail a forseeable future.
The word "dropping" sounds so informal, so plain and everyday. In my mind, this moment should be recorded, and available for me to relive, and possibly share with others who care enough. I think I will get out the videocamera that Dad bought when Sarah was born, dust off the cobwebs it may have amassed while hanging lonely and lifeless on my bedroom doorknob in it's carry case.
I might become one of those people who carries around a little voice recorder, and busts it out at strange times, drawing strange looks from strangers. I'll look like a lawyer, a doctor, a deep thinker, maybe a philosopher who thinks scattered and forgets easily. Either way.
I spoke with a new friend of mine who is a film student about possibly making a documentary. He asked me questions containing words like purpose and impact. I think the purpose would be fairly evident, and the impact, explosive. The documentary would lure any human being who has a heart for others, anyone who would be interested in affairs of the heart, not just people who are adopted or may be considering adoption, those who have already adopted. You can't make this stuff up. It's real and in your face. It oozes passion and still suffocates, leaving a taste for more in the mouths of all who want to know.
This is what I'm thinking about today.
After all, I will be going to the beach the week of Labor Day, and will be down in that neck of the woods. And what's the point in waiting any longer? But then, on the other hand, I've waited this long, what's a little bit more time?
I should marinate on it I have been told by more than one friend and at random times. I was also advised by a close friend not to allow Colette to read my blog, which makes complete sense, and not for the reason that he gave, but for the sheer fact that I don't want to make the hair on the back of her neck stand to attention. Although, receiving a letter from her long-lost daughter is spine chilling enough.
Also, the presence of the word stalker might be a bit scary for her. I know, and people who know me know, that it's said partially in jest, but she doesn't know my dry sense of humor.
By the time I have it finalized, she will have been long since dead, probably from old age, and will be nothing more to me than a faint black and white picture and a faceless name.
I really need to get on it. This weekend I don't see any time to work on the letter. It kind of freaks me out for lack of a better description. It makes me nervous and shakey to write the letter, and ultimately, I'm left feeling completely vulnerable and isolated, stressed out.
So in my frustration coupled with the fact that I have to take care of a four year old by myself everyday of my life, which I love doing, but need some occasional help with, for my sanity, I crack open a beer to relieve some tension.
Does that do the trick? No. It just makes me less inclined to work on the letter, causes me stumble across words, thereby decreasing productivity, and leaves me one day further from meeting the woman who gave birth to me all those years ago.
Thirty five is a big number when you are thinking in terms of years, not in days, not in minutes, certainly not in money. Add a thousand to that number and you will know what it has been like for me, probably for most adoptees, those who have been blessed with abundant opportunities and surrounded by loving and caring people, like I have. Obviously, I can't speak for anyone else, as we are all shaped by our experiences, but I do NOT think we are defined by them by any means. that's a totally different subject that I won't even skim at this point.
I need to make finishing the letter a priority and dropping it in the mail a forseeable future.
The word "dropping" sounds so informal, so plain and everyday. In my mind, this moment should be recorded, and available for me to relive, and possibly share with others who care enough. I think I will get out the videocamera that Dad bought when Sarah was born, dust off the cobwebs it may have amassed while hanging lonely and lifeless on my bedroom doorknob in it's carry case.
I might become one of those people who carries around a little voice recorder, and busts it out at strange times, drawing strange looks from strangers. I'll look like a lawyer, a doctor, a deep thinker, maybe a philosopher who thinks scattered and forgets easily. Either way.
I spoke with a new friend of mine who is a film student about possibly making a documentary. He asked me questions containing words like purpose and impact. I think the purpose would be fairly evident, and the impact, explosive. The documentary would lure any human being who has a heart for others, anyone who would be interested in affairs of the heart, not just people who are adopted or may be considering adoption, those who have already adopted. You can't make this stuff up. It's real and in your face. It oozes passion and still suffocates, leaving a taste for more in the mouths of all who want to know.
This is what I'm thinking about today.
After all, I will be going to the beach the week of Labor Day, and will be down in that neck of the woods. And what's the point in waiting any longer? But then, on the other hand, I've waited this long, what's a little bit more time?
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Figuring it all out: 8/25/11 More stalking today, but took it a step fu...
Figuring it all out: 8/25/11 More stalking today, but took it a step fu...: Today, while I was supposed to be scheduling appointments for Chris, for about 7 minutes, I was instead, sitting with my co-worker and dear ...
8/25/11 More stalking today, but took it a step further this time.
Today, while I was supposed to be scheduling appointments for Chris, for about 7 minutes, I was instead, sitting with my co-worker and dear friend in a vacant office down the hall from our cubes, stalking my birth mother. Yes, I said it. I was stalking her. Not only have I come to new lows, I have successfully dragged my friend down with me.
Every once in a while, over the past few weeks, I've had some inkling and sudden urge to google Colette, or one of her unsuspecting family members. I go from web search to image search and teeter on the brink of both back and forth on occasion.
I don't know why I keep doing it. I've gone through about 27 pages of images and websites only to find practically zilch. The only two pictures I've seen of her, were barely determinable, black and white, with more black than white, and shrouded over the years. I guess I keep hoping that I'll find something I overlooked the last time. As it turns out, it's not the case. I just keep bumping into the same old pages- her son's facebook and MySpace pictures which are very small, and because I'm too wuss to add him, will remain small. There's something to be said for privacy- and here it is: "If you want to remain private, never log onto the internet. How bout them apples?"
So today, I decided that if I couldn't see a picture of her, I would instead, hear her voice. And yes, I know, how crazy that sounds. I even felt weird asking Allie to do it with me. She, who has balls of steel, and an even mightier mentality than I did at age 24, was even reluctant to assist, but with some silent treatment after I asked the favor, it didn't take long to spark her curiosity. You learn in sales that you ask the question, and then you shut up. That's Sales 101. Anyone who's ever been in sales knows that. It worked. After all, Allie, was one of the 4 of us who spent countless hours in the search to find her. She is now closely tied to it all whether she wants to be or not. She does though. She's clearly driven by curiosity and finishing the job. That's why she is one of the top schedulers on my team, and gets whatever she wants when she wants it, and on a platinum and diamond inlaid plate. Good for her- smart cookie, and stunning too, a great combo for a young woman in her twenties.
Since we are cube neighbors, and have become closer than I thought we ever would, we talk a lot. She knows about my wild sexual escapades, and I know about hers. She hears me crying about random things, and comes over to comfort me when she hears the sniffles. Most people see someone upset, and they run the opposite direction.
Yesterday, for instance, Mom called at 3 in the afternoon and wanted to discuss burying my dad's and brother's ashes, which we've had for a combined total of over 12 years.
Mom, really? Do you not know me by now? Do you not know I will be a train wreck after that discussion? Of course, I was, and Allie, poor Allie, had to hear the whole thing, and quickly rushed over to lend a shoulder, and tell a joke, as soon as she heard me say, "goodbye, and I love you too, Mom." The Big Lebowski is all I have to say. If you've seen the movie, you'll get it. If not, go rent it on NetFlix immediately. You are missing out.
I asked Allie, let me rephrase, told Allie, that I was going to prank call Colette, which I later confirmed after "the call", that I had been spelling her name wrong all along. It's spelled with one L, not two. Allie's response: "What? You are such a stalker, Brooke." Well, hello? We already knew that, Einstein.
I found her work number online. That was easy actually. She's the director of the College Foundation at a community college in the eastern part of the state. Sounds like a good job. Sounds like a helping job. The college foundation is usually the part of the school that doles out money to needy students in the form of scholarships. Sounds rewarding in more ways than one.
We decided that we would call her and ask her how to donate money to the school. Allie's idea. I told you she was brilliant. And it worked like a charm.
The lady who picked up the line quickly sent us to Colette, and she answered with a sweet Southern accent, that would best be described as slightly twangy by most people's standards, charming nonetheless. She was on speakerphone, so I could hear the whole conversation.
Amazingly though, I didn't feel nervous, no rapid heartbeat, no holding back tears. It was like a normal, everyday conversation to me. I just sat there across the big desk in that barren office without any lights on, and watched as Allie found out the best way to donate money to that college. Turns out, the best way is the old-fashioned way- drop a check in the snail mail. Some things never get old I guess.
I kept finding myself trying to link her voice to mine. Picking apart sentences, listening to intonations and variances of each syllable. It was like I was a voice teacher. I did hear a few things that I thought were reminescent of my voice- the way she pronounced an N sound.
God, I sound so desperate.
She was very polite, friendly, responsive. I don't know any other way to describe her other than sweet. That word keeps intruding on my brain waves.
She asked the philanthropist, Allie, how much she was going to donate, to which she replied after a slight pause to ponder it, $500. I was impressed that Colette even asked. It takes some courage to ask direct questions like that to a donor, or anyone for that matter.
She also said something that I felt was something that I would have said. She asked Allie why she chose to donate the money. She asked her if she had been helped by the Foundation. Allie said no. She also asked Al what her name was, what her occupation is, and where she lived. She answered truthfully. I guess we didn't think that one through.
When we do meet, if we do meet, Allie has already asked me to apologize to her for lying to her, and regretably, not getting that $500 in the mail to the foundation like she promised. I almost feel like donating it just to keep Allie's conscience at bay. But I won't. I certainly would if I had more money. Hearing my birthmother's voice is worth that to me.
When they hung up after about a, oh I don't know, 7 minute conversation filled with honest deceit (oxymoron if I've heard one), I felt elated.
I felt like a had more of a fighting chance with her. She was not rude, not cold, not quick to hang up, not aloof, but friendly, caring, and genuine. That's a plus. I felt better almost instantly after hearing her voice. That's a feeling I can't describe with a Thesaurus.
I need to hurry up and get that letter in the mail. The thought actually occured to me, "What if she gets killed in Hurricane Irene, and I never get to meet her?" That would be unbearable. This whole thing is taking over my ability to think rationally now.
All in all, today was good, and I don't regret a thing.
Every once in a while, over the past few weeks, I've had some inkling and sudden urge to google Colette, or one of her unsuspecting family members. I go from web search to image search and teeter on the brink of both back and forth on occasion.
I don't know why I keep doing it. I've gone through about 27 pages of images and websites only to find practically zilch. The only two pictures I've seen of her, were barely determinable, black and white, with more black than white, and shrouded over the years. I guess I keep hoping that I'll find something I overlooked the last time. As it turns out, it's not the case. I just keep bumping into the same old pages- her son's facebook and MySpace pictures which are very small, and because I'm too wuss to add him, will remain small. There's something to be said for privacy- and here it is: "If you want to remain private, never log onto the internet. How bout them apples?"
So today, I decided that if I couldn't see a picture of her, I would instead, hear her voice. And yes, I know, how crazy that sounds. I even felt weird asking Allie to do it with me. She, who has balls of steel, and an even mightier mentality than I did at age 24, was even reluctant to assist, but with some silent treatment after I asked the favor, it didn't take long to spark her curiosity. You learn in sales that you ask the question, and then you shut up. That's Sales 101. Anyone who's ever been in sales knows that. It worked. After all, Allie, was one of the 4 of us who spent countless hours in the search to find her. She is now closely tied to it all whether she wants to be or not. She does though. She's clearly driven by curiosity and finishing the job. That's why she is one of the top schedulers on my team, and gets whatever she wants when she wants it, and on a platinum and diamond inlaid plate. Good for her- smart cookie, and stunning too, a great combo for a young woman in her twenties.
