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.