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.
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