Since we are cube neighbors, and have become closer than I thought we ever would, we talk a lot. She knows about my wild sexual escapades, and I know about hers. She hears me crying about random things, and comes over to comfort me when she hears the sniffles. Most people see someone upset, and they run the opposite direction.
Yesterday, for instance, Mom called at 3 in the afternoon and wanted to discuss burying my dad's and brother's ashes, which we've had for a combined total of over 12 years.
Mom, really? Do you not know me by now? Do you not know I will be a train wreck after that discussion? Of course, I was, and Allie, poor Allie, had to hear the whole thing, and quickly rushed over to lend a shoulder, and tell a joke, as soon as she heard me say, "goodbye, and I love you too, Mom." The Big Lebowski is all I have to say. If you've seen the movie, you'll get it. If not, go rent it on NetFlix immediately. You are missing out.
I asked Allie, let me rephrase, told Allie, that I was going to prank call Colette, which I later confirmed after "the call", that I had been spelling her name wrong all along. It's spelled with one L, not two. Allie's response: "What? You are such a stalker, Brooke." Well, hello? We already knew that, Einstein.
I found her work number online. That was easy actually. She's the director of the College Foundation at a community college in the eastern part of the state. Sounds like a good job. Sounds like a helping job. The college foundation is usually the part of the school that doles out money to needy students in the form of scholarships. Sounds rewarding in more ways than one.
We decided that we would call her and ask her how to donate money to the school. Allie's idea. I told you she was brilliant. And it worked like a charm.
The lady who picked up the line quickly sent us to Colette, and she answered with a sweet Southern accent, that would best be described as slightly twangy by most people's standards, charming nonetheless. She was on speakerphone, so I could hear the whole conversation.
Amazingly though, I didn't feel nervous, no rapid heartbeat, no holding back tears. It was like a normal, everyday conversation to me. I just sat there across the big desk in that barren office without any lights on, and watched as Allie found out the best way to donate money to that college. Turns out, the best way is the old-fashioned way- drop a check in the snail mail. Some things never get old I guess.
I kept finding myself trying to link her voice to mine. Picking apart sentences, listening to intonations and variances of each syllable. It was like I was a voice teacher. I did hear a few things that I thought were reminescent of my voice- the way she pronounced an N sound.
God, I sound so desperate.
She was very polite, friendly, responsive. I don't know any other way to describe her other than sweet. That word keeps intruding on my brain waves.
She asked the philanthropist, Allie, how much she was going to donate, to which she replied after a slight pause to ponder it, $500. I was impressed that Colette even asked. It takes some courage to ask direct questions like that to a donor, or anyone for that matter.
She also said something that I felt was something that I would have said. She asked Allie why she chose to donate the money. She asked her if she had been helped by the Foundation. Allie said no. She also asked Al what her name was, what her occupation is, and where she lived. She answered truthfully. I guess we didn't think that one through.
When we do meet, if we do meet, Allie has already asked me to apologize to her for lying to her, and regretably, not getting that $500 in the mail to the foundation like she promised. I almost feel like donating it just to keep Allie's conscience at bay. But I won't. I certainly would if I had more money. Hearing my birthmother's voice is worth that to me.
When they hung up after about a, oh I don't know, 7 minute conversation filled with honest deceit (oxymoron if I've heard one), I felt elated.
I felt like a had more of a fighting chance with her. She was not rude, not cold, not quick to hang up, not aloof, but friendly, caring, and genuine. That's a plus. I felt better almost instantly after hearing her voice. That's a feeling I can't describe with a Thesaurus.
I need to hurry up and get that letter in the mail. The thought actually occured to me, "What if she gets killed in Hurricane Irene, and I never get to meet her?" That would be unbearable. This whole thing is taking over my ability to think rationally now.
All in all, today was good, and I don't regret a thing.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
8/22/11 Letter #1
Dear Collette,
You might want to sit down with a tissue in hand before you go any further. That's exactly what I was told when Debi, my "search angel" gave me your name, phone number and whereabouts. I followed her directions, and did so, but not before I first grabbed a pencil and paper.
This is going to be one of the biggest shocks of your life, but I am your daughter, born on April 12, 1976 in Charlotte, NC, adopted at 3 weeks old by two of the most loving and respectable people in the world, my Mom and Dad. They named me Elizabeth Brooke Fairley, after my grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth Fairley. Incidentally, I named my daughter after her also. Sarah Lane Fairley. She is 4, and beautiful in all dimensions of the word.
I have been looking for you for a long time. I guess it would be safe to say 35 years. Not because I've had a rough life, not because I've been unloved, but because I have yearned to know someone who looks like me, who laughs like me, who might be silly and foolish like I am. I have always wanted to know a person with the same blood as mine running through her veins, with the same quirky mannerisms, same unique, but twisted sense of humor.
I have had an incredible life, with every opportunity that you wished for me to have- college, a two-parent stable, loving, nurturing environment, great family, a brother who was also adopted, wonderful friends who have always been there for me, and I hope always will be. Please do not feel bad for me in any way.
More importantly, I want you to know that I do not blame you for making that decision 35 years ago. You wanted what was best, and your wish was granted by God. He made sure that I would be ok, and I have been.
I have had a lot of time to think about what I would say to you if I ever had the chance, and I decided to leave it up to you to find out more. In 35 years a lot has happened to you, and me both. At the risk of sounding stalkerish, I know you have two sons, both beginning with Br, which is uncanny in itself. I know you are divorced, but living with someone, and that your mother just died last year around Christmas. I'm so sorry for that. I lost my father 2 years ago, and know the pain all too friendly.
I was told in my non-identifying info that you didn't tell the birthfather about me, and that there was talk about your sister adopting me. I understand you're probably going to be reluctant to talk to me based on that alone. I don't know who you've told about me, and I can respect your privacy. I don't want anything from you, other than a possible friendship, maybe to meet in person. I don't expect anything from you, but I hope you know that it will be painful for me, if you do not respond. That sounds like a guilt trip when I re-read it, but it is not my intention to make you feel bad, but I wanted you to know how I feel as well.
I have no clue what it going on in your heart right now, but I hope that we can take babysteps together, and keep this as positive and uplifting as it can possibly be. I am strong believer that God always brings beauty to demise. I also believe that there is not a good enough reason in the world to deny someone of love. It took me along time to get to that point in my life where I realized that love far outweighs anything else in the world. I can honestly say that I would rather have someone in my life who loves me despite a past that might be unsavory, than to have no love shared at all. I guess what I'm trying to say here, is that I don't want this reunion to be a sad and painful thing for you. I am well aware that there will be many emotions surfacing on both ends of the spectrum, and that's a risk I am willing to take, if you are.
Please know that if you need any counseling from the Children's Home Society, Karen is there awaiting your call, if you chose to make it. She walked me through the search so to speak. She gave me information, all non-identifying of course, but we had numerous conversations about you and your family. During the search, the searchers had many questions they needed me to ask, and she was there to counsel me, and helped me to deal with some difficult emotions while I was on the phone with her. I am very thankful for her. It was funny, when we hung up the last time, and I asked how I could possibly repay her for her kindness, she said, "don't forget about the red stocking fund at Christmas." (That's their annual fundraiser.) I certainly won't. I am generous to a fault, maybe that's genetic. You can certainly claim it if you wish.
I would like to tell you a little bit about myself. I live in Charlotte, where I was raised. I went to college at UncGreensboro for Communication Studies- was very interested in interpersonal communication, and have found my study of that very practical and useful in my life, both in my chosen careers (there have been a few,) and in my social life. I am a single mom. Sarah's father was not right for me, but I decided that at age 30 I was fit to have a child and raise her alone if need be. He is not a fit father, but claims to love her. And she is never denied of it, by me. She is pretty funny, like me. Not to brag, but hey, it is what it is. And I hate that saying by the way. It's such a waste of good breath. I work for an asset management firm in a sales support role, and I like it for the most part. Although I did take the day off today for my mental health. (a joke- I am perfectly mental) I guess you could say I'm pretty fun to be around, very laid back, easy to know, and I have been accused of being blunt, even confrontational. I have chilled out a lot, since I have been a mother, and I started going to church regularly. I go to an amazing church called Elevation here in Charlotte. I volunteer as a 4th and 5th grade teacher on Saturday nights. I love the kids, well most of them. I like helping others and have made it a priority in my life to enrich the lives of others to the best of my ability, and have probably scarred a few (sorry for those though.)
I am a good mom, Mommy when she wants something. Sarah already knows my hot buttons,and can negotiate her way out of trouble- at age 4. Scary thought. She comes by it naturally.
I like singing, although I'm not that good at it. I enjoy politics, although I'm not good at debating with friends. I choose not to anyway. I was really into acting in junior high and high school, and danced for 15 years. Mom always says, "you quit when you got good, Brooke." It's true, but in high school, I was more concerned about where the next party was, and was not a good student, like you were. Sad. If I could go back, I would change that aspect of my life. But I am overall pretty happy. I don't let things bother me too much, and I hardly ever lose sleep. I snore like a freight train, I've been told, and sometimes might hold a conversation with you mid REM.
I think that's enough for now. I would like to know more about you.
All of my life I have wondered who you are, what you're like, what you look like, what your hands look like, your hair, are you blind as a bat, like me? Are you funny, quick-witted, pretty? Hair a mess, like mine? Do you like to read, write?
If you are anything like me, you can supress the hell out of some emotions, and pretend to be completely fine when the walls are falling down around your ankles. You should probably get some help for that. =) Likewise.
Please take some time to think about what you would like from me, if anything, and just know that I am not reaching out to you now for any reason other than pure love, and naturally, curiosity. I really feel like one can never have too much love, nor too many friends. And I sincerely hope you understand that meeting me can be an experience that we can both cherish and keep positive. I have no ill will towards you at all. And my mother has agreed to come with me to meet you if you wish to meet me. She is a strong, incredible woman, who knows how much this means to me.
I will anxiously await your call or letter, even Facebook request, (Uh that might be weird) although I never found you on there, just your sister, and son, Brannan. I don't want to intrude on your life, Collette, so please do not take it as I am doing that. I am curious to know where I came from, and that's just it. I need to know. I think I deserve that. I hope you can understand what this is like for me, and I hope I can understand your right to remain private if you chose to do so. Please do not though. I am an awesome chic. You'll love me. I promise. And Sarah, well she just speaks for herself. You'll see. Please don't wait to call me.
With love and kindness in my heart for you, your birthdaughter,
Brooke
704-806-6121
You might want to sit down with a tissue in hand before you go any further. That's exactly what I was told when Debi, my "search angel" gave me your name, phone number and whereabouts. I followed her directions, and did so, but not before I first grabbed a pencil and paper.
This is going to be one of the biggest shocks of your life, but I am your daughter, born on April 12, 1976 in Charlotte, NC, adopted at 3 weeks old by two of the most loving and respectable people in the world, my Mom and Dad. They named me Elizabeth Brooke Fairley, after my grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth Fairley. Incidentally, I named my daughter after her also. Sarah Lane Fairley. She is 4, and beautiful in all dimensions of the word.
I have been looking for you for a long time. I guess it would be safe to say 35 years. Not because I've had a rough life, not because I've been unloved, but because I have yearned to know someone who looks like me, who laughs like me, who might be silly and foolish like I am. I have always wanted to know a person with the same blood as mine running through her veins, with the same quirky mannerisms, same unique, but twisted sense of humor.
