While riding the express bus home from work tonight, while trying to decipher where exactly we were in relation to my car's park and ride lot and in between fleeting sick thoughts of a horrible crash where the bus crashed over the guard rail and we landed in the creek 100 feet under the highway we were cruising over at only about 55, bodies flung everywhere, and gross depictions of sharp objects nailing bodies to their seats, I was also imagining something positive. Hard to believe, right?
I was thinking about starting a charity. It's always been something I've wanted to do, but never worked on. In thinking of this, I started thinking about this blog I've been wasting time on.
I realized that all of this fluff-n-stuff aka blog that I've been writing is boring. I'm getting bored talking about it, and I'm getting bored typing it. Who in the world cares about one nobody in the world who happens to write about her life? What makes anything that I write about interesting enough to lure readers back more than once? I wonder.
I wonder if it's the fact that I've somehow made you feel like you know what's going on in my twisted little world? Is it because you are nosey? Is it because it's interesting? Is it that I need some form of validation? I am not psychologist, but I should have gone into Sociology.
My good friend actually told me that the other day- that he should have studied sociology. I asked him what he would have done with that degree over his current Philosophy papers, an answer which had little to no impression on me because I can't even remember it now.
Point proven. What does a Sociologist really do? Study why people do the things they do? Study people? Regardless, it doesn't take a degree in sociology to know how the world operates and to understand people.
It does however require the ability to pay attention.
Back to the point.
I was talking about a charity. I was tumbling around in my mind all of the needs that stem from the lack of one simple act in this world- caring. Do we care about others enough?
I constantly hear the age old argument- if there is a God, why does he let all the bad things in the world happen? You know the normal atrosities are usually brought up- famine, homelessness, senseless murder, as if any killing has real value or purpose, child molestation, rape. The reply I think of immediately in this argument, is why do people let those things happen?
We are the ones who inhabit the Earth. We are the ones who should not let those things happen. We take little precaution, until things are irreparable. There can be no one other than ourselves to blame for the wrath of an uncaring world.
We don't care enough.
So instead of talking about my life tonight, I wanted to give out a tip.
If you are looking for your birthparent, the first thing for you to do is register on this website:
#1 www.whentheboughbreaks.net
If you know someone who is looking let them know. That is the first step to take. Somehow they have a lot of records. They have people who search for you for FREE. People who do this for free are PRICELESS. You can't put a dollar sign on people who care this much.
#2 Register on www.isrr.net
That is a nationwide registry for adoptees and birth relatives.
#3 Get some counseling, or write a blog. That was meant to be funny.
An ongoing diary of my quest to find my biological relatives, at age 35, and as a single mom.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
A brief convo with the Mayor
Speaking of Ms. Sykes, the now mayor of Pink Hill, something kinda of interesting happened yesterday as me and my slave labor help (Nonie's kids plus Sarah, who barely lifted a finger except to "push buttons" on my phone)were cleaning out the spare room closet which had been decorated by the said slave labor over two months prior. By decoration I mean, draggging out every single article of clothing draped lifeless over a piece of metal, and throwing it on the floor of said closet.
Yes, I was, oh how do you describe it, DISGUSTED to see the mess at the time, but over the following weeks it evolved into anger, then worry (when I would have time to clean it out), and then finally to stress (the process leading up to cleaning it out).
Cleaning in the Fairley household goes through stages. Usually, just like in AA, it starts with denial, which I believe is really the #0. Because, and I say this not from personal experience, I'm still in denial that I'm an alcoholic, but from having many friends and one family member in particular complete the steps, or at best attempt to complete the steps, because, I think I remember #1 being admitting you have a problem, which abrogates denial.
I was diciphering through the sea of demise, known as the "big clump".It disguised my new Martha Stewart carpet in the closet with the double doors that normally would be a collection plate for odds and ends that never really had a home in my house, that probably should have never seen their way inside the front poker green metal framed door.
Sitting criss cross applesauce, which I'm imagining is the new PC way to say "Indian style", I would grab and think, probably for much too long, considering the ultra-poor state of living that some Americans face these days, there should be no debate.
Everything should have gone straight to the give-away pile. But for some greedy reason, I just couldn't justify giving away the beautiful hand-smocked outfits Sarah wore as a baby, those outfits that Paul, her lousy father, hated, but I adored. I was thinking to myself, with money symbols reverbing from my eyeballs, "who would appreciate this outfit as much as I did?"
Thinking back, what a rediculous question. Am I the only one in the world who likes a green and red plaid smocked outfit? I'll have to work on giving my possessions away. After all, they mean nothing, they don't do anything for you, nor give back, and they certainly can't whisper sweet things in your ear when you are feeling down, and then maybe nibble on your ear lobe with a soft pair of lips with a faint smell of clean clothes ligngering on your button up blue shirt, because all men wear blue shirts in the office for some reason.
It's like when you are born with a penis, big or small, and you can tell whether they will have a big one as an adult, or silently feel sorry for the poor little fella, the doctor holds you under a hypnotic light int he hospital, in a hidden room that you can only get to from pushing a book in the wall sideways, and ingrates into your little baby brain that it is only appropriate to wear blue shirts in the office. Once a month it is ok to wear a lavender shirt, even pink maybe, but rarely yellow and never RED. Black is a color that men in uptight offices don't wear for some reason. I guess women wear enough black to make up for all the men in the world who don't.
If you are a smart man, you will realize that women in the office, don't give two shits about what you are wearing. They just care about what THEY are wearing, and any other cute chick in the office that might be vying for your attention.
All this talk about clothing brings me back to sitting in the closet, but not before I tell you this.
After the conversation I had with a friend tonight at church, I felt like a stingy, greedy bitch. She was telling me of a neighborhood in Charlotte, consisting mostly of Thai immigrants where mothers and children have no shoes to wear. I felt immediately convicted.
I was sitting here yesterday deciding which clothes were too nice to give away, and which I would try to sell. Who was worthy and who was not?
I'm disgusted at myself, at what I've become. That is not me.
That neighborhood that she was talking about was in fact a neighborhood that I had been in not too long ago. In fact, I took a wrong turn and drove right through there. Right in the heart of Little China neighborhood off Central Avenue it stands. I told Angie, I'd just go drop them off (referring to the clothes I had just spent hours laboring over and dividing just the day previous), and she said it's not safe.
