I emailed Colette again last Thursday. To sum it up, I basically told her that I want her to tell me who my birth father is, and with or without her help I will find out who he is. Knowing this, she might be worried about her reputation. After all, she is the spokesperson of some pretty big college in her neck of the woods, and one that I've heard is widely known in the eastern part of the state. To my knowledge, she never told him about her pregnancy. He very well might know absolutely nothing about my existence. Shoot, he might live in Charlotte even. It's the largest city in the state of North Carolina, which means it has the most opportunity for opening a dental practice. My birth father, 24 at the time, was in his second year of dental school when Colette got pregnant. It would behoove one to move to the largest populated city in the state in which one holds a license to practice dentistry, which I am told, is only good for the state in which you studied, unless of course you take the exam in another state. People do move after all. We are not bound to only live in one state thankfully. There are so many dental practices in Charlotte, one in particular, which I have the strangest feeling about, one that my orthodontist had mentioned as well.
He was so puzzled by my strange request of him, but he seemed genuinely interested in my story when I told it to him last week, as I was sitting in his chair, picking out colors of my future retainer. I felt 13 again. I went with clear I think. At 36, the last thing you want people to notice about you is the strange looking colored metal piece in your mouth. I have a slight gap between my front teeth that bothers me enough to pay for a new retainer and to wear it in public. I say this now, but I'm imagining it will most likely be worn in my bed as I sleep, and definitely not as I'm doing other more playful things in my bed- you know those things that grown-ups like to do. My gap has bothered me here and there, but I have been pretty comfortable with it until recently, when Debi sent me a picture of all of the graduating class of UNC-Dental School of 1978, and low and behold, there was a picture of my past (and future) orthodontist, Dr. Webb. Wow. He might have gone to dental school with my father. That was good enough reason to have a more bothersome feeling about my unruly gap in my front teeth. After all, that gap could stand between me and a great job one day. I must have it looked at. It's imperative. Madonna made the gap cool. She can keep it. I'll go for the mod.
As I walked into his new building, which was more state of the art than ever, more ying to the yang than I recall his last office being, I couldn't help but think, "Brooke, don't forget to ask him about dental school. Don't forget you forgetful Nancy. You could screw up a wet dream. Don't screw this up. You don't want him thinking you just came in to pick his brain about dental school either." He was probably later scratching his head thinking just that after both Debi and I had bombarded him with emails that had attachments galore. He emailed back that day, which was surprising. Doctors of teeth rarely work, I assumed they rarely returned emails as well. Turns out, I was wrong.
He told me that there were only 81 in his graduating class, and he would know all of them. He is the social type, very flittery, not in a gay way. If you saw his stature, you might understand. He is bite size, and his voice, very soft. He appeared to be genuinely happy to see me, although I was a bit surprised that he even remembered me. Unlike most of my friends, I only wore braces for about a year or so. I swear I think they keep you in braces longer than need be just so they can keep charging your parents because God knows insurance is a joke when it comes to orthodontics. That would be unethical, and it's probably pretty offensive that I even wrote that, but it's not unbelievable, and I'm sure it has happened a time or two, maybe not by Dr. Webb, but by some schmuck.
If anyone would know someone, I would think it would be Dr. Webb. He just seems like the kind of guy that would know everyone. And judging by his response, I was right. He said he even knew the class that graduated before him, that they all shared lockers in the dental school. SCORE! My wicked plan worked.
He gave me his email and the communication began. I am leary though now, and wished I had been a little more hesitant. He said he had a friend from Kinston, that's where the birth mother is from, and that he was going to call him to find out what he knew. OK. That's taking it a little too far. I don't know that I want her name smeared all around town. Kinston is very small I imagine, probably a town as big as Monroe. I don't know the coordinates or population, but my imagination is vivid, and I can just see what the downtown looks like- with its red brick two story Walgreen's on the southeastern facing corner and the Tru Value Hardware Store soaking up the opposite corner of Main Street.
He asked me to send him a copy of my birth certificate. Now that sounds strange to me. Why on earth would he want that? Does he not understand the logic behind my line of questioning? Does he think I know a name? If I had a name on the birth certificate would I not just Google him? I let him in on how things were done back then, that the original birth certificates for adopted babies went down an assembly line, where they were stamped with a big REJECTED and then ended in a giant fiery tomb that was filled with thousands of lost socks, only to be incinerated for good. The babies that were alive were then renamed and sent to live with weirdos who just wanted a paycheck from the state, until they were adopted by hopefully loving families, like mine. Obviously, that's not entirely how it works, but that's the feeling that I got based on my fruitless search to find my birth certificate at the vital records office that one day last summer.
When I mentioned to Dr. Webb that my father was described as very athletic, and 6'2 with blonde hair and blue eyes, a look came over his face that made me feel uneasy. It was like he had seen a ghost, like he immediately knew who I was talking about, which leads me to believe that is why he wants a copy of the birth certificate. Maybe the person who he thinks it could be, he had contacted that afternoon. Maybe the "could be father" wanted proof, and he asked Dr. Webb for the birth certificate in disbelief. Dr. Webb said he was going on vacation this week. Shocker. A dentist going on vacation on July 4th? I might be a horrible communicator in person, and put my foot in my mouth all the time, saying inappropriate things at inopportune times, but if there's one thing I can do well- it's read people. I know people, maybe not everyone, maybe not the guy I'm currently dating, but damn it, I know most people. I have the knack for figuring people out. Call it intuition. Call it whatever you want to call it. But I saw something flicker in his eye when I described the possible birth father. It was like a light went on in his head. His eyes screamed it, and my radar picked up his signals. Whether or not anything will come of this, we won't know until we know. But I have a feeling that he might know more than I think.