I have had an incredible life, with every opportunity that you wished for me to have- college, a two-parent stable, loving, nurturing environment, great family, a brother who was also adopted, wonderful friends who have always been there for me, and I hope always will be. Please do not feel bad for me in any way.
More importantly, I want you to know that I do not blame you for making that decision 35 years ago. You wanted what was best, and your wish was granted by God. He made sure that I would be ok, and I have been.
I have had a lot of time to think about what I would say to you if I ever had the chance, and I decided to leave it up to you to find out more. In 35 years a lot has happened to you, and me both. At the risk of sounding stalkerish, I know you have two sons, both beginning with Br, which is uncanny in itself. I know you are divorced, but living with someone, and that your mother just died last year around Christmas. I'm so sorry for that. I lost my father 2 years ago, and know the pain all too friendly.
I was told in my non-identifying info that you didn't tell the birthfather about me, and that there was talk about your sister adopting me. I understand you're probably going to be reluctant to talk to me based on that alone. I don't know who you've told about me, and I can respect your privacy. I don't want anything from you, other than a possible friendship, maybe to meet in person. I don't expect anything from you, but I hope you know that it will be painful for me, if you do not respond. That sounds like a guilt trip when I re-read it, but it is not my intention to make you feel bad, but I wanted you to know how I feel as well.
I have no clue what it going on in your heart right now, but I hope that we can take babysteps together, and keep this as positive and uplifting as it can possibly be. I am strong believer that God always brings beauty to demise. I also believe that there is not a good enough reason in the world to deny someone of love. It took me along time to get to that point in my life where I realized that love far outweighs anything else in the world. I can honestly say that I would rather have someone in my life who loves me despite a past that might be unsavory, than to have no love shared at all. I guess what I'm trying to say here, is that I don't want this reunion to be a sad and painful thing for you. I am well aware that there will be many emotions surfacing on both ends of the spectrum, and that's a risk I am willing to take, if you are.
Please know that if you need any counseling from the Children's Home Society, Karen is there awaiting your call, if you chose to make it. She walked me through the search so to speak. She gave me information, all non-identifying of course, but we had numerous conversations about you and your family. During the search, the searchers had many questions they needed me to ask, and she was there to counsel me, and helped me to deal with some difficult emotions while I was on the phone with her. I am very thankful for her. It was funny, when we hung up the last time, and I asked how I could possibly repay her for her kindness, she said, "don't forget about the red stocking fund at Christmas." (That's their annual fundraiser.) I certainly won't. I am generous to a fault, maybe that's genetic. You can certainly claim it if you wish.
I would like to tell you a little bit about myself. I live in Charlotte, where I was raised. I went to college at UncGreensboro for Communication Studies- was very interested in interpersonal communication, and have found my study of that very practical and useful in my life, both in my chosen careers (there have been a few,) and in my social life. I am a single mom. Sarah's father was not right for me, but I decided that at age 30 I was fit to have a child and raise her alone if need be. He is not a fit father, but claims to love her. And she is never denied of it, by me. She is pretty funny, like me. Not to brag, but hey, it is what it is. And I hate that saying by the way. It's such a waste of good breath. I work for an asset management firm in a sales support role, and I like it for the most part. Although I did take the day off today for my mental health. (a joke- I am perfectly mental) I guess you could say I'm pretty fun to be around, very laid back, easy to know, and I have been accused of being blunt, even confrontational. I have chilled out a lot, since I have been a mother, and I started going to church regularly. I go to an amazing church called Elevation here in Charlotte. I volunteer as a 4th and 5th grade teacher on Saturday nights. I love the kids, well most of them. I like helping others and have made it a priority in my life to enrich the lives of others to the best of my ability, and have probably scarred a few (sorry for those though.)
I am a good mom, Mommy when she wants something. Sarah already knows my hot buttons,and can negotiate her way out of trouble- at age 4. Scary thought. She comes by it naturally.
I like singing, although I'm not that good at it. I enjoy politics, although I'm not good at debating with friends. I choose not to anyway. I was really into acting in junior high and high school, and danced for 15 years. Mom always says, "you quit when you got good, Brooke." It's true, but in high school, I was more concerned about where the next party was, and was not a good student, like you were. Sad. If I could go back, I would change that aspect of my life. But I am overall pretty happy. I don't let things bother me too much, and I hardly ever lose sleep. I snore like a freight train, I've been told, and sometimes might hold a conversation with you mid REM.
I think that's enough for now. I would like to know more about you.
All of my life I have wondered who you are, what you're like, what you look like, what your hands look like, your hair, are you blind as a bat, like me? Are you funny, quick-witted, pretty? Hair a mess, like mine? Do you like to read, write?
If you are anything like me, you can supress the hell out of some emotions, and pretend to be completely fine when the walls are falling down around your ankles. You should probably get some help for that. =) Likewise.
Please take some time to think about what you would like from me, if anything, and just know that I am not reaching out to you now for any reason other than pure love, and naturally, curiosity. I really feel like one can never have too much love, nor too many friends. And I sincerely hope you understand that meeting me can be an experience that we can both cherish and keep positive. I have no ill will towards you at all. And my mother has agreed to come with me to meet you if you wish to meet me. She is a strong, incredible woman, who knows how much this means to me.
I will anxiously await your call or letter, even Facebook request, (Uh that might be weird) although I never found you on there, just your sister, and son, Brannan. I don't want to intrude on your life, Collette, so please do not take it as I am doing that. I am curious to know where I came from, and that's just it. I need to know. I think I deserve that. I hope you can understand what this is like for me, and I hope I can understand your right to remain private if you chose to do so. Please do not though. I am an awesome chic. You'll love me. I promise. And Sarah, well she just speaks for herself. You'll see. Please don't wait to call me.
With love and kindness in my heart for you, your birthdaughter,
Brooke
704-806-6121
Monday, August 22, 2011
8/18/11 On men and their shenanigans
The ever fantastic day, Friday is among us again, and I am thinking of ways to put off the inevitable, to hide from truth, and mask the mounting insecurities that have come to surface in all of this.
Not only am I trying to hide from writing the letter, but I have lowered my expectations, which is something I just preached on the other day. Frankly, I am not good at playing "the game." I don't like it. I want to know everything- all details, with explanations, footnotes, and bottom lines highlighted in bright yellow, maybe orange.
But what comes with knowing all the answers is something that might involve a sting, a bruise. Sometimes bruises last a day, sometimes weeks. Stings, on the other hand last a few hours, if you're lucky, a few minutes, but hurt like hell at the moment. I'm talking about matters of the heart, love relationships, ongoing and new forming.
As women, we have the drive to know what men are thinking. We will push for an answer that we want to hear, and not stop until we get it, which when you think about it, makes absolutely no sense. Driving a man to lie to us is pretty common. And then we get upset that he does. A man does not want to hurt a woman (some men anyway). He will mask the truth at the drop of a hat if it means he's not the bad guy. A slight lie might slip off his tongue just as easy as butter melts on an oven-baked potato in winter.
Men do not surprise me anymore. But somehow, I am never prepared for them. As women, we never will be. We will always drive them to tell us the truth, how they truly feel, and when we hear it, we are hurt, might cry, probably not in front of them, and then wish that we hadn't pushed for the truth so forcefully.
Maybe it's the men I choose. Maybe I am not in the right mindset. Maybe it's all too personal to share, and has nothing to do with the quest, and I will just shut the F up now.
Not only am I trying to hide from writing the letter, but I have lowered my expectations, which is something I just preached on the other day. Frankly, I am not good at playing "the game." I don't like it. I want to know everything- all details, with explanations, footnotes, and bottom lines highlighted in bright yellow, maybe orange.
But what comes with knowing all the answers is something that might involve a sting, a bruise. Sometimes bruises last a day, sometimes weeks. Stings, on the other hand last a few hours, if you're lucky, a few minutes, but hurt like hell at the moment. I'm talking about matters of the heart, love relationships, ongoing and new forming.
As women, we have the drive to know what men are thinking. We will push for an answer that we want to hear, and not stop until we get it, which when you think about it, makes absolutely no sense. Driving a man to lie to us is pretty common. And then we get upset that he does. A man does not want to hurt a woman (some men anyway). He will mask the truth at the drop of a hat if it means he's not the bad guy. A slight lie might slip off his tongue just as easy as butter melts on an oven-baked potato in winter.
Men do not surprise me anymore. But somehow, I am never prepared for them. As women, we never will be. We will always drive them to tell us the truth, how they truly feel, and when we hear it, we are hurt, might cry, probably not in front of them, and then wish that we hadn't pushed for the truth so forcefully.
Maybe it's the men I choose. Maybe I am not in the right mindset. Maybe it's all too personal to share, and has nothing to do with the quest, and I will just shut the F up now.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
8/16/11 Bed is more enticing when there is someone else in it.
Mounting lack of rest and good decision makng capability, which probably is impaired because of the lack of rest, abundance of alcohol and captured by various types of electronica, not enough good music and love- a dreadful combo sure to ignite explosive tendencies or just plain exploit, here I sit on my green couch again.
And I swore to myself I was going to sleep,to crawl in my king size bed, sheets amuck, pillows suffocating, and clothes draped all over the place. Nope. Didn't happened again. Here I sit, typing aimlessly, without doing what I need to do one more night- write the damn letter.
Why is it that I can seem to do reciculous things all weekend, I can work my ass off at work even though I am formally as they say, "going through the motions," whatever that means. I can cook a really good dinner, which sad to admit, I am not known for. Laundry even, I can do stinkin laundry. But write the letter? Fuck no. I haven't done it. Haven't even tried to think of it. And the few people that I want to ask me about it- haven't mentioned it.
That would include Mom and Justin. I mean you would think that after dating someone for a long time, and remaining close friends with that person, that he or she would have some vested interest in your well being. But looking back now, I can see why he wouldn't be asking. I was the caretaker in that relationship for the most part. I was the mother, the encourager, the breaker of spririt in efforts to gain what was needed at the time- him to get him established, on task, directionally focused. I guess I should be neither hurt nor surprised on that end.
But Mom? She hasn't mentioned it.I found out everything identifying about the birthmother except her social security number and favorite color, which with a little digging, I could probably do with Debi's help. I bet it's blue, like mine.
She hugged me while I was sitting at the computer last Thursday night gawking at that one ancient picture on Facebook that I found, Incidentally, we were practicaly identical at age 3- both with wildly, thick manes with bangs that forced their way through eyebrows and crushed teensy eyelashes with their weight. Both with squinty little eyes, shrouded by the chubbiest cheeks you'd seen since the Shoney's Big Boy was around hanging outside of the Stuckey's gas station on I85 in 1984, where we stopped to get DQ ice cream on the way to visit my grandparents who lived in High Point, NC until they got too old to take care of themselves and were moved to Charlotte when I was in college.
I sat there at Dad's ancient computer, rocking incessantly back and forth in the comfy, brown, reclining leather chair, and because the box is so damn outdated, it takes months to download anything,and then freezes, which inevitably happened later, and right when I was in stalker mode. Crap. Murphy's law is true.
I called Mom in, "look at her, Mom. She looks just like me." The picture was black and white, faded, and surreal. I had to pinch myself. Was that really her? Thirty-five years, and that's her at age 3. Funny thing, my daughter looks nothing like either of us.
My bff, and practically everyone else who has seen her, says that Sarah looks like her Dad. Oh God. That's only the worst possible thing you can say to a mother who is both a wonderful mother and the absent father. But if that's all she gets from him, that would be ok, because I guess he is not that bad looking. I was physically attracted to him at some point. I have mentally blocked that aspect out though, and the thought is vomitous now, repulsive.