I was a little shocked by that statement. Since when did poor automatically equal danger? Only in America. Only from an outsider looking in. Although my friend happens to also be Thai, I doubt she knew what she was talking about, having grown up in America herself, from what I can tell by her obvious lack of Thai accent, obesity, and coupon clipping club, which she leads with humor. She is quite funny. I admire her for that.
As we sat there, me, Grace, Reece, and Sarah, them with their hogging of my internet connected phone, a plethera of games to choose from and argue later about, and me in keep vs give mode, they accidentally called Ms. Sykes.
My high tech gadget-like phone, I say that because I am not a techie, nor an appreciator of all things techie, has a function that when you press a key and say who you are calling it will automatically find the person whom you are calling, and if there is a duplicate, like in a many cases, when you have over 350 contacts in your phone like I do, it asks you to choose from several, and then it will dial.
Sarah was saying, "call Carole," and over and over again, because although she speaks very clear for a 4 year old, she doesn't pronounce Carole with a hard L, like most. The other names that popped up- I haven't a clue, but in this particular instance she pulled up the correct name. There popped up Carole Sykes, not her Momo, Carole, as she is lovingly referred to by the fam.
As Sarah is having this very non-descript conversation with "Carole," I noticed that something wasn't right. I grabbed the phone, as most mothers who let their children play with their phones have to do quite often, and low and behold, guess who it was. Bingo.
It was the new mayor, just carrying on a conversation with Sarah about God knows what. It was as if they were long time pals, just like me and Colette's friend had talked.
I congratulated her for winning mayor, which I bet wasn't THAT hard to do, considering the town is about as big as your local Super Target. Regardless, it was notable, and I am happy for her. We talked abotu 5-10 minutes, and she asked me if I ever made contact, to which I told her no. I also told her the name, but she didn't recognize it. She promised me she wouldn't tell anyone. I don't know if I believe her or not. You can never trust a politician.
In all actuality, I was glad she misdialed her. It was kind of a reminder that I need to get that letter in the mail. I'm assuming that the aunt has seen my picture by now. Anyone who Facebooks at all, at least checks in once a month. I think it's been over a month. Has it? I'm not sure. Who's counting?
I think people are starting to get bored with me talking about it. My inaction is leading to boredom and you know what happens when you get bored? You do stupid things....like say things like, "Do I look familiar to you?" to a complete stranger/aunt who may take one look at that picture, and like the friend of Colette's who gave her name and secret away on the phone to the search angel, Debi, her jaw might drop and say, "Oh My God, it's like looking in a mirror".
I don't think I ever actually shared with you how I found out Colette is my birthmom. The actual story is very interesting. I can't tell though, because the woman made me promise not to tell. It was divine intervention I believe now. Which makes me think Colette might really need me right now. Maybe I need her? I don't know. I can't share it yet. I made a promise, and like the men who march on Washington once a year, I will keep my promise.
Yes, I was, oh how do you describe it, DISGUSTED to see the mess at the time, but over the following weeks it evolved into anger, then worry (when I would have time to clean it out), and then finally to stress (the process leading up to cleaning it out).
Cleaning in the Fairley household goes through stages. Usually, just like in AA, it starts with denial, which I believe is really the #0. Because, and I say this not from personal experience, I'm still in denial that I'm an alcoholic, but from having many friends and one family member in particular complete the steps, or at best attempt to complete the steps, because, I think I remember #1 being admitting you have a problem, which abrogates denial.
I was diciphering through the sea of demise, known as the "big clump".It disguised my new Martha Stewart carpet in the closet with the double doors that normally would be a collection plate for odds and ends that never really had a home in my house, that probably should have never seen their way inside the front poker green metal framed door.
Sitting criss cross applesauce, which I'm imagining is the new PC way to say "Indian style", I would grab and think, probably for much too long, considering the ultra-poor state of living that some Americans face these days, there should be no debate.
Everything should have gone straight to the give-away pile. But for some greedy reason, I just couldn't justify giving away the beautiful hand-smocked outfits Sarah wore as a baby, those outfits that Paul, her lousy father, hated, but I adored. I was thinking to myself, with money symbols reverbing from my eyeballs, "who would appreciate this outfit as much as I did?"
Thinking back, what a rediculous question. Am I the only one in the world who likes a green and red plaid smocked outfit? I'll have to work on giving my possessions away. After all, they mean nothing, they don't do anything for you, nor give back, and they certainly can't whisper sweet things in your ear when you are feeling down, and then maybe nibble on your ear lobe with a soft pair of lips with a faint smell of clean clothes ligngering on your button up blue shirt, because all men wear blue shirts in the office for some reason.
It's like when you are born with a penis, big or small, and you can tell whether they will have a big one as an adult, or silently feel sorry for the poor little fella, the doctor holds you under a hypnotic light int he hospital, in a hidden room that you can only get to from pushing a book in the wall sideways, and ingrates into your little baby brain that it is only appropriate to wear blue shirts in the office. Once a month it is ok to wear a lavender shirt, even pink maybe, but rarely yellow and never RED. Black is a color that men in uptight offices don't wear for some reason. I guess women wear enough black to make up for all the men in the world who don't.
If you are a smart man, you will realize that women in the office, don't give two shits about what you are wearing. They just care about what THEY are wearing, and any other cute chick in the office that might be vying for your attention.
All this talk about clothing brings me back to sitting in the closet, but not before I tell you this.
After the conversation I had with a friend tonight at church, I felt like a stingy, greedy bitch. She was telling me of a neighborhood in Charlotte, consisting mostly of Thai immigrants where mothers and children have no shoes to wear. I felt immediately convicted.
I was sitting here yesterday deciding which clothes were too nice to give away, and which I would try to sell. Who was worthy and who was not?
I'm disgusted at myself, at what I've become. That is not me.
That neighborhood that she was talking about was in fact a neighborhood that I had been in not too long ago. In fact, I took a wrong turn and drove right through there. Right in the heart of Little China neighborhood off Central Avenue it stands. I told Angie, I'd just go drop them off (referring to the clothes I had just spent hours laboring over and dividing just the day previous), and she said it's not safe.
