People keep asking me...

People keep asking me if I've written the letter, sent the letter, or found out anything else about my birthparents. Let me clarify. The answer is no. I have not done anything about it in weeks, meaning blogged on the topic, spoken to a therapist, Pastor, or stranger in passing because I have little to no privacy, some might use the word personal integrity, on the subject at this point, mainly because I have shared pretty much every range of feeling I have experienced on the subject of my adoption with the world at large, who cared to read enough, who will and have devoted large sums of their very privied time to study me and my thoughts. It makes me wonder what it is that people love about reading what other people write.
I know, I like reading what people I know and love write because it is an inside gateway to their mind and thought process without it being directly accessed through a conversation that would be easily manipulated by unassumingly observing one another's body language.
I was told by Dick Watts, as we not-so fondly called our Principal at A.G. Junior High all those years ago, that I have an incredible amount of body language that needs to be, "noticed and worked on."
I can remember what it felt like sitting in his urine yellow office on that brown, uncomfortable pleather couch, accompanied by my Mom and Dad (you knew it was bad, if Dad was making an appearance). Dick was sitting across from us on the other cheaply manufactured and effortlessly designed twin couch with his glasses draped across the tip of his nose as if he were reading right through my soul. He sat with his legs crossed like a female, how a confident attorney would sit in court while waiting to speak to the judge on a traffic ticket dismissal. His grey argyle socks snuck out from under his expensive suit pants that were most likely grey also. He was missing a tie, probably because he knew the upcoming conversation might be indicative of heavy perspiration. After all, my father was a trial attorney and my mom was a tenured Media Specialist at a fellow Charlotte Meck elementary school who knew the proper rules of engagement.
His low voice, slow and steady, reminiscent of a radio personality, and ready to come back at any excuse I threw out there for my ensuing behavioral issues, made my skin crawl.
I was told by him that anyone who came across my path was sure to know what was churning in my mind because I wore it plain as the day is long on my face and through my body language, one could tell immediately what I was feeling. I guess I won't be sitting at the winner's table at the World series of Poker any time soon.
I wonder if he could see my middle finger shoved in his face and hear all the mad cursing that was roving my brain while sitting wedged between my parents who vehemently agreed with him just to get out of there as quick as possible, avoiding any further humiliation or brow-beating by the accclaimed Principal.
He later moved up the educational ladder, to become some sort of consultant or superintendent for a bigger and probably better and less skewed school system. I think he went to DC. Yeah, doubt that was any less stressful or more gratifying.
Similarly, the current Charlotte Mecklenburg Superintendent is doing the same thing. I wonder if they somehow know eachother. Maybe they can both meet at Starbucks for an upside down Carmel Macchiato, since that seems to be the drink of choice for many coffee junkies these days. They can trade stories between sips about how messed up Charlotte students are, oh and their parents too, of course.
He went on to use his fancy degree in psychology that allowed him to have the mostly respected Dr. in front of his name, which, by the way, was not Dick.
Shrinking 7th grade heads was probably not as fun to him. We were not disturbed enough at that point in life. No, that wouldn't produce enough material to even produce a second edition of his dissertation. Not until at least age 21, could any undergraduate student produce that kind of material, when there would be significant exposure to the outside world, forcing more decisive measures. I am probably being harsh to Dr. Watts. I'm sure his heart was in the right spot when he called my parents to discuss my "abundance of body language," but in my 7th grade stuck mind, he will always be just a dick.
I don't know how I got on that rant, but nevertheless, it is all true.
I guess I was discussing how people find other people interesting- the ways in which we captivate eachother. I guess everyone enjoys a good story as told by the person who lived it.
My story of my adoption is just that. And someday, I will tell it start to finish, with the hopes of entertaining others and bringing insight to what it is like to search for and find a relative with only a miniscule piece of paper to go on, and fueled by many years of unanswered questions.
It is my feeling that there are many people out there like me, who sit silent, some hurting, some angry from the hurt, all in different stages of denial and rejection, others who are going through the motions of not knowing answers to their toughest questions. Helping those people to find their voice and be able to speak out on their adoption without being held captive by fear is my goal.
Along with the quite obvious therapuetic qualities that writing boasts, this journey will be documented as fashionably forward as possible. I plan on full disclosure so that anyone who is mid-search or who is in the stage of just knowing a name and not knowing what to do with it can ultimately have safety in knowing that they are not alone. Finding a birthparent is life changing and I plan on relentlessly documenting and over analyzing every single dispicable detail. Please stay tuned for a beginning to this story coming very soon.

9/14/11 creativity should not be squandered

I am starting to believe that creativity is a gift from God. I've always wondered what gifts I've had, other than being a really good bullshitter. Having been known for having the gift of gab for most of my life, starting at the ripe-old age of 7 when my second grade teacher would often make handwritten notes to my mom on my tri-folded report card, donning the school crest in the traditional all-American colors of red, white, and blue- after all, it is called Myers Park Traditional, still to this day. (In fact, I have been toying with sending Sarah there next year, if I can get her in.) She would say things like, "Talks too much," or "If only we could get Brooke to focus as much on her schoolwork as she does on gabbing to her neighbors." No one pointed out to Mrs. James that was an incomplete sentence, especially not me.
My GOG- gift of gab has had its ramifications. I have either been the life of the party, causing many nights of senseless groundation while I was in my teenage years. Well, it was senseless in the regard that I was doing dumb things, and always got caught. On the other hand, I was also occasionally the social outcast, having always spoken my mind, and at the age of 17, it is never appropriate for a young woman to speak her mind, simply because she doesn't have enough worldly knowledge to sufficiently and succinctly express any opinions she might have prematurely formed, without realizing. Everyone knows that when you are a teenager, you know everything. You can't tell a teenage girl anything. She already knows. Little did I really know. Little do I still know. Maybe that's a clue as to why I am so intrigued with elderly people, and enjoy their presence and likewise accompanying stories.