At any rate, we looked alike.
What else might we have in common? Would we share the same mostly messy handwriting, occasionally steady and with ts overlapping ls? Would she be as blind as a bat, needing some form of vision correction at all times, or having to squint harder than your grandfather doing his crossword puzzle without his handy dandy magnifying glass he temporarily lost, but was later found on the back of the toilet. Is she funny? Does she find humor in gross things like I do? Does she hate housework? Most likely she does- I mean really, show me someone who enjoys cleaning. On second thought, please don't. Those people are scary. They need to chill out.
Does she like writing? Does she sing in the shower and make people feel uncomfortable with her blatant disregard for all things modest, peppering inappropriate jokes and suggestions at inopportune times?
I hope so. It will make things so much easier if she's like me. I won't have to suppress my words of unwisdom, although most likely, I will because of nervousness and jitters. I'll be quiet and reserved like I always am around people I just meet. After all, I don't want to scare them away until they love me already, and then it's easier to win them back.
I have a feeling she's just like me. Poor thing, but at least she's had all this time to figure out who she is, learn to live with herself, and embrace the silliness that is her true being.
Maybe Mom is scared of those things. Maybe she recognizes our extreme differences, and is afraid that my birthmother will have one up on her, which would not be the case at all. I love who my Mom is. Sure, she annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me as the punk adolescent that I once was, sometimes still might be, but you can't put a pricetag on love. You can't buy it in a store, have it sent to you wrapped up in a Carolina blue bow with yellow polka-dots, and open it like it was Christmas morning. You can't steal it from third base at the top of the ninth when you are down one base, and it's the Cubs at the World Series. I don't think we'll ever have to wory about that happening, but I don't know. They are having a good season so far.
Love is not something that can be replaced in a flash, by the click of a mouse, by a firm handshake or a bearhug. It's not written on paper or bought with paper. I couldn't build a relationship with someone that I've known for a small amount of time based on the fact that we have the same O positive blood running through our veins that quickly, even if I was told I would be rich by doing so.
It could not happen.
It would not happen.
I would not love you more if you said you had a boat.
I could not love you more if written in a note.
The point is this. No matter what the outcome, I will be me, and you will be you. And I am fully aware of the situation, the risk, and the reward.
And I swore to myself I was going to sleep,to crawl in my king size bed, sheets amuck, pillows suffocating, and clothes draped all over the place. Nope. Didn't happened again. Here I sit, typing aimlessly, without doing what I need to do one more night- write the damn letter.
Why is it that I can seem to do reciculous things all weekend, I can work my ass off at work even though I am formally as they say, "going through the motions," whatever that means. I can cook a really good dinner, which sad to admit, I am not known for. Laundry even, I can do stinkin laundry. But write the letter? Fuck no. I haven't done it. Haven't even tried to think of it. And the few people that I want to ask me about it- haven't mentioned it.
That would include Mom and Justin. I mean you would think that after dating someone for a long time, and remaining close friends with that person, that he or she would have some vested interest in your well being. But looking back now, I can see why he wouldn't be asking. I was the caretaker in that relationship for the most part. I was the mother, the encourager, the breaker of spririt in efforts to gain what was needed at the time- him to get him established, on task, directionally focused. I guess I should be neither hurt nor surprised on that end.
But Mom? She hasn't mentioned it.I found out everything identifying about the birthmother except her social security number and favorite color, which with a little digging, I could probably do with Debi's help. I bet it's blue, like mine.
She hugged me while I was sitting at the computer last Thursday night gawking at that one ancient picture on Facebook that I found, Incidentally, we were practicaly identical at age 3- both with wildly, thick manes with bangs that forced their way through eyebrows and crushed teensy eyelashes with their weight. Both with squinty little eyes, shrouded by the chubbiest cheeks you'd seen since the Shoney's Big Boy was around hanging outside of the Stuckey's gas station on I85 in 1984, where we stopped to get DQ ice cream on the way to visit my grandparents who lived in High Point, NC until they got too old to take care of themselves and were moved to Charlotte when I was in college.
I sat there at Dad's ancient computer, rocking incessantly back and forth in the comfy, brown, reclining leather chair, and because the box is so damn outdated, it takes months to download anything,and then freezes, which inevitably happened later, and right when I was in stalker mode. Crap. Murphy's law is true.
I called Mom in, "look at her, Mom. She looks just like me." The picture was black and white, faded, and surreal. I had to pinch myself. Was that really her? Thirty-five years, and that's her at age 3. Funny thing, my daughter looks nothing like either of us.
My bff, and practically everyone else who has seen her, says that Sarah looks like her Dad. Oh God. That's only the worst possible thing you can say to a mother who is both a wonderful mother and the absent father. But if that's all she gets from him, that would be ok, because I guess he is not that bad looking. I was physically attracted to him at some point. I have mentally blocked that aspect out though, and the thought is vomitous now, repulsive.
At any rate, we looked alike.
What else might we have in common? Would we share the same mostly messy handwriting, occasionally steady and with ts overlapping ls? Would she be as blind as a bat, needing some form of vision correction at all times, or having to squint harder than your grandfather doing his crossword puzzle without his handy dandy magnifying glass he temporarily lost, but was later found on the back of the toilet. Is she funny? Does she find humor in gross things like I do? Does she hate housework? Most likely she does- I mean really, show me someone who enjoys cleaning. On second thought, please don't. Those people are scary. They need to chill out.
Does she like writing? Does she sing in the shower and make people feel uncomfortable with her blatant disregard for all things modest, peppering inappropriate jokes and suggestions at inopportune times?
I hope so. It will make things so much easier if she's like me. I won't have to suppress my words of unwisdom, although most likely, I will because of nervousness and jitters. I'll be quiet and reserved like I always am around people I just meet. After all, I don't want to scare them away until they love me already, and then it's easier to win them back.
I have a feeling she's just like me. Poor thing, but at least she's had all this time to figure out who she is, learn to live with herself, and embrace the silliness that is her true being.
Maybe Mom is scared of those things. Maybe she recognizes our extreme differences, and is afraid that my birthmother will have one up on her, which would not be the case at all. I love who my Mom is. Sure, she annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me as the punk adolescent that I once was, sometimes still might be, but you can't put a pricetag on love. You can't buy it in a store, have it sent to you wrapped up in a Carolina blue bow with yellow polka-dots, and open it like it was Christmas morning. You can't steal it from third base at the top of the ninth when you are down one base, and it's the Cubs at the World Series. I don't think we'll ever have to wory about that happening, but I don't know. They are having a good season so far.
Love is not something that can be replaced in a flash, by the click of a mouse, by a firm handshake or a bearhug. It's not written on paper or bought with paper. I couldn't build a relationship with someone that I've known for a small amount of time based on the fact that we have the same O positive blood running through our veins that quickly, even if I was told I would be rich by doing so.
It could not happen.
It would not happen.
I would not love you more if you said you had a boat.
I could not love you more if written in a note.
The point is this. No matter what the outcome, I will be me, and you will be you. And I am fully aware of the situation, the risk, and the reward.
Monday, August 15, 2011
8/15/11 And I need to write the letter, but...
If you know me, you know me. In other words, I wear my heart on my sleeve, and things don't bother me like they do some people. Sure, I get worried, occasionally upset about things that are ultimately out of my control, which aggravates me to no end because I know it's pointless. Axl Rose said it best, "worry is a waste of time." Actually, I think God said it first, and he borrowed the idea, which is fine, because it's something good that was spread through something not quite as respectable- Guns N Roses. God has his ways doesn't he? He makes beauty of demise and pours grace into the nastiest of all cesspools.
I had Axl Rose plastered all over my bedroom walls growing up, right beside Kirk Cameron- polar opposites today, most likely then too.
I heard the best quote today. Herman Melville said with great candor, "It is better to fail at originality, than to succeed at immitation."
Anyway, my point is, which has taken me ultra long to get to, is this: I have been putting off what I need to do. I have been craving this moment all of my life, yes occasional confrontations with truth and pain have been a part of my life growing up. But really? Hasn't everyone been through the ringer a few times, and lived to tell about it? We all experience bewilderment, self-destruction accompanied and nourished by poor decision making, self-loathing, and self-unawareness, ultimately denial.
These feelings that have sprung up from this whole adoption composium of sorts have left me feeling quite objective actually. Perspective, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And for once in my life, I think I have the right perspective. Be it maturity, understanding on deeper level, exact realization that other people exist and have feelings just as I do- whatever it may be- I see the importance of others who contribute to my situation. Rose colored glasses are a thing of the past, and love for others is not a dying breed of character. Expressing your feelings is important, but not as important as respecting the feelings of others.
These are things that matter most.
So in this quest to find a completeness, of which I may or may not be lucky enough to find, I will maintain the thought that my birthmother might not be willing to meet me. And so it will be. And so I will go on, as I have been going on for all of my life. Living with abandon, loving with longevity, and looking for beauty in everything small, making it huge. It's in the details. I told a good friend today just that. It's in the details.
I had Axl Rose plastered all over my bedroom walls growing up, right beside Kirk Cameron- polar opposites today, most likely then too.
I heard the best quote today. Herman Melville said with great candor, "It is better to fail at originality, than to succeed at immitation."
Anyway, my point is, which has taken me ultra long to get to, is this: I have been putting off what I need to do. I have been craving this moment all of my life, yes occasional confrontations with truth and pain have been a part of my life growing up. But really? Hasn't everyone been through the ringer a few times, and lived to tell about it? We all experience bewilderment, self-destruction accompanied and nourished by poor decision making, self-loathing, and self-unawareness, ultimately denial.
These feelings that have sprung up from this whole adoption composium of sorts have left me feeling quite objective actually. Perspective, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And for once in my life, I think I have the right perspective. Be it maturity, understanding on deeper level, exact realization that other people exist and have feelings just as I do- whatever it may be- I see the importance of others who contribute to my situation. Rose colored glasses are a thing of the past, and love for others is not a dying breed of character. Expressing your feelings is important, but not as important as respecting the feelings of others.
These are things that matter most.
So in this quest to find a completeness, of which I may or may not be lucky enough to find, I will maintain the thought that my birthmother might not be willing to meet me. And so it will be. And so I will go on, as I have been going on for all of my life. Living with abandon, loving with longevity, and looking for beauty in everything small, making it huge. It's in the details. I told a good friend today just that. It's in the details.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
8/13/11 what next?
To give you some background on what adoption entailed for many women in the seventies, and before I go any further with this, I'd like to just make it very clear that unwed pregnancy in the Bible Belt was not something that was socially acceptable. It was often kept very secret, and was chock full of shame and guilt. Many women chose to move away from their hometowns to give birth and for the duration of their pregnancy, in efforts to be as far removed from the public and often judging eyes of their peers, cohorts, co-workers, classmates, even family. Isolation, which ultimately stemmed from shame and guilt was a means of putting it all behind, like it never happened, like a baby never existed, nor any record of a baby for that matter.
Which reminds me, locating a birth certificate for myself was damn near impossible. In fact, when I was down at Vital Records in Charlotte a few weeks ago, stumbling across detour after detour, room to room, misdirection all over the place, I could never actually pull up my own name in any of their records- computerized or else wise.