I was a little shocked by that statement. Since when did poor automatically equal danger? Only in America. Only from an outsider looking in. Although my friend happens to also be Thai, I doubt she knew what she was talking about, having grown up in America herself, from what I can tell by her obvious lack of Thai accent, obesity, and coupon clipping club, which she leads with humor. She is quite funny. I admire her for that.
As we sat there, me, Grace, Reece, and Sarah, them with their hogging of my internet connected phone, a plethera of games to choose from and argue later about, and me in keep vs give mode, they accidentally called Ms. Sykes.
My high tech gadget-like phone, I say that because I am not a techie, nor an appreciator of all things techie, has a function that when you press a key and say who you are calling it will automatically find the person whom you are calling, and if there is a duplicate, like in a many cases, when you have over 350 contacts in your phone like I do, it asks you to choose from several, and then it will dial.
Sarah was saying, "call Carole," and over and over again, because although she speaks very clear for a 4 year old, she doesn't pronounce Carole with a hard L, like most. The other names that popped up- I haven't a clue, but in this particular instance she pulled up the correct name. There popped up Carole Sykes, not her Momo, Carole, as she is lovingly referred to by the fam.
As Sarah is having this very non-descript conversation with "Carole," I noticed that something wasn't right. I grabbed the phone, as most mothers who let their children play with their phones have to do quite often, and low and behold, guess who it was. Bingo.
It was the new mayor, just carrying on a conversation with Sarah about God knows what. It was as if they were long time pals, just like me and Colette's friend had talked.
I congratulated her for winning mayor, which I bet wasn't THAT hard to do, considering the town is about as big as your local Super Target. Regardless, it was notable, and I am happy for her. We talked abotu 5-10 minutes, and she asked me if I ever made contact, to which I told her no. I also told her the name, but she didn't recognize it. She promised me she wouldn't tell anyone. I don't know if I believe her or not. You can never trust a politician.
In all actuality, I was glad she misdialed her. It was kind of a reminder that I need to get that letter in the mail. I'm assuming that the aunt has seen my picture by now. Anyone who Facebooks at all, at least checks in once a month. I think it's been over a month. Has it? I'm not sure. Who's counting?
I think people are starting to get bored with me talking about it. My inaction is leading to boredom and you know what happens when you get bored? You do stupid things....like say things like, "Do I look familiar to you?" to a complete stranger/aunt who may take one look at that picture, and like the friend of Colette's who gave her name and secret away on the phone to the search angel, Debi, her jaw might drop and say, "Oh My God, it's like looking in a mirror".
I don't think I ever actually shared with you how I found out Colette is my birthmom. The actual story is very interesting. I can't tell though, because the woman made me promise not to tell. It was divine intervention I believe now. Which makes me think Colette might really need me right now. Maybe I need her? I don't know. I can't share it yet. I made a promise, and like the men who march on Washington once a year, I will keep my promise.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Ms. Mayor Sykes
Here's something interesting...You remember the Ms. Sykes blog? She won the race for Mayor of Pink Hill....Go Sykes Go.
And to think, I have the Mayor's personal cell phone number. I'll have to call and congratulate her. She'll be so thrilled to hear from me. That was a bit sarcastic. Sorry Sykes.
And maybe I'll ask her what her stance is on gay marriage while I'm at it. Maybe ask her how she feels about the government's declaration that pizza is a vegetable and french fries are too. Naw. I want her to like me, and besides, mayors don't really have any say-so in much anyway. They just committ to ground breakings with large scissors and do photo ops, and sit in the occasional school board meeting.
Look at Mayor Fox (Charlotte mayor). What has he done except allow parking in a no parking zone at Sarah's daycare. His kids went to school there at some point. Not anymore though, which would explain why I never had the chance to accost him.
And to think, I have the Mayor's personal cell phone number. I'll have to call and congratulate her. She'll be so thrilled to hear from me. That was a bit sarcastic. Sorry Sykes.
And maybe I'll ask her what her stance is on gay marriage while I'm at it. Maybe ask her how she feels about the government's declaration that pizza is a vegetable and french fries are too. Naw. I want her to like me, and besides, mayors don't really have any say-so in much anyway. They just committ to ground breakings with large scissors and do photo ops, and sit in the occasional school board meeting.
Look at Mayor Fox (Charlotte mayor). What has he done except allow parking in a no parking zone at Sarah's daycare. His kids went to school there at some point. Not anymore though, which would explain why I never had the chance to accost him.
Letter #5
Dear Colette,
I don't know what to say- a first ever. I am the one with the big mouth. I am the constant advocate. No one ever has to study me. I am blunt and obvious, though unfortunatly, a side effect of those attributes can be neglect of others' feelings on occasion, which is something I'm working on. I'm always thinking, but slow to act sometimes.
I wonder if I am like you.
I would like to know how you are. How do you react to awkward situations? How do you carry yourself?
I hear you are the representative of your community college. You must have class. Does your charisma comes natural?
Do you approach others at a party where you know no one?
Does the champagne race down your throat as if you are in a high stakes poker game and about to lose $20K to a known scumbag named Billy "the Dog" Brown?
Do you politely refuse the coctail your obsenely drunk best friend over- pours for you, as she spills some on the floor without noticing, even though you told her you'd just like a coke? Do you take it into your hand when she grabs it and forces your tightly clinched fist open and hold it for a few minutes just to appease her and to fit in because most everyone else at the party is drinking? Do you walk away in efforts to avoid another uncomfortable confrontation with your now beligerant besty?
These are things I wonder of you. How one handles herself in a situation reveals a lot.
Are you shy at first? Do you walk in a room filled with strangers and approach one of them with your right hand outreached to give a firm handshake?
Surely you don't give one of those pussy hand shakes, where you limply, with bent wrist, stretch out your forarm only and make the other person practically kiss your overgrown pinky ring.
I can't stand those people usually. If you can't give a firm handshake, you should just throw in the towel or grow a set and learn how to.
Same with hugs. Don't give me a wimpy hug that consists of a couple of pats on the shoulder or upper back. It's insulting. Just shake my hand if you don't want to hug me, but not with a limp wrist please.
Are you opinionated like me? Do you say what's on your mind like me? Do you suffer the repercussions with angst in your heart, feeling misunderstood frequently?
Are you over that part of your life by now? Does it even bother you if someone misunderstands who you are and what you stand for?