Since I have slightly given up hope on Colette ever reaching out to me, slowly tackling this rejection day by day, I decided that it might be a safer bet to find the birth father. Men, in general, are more direct, and once I find out who he is, and take the plunge, I will know pretty quickly his response. Women, I've noticed, like to think things out longer than men. I could expand on my theory of why that is, but I will spare you. You could say I am slightly prompted by Debi's constant, but gentle push to find him. She is the searcher who found my birth mother. And it was within a month that she found her. Granted, it might have been easier to find her, by no means was it easy, but being given the county of the birth mother's birth, it gave her a solid foundation to start from, and to ultimately arrive at.
We know the birth father is/was 6'2, had blonde hair, a dark complexion, enjoyed bike riding, and was musically gifted. It was said in the papers (my flimsy adoption papers that the state of North Carolina has deemed appropriate enough to give most adoptees who were born in closed adoptions as far back as it has been legal, and probably still to this day) that the birth father did not know of the pregnancy. There is something so wrong with that scenario, something so intrinsically wrong, so backwards, so just...just...disgusting about that. I can't describe my feelings on that. Pregnancies that stem from rape, incest, molestation, any other sick methods I have not covered included, I can see as a good enough reason to hide a pregnancy, but when you are in college, you have two consenting adults who are of sound mind and body, and both mature adults, who think they are mature enough to make a decision like that, to hide a pregnancy- I just don't understand the mentality. I have wrapped my mind around it so many ways. What would motivate someone to do such a thing? What could be so bad that a woman would not tell a man- a young, intelligent, motivated man the truth- that he has super sperm, that he got her pregnant. My thoughts immediately go to the obvious. Maybe she cheated on him with some random frat boy at a mixer. Maybe they drank too many Milwaukee's Best can beers. Many college students' couldn't afford Fat Tire, and when you are underage or even legal age and drinking and in college, your soft pallet is not the driving factor with regard to alcoholic consumption. Anyone who drank in college most likely knows that is a sad truth. Maybe she hooked up with her boyfriend's best friend or roommate, not unheard of, pretty embarrassing for both parties, but nothing worthy of committing yourself to a lifetime of shame and hiding, pretending. Maybe she was raped. Maybe not. She claimed that the birth father was in dental school. To me, anyone who is intelligent enough to get into dental school, forget about the dedication, anyone who is bright enough for that, would be a good candidate for a father and husband.
Maybe she is was so hung up on appearances that the thought of herself being unwed and pregnant, or worse, a single mother (gasp), was so horrifying that she could not even think about it. Maybe she didn't even think it out at all. Maybe she rushed into her decision. Who knows what motivated Colette to give me up for adoption without even asking my birth father's opinion. At this point, it doesn't matter. What's done is done. Although, I have to think that might be hindering her from meeting me, or at least making any sort of communication. She might be so ashamed of her actions as an inexperienced 21 year old, that she can't face it today. She can't face me- her own daughter. Now she has some maturity and some life experience behind her and maybe, just maybe, she might do things differently today. I know my decisions at age 21 would not be equivalent to the ones that I make now. But at age 21, I sure would have thought I was doing the right thing. At that age, you know everything, right? At least I did. And I was never wrong. God forbid accept responsibility for your actions. Never. I was always right, and you were always wrong. That's the way a small mind works, and at age 21, you are very small. That was her age when she was pregnant with me- 21.
I decided to go email the last time because email is direct and instantaneous so to speak, once you hit send, there is no doubt it gets to the recipient unless you get that return email of course from Mailer Daemon, whoever that is. Mailer Demon would be more fitting if you ask me. I told her that I was going to look now for my birth father, and if she would just give me his name then it would make things so much easier. Easier for who I'm imaging she was thinking. Well duh, easier for me. I think she's had enough say so in the matter as it stands. She made the decision that should have been shared between two minds. She has kept my existence a secret for long enough. It's time to come clean. My thoughts on this situation are rapidly getting more aggressive towards Colette as I'm typing this and in such a hurried fashion. I'm starting to feel resentment, rejection, and frankly, I'm starting to get pissed.
I guess this evolution of events surrounding my birth, or summation of non-events as it currently stands, is turning out to be more of a hassle than anything else. I am using good brain power, soaking up many hours thinking and writing about this, and I must say, it's pretty lame. I feel like a hot mess, like I'm a dog chasing a firetruck, like a stranded passenger at an airport who just watched the gate close as she was running faster than hell down the corrider to sneak in just in the nick of time. I feel like that cup of coffee that got left in the microwave, not forgotten just once, but twice now. At any rate, hurt or healthy, I will survive all of this mess because I am survivor. Just like Lady Gaga, I was born that way. I will move on from this time in my life with a new perspective, and one day I will look back and say, I learned from that. Because learning from your experiences helps us to grow as souls and without reflecting on our past suffering we are not actualizing our losses which in essence create room for even bigger scores. Life is short. Hug yourself.
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