When I asked Carole, Sarah's dad's mother, to accompany me to the Vital Records office, she without hesitation said yes, even though she had more pressing plans with her sister to go hear some Southern Gospel music, or something like that. I don't get that kind of music myself. To me, some, not all, but the Southern Gospel they like, sounds like wailing cats after which their tails had been run over by an unaware teenager who was probably texting while driving, mixed in with a little banjo and/or piano- an odd combo if you ask me.
She picked me up from work that afternoon; my boss graciously let me leave 2 hours earlier than the usual 430 on Fridays. We first went to one building, 700 Stonewall St. And if you happen to be someone who complains about your current office conditions, you should see this joint. It was built probably in the 40s, might have had a slight update in the 60s, and since then, has just been run down, walked all over, chewed up and swallowed, regurgitated, and then re-eaten by a homeless drunk man. That's really how bad it is. The security officer, who clearly had no idea where things were located, tried to help, but I could just as easily look at the marquee, which we did. We rolled into the steamy elevator, sans a/c, and pushed three. But before that, like a tourist in Florida at Disney standing between the ever-friendly Mickey and Minnie, I asked Carole to take my pic beside the marquee. I wish I had that picture now, I would upload it. But you can imagine. I stood there with both fingers pointing at the words vital records, smiling a goofy grin. Maybe not, maybe I really just stood there kind of stoic, anticipatory. The fingers sounded more fun. I'll just rearrange my thoughts in my head to make it that picture. I think we forgot to take the after picture- which I can tell you would have been a big fat frown, wrinkled forehead, drooped shoulders, and mascara stained eyes and cheeks.
When we opened the door to the office, behind another pretty good-looking as I recall gentleman, about my age too, the room was jammed with people of different colors, shapes, and sizes. It was like a Michael Jackson video in 1980. Dingy yellowish walls, originally white I assume, with framed legal instructions with various things marked through with pen and with handwritten insertions, this office was nor comforting. Aesthetic beauty was not a consideration when decorating this particular office. After all, the people who work there are not lawyers, not overly educated employees, and probably not the friendliest people you could come across. In fact, it reminded me of the DMV, an easy identifier for most of us. From behind what looked like bullet proof windows that slid open, as I slightly recall, we were in there for less than 30 seconds, a black lady, who was probably there to help decorate the place when it first opened, asked me quite abruptly what I was there for. She almost caught me off guard. Quickly, I said back, "birth book?" I sounded unsure, partially because I was. Her almost synonymous reply was, "we don't have anything like that over here. It's all been moved to 420 East Fourth." She had likely heard that question many times over. OK. That was irritating. Driving around uptown Charlotte at 4 o'clock on Friday afternoon, although it's no LA traffic, can alone be irritating enough. But to know that we were in the wrong location was almost a gunshot to the chest. I don't know why I let that get to me so badly, but it did. I didn't want to go anywhere else. I was ready to start flipping through dusty volumes of books with random names typed inside, all the while licking my fingertips to keep the sheets from sticking together. I was ready to end this 35 year anomaly. Little did I know. As anxious as I was, I should have probably taken xanax or whatever else kind of prescription drug that would have decreased my nervous tension. I am not a pill popper by the way, but I could have used/abused something that day for sure.
Which reminds me, locating a birth certificate for myself was damn near impossible. In fact, when I was down at Vital Records in Charlotte a few weeks ago, stumbling across detour after detour, room to room, misdirection all over the place, I could never actually pull up my own name in any of their records- computerized or else wise.
When I asked Carole, Sarah's dad's mother, to accompany me to the Vital Records office, she without hesitation said yes, even though she had more pressing plans with her sister to go hear some Southern Gospel music, or something like that. I don't get that kind of music myself. To me, some, not all, but the Southern Gospel they like, sounds like wailing cats after which their tails had been run over by an unaware teenager who was probably texting while driving, mixed in with a little banjo and/or piano- an odd combo if you ask me.
She picked me up from work that afternoon; my boss graciously let me leave 2 hours earlier than the usual 430 on Fridays. We first went to one building, 700 Stonewall St. And if you happen to be someone who complains about your current office conditions, you should see this joint. It was built probably in the 40s, might have had a slight update in the 60s, and since then, has just been run down, walked all over, chewed up and swallowed, regurgitated, and then re-eaten by a homeless drunk man. That's really how bad it is. The security officer, who clearly had no idea where things were located, tried to help, but I could just as easily look at the marquee, which we did. We rolled into the steamy elevator, sans a/c, and pushed three. But before that, like a tourist in Florida at Disney standing between the ever-friendly Mickey and Minnie, I asked Carole to take my pic beside the marquee. I wish I had that picture now, I would upload it. But you can imagine. I stood there with both fingers pointing at the words vital records, smiling a goofy grin. Maybe not, maybe I really just stood there kind of stoic, anticipatory. The fingers sounded more fun. I'll just rearrange my thoughts in my head to make it that picture. I think we forgot to take the after picture- which I can tell you would have been a big fat frown, wrinkled forehead, drooped shoulders, and mascara stained eyes and cheeks.
When we opened the door to the office, behind another pretty good-looking as I recall gentleman, about my age too, the room was jammed with people of different colors, shapes, and sizes. It was like a Michael Jackson video in 1980. Dingy yellowish walls, originally white I assume, with framed legal instructions with various things marked through with pen and with handwritten insertions, this office was nor comforting. Aesthetic beauty was not a consideration when decorating this particular office. After all, the people who work there are not lawyers, not overly educated employees, and probably not the friendliest people you could come across. In fact, it reminded me of the DMV, an easy identifier for most of us. From behind what looked like bullet proof windows that slid open, as I slightly recall, we were in there for less than 30 seconds, a black lady, who was probably there to help decorate the place when it first opened, asked me quite abruptly what I was there for. She almost caught me off guard. Quickly, I said back, "birth book?" I sounded unsure, partially because I was. Her almost synonymous reply was, "we don't have anything like that over here. It's all been moved to 420 East Fourth." She had likely heard that question many times over. OK. That was irritating. Driving around uptown Charlotte at 4 o'clock on Friday afternoon, although it's no LA traffic, can alone be irritating enough. But to know that we were in the wrong location was almost a gunshot to the chest. I don't know why I let that get to me so badly, but it did. I didn't want to go anywhere else. I was ready to start flipping through dusty volumes of books with random names typed inside, all the while licking my fingertips to keep the sheets from sticking together. I was ready to end this 35 year anomaly. Little did I know. As anxious as I was, I should have probably taken xanax or whatever else kind of prescription drug that would have decreased my nervous tension. I am not a pill popper by the way, but I could have used/abused something that day for sure.
Friday, August 12, 2011
8/12/11 And I'm going to leave out something major on purpose
Waiting on someone to come to your house is like watching grass grow in my opinion. Even though there may be a gazillion things you could be doing while waiting, you sit there, and act fidgety instead, maybe look out the window slightly every few minutes, but just enough so that your visitor doesn't see you looking out for him and think that your nutz. In my case, I popped a bottle of merlot, that just came out of the freezer for about 5 minutes, what the experts say you should do prior to corking a bottle of red to get it to the right temperature. If you're like me, you forget most of the time and end up with a cold bottle of red wine for about a glass, maybe two. Oh well. So, picking up the laptop comes secondto the wine in this case in particular. Maybe it's because of the incredible 24 hours I've had. I mean after all, finding out who your birth mother is can be extremely draining.
When Debi called me last night with the news prefaced with the exact words, "Brooke you need to sit down", just as you see in the movies, My heart pounded, and my breathe about escaped me. It was like I had emphysema, and was 87 holding on to dear life with my cane turned upside down, curved part barely tickling life. I did what I was told, and sat down, but not before I grabbed the nearest pad of paper and writing utensil, which happened to be a #2 pencil (they're the best, by all public school accounts).
I was at Mom's house, supposedly going on a date, but had decided last minute that I wanted to stay in- I couldn't stop yawning. My date was clearly miffed, but what did I care? It would be a first date, and he wasn't that friendly to me to begin with, manners almost absent. Maybe I'm too harsh, too judgemental, but you have to be one your A game the first time oyu are going out wiht someone if you plan on making a good impression- at least I think one should, especially if one has any inclination or remote idea of getting some. I'm not saying that anyone should put out on the first date, but c'mon, it's been known to happen. In fact, and I won't say anything else on this, but the days of 'I Love Lucy' are over.
I grabbed one of mom's 100 pound chairs that probably came from my grandmother's grandmother's aunt's great aunt's cousin's from Walterboro. Those mongrels are heavy, bulky- antiques I suppose, family heirlooms that will someday dance on my floors of my house, although, I don't think my house is fancy enough for them. They might stand out of place, and be screaming, "HELP! Get me to a house where someone is rich and quick."
I sat down, and looked to see what Sarah was doing, what Mom was doing, and quickly scanned the room for Sarah's overnight bag, which contained her library books we had just checked out the day before. I asked Debi to hang on, and asked Mom, in kind of a frantic manner if she could please put Sarah down for me, to which she replied without hesitation as she normally would, "Why can't you? Get off the phone." But then did it anyway. Good old Mom. You know she's always good for the asking, will most likely give you a slight, but gentle tongue lashing about it, then cave. It's something all my friends know about Mom. She is lovingly and jokingly called Lynn the Hen, and for good reason. When we were kids, and a friend would come over, or call on the phone, she would yell upstairs for me with a shrill, annoyingly loud voice, "Brooke", but what we would hear is, "Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawke." If I didn't answer it would be repeated in that same manner only shriller and more piercing and reaching a few more decimals.
I turned on the overhead chandelier which has, and I'm not exxagerating when I say this, something like 25 little 15 watt bulbs, enough to annoy the crap out of your retinas and run up your electricity bill. Draped in a muriad of cobwebs dating back to the fourteenth century probably, I was a little worried that the Charlotte was going to spell out my name in them and then sink her teeth into some obscure, overexposed body part of mine.
And that's when Debi said the words, "Brooke, I found your mother."
Now, she had said those words beforem and was willing to bet her paycheck on it before, which looking back, and if I was in a betting mood, which I have been known to take a bet- I should have taken that bet. On second thought, I wouldn't ever take her money like that.
When Debi called me last night with the news prefaced with the exact words, "Brooke you need to sit down", just as you see in the movies, My heart pounded, and my breathe about escaped me. It was like I had emphysema, and was 87 holding on to dear life with my cane turned upside down, curved part barely tickling life. I did what I was told, and sat down, but not before I grabbed the nearest pad of paper and writing utensil, which happened to be a #2 pencil (they're the best, by all public school accounts).
I was at Mom's house, supposedly going on a date, but had decided last minute that I wanted to stay in- I couldn't stop yawning. My date was clearly miffed, but what did I care? It would be a first date, and he wasn't that friendly to me to begin with, manners almost absent. Maybe I'm too harsh, too judgemental, but you have to be one your A game the first time oyu are going out wiht someone if you plan on making a good impression- at least I think one should, especially if one has any inclination or remote idea of getting some. I'm not saying that anyone should put out on the first date, but c'mon, it's been known to happen. In fact, and I won't say anything else on this, but the days of 'I Love Lucy' are over.
I grabbed one of mom's 100 pound chairs that probably came from my grandmother's grandmother's aunt's great aunt's cousin's from Walterboro. Those mongrels are heavy, bulky- antiques I suppose, family heirlooms that will someday dance on my floors of my house, although, I don't think my house is fancy enough for them. They might stand out of place, and be screaming, "HELP! Get me to a house where someone is rich and quick."