What about when someone ignores you? Does that make your skin crawl?
Are you direct?
Do you enjoy dancing? Black coffee or with creamer? Do you like to run or does the thought make you cringe?
I can't explain why these things are on the forefront of my mind this morning. People don't understand what it's like for someone like me to wonder about these seemingly trivial matters.
They say, "Brooke, what difference does it make?"
How can I answer that question? I can't. I don't know how to sufficiently give someone who doesn't understand my train of thought a clear path into my brain.
So I write. I write until I run out of time. I write when I'm sick, when I'm hacking up a lung. I write when I should be working. I think everyday about quitting my job to be a writer. I don't even know the first step to doing that. Writers don't get paid enough for their work. I don't have enough readers. I'm told what I write is captivating.
You would die if you read my blog. You would probably hate me for putting you out there. I did it without your consent. But you gave me away without mine.
I put my heart on the table for all to eat.
One thing I've learned since I started writing my blog which incidentally is about you and me, is that people like reading truth. People like to feel an honest to goodness true feeling that for many, can only come from reality. Some of us can get that feeling from commercials, from movies, from fictional stories.
But I've learned that many people don't derive true feelings from fiction. They only identify with truth. The only time many people really feel life, is when it's truthful. People like to identify. They like to be let in by a smiling or frowning face and offered a glimpse. People want to sit on your couch, to walk the oak-laden path holding your hand.
We like truth because many of us can't express it for some reason. I've noticed that people admire me more because I can, because I'm not afraid to put it out there. I'm not timid, nor shy, nor bashful, and it's real. It's blatent.
Is that you? Do you like to read? Do you write yourself? Do you log your life like I do? Would you share with me? I hope you would. I would share with you, like everyone else. Could you handle it? Could I?
Communication has always been my strong suit. Sometimes I suffer from overcommunication, and it really just becomes leaking.
It's been easy for me to know people. Has it been that way for you?
How could you live knowing you kept me a secret? The shame must be heartbreaking. Do you even feel ashamed? Did you tell anyone about me?
Are you dead inside? Wow, this is a taking a turn for the worst.
I don't think poorly of you for doing what you did. I must say this to myself over and over again, because the more I say it, the more I wonder why you felt the need to give me away.
Maybe secretly I do resent you. Maybe, just maybe I think you are weak for doing what you did.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents to death literally. My Dad died two years ago. My Mom is in good health. I love my family. No part of me whatsoever wishes things could have been different. I have lived a good life. I am proud of who I am, and attribute it all to my family and my upbringing.
But at the same time, it would be nice to have a glimpse of what I would be like, what I will look like as I get older. It's like a key to your future that most people get automatically. Some want to throw away that key, drop it into a rain grate on the side of a main road, carelessly and effortlesly. Others wear it on a tightly tied rope around their necks, hidden under a turtleneck.
I might have nourished some different talents than I did, had I been exposed to you and my birthfather. I might have not quit playing the clarinet in 10th grade had I been surrounded with a musical family. Who knows?
I can't blame my shortcomings on you or my parents who raised me.
I just have in my small mind, what it might have been like had I grown up with someone who was more like me. It might have been easier for my parents to relate to me.
They didn't really. I rebeled. We were very different. They did not understand me. That's painful for me to even say now, because I love them so much. But it's the truth. We are very different. And it has taken me a long time to figure out who I really am, and I am still trying to identify who I am 35 years later.
I won't say it's a struggle because struggle indicates pain. For me, it's been more eye-opening than anything. I've been lucky to have personal growth. Many people don't have insight until they are seniors, and I feel blessed to constantly come to terms with who I am or who I am not.
One of my goals is becoming something wonderful and having a positive outlook on life and to be a constant contributor to society in ways that most people don't. Most people wouldn't share that with another. I'm not most people. I guess that's what I'm trying to say to you.
I think you're not like most people either. You don't know this, but I know more about you than you probably think. I can't say how, but I do. And it feels weird. I don't want to scare you, or make you think I'm a stalker. I am very far from that. But I have a feeling, if not by intuition, that you are going through something painful right now. I wish I could help you. I could if you let me in. Will you?
We all have pain. Some of us hide it better. Is that you? Do you hide your feelings?
I wonder what you sleep in. Do you wear socks in the summer? Do you walk around barefoot like I do? Do your soles have callouses you could grate cheese with?
Do you like to cook? Do you like to eat? I do. I like to eat more than I like to cook, but because I have to eat, I cook. And because I don't want Sarah to grow up to be a fatty, I cook healthy meals for her.
It's the communion of cooking that I like. It's the kitchen conversations. When I'm cooking and Sarah is sitting at the barstool drawing and we can have dialouge about her day at school, I don't mind following a recipe that I've never attempted. It may taste like shit, it may be wonderful, but I got to hear about her day, about her walk to Preschool Art Lab with her class and who cut in line, and who got her name moved down a notch because she interrupted during group time. Most of the time that's her. Those are moments I cherish. We could have had those moments had you kept me.
I had those moments with my Mom. I'm 100% positive that she cherished those moments as I do. She loves me tremendously.
You will probably like her when you meet her, if you meet her. You can thank her for doing your job for you. You can hug her neck tightly and she will say, "you're very welcome, and thank you for giving me Brooke."
She can tell you what I was like as a child, how hard it was to raise a defiant adolescent. You can say, "Thank God I didn't have to put up with that."
You can hear about my dancing. I was a dancer for 15 years. I was good. I quit though, a side effect of being a self-destructive teenager.
I'd like to meet my half brothers. Maybe we are alike. Maybe they know about me. Maybe they don't.
I hope they do, since it might be hard for them to understand why you never told them I existed. They might have wanted to know me. They might not want to. They've gone their whole lives without knowing me. They could just as well go the rest having never met me, but it would be nice to meet them. It would be nice to meet you, to know you.
So you see, Colette, we may be alike. We may be different. Let's meet to see. Let's talk on the phone. I can talk for hours, once I get Sarah down, if I'm not too worn out. Call me, will ya?
Your birthdaughter,
Brooke
I don't know what to say- a first ever. I am the one with the big mouth. I am the constant advocate. No one ever has to study me. I am blunt and obvious, though unfortunatly, a side effect of those attributes can be neglect of others' feelings on occasion, which is something I'm working on. I'm always thinking, but slow to act sometimes.