9/2/11 No rush...

Another Friday, another day without sending the letter, without having finished it. I think I'll change my middle name to "procrastinate." Nah, that's too many syllables, Elizabeth Procrastinate Fairley.
We are going to the beach Sunday for a week. I am thoroughly stoked and anticipatory of even finishing packing tonight, which would be a first time feat for any card carrying Fairley. I even started packing for Sarah, straight out of the dryer. That's pure brilliance.
Enough with the fluff. Let's get down to business. I am scared that Colette won't want to meet me. She mght be happy with her life as is, as I am. She might be not willing to open her heart and mind up to me. Meeting me might be like visiting the cemetary to put down some poinsettas at Christmas on your favorite great aunt's grave.

Letter #2- Angry sounding- I didn't send it

Dear Colette,

I hate to start this letter by stating the obvious, as it pains me to be so simple minded, but I think I will anyway. You don't know me, but I bet you wished you did. Notice the past tense verbiage. I say that in the past tense because, I am probably something you rarely think about today, 35 years later. I am probably a crushed up little pipe dream that you shoved in the back of your closet, way behind the porn magazines, the lonely single socks that are missing their mates, behind the old dresser that belonged to your great grandmother that you can barely stand to look at, with it's faded black wooden stain and handles that make a distinctive jingling sound when you pull them out and let go quickly, but that you still own because your mother couldn't let it go, and you therefore, couldn't either. I am probably a smashed up empty cigarette box thrown on the highway by some uneducated, probably formerly imprisoned, redneck who doesn't recognize nor admire the true beauty of unspoiled nature. I am that puzzle that you could never finish because you lost the piece, the one that you oddly donated to Goodwill, thinking that some poor soul would somehow enjoy finishing it more than you did despite its lack of completeness.
On the other hand, I could be that stranger you met, that one night at the grocery store who you had an amazing five minute conversation with, the one who gazed intently at you, who stared right through your soul, but that you just let walk out the double automatic sliding doors, while your mouth hung open, and your heart pounded, and the whole drive home from the store you cursed yourself for not giving him your phone number at the risk of being, well, being risky. Or, I could be that beautiful, melodic song that you heard on that random radio station on your son's XM that you rarely listen to, the song that you loved so much when you heard, but never knew what it was called, and never heard the radio station number in time to call to find out. Regardless of how you view me, what you think of me, how I turned out, where I was raised, and by whom, I am here, alive and well, and curious now to know you. By now, I'm sure, since you are a woman donned with intelligence from what I've been told, you are aware of who this is. Do I need to say the words to make it real enough? Should I have sent a singing telegram for you to have been able to touch? I am your daughter.
This is the third letter I've written to you, and probably the last. I haven't liked either of the other two letters enough to print them out, and drop them in the mail. I'm not sure that I like this one even. It's been more of a creative writing experiment at this point. I have now known your name and address for over a month, and feel completely fine with waiting to send this letter. Seeing as how I've been through the motions for 35 years now, I guess it makes it somewhat easier to stomach. I've cried already. I've bitten my nails. I've dreamed about meeting you, and formed my own twisted reality in my mind of what our reunion would be like. Of course, some would say I probably need to get some mental help, but I'm not worried about it. I know who I am, and I can honestly sit here and say that I think I will be ok if you decide you want nothing to do with me. That is your prerogative. I don't want to interfere on your life, nor steal any happiness you may have by interjecting myself into your proverbial mix.
I want nothing from you, but to know where I came from. I think I deserve to know someone who is like me. I realize that this may sound abrasive, even hinting at anger, but I want to be completely frank here. I am not angry at all, but I am guilty of being blunt, and to the point, sometimes fearless, occasionally cowardly.
Nevertheless, I have had an incredible life, with every opportunity afforded to me that you probably prayed for many nights while crying to God. I have an amazing family, and most people would consider me to be blessed, and by my own standards, I am pretty proud of the woman I've become. And you would be too, if you would take the chance to meet me. It's important to me for you to know that I am not mad at you, and never have been. I understand that what you did was both incredibly selfless and loving, and I have a great deal of respect for any woman who can see past her own nose, when the world and its suroundings and its materialism often make it easy to be self-centered, unaware. After all, had you not given me up for adoption, I would not be where I am today. And I am happy to be me.
My number is here. My address is here. I think it's been long enough. Don't you?

I enclosed a picture of me and my daughter, Sarah. She's four. You can see by looking at her, she's nothing shy of my whole world, just as I imagine I would have been to you, had you not done what you felt was right and what was neccessary in that tough year you suffered my loss.

With nothing but kindness, truth and love, your birthdaughter,

Brooke Fairley