I sat down, and looked to see what Sarah was doing, what Mom was doing, and quickly scanned the room for Sarah's overnight bag, which contained her library books we had just checked out the day before. I asked Debi to hang on, and asked Mom, in kind of a frantic manner if she could please put Sarah down for me, to which she replied without hesitation as she normally would, "Why can't you? Get off the phone." But then did it anyway. Good old Mom. You know she's always good for the asking, will most likely give you a slight, but gentle tongue lashing about it, then cave. It's something all my friends know about Mom. She is lovingly and jokingly called Lynn the Hen, and for good reason. When we were kids, and a friend would come over, or call on the phone, she would yell upstairs for me with a shrill, annoyingly loud voice, "Brooke", but what we would hear is, "Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawke." If I didn't answer it would be repeated in that same manner only shriller and more piercing and reaching a few more decimals.
I turned on the overhead chandelier which has, and I'm not exxagerating when I say this, something like 25 little 15 watt bulbs, enough to annoy the crap out of your retinas and run up your electricity bill. Draped in a muriad of cobwebs dating back to the fourteenth century probably, I was a little worried that the Charlotte was going to spell out my name in them and then sink her teeth into some obscure, overexposed body part of mine.
And that's when Debi said the words, "Brooke, I found your mother."
Now, she had said those words beforem and was willing to bet her paycheck on it before, which looking back, and if I was in a betting mood, which I have been known to take a bet- I should have taken that bet. On second thought, I wouldn't ever take her money like that.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Figuring it all out: 8/5/11 I signed up for the free help
Figuring it all out: 8/5/11 I signed up for the free help: "Since I recently signed up for the free help that I luckily saw advertised while strolling through the glorious and wonderful invention we a..."
8/8/11 Monday again, and I'm thinking of Ms. Sykes
Another Monday? It comes right after the day that I was baptised for the first time, on my own accord, a decision made by own my mind, as messed up and convoluted as it is. It came with God's constant encouragement. It was exactly as Paston Steven said, "I don't have anything to change into, I don't want to get wet in front of everyone, I'm on my period, I'm too ...whatever" Those excuses were holding me back, and holding me back. It wasn't like I wasn't trying to lead a good life already, in God's eyes, well slightly skewed by my own foolish choices, and secretive ways that will ultimately ruin even the best of us. It wasn't like I wasn't trying to follow his ways before. Regardless, the day came at age 35 that I professed in front of hundereds of fellow believers that I love God and will do what's in my power to follow in his footsteps.
Now that's not to say I won't fuck up. I will, and probably in ways that I haven't before. I can screw up a wet dream, to steal that played out, but oh-so-funny to me euphimism, which is what worries me so much with this whole finding my biological mother escapade. That's putting it lightly. I know that one way or another I will insert my size 6 foot in my mouth. No scratch that, cram my foot into my small but so exclamatious mouth. I'm not sure if that's even a word, but it is now if it wasn't.
I will say something off beat, off color, off whatever. It will just be off in some matter or fashion. I'm famous for making people feel uncomfortable. I just accidentally typed uncomfartable, and it was funny to me. But I changed it because I know that farting is not funny to everyone, but if you ask me, and I asked myself for you, it should be. It's the only thing that makes me laugh everytime.
I will bring out the uncomfortable silence, the awkward moment of looking around and frantically racking your brain, trying desperately to think of something pleasantly mild to say that's somehow not weather related. I will blurt out some deep feeling that I have been repressing for 30 something years, that will just turn her off, and make her wonder how in the world I got such a big mouth.
On the other hand, I might say something cathartic, awe inspiring, condusive to epressing feelings in a positive way. That's the beauty of being a human in my opinion. We are constantly teetering on the fence of good and bad. One way we jump could end in a fantastically wonderful outcome, the other, a dramatically disasterous nightmare of sorts. We are all so mixed up. No one is better than another, and we are all prone to make the same mistakes. Only some of us make them over and over and so on.
Judging by the "notes" I have on my birthmother, which I was told this afternoon were "amazing and full," by one of the search angels, named Carole, which incidentally is not the only angel in my life named Carole, but I'll elaborate on that later, judging by the notes, my BM sounded like she had her head tied on tight. Not wound up tight, that's different. She was a very good student, making almost all As in elemetary school. One of the main links I have to her is her fifth grade report card, which is something that we have toiled over for the past few weeks- trying to figure out what year she was born, what year this and that, what year she picked her first bugger, what year she learned how to ride a bike. I am joking, but it's getting rediculous. Frankly, I am getting tired of it. I'm beginning to think to myself, is all this compiling of missing links really worth trying to find some ghostface that gave me up to complete strangers without even holding me more than once? I mean really. I never did this much research while in college, but that's not saying much. The only thing I made As in in college were writing courses and history, an the occasional filler class, and to me they were mostly all fillers.
Unlike me, she was driven, scholarly, made up of sugar and spice and all that is nice, except for that extreme case of disassociation, that little piece in her brain that allowed her to give away something so precious, to hide it from its very source.
Those days things were different. If I had a dollar for everytime I heard that comment, I would be in line checking out at the Mac store behind every other foolish and highly impressionable schmuck in the free world who thinks that Mac computers are God's gift to creation, with the devil's way of throwing it all off with the invention of Farmville and Mafia Wars, Facebook, etc.
She had it all going for her, but that little thing in her belly would tear it all down. She wanted to graduate college, to have a career like the rest of her, I'm imagining prominent and well-to-do family- her older brother, a recent college grad, and her older sister, a physical therapist, her father and largest link to education I imagine, an analyst with a large manufacturing company, I now know is Dupont, thanks to Ms. Carol Sykes, the resident know it all.
She's lived there for 70 years. God knows why. I guess the same reason all people who live in small towns never leave. Perhaps she has a wonderful family, friends who love her, an amazing church. Whos knows her reason? Who cares? She is willing to help me, and that is all that matters to me right now. I can fill in the gaps of her life after I've filled in the gaps of my own.
I have always been drawn to the elderly. I love hanging out with older people- their knowledge vast and wisdom influencing, sometimes contagious. I would live in a retirement community home were it socially acceptable, and would they be able to handle my boisterous ways and occasional male companionship without feeling compelled to lecture me on the importance of "finding the right man."
Carol is someone I called last week after speaking with someone down at the Vital Records office in Kinston, NC, who gave me her number so easily. When she picked up, I could see in my mind exactly what she looked like, dyed blonde hair, aqua-netted into a perfect football helmet which was so thin, it was almost see through. She has a mole on one cheek, and wore bright Paradise Pink Avon lipstick, circa 1961, that faintly resembled its original color when she bought it all those years ago. But, it was on sale, so she bought ten of the same color. Incidentally, she had just found one recently when she was cleaning out her top drawer of her antique mahogany nightstand that was passed down to her from her grandmother Aida from Pink Hill. She was beautiful in her own right, marvelous in spirit, and wasn't afraid to sip a Beefeater's and tonic on Friday afternoon on her big wrap around front porch with the wooden planks painted blue, and repainted, and repainted.
I could tell she was bored. When I asked her questions that most people would connect with identity theft, she answered generously, and without hesitation. After all, she was from Pink Hill, and had lived there her entire life, was even running for mayor she told me. No harm, no fowl right? Her mind, though spry, isn't trained to be as cautious as mine would be. Maybe it's because she is from Kinston, NC, and I am from Charlotte. She didn't grow up in days where a social security number is a hot and sought after commodity among theives. No, you barely even locked your front door, and probably never even thought to hide your purse when you went to bed.
Miss Carole, who didn't mind me calling her by her first name, was eager to talk to me, a complete stranger, with my unbeknownst motives, a secret agenda. And it wasn't until the end of our hour and fifteen minute long conversation, that I told her what my real reason was for calling her, and asking her to do things for me that total strangers do not typically do for eachother.
And the wonderful thing of it all? She told me she would go down to the school in question, grandkids in tow, because they most likely know how to scan and send to email, while unsurprisingly, she doesn't, and would make copies of the yearbook for me. Incidentally, I ruled out that Pink Hill K-8 was the school that the BM went to, so all that work she would have done for me out of the kindness of her heart would have been negated anyhow. What I have taken from talking to Ms. Carole Sykes from Pink Hill, phonetically said, Pink Heeeul, is that there are a lot of good things to be said about small town town people, and a lot to be learned about how the world should be by watching people like her in action.
She called me today in fact, and although I felt bad about it, I had to quickly get off the phone, because I was at work and someone more important than her dialed in, with something more important to say than what she was about to say. I need to call her back tomorrow, and hopefully, I can hear the rest of her "options" as she so described them this afternoon. This time when she called she wasn't sipping on a sweet tea from the mason jar, slightly watered down from all of the ice she so gingerly piled in with her shriveled up fingers, crossed and veiny, long pointy unpainted finger nails that may have had some dirt underneath them from just having been out back plucking a nice, fat, juicy red tomato from the plant, and from picking up that cantelope from the ground that needed to be eaten. She wasn't sitting at her her dining room table, adorned with white doilies, and a basket of wooden fruit, although she had enough fruits and vegetables to fill the largest table at the farmer's market. She sounded as if she was calling from her car, a scary thought.
I liked Ms. Carole Sykes, and look forward to hearing her greatest and best stories, which I have a feeling, will be nothing short of amazing and storytelling worthy.
After all, she is running for mayor. Who runs for mayor without having something good to say? Although, my daughter goes to daycare, but they deem it to be, "child develeopment center" with the mayor's kids, and I have yet to hear one word out of his mouth. That might influence my vote in fact, but that's beside the point...
Now that's not to say I won't fuck up. I will, and probably in ways that I haven't before. I can screw up a wet dream, to steal that played out, but oh-so-funny to me euphimism, which is what worries me so much with this whole finding my biological mother escapade. That's putting it lightly. I know that one way or another I will insert my size 6 foot in my mouth. No scratch that, cram my foot into my small but so exclamatious mouth. I'm not sure if that's even a word, but it is now if it wasn't.
I will say something off beat, off color, off whatever. It will just be off in some matter or fashion. I'm famous for making people feel uncomfortable. I just accidentally typed uncomfartable, and it was funny to me. But I changed it because I know that farting is not funny to everyone, but if you ask me, and I asked myself for you, it should be. It's the only thing that makes me laugh everytime.
I will bring out the uncomfortable silence, the awkward moment of looking around and frantically racking your brain, trying desperately to think of something pleasantly mild to say that's somehow not weather related. I will blurt out some deep feeling that I have been repressing for 30 something years, that will just turn her off, and make her wonder how in the world I got such a big mouth.
On the other hand, I might say something cathartic, awe inspiring, condusive to epressing feelings in a positive way. That's the beauty of being a human in my opinion. We are constantly teetering on the fence of good and bad. One way we jump could end in a fantastically wonderful outcome, the other, a dramatically disasterous nightmare of sorts. We are all so mixed up. No one is better than another, and we are all prone to make the same mistakes. Only some of us make them over and over and so on.
Judging by the "notes" I have on my birthmother, which I was told this afternoon were "amazing and full," by one of the search angels, named Carole, which incidentally is not the only angel in my life named Carole, but I'll elaborate on that later, judging by the notes, my BM sounded like she had her head tied on tight. Not wound up tight, that's different. She was a very good student, making almost all As in elemetary school. One of the main links I have to her is her fifth grade report card, which is something that we have toiled over for the past few weeks- trying to figure out what year she was born, what year this and that, what year she picked her first bugger, what year she learned how to ride a bike. I am joking, but it's getting rediculous. Frankly, I am getting tired of it. I'm beginning to think to myself, is all this compiling of missing links really worth trying to find some ghostface that gave me up to complete strangers without even holding me more than once? I mean really. I never did this much research while in college, but that's not saying much. The only thing I made As in in college were writing courses and history, an the occasional filler class, and to me they were mostly all fillers.