I wonder if I am like you.
I would like to know how you are. How do you react to awkward situations? How do you carry yourself?
I hear you are the representative of your community college. You must have class. Does your charisma comes natural?
Do you approach others at a party where you know no one?
Does the champagne race down your throat as if you are in a high stakes poker game and about to lose $20K to a known scumbag named Billy "the Dog" Brown?
Do you politely refuse the coctail your obsenely drunk best friend over- pours for you, as she spills some on the floor without noticing, even though you told her you'd just like a coke? Do you take it into your hand when she grabs it and forces your tightly clinched fist open and hold it for a few minutes just to appease her and to fit in because most everyone else at the party is drinking? Do you walk away in efforts to avoid another uncomfortable confrontation with your now beligerant besty?
These are things I wonder of you. How one handles herself in a situation reveals a lot.
Are you shy at first? Do you walk in a room filled with strangers and approach one of them with your right hand outreached to give a firm handshake?
Surely you don't give one of those pussy hand shakes, where you limply, with bent wrist, stretch out your forarm only and make the other person practically kiss your overgrown pinky ring.
I can't stand those people usually. If you can't give a firm handshake, you should just throw in the towel or grow a set and learn how to.
Same with hugs. Don't give me a wimpy hug that consists of a couple of pats on the shoulder or upper back. It's insulting. Just shake my hand if you don't want to hug me, but not with a limp wrist please.
Are you opinionated like me? Do you say what's on your mind like me? Do you suffer the repercussions with angst in your heart, feeling misunderstood frequently?
Are you over that part of your life by now? Does it even bother you if someone misunderstands who you are and what you stand for?
What about when someone ignores you? Does that make your skin crawl?
Are you direct?
Do you enjoy dancing? Black coffee or with creamer? Do you like to run or does the thought make you cringe?
I can't explain why these things are on the forefront of my mind this morning. People don't understand what it's like for someone like me to wonder about these seemingly trivial matters.
They say, "Brooke, what difference does it make?"
How can I answer that question? I can't. I don't know how to sufficiently give someone who doesn't understand my train of thought a clear path into my brain.
So I write. I write until I run out of time. I write when I'm sick, when I'm hacking up a lung. I write when I should be working. I think everyday about quitting my job to be a writer. I don't even know the first step to doing that. Writers don't get paid enough for their work. I don't have enough readers. I'm told what I write is captivating.
You would die if you read my blog. You would probably hate me for putting you out there. I did it without your consent. But you gave me away without mine.
I put my heart on the table for all to eat.
One thing I've learned since I started writing my blog which incidentally is about you and me, is that people like reading truth. People like to feel an honest to goodness true feeling that for many, can only come from reality. Some of us can get that feeling from commercials, from movies, from fictional stories.
But I've learned that many people don't derive true feelings from fiction. They only identify with truth. The only time many people really feel life, is when it's truthful. People like to identify. They like to be let in by a smiling or frowning face and offered a glimpse. People want to sit on your couch, to walk the oak-laden path holding your hand.
We like truth because many of us can't express it for some reason. I've noticed that people admire me more because I can, because I'm not afraid to put it out there. I'm not timid, nor shy, nor bashful, and it's real. It's blatent.
Is that you? Do you like to read? Do you write yourself? Do you log your life like I do? Would you share with me? I hope you would. I would share with you, like everyone else. Could you handle it? Could I?
Communication has always been my strong suit. Sometimes I suffer from overcommunication, and it really just becomes leaking.
It's been easy for me to know people. Has it been that way for you?
How could you live knowing you kept me a secret? The shame must be heartbreaking. Do you even feel ashamed? Did you tell anyone about me?
Are you dead inside? Wow, this is a taking a turn for the worst.
I don't think poorly of you for doing what you did. I must say this to myself over and over again, because the more I say it, the more I wonder why you felt the need to give me away.
Maybe secretly I do resent you. Maybe, just maybe I think you are weak for doing what you did.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents to death literally. My Dad died two years ago. My Mom is in good health. I love my family. No part of me whatsoever wishes things could have been different. I have lived a good life. I am proud of who I am, and attribute it all to my family and my upbringing.
But at the same time, it would be nice to have a glimpse of what I would be like, what I will look like as I get older. It's like a key to your future that most people get automatically. Some want to throw away that key, drop it into a rain grate on the side of a main road, carelessly and effortlesly. Others wear it on a tightly tied rope around their necks, hidden under a turtleneck.
I might have nourished some different talents than I did, had I been exposed to you and my birthfather. I might have not quit playing the clarinet in 10th grade had I been surrounded with a musical family. Who knows?
I can't blame my shortcomings on you or my parents who raised me.
I just have in my small mind, what it might have been like had I grown up with someone who was more like me. It might have been easier for my parents to relate to me.
They didn't really. I rebeled. We were very different. They did not understand me. That's painful for me to even say now, because I love them so much. But it's the truth. We are very different. And it has taken me a long time to figure out who I really am, and I am still trying to identify who I am 35 years later.
I won't say it's a struggle because struggle indicates pain. For me, it's been more eye-opening than anything. I've been lucky to have personal growth. Many people don't have insight until they are seniors, and I feel blessed to constantly come to terms with who I am or who I am not.
One of my goals is becoming something wonderful and having a positive outlook on life and to be a constant contributor to society in ways that most people don't. Most people wouldn't share that with another. I'm not most people. I guess that's what I'm trying to say to you.
I think you're not like most people either. You don't know this, but I know more about you than you probably think. I can't say how, but I do. And it feels weird. I don't want to scare you, or make you think I'm a stalker. I am very far from that. But I have a feeling, if not by intuition, that you are going through something painful right now. I wish I could help you. I could if you let me in. Will you?
We all have pain. Some of us hide it better. Is that you? Do you hide your feelings?
I wonder what you sleep in. Do you wear socks in the summer? Do you walk around barefoot like I do? Do your soles have callouses you could grate cheese with?
Do you like to cook? Do you like to eat? I do. I like to eat more than I like to cook, but because I have to eat, I cook. And because I don't want Sarah to grow up to be a fatty, I cook healthy meals for her.