Unlike me, she was driven, scholarly, made up of sugar and spice and all that is nice, except for that extreme case of disassociation, that little piece in her brain that allowed her to give away something so precious, to hide it from its very source.
Those days things were different. If I had a dollar for everytime I heard that comment, I would be in line checking out at the Mac store behind every other foolish and highly impressionable schmuck in the free world who thinks that Mac computers are God's gift to creation, with the devil's way of throwing it all off with the invention of Farmville and Mafia Wars, Facebook, etc.
She had it all going for her, but that little thing in her belly would tear it all down. She wanted to graduate college, to have a career like the rest of her, I'm imagining prominent and well-to-do family- her older brother, a recent college grad, and her older sister, a physical therapist, her father and largest link to education I imagine, an analyst with a large manufacturing company, I now know is Dupont, thanks to Ms. Carol Sykes, the resident know it all.
She's lived there for 70 years. God knows why. I guess the same reason all people who live in small towns never leave. Perhaps she has a wonderful family, friends who love her, an amazing church. Whos knows her reason? Who cares? She is willing to help me, and that is all that matters to me right now. I can fill in the gaps of her life after I've filled in the gaps of my own.
I have always been drawn to the elderly. I love hanging out with older people- their knowledge vast and wisdom influencing, sometimes contagious. I would live in a retirement community home were it socially acceptable, and would they be able to handle my boisterous ways and occasional male companionship without feeling compelled to lecture me on the importance of "finding the right man."
Carol is someone I called last week after speaking with someone down at the Vital Records office in Kinston, NC, who gave me her number so easily. When she picked up, I could see in my mind exactly what she looked like, dyed blonde hair, aqua-netted into a perfect football helmet which was so thin, it was almost see through. She has a mole on one cheek, and wore bright Paradise Pink Avon lipstick, circa 1961, that faintly resembled its original color when she bought it all those years ago. But, it was on sale, so she bought ten of the same color. Incidentally, she had just found one recently when she was cleaning out her top drawer of her antique mahogany nightstand that was passed down to her from her grandmother Aida from Pink Hill. She was beautiful in her own right, marvelous in spirit, and wasn't afraid to sip a Beefeater's and tonic on Friday afternoon on her big wrap around front porch with the wooden planks painted blue, and repainted, and repainted.
I could tell she was bored. When I asked her questions that most people would connect with identity theft, she answered generously, and without hesitation. After all, she was from Pink Hill, and had lived there her entire life, was even running for mayor she told me. No harm, no fowl right? Her mind, though spry, isn't trained to be as cautious as mine would be. Maybe it's because she is from Kinston, NC, and I am from Charlotte. She didn't grow up in days where a social security number is a hot and sought after commodity among theives. No, you barely even locked your front door, and probably never even thought to hide your purse when you went to bed.
Miss Carole, who didn't mind me calling her by her first name, was eager to talk to me, a complete stranger, with my unbeknownst motives, a secret agenda. And it wasn't until the end of our hour and fifteen minute long conversation, that I told her what my real reason was for calling her, and asking her to do things for me that total strangers do not typically do for eachother.
And the wonderful thing of it all? She told me she would go down to the school in question, grandkids in tow, because they most likely know how to scan and send to email, while unsurprisingly, she doesn't, and would make copies of the yearbook for me. Incidentally, I ruled out that Pink Hill K-8 was the school that the BM went to, so all that work she would have done for me out of the kindness of her heart would have been negated anyhow. What I have taken from talking to Ms. Carole Sykes from Pink Hill, phonetically said, Pink Heeeul, is that there are a lot of good things to be said about small town town people, and a lot to be learned about how the world should be by watching people like her in action.
She called me today in fact, and although I felt bad about it, I had to quickly get off the phone, because I was at work and someone more important than her dialed in, with something more important to say than what she was about to say. I need to call her back tomorrow, and hopefully, I can hear the rest of her "options" as she so described them this afternoon. This time when she called she wasn't sipping on a sweet tea from the mason jar, slightly watered down from all of the ice she so gingerly piled in with her shriveled up fingers, crossed and veiny, long pointy unpainted finger nails that may have had some dirt underneath them from just having been out back plucking a nice, fat, juicy red tomato from the plant, and from picking up that cantelope from the ground that needed to be eaten. She wasn't sitting at her her dining room table, adorned with white doilies, and a basket of wooden fruit, although she had enough fruits and vegetables to fill the largest table at the farmer's market. She sounded as if she was calling from her car, a scary thought.
I liked Ms. Carole Sykes, and look forward to hearing her greatest and best stories, which I have a feeling, will be nothing short of amazing and storytelling worthy.
After all, she is running for mayor. Who runs for mayor without having something good to say? Although, my daughter goes to daycare, but they deem it to be, "child develeopment center" with the mayor's kids, and I have yet to hear one word out of his mouth. That might influence my vote in fact, but that's beside the point...
Friday, August 5, 2011
8/5/11 I signed up for the free help
Since I recently signed up for the free help that I luckily saw advertised while strolling through the glorious and wonderful invention we all spend incredibly too much time exploring, yet constantly criticize and secretly idolize, called the internet, I have had contact with three specific people who are willing to help me in the quest. Quite frankly, I could not do this alone, mainly, and most obviously because I have no idea what I am doing. Sure, I can ask questions to strangers, sometimes without hesitation. Difficult it is not, for me to probe around the small county of Lenoir making phone calls to people I have never seen nor spoken to, whose name were just mentioned to me in the previous conversation I had with the previous absolute stranger.
It's what I do for a living. I call people, often strangers, up and ask them questions, sometimes private questions about their businesses, how they run them, and who the main decision makers would be. My personality is built in a manner that allows me to be friendly, and direct, but enables me to maintain a good repoire with most people I come in contact with. It's my blessing. But some blessings come with stigmas.
For instance, I talk a lot. I can't keep a secret to save my life, much less my own secret, and because of my loose lips, I have jeopardized friendships, lost jobs- well those are two important enough risks that I don't need to go into it further. I must maintain my dignity at some point, right?
At any rate, my point here is, I am not afraid to say what I think, and ask questions, and over the past two years, and I will now and always give the glory to God, I have changed a lot in my delivery and reception of ideas and subjects that could be considered of a touchy nature. That said, I am totally down for this search, this bombardment of history, this very unfolding of truths and hidden agendas. Knowing me, I will find out this sought after golden information, but maybe not before many long hours of time spent doing things other than what I am supposed to be doing. I will first run the risk of losingsleep, my job, the respect of my peers, and bosses. They know I am NOT doing my job. One instance in particular, this week, my boss approached my utterly embarassingly disgusting cubicle in the sky, tatooed with printed out papers, enough to wipe out a few rainforests in Chile, and decorated with old food remnants, like empty yogurt cups, which I had intended a few days prior to wash out and recycle, but hadn't. Recycling is important to me, and it should be to everyone in my opinion. She popped in, headset and all, looked around at my desk, saw that I was doing something totally unrelated to my job of calling people and scheduling appointments, and called me out. "Do you have time for that, Brooke?" "No", I replied, all the while wishing I had just been holding a different piece of paper in my hand so she wouldn't have known what I was actually doing, and feeling slightly annoyed that she had caused me to lose my train of thought. It's wrong, but it's true. I didn't want to talk to her about whatever it was that she wanted to talk about. I was on a freaking mission to find a student at Carolina who was from Kinston in 1976 dammit. I was trying to concentrate on this incredibly small, and barely discernable font, with an even worse accompanying photo. I lost my place. I had to go to the top of the page again. There are over 100 students per page to navigate through. A small price to pay for a definition of my being. That's such an etherial description, but somehow fitting. Let me reiterate, that my boss is an awesome lady, whom I love and adore. She tells it like it is, which is a trait in most people that I respect and admire, maybe because I have been accused of being blunt on occasion. Maybe they were all right. Most likely so. It's something I'm working on.
It's what I do for a living. I call people, often strangers, up and ask them questions, sometimes private questions about their businesses, how they run them, and who the main decision makers would be. My personality is built in a manner that allows me to be friendly, and direct, but enables me to maintain a good repoire with most people I come in contact with. It's my blessing. But some blessings come with stigmas.
For instance, I talk a lot. I can't keep a secret to save my life, much less my own secret, and because of my loose lips, I have jeopardized friendships, lost jobs- well those are two important enough risks that I don't need to go into it further. I must maintain my dignity at some point, right?
At any rate, my point here is, I am not afraid to say what I think, and ask questions, and over the past two years, and I will now and always give the glory to God, I have changed a lot in my delivery and reception of ideas and subjects that could be considered of a touchy nature. That said, I am totally down for this search, this bombardment of history, this very unfolding of truths and hidden agendas. Knowing me, I will find out this sought after golden information, but maybe not before many long hours of time spent doing things other than what I am supposed to be doing. I will first run the risk of losingsleep, my job, the respect of my peers, and bosses. They know I am NOT doing my job. One instance in particular, this week, my boss approached my utterly embarassingly disgusting cubicle in the sky, tatooed with printed out papers, enough to wipe out a few rainforests in Chile, and decorated with old food remnants, like empty yogurt cups, which I had intended a few days prior to wash out and recycle, but hadn't. Recycling is important to me, and it should be to everyone in my opinion. She popped in, headset and all, looked around at my desk, saw that I was doing something totally unrelated to my job of calling people and scheduling appointments, and called me out. "Do you have time for that, Brooke?" "No", I replied, all the while wishing I had just been holding a different piece of paper in my hand so she wouldn't have known what I was actually doing, and feeling slightly annoyed that she had caused me to lose my train of thought. It's wrong, but it's true. I didn't want to talk to her about whatever it was that she wanted to talk about. I was on a freaking mission to find a student at Carolina who was from Kinston in 1976 dammit. I was trying to concentrate on this incredibly small, and barely discernable font, with an even worse accompanying photo. I lost my place. I had to go to the top of the page again. There are over 100 students per page to navigate through. A small price to pay for a definition of my being. That's such an etherial description, but somehow fitting. Let me reiterate, that my boss is an awesome lady, whom I love and adore. She tells it like it is, which is a trait in most people that I respect and admire, maybe because I have been accused of being blunt on occasion. Maybe they were all right. Most likely so. It's something I'm working on.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
8/4/11 and you ask me why?
From what I have been told by my now widowed mom (we lost Dad two years ago to a heart attack that shocked everyone he knew),who I love dearly, and have yet to tell of my current quest to find my birth parents, only with hopes to protect her from any further pain that may soon exist, the process of adoption was an arduous task. It was something that married couples did for whatever reason, I can think of a few off the top of my head that are fairly obvious,when they desperately wanted children and had the means to support a family. It was not, and still has proven not to be an option for people, who although may have the biggest hearts, have the thinnest wallets. As unfortunate as it is, and I fully disagree with the enormous costs associated with adoption, the only people who can afford to legally adopt a child are the people who have money, and most likely will almost expend a surmountable portion of their life savings to do it. You have the lawyers, who understand the legal mumbo jumbo, the social workers, who put their heart and soul into it for a small fraction of the pay that the lawyers get, and the foster parents, who do it for a variety of their own reasons, which we all know can be both good and extremely questionable, sometimes even downright despicable. You have the medical costs for the birth mother, not to mention the future lifetime of counseling, which most likely will be needed for the birth mother and possibly her family members who may or may not have advised her on the adoption, but will most likely and neglectfully, be dually ignored. No matter the inflicting costs, either financially or emotionally, adoption has its rewards and its disadvantages, like most of the finer and sometimes grimier things in life that humans tend to gravitate to unassumingly and unobjectively by nature.
No matter which lens you are looking through, A or B, a small joke for those of you, who, like me, couldn't see a giant pendulum swinging at your coconut if your life depended on it, adoption is something that is an option for people who have more opportunity in life. It's for people who have moola, and supportive family, and come from loving environments. So I thought, until two weeks ago.
What actually prompted me to look for these people with whom I share a common blood line is disturbing. A new "friend" of mine is adopted, and did not have a happy story to tell me of going to the park on Saturdays, and getting ice cream when he made an A in a tough subject at school, or when he might have simply done the right thing. He didn't have 7am soccer practice with sleepovers and pizza, sneaking out and stealing mom's car was not even a distant thought. The repercussions of getting caught doing something like that were not like mine were- a grounding for a month. Whoop-dee-doo. Instead, he would get a switch to his behind, which on many instances, would creep up his back, bruising a lot more than his body, scarring much more tissue than what the naked eye could see. He was not loved, not taken to McDonald's for chocolate dipped cones that would melt down your chin, and insist on the look of an unshaven man who just got off a two day stint in a coal mine. He was an only child, unlike me. He didn't have anyone to teach him what people were like, other than his peers at school, whose motives might also be questionable. And, thank the Good Lord for good people, who did show him the uncharted paths. We all need good people in our lives, don't we? He didn't have someone giving him an attaboy for the things he accomplished, big or almost invisible. They all matter to a good parent. It's a life of solitude that he has lived, a leper's life, and I do not envy him one bit. The happy ending to his story, although it is far from over- he is only 32 years young, is that he is a wonderful person despite his incredible misfortune. He has made something of himself and can recognize beauty. He has turned out good, as people love to say. Maybe it's the nicer, more politically correct way to say, "poor fella". In this instance, my friend really has been a survivor, and continues to grow everyday despite his lonely circumstances. He is inspirational,although possibly unaware of his grandeur.
I'm told these people, my biological relatives, are from an area of North Carolina, that I am unfamiliar with. Being raised in Charlotte, as I was, as odd as it sounds to most people who currently live here, it's even odd to me, that I am not full of knowledge on this remote area of the state, only 200 miles from me. I am so unfamiliar in fact, that after having looked at a MapPoint program of the directions a few times, I am still not sure what highway to take to get there. That's not saying much, because I still get lost in Charlotte from time to time. I blame that on the, um, the drugs. There, I'm honest- I used to smoke pot. I'm blaming it on the burn out/slightly forgetful syndrome.Charlotte is a melting pot of sorts. I'm not sure why people who are born here leave and why people who are not from here stay, but it is a well known fact by most inhabitants that if you are born here, you do not live here still. Either way, I have found it to be a nice place to raise my daughter, Sarah, who is four, and my Mom still lives here, and I can't see myself leaving anytime soon, even if I saw an incredible rate hike in my salary.
Nevertheless, these people hail from the eastern part of North Carolina, in a county called Lenoir, which is peppered with little townships, of which one might call a neighborhood or subdivision, a common description by Southerners, I'm told by my good friend from NY who likes poking fun of unnoticed coloquialisms. And from what I understand from talking to a few of its longtime inhabitants, is a county in which everyone knows everyone. Great! That is exactly what I need to accomplish this task of finding a needle in a haystack, to borrow the age old addage that people have over the years worn out to the point of disgust. But, in this case, I think that is the perfect cliche for what I am describing.
No matter which lens you are looking through, A or B, a small joke for those of you, who, like me, couldn't see a giant pendulum swinging at your coconut if your life depended on it, adoption is something that is an option for people who have more opportunity in life. It's for people who have moola, and supportive family, and come from loving environments. So I thought, until two weeks ago.
What actually prompted me to look for these people with whom I share a common blood line is disturbing. A new "friend" of mine is adopted, and did not have a happy story to tell me of going to the park on Saturdays, and getting ice cream when he made an A in a tough subject at school, or when he might have simply done the right thing. He didn't have 7am soccer practice with sleepovers and pizza, sneaking out and stealing mom's car was not even a distant thought. The repercussions of getting caught doing something like that were not like mine were- a grounding for a month. Whoop-dee-doo. Instead, he would get a switch to his behind, which on many instances, would creep up his back, bruising a lot more than his body, scarring much more tissue than what the naked eye could see. He was not loved, not taken to McDonald's for chocolate dipped cones that would melt down your chin, and insist on the look of an unshaven man who just got off a two day stint in a coal mine. He was an only child, unlike me. He didn't have anyone to teach him what people were like, other than his peers at school, whose motives might also be questionable. And, thank the Good Lord for good people, who did show him the uncharted paths. We all need good people in our lives, don't we? He didn't have someone giving him an attaboy for the things he accomplished, big or almost invisible. They all matter to a good parent. It's a life of solitude that he has lived, a leper's life, and I do not envy him one bit. The happy ending to his story, although it is far from over- he is only 32 years young, is that he is a wonderful person despite his incredible misfortune. He has made something of himself and can recognize beauty. He has turned out good, as people love to say. Maybe it's the nicer, more politically correct way to say, "poor fella". In this instance, my friend really has been a survivor, and continues to grow everyday despite his lonely circumstances. He is inspirational,although possibly unaware of his grandeur.
I'm told these people, my biological relatives, are from an area of North Carolina, that I am unfamiliar with. Being raised in Charlotte, as I was, as odd as it sounds to most people who currently live here, it's even odd to me, that I am not full of knowledge on this remote area of the state, only 200 miles from me. I am so unfamiliar in fact, that after having looked at a MapPoint program of the directions a few times, I am still not sure what highway to take to get there. That's not saying much, because I still get lost in Charlotte from time to time. I blame that on the, um, the drugs. There, I'm honest- I used to smoke pot. I'm blaming it on the burn out/slightly forgetful syndrome.Charlotte is a melting pot of sorts. I'm not sure why people who are born here leave and why people who are not from here stay, but it is a well known fact by most inhabitants that if you are born here, you do not live here still. Either way, I have found it to be a nice place to raise my daughter, Sarah, who is four, and my Mom still lives here, and I can't see myself leaving anytime soon, even if I saw an incredible rate hike in my salary.
Nevertheless, these people hail from the eastern part of North Carolina, in a county called Lenoir, which is peppered with little townships, of which one might call a neighborhood or subdivision, a common description by Southerners, I'm told by my good friend from NY who likes poking fun of unnoticed coloquialisms. And from what I understand from talking to a few of its longtime inhabitants, is a county in which everyone knows everyone. Great! That is exactly what I need to accomplish this task of finding a needle in a haystack, to borrow the age old addage that people have over the years worn out to the point of disgust. But, in this case, I think that is the perfect cliche for what I am describing.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
8/3/2011- from the start I knew
My mother had no idea how hard it would be to give me up, to sign her name to many pages of documents that would fill a green file folder later spanning over an inch thick, which seems thick when you imagine it sitting vulerable on a table, but when you know it is all that you have to link your heritage to, it is quite the opposite. In fact, that exact folder, dusty in it's current redemption, filled with its yellowed tattered pages with ancient typewritten font of dark black ink, is not large enough, and is like a block of gold to someone like me. Its pages would be notarized and copied and recopied, probably photographed by someone, who knows who, but always etched in the mind of my biological birthmother, who I will for name's sake call, BM. How fitting. She didn't know what it would feel like to always wonder how I was fairing in life. Was I smart enough? Did I look like her? Were my adoptive parents loving like hers were? Did I grow up to be something aspiring? Would I get married? Have children? Would they look like her too? Would I love her or hate her for what she did? Would I even know that I was adopted? She didn't know what it would be like to hide in fear from her boyfriend, whom she had been dating for several years, and didn't tell she was pregnant with his unborn child, whom she hid from and went to great and unimaginable lengths to keep this emerging secret from. He couldn't afford a baby and a wife. After all he was in dental school, and his education was prioroty. How could he afford that- a woman and child, most likely a woman he would have proposed to, given the opportunity to make a decision. If only, he had been given the opportunity. Who knows what might have happened. I don't. I was adopted by another family. I guess we will never know.
At three weeks old, with bilateral tibial torsion with metatarsus adductus, I had to look four times when typing that one out, which dumbed down for the ones of us who aren't orthopedists, means slightly turned in foot, which was later corrected by a surgury which I haven't the faintest memory of, and with a red curly waft of hair, beeming bright blue eyes, not to sound arrogant, but hey, I was a pretty baby (don't act surprised), I was officially named Elizabeth Brooke Fairley, daughter to John and Lynne. I was no longer baby Vera, and no longer in the care of an unknown foster family, who hopefully, had no sick obsessions with small children. I wonder sometimes- I have been known to be kinda kinky, but that's beside the point and will probably be needed to be "worked through" at a later date and time in my life while laying on some form of brown or white leather couch that probably came from a cool store like West Elm, not IKEA.
I was given a name. I always imagine a large, deep voice calling out, "and you will be called insert name here" I was not in the care of a foster home. I was in the care of my new parents who wanted a child so badly that they told the Children's Home Society of North Carolina they would even take twins. What kind of saints would volunteer to be partially miserable for 18 years, give or take a few, considering the economy, we can almost guarantee 23? The CHS is the agency that placed me, walked my birth mother through her pregnancy, held my adopted parent's hands and most likey shed a few tears with all, both on happy notes and also stemmed from deep seeded pain, which will later be repressed by all parties involved, (and we go back to the leather couch) and all of which have a direct coorelation with an understanding on a deeper level of what true love really entails.
At three weeks old, with bilateral tibial torsion with metatarsus adductus, I had to look four times when typing that one out, which dumbed down for the ones of us who aren't orthopedists, means slightly turned in foot, which was later corrected by a surgury which I haven't the faintest memory of, and with a red curly waft of hair, beeming bright blue eyes, not to sound arrogant, but hey, I was a pretty baby (don't act surprised), I was officially named Elizabeth Brooke Fairley, daughter to John and Lynne. I was no longer baby Vera, and no longer in the care of an unknown foster family, who hopefully, had no sick obsessions with small children. I wonder sometimes- I have been known to be kinda kinky, but that's beside the point and will probably be needed to be "worked through" at a later date and time in my life while laying on some form of brown or white leather couch that probably came from a cool store like West Elm, not IKEA.
I was given a name. I always imagine a large, deep voice calling out, "and you will be called insert name here" I was not in the care of a foster home. I was in the care of my new parents who wanted a child so badly that they told the Children's Home Society of North Carolina they would even take twins. What kind of saints would volunteer to be partially miserable for 18 years, give or take a few, considering the economy, we can almost guarantee 23? The CHS is the agency that placed me, walked my birth mother through her pregnancy, held my adopted parent's hands and most likey shed a few tears with all, both on happy notes and also stemmed from deep seeded pain, which will later be repressed by all parties involved, (and we go back to the leather couch) and all of which have a direct coorelation with an understanding on a deeper level of what true love really entails.
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