It's the communion of cooking that I like. It's the kitchen conversations. When I'm cooking and Sarah is sitting at the barstool drawing and we can have dialouge about her day at school, I don't mind following a recipe that I've never attempted. It may taste like shit, it may be wonderful, but I got to hear about her day, about her walk to Preschool Art Lab with her class and who cut in line, and who got her name moved down a notch because she interrupted during group time. Most of the time that's her. Those are moments I cherish. We could have had those moments had you kept me.
I had those moments with my Mom. I'm 100% positive that she cherished those moments as I do. She loves me tremendously.
You will probably like her when you meet her, if you meet her. You can thank her for doing your job for you. You can hug her neck tightly and she will say, "you're very welcome, and thank you for giving me Brooke."
She can tell you what I was like as a child, how hard it was to raise a defiant adolescent. You can say, "Thank God I didn't have to put up with that."
You can hear about my dancing. I was a dancer for 15 years. I was good. I quit though, a side effect of being a self-destructive teenager.
I'd like to meet my half brothers. Maybe we are alike. Maybe they know about me. Maybe they don't.
I hope they do, since it might be hard for them to understand why you never told them I existed. They might have wanted to know me. They might not want to. They've gone their whole lives without knowing me. They could just as well go the rest having never met me, but it would be nice to meet them. It would be nice to meet you, to know you.
So you see, Colette, we may be alike. We may be different. Let's meet to see. Let's talk on the phone. I can talk for hours, once I get Sarah down, if I'm not too worn out. Call me, will ya?
Your birthdaughter,
Brooke
Friday, November 18, 2011
And a perfect example of why life isn't permanent
This morning, like normal, I walked into my office, threw my things down, hung up my coat on my plastic hanger, and walked into the break room to grab a coffee.
Because my boss from Boston is in town, we celebrated her visit with Einsteins bagels and strawberry whipped cream cheese, or the not-so-fun light plain cream cheese if you were me.
We really go all out at my office. That's not entirely true. We had a pretty extravagant lunch yesterday and probably will again today. Caloric intake seems to rise significantly if you live on the company's dime or are high on the totem pole.
Incidentally, and excusedly because my boss mentioned that she wanted to meet Sarah, my lively, perspicacious four year old who goes to preschool right across the street from my building uptown, came in with me for the fancy breakfast. Everyone would have eaten her up instead of their everything bagels, had she been on the official menu.
Because Sarah was there, I waited to check my phone messages. I don't mind putting work off in most instances.
After I walked the Biscuit to school, I scuttered back to my fluorescent office so that I could really start my day of montonanous tasks and unending phone calls to financial advisors and despised SalesForce entries.
Entering meetings into SalesForce is an arduous and time-consuming task that I'm passed from another boss who despises the impending duty more so than I do. I'm not sure, but I think he can hear me cussing all the way in California, when I am doing the loathed entries, which I'm convinced render totally useless and are counterproductive. But because I am not the boss, and have no access to the REAL boss, the REAL decision makers, the movers and the shakers who make up the rules, be-those mindless or not, I will do the work with my mouth shut, except for the frequent cussing under my breath and occasional blurt, maybe groan.
Upon noticing that the light on my Cisco IP phone was a steady red, I dialed in to check my messages. There were only 2 to my amazement. They were both from my mother, not surprising.
She had gone to Sarah's Thanksgiving lunch at her school yesterday. I couldn't go because I was busy being glutonous with my group at Mimosa Grill.
Why American's always celebrate with food, I will never understand.
Why not go bowling, and eat chips in the car on the way there? We could even go to a museum. There are plenty to choose from uptown.
I guess food is sometimes the only thing that ties people together. We all like to eat. We don't, however, all appreciate art. And most don't like wearing the questionably sanitary shoes that 500 other complete strangers have slipped or crammed their musty feet into.
The first message was complimentary of my directions to Sarah's school from my house, where my incredibly loving Mom had shared a bed with me the night before. I wonder if my snoring kept her awake this time.
I wrote down the directions in carefully neat penmanship, circling the Ls for left and the Rs for right, so as not to confuse her.
Although my family has lived in Charlotte for over 30 something years, it's not unusual for us to find ourselves lost. By family, I mean Mom and me, and probably my Aunt Linda could fall comfortably in that category, did she not own a GPS system in her over priced Mercedes Benz SUV.
My Dad would roll over in his grave, had he even been buried (we cremated him) had he heard me say that. He prided himself on being the consummate giver of directions, not the asker of them.
In his spare time he made maps for orienteering. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to get somewhere. I think it drove him bonkers when I didn't. Add my mom to the mix, and he probably felt somewhat inadequate and responsible for her directionally challenged mind, since they were a longtime duo.
Forty-two years they were married before my Dad suddenly died of a heart attack while watching a country western movie with my Mom in their "media room" as they called it.
Regretably, he couldn't have been there to share in the Thanksgiving preschool festivities with Mom, Sarah and her entire school in the church fellowship hall. I hear it was a feast fit for a princess. (Sarah is the princess. I am the queen.)
That would have been something that he would have enjoyed. He was very good with kids, in fact with all people. He wasn't the overly outgoing type that talked too much or kept you standing there when you really felt like bolting out the door to your car in a sprint that would make a Kenyan Olympic runner resemble a turtle. He was enticing to know because he kept his ideas to himself, unless he was asked for them. We were polar opposites in that respect.
The next message, again from Mom, was not as warm and fuzzy.
My Mom is undeniably predictable. I have heard bad news from her on many occasions, and in messages. They mostly start with this preface: "Something really sad happened."
Instantaneously, I knew she was going to tell me that someone died. I have heard those words fall from my Moms mouth many times over, and it always ends in someone dying. There is usually a long pause after those words, while she tries to think of a good way of saying what she is about to be forced to say.
There really is no way to sugar coat death.
Even if you are presented with the statement, that your now-dead loved one is in a better place, you will most likely, if you are human, not feel a great sense of relief based on that quickly released and widely adopted common statement that many of us automatically throw out. Generally speaking, those of us who want to make eachother feel better try to by making that ever popular statement, "He's in a better place."
I'm sorry, but just because you relay to me your idea that my loved one is better off now, I will not immediately feel better. I am a woman, and I, by nature, am guided by feelings, at least, when it comes to death I am.
She went on to say that she got a call from one half of what she jovially termed, "the brothers Grimm," her yard guys, who happen to be brothers, and happen to have the last name Grimm.
Buddy let her know that his brother, David, who we jokingly said was the smart one of the duo, died last night of a heart attack.
This cut me. This cut my mom.
They are not young men as one might derive based on their choice of blue collar work. I seriously doubt they actually chose to do such back breaking labor. I'm guessing it was a fall-back means of making some money to survive. No one grows up wanting to be a lawn-mower.
They are middle-aged men who come as they are- dirt poor.
They are that family that has the carefully, although somewhat messy, hand-painted sign in their front yard offering, "odd jobs, handy man, yard work."
They are grown men who still live with their parents, who, undoubtedly are in their eighties per my Mom, who I think may have met them once. They are barely surviving on love alone.
A few times, David knocked on Mom's door to borrow money. I think she let him. I can't recall.
When I say poor, I mean poor.
They don't have a 2012 Ford F-150 to lug around their miscellaneous items, yard debris, or tools. Instead, they drive an antique, beater, as they say, probably circa 1975. It most likely doesn't have any functioning air-conditioning, and rolls around on bald tires.
I've always thought of David as a hard worker, with his Marleboro Red dangling from his upper lip, his wild, unkempt hair, and work boots, those probably uncomfortable now, and could have easily been 15 years old.
He had the best of manners, although he wasn't someone you would take to the grand ball. He would politely knock on the door and ask for my Mom, most usually for a check for their (the brothers Grimm) work. Everytime he needed to talk to my Mom, although she always was aware of his presence, he politely knocked on the door, instead of just walking in, like other handymen she has hired would rudely do.
They did odd jobs, just like the sign stated, and yard work.
One time they pruned back my moms lakefront Crepe Myrtles with ferver. I am assuming they were never accused of being too ginger. My mom came out and nicely put, "wait...that's too much."
I don't think they were too informed on the actual definition of pruning. Instead of trimming, they were aggressively chopping.
Nevertheless, David, probably only in his fifties, although having looked in his 60s most likely due to his many years of smoking cigarettes, was too young to die.
He will leave his family in a harder spot than when he was alive. He did not suffer a long and painful death, I guess. But his survivors most likely will suffer. He was the one who made things happen, the go-getter, the ace in the hole.
It will be such a sad time for his family. I feel sad for them. I don't, however, feel sad for David. He is walking with Jesus now. He is safe, healthy, rich, and Home.
His family and friends will grow in some form through his death if their minds are where they need to be, and if they accept the love that is boundless. Even if it's just one small flickering thought for a second that might linger on, someone will benefit in some way from having known David, and having lost him.
Through every excrutiating inch or mile of strife, something beautiful emerges. I know this to be true. Easy, it will not be. But doable- yes.
No one ever said that life would be easy. God didn't.
There's another reason, to be happy that life isn't permanent. More importantly, another reason to cherish those around you. You will never get the time back you lose being miserable. Choose happiness. Choose living in the moment.
The show must go on after we die our death from Earth.
When I die, please do not cry. I want there to be a celebration of my future, and a celebration of who I was, not what I will never be because I died.
David was a good man. I will most assuredly think of him today.
Because my boss from Boston is in town, we celebrated her visit with Einsteins bagels and strawberry whipped cream cheese, or the not-so-fun light plain cream cheese if you were me.
We really go all out at my office. That's not entirely true. We had a pretty extravagant lunch yesterday and probably will again today. Caloric intake seems to rise significantly if you live on the company's dime or are high on the totem pole.
Incidentally, and excusedly because my boss mentioned that she wanted to meet Sarah, my lively, perspicacious four year old who goes to preschool right across the street from my building uptown, came in with me for the fancy breakfast. Everyone would have eaten her up instead of their everything bagels, had she been on the official menu.
Because Sarah was there, I waited to check my phone messages. I don't mind putting work off in most instances.
After I walked the Biscuit to school, I scuttered back to my fluorescent office so that I could really start my day of montonanous tasks and unending phone calls to financial advisors and despised SalesForce entries.
Entering meetings into SalesForce is an arduous and time-consuming task that I'm passed from another boss who despises the impending duty more so than I do. I'm not sure, but I think he can hear me cussing all the way in California, when I am doing the loathed entries, which I'm convinced render totally useless and are counterproductive. But because I am not the boss, and have no access to the REAL boss, the REAL decision makers, the movers and the shakers who make up the rules, be-those mindless or not, I will do the work with my mouth shut, except for the frequent cussing under my breath and occasional blurt, maybe groan.
Upon noticing that the light on my Cisco IP phone was a steady red, I dialed in to check my messages. There were only 2 to my amazement. They were both from my mother, not surprising.
She had gone to Sarah's Thanksgiving lunch at her school yesterday. I couldn't go because I was busy being glutonous with my group at Mimosa Grill.
Why American's always celebrate with food, I will never understand.
Why not go bowling, and eat chips in the car on the way there? We could even go to a museum. There are plenty to choose from uptown.
I guess food is sometimes the only thing that ties people together. We all like to eat. We don't, however, all appreciate art. And most don't like wearing the questionably sanitary shoes that 500 other complete strangers have slipped or crammed their musty feet into.
The first message was complimentary of my directions to Sarah's school from my house, where my incredibly loving Mom had shared a bed with me the night before. I wonder if my snoring kept her awake this time.
I wrote down the directions in carefully neat penmanship, circling the Ls for left and the Rs for right, so as not to confuse her.
Although my family has lived in Charlotte for over 30 something years, it's not unusual for us to find ourselves lost. By family, I mean Mom and me, and probably my Aunt Linda could fall comfortably in that category, did she not own a GPS system in her over priced Mercedes Benz SUV.
My Dad would roll over in his grave, had he even been buried (we cremated him) had he heard me say that. He prided himself on being the consummate giver of directions, not the asker of them.
In his spare time he made maps for orienteering. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to get somewhere. I think it drove him bonkers when I didn't. Add my mom to the mix, and he probably felt somewhat inadequate and responsible for her directionally challenged mind, since they were a longtime duo.
Forty-two years they were married before my Dad suddenly died of a heart attack while watching a country western movie with my Mom in their "media room" as they called it.
Regretably, he couldn't have been there to share in the Thanksgiving preschool festivities with Mom, Sarah and her entire school in the church fellowship hall. I hear it was a feast fit for a princess. (Sarah is the princess. I am the queen.)
That would have been something that he would have enjoyed. He was very good with kids, in fact with all people. He wasn't the overly outgoing type that talked too much or kept you standing there when you really felt like bolting out the door to your car in a sprint that would make a Kenyan Olympic runner resemble a turtle. He was enticing to know because he kept his ideas to himself, unless he was asked for them. We were polar opposites in that respect.
The next message, again from Mom, was not as warm and fuzzy.
My Mom is undeniably predictable. I have heard bad news from her on many occasions, and in messages. They mostly start with this preface: "Something really sad happened."
Instantaneously, I knew she was going to tell me that someone died. I have heard those words fall from my Moms mouth many times over, and it always ends in someone dying. There is usually a long pause after those words, while she tries to think of a good way of saying what she is about to be forced to say.
There really is no way to sugar coat death.
Even if you are presented with the statement, that your now-dead loved one is in a better place, you will most likely, if you are human, not feel a great sense of relief based on that quickly released and widely adopted common statement that many of us automatically throw out. Generally speaking, those of us who want to make eachother feel better try to by making that ever popular statement, "He's in a better place."
I'm sorry, but just because you relay to me your idea that my loved one is better off now, I will not immediately feel better. I am a woman, and I, by nature, am guided by feelings, at least, when it comes to death I am.
She went on to say that she got a call from one half of what she jovially termed, "the brothers Grimm," her yard guys, who happen to be brothers, and happen to have the last name Grimm.
Buddy let her know that his brother, David, who we jokingly said was the smart one of the duo, died last night of a heart attack.
This cut me. This cut my mom.
They are not young men as one might derive based on their choice of blue collar work. I seriously doubt they actually chose to do such back breaking labor. I'm guessing it was a fall-back means of making some money to survive. No one grows up wanting to be a lawn-mower.
They are middle-aged men who come as they are- dirt poor.
They are that family that has the carefully, although somewhat messy, hand-painted sign in their front yard offering, "odd jobs, handy man, yard work."
They are grown men who still live with their parents, who, undoubtedly are in their eighties per my Mom, who I think may have met them once. They are barely surviving on love alone.
A few times, David knocked on Mom's door to borrow money. I think she let him. I can't recall.
When I say poor, I mean poor.
They don't have a 2012 Ford F-150 to lug around their miscellaneous items, yard debris, or tools. Instead, they drive an antique, beater, as they say, probably circa 1975. It most likely doesn't have any functioning air-conditioning, and rolls around on bald tires.
I've always thought of David as a hard worker, with his Marleboro Red dangling from his upper lip, his wild, unkempt hair, and work boots, those probably uncomfortable now, and could have easily been 15 years old.
He had the best of manners, although he wasn't someone you would take to the grand ball. He would politely knock on the door and ask for my Mom, most usually for a check for their (the brothers Grimm) work. Everytime he needed to talk to my Mom, although she always was aware of his presence, he politely knocked on the door, instead of just walking in, like other handymen she has hired would rudely do.
They did odd jobs, just like the sign stated, and yard work.
One time they pruned back my moms lakefront Crepe Myrtles with ferver. I am assuming they were never accused of being too ginger. My mom came out and nicely put, "wait...that's too much."
I don't think they were too informed on the actual definition of pruning. Instead of trimming, they were aggressively chopping.
Nevertheless, David, probably only in his fifties, although having looked in his 60s most likely due to his many years of smoking cigarettes, was too young to die.
He will leave his family in a harder spot than when he was alive. He did not suffer a long and painful death, I guess. But his survivors most likely will suffer. He was the one who made things happen, the go-getter, the ace in the hole.
It will be such a sad time for his family. I feel sad for them. I don't, however, feel sad for David. He is walking with Jesus now. He is safe, healthy, rich, and Home.
His family and friends will grow in some form through his death if their minds are where they need to be, and if they accept the love that is boundless. Even if it's just one small flickering thought for a second that might linger on, someone will benefit in some way from having known David, and having lost him.
Through every excrutiating inch or mile of strife, something beautiful emerges. I know this to be true. Easy, it will not be. But doable- yes.
No one ever said that life would be easy. God didn't.
There's another reason, to be happy that life isn't permanent. More importantly, another reason to cherish those around you. You will never get the time back you lose being miserable. Choose happiness. Choose living in the moment.
The show must go on after we die our death from Earth.
When I die, please do not cry. I want there to be a celebration of my future, and a celebration of who I was, not what I will never be because I died.
David was a good man. I will most assuredly think of him today.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Nothing is permanent, and I'm fine with it.
If I've learned anything in my life here, I've learned that nothing is permanent. Nothing. It shouldn't be.
That would suggest that there is no room for change, no room for advancement, and that life is stagnant, comprising of small feats and even smaller losses. You're probably thinking, small losses aren't anything to get upset about. But a loss isn't always for the worst.
In fact, I believe that some of our greatest losses give birth to our best wins.
With loss comes gain, because you can't lose something to not have it replaced by something else.
Many people stay so focused on their losses that they neglect to see their gains. Some people routinely subject themselves to their own pain because of their misdirected focus. It becomes habit to dwell, to worry.
If you live in the moment, you won't worry about anything. Practice for today enjoying who you're with. Practice just being. Practice being yourself, and loving others for who they are, not who you insist they be.
You don't have to stop working. You can still make lists and write goals, and complete your everyday tasks, but when you relieve yourself of worry and fret, you will gain an understanding that life is not about work. It's about living and enjoying life as it comes.
That's what God intended for us.
He didn't make us to work a set amount of time each week, like drones,like robots. He didn't want us to worry about bills and money and things. When we live the way He intended us to live, we find ourselves enjoying just being because the other things just fall into place the way He planned.
I am taking this moment to enjoy it. I might bask in this moment. It will not ever come back. It will never be the exact same moment. I'm fine with that. Are you?
Because we are often so focused on consistency and the drive to be consistent, we neglect to come to terms with change and variety.
We want to fit in. We dress alike. We talk alike. We claim to think alike. We make decisions based upon what others would think, or what they would do. We are losing ourselves in a sea of sameness.
Be bold. Stand apart. Trust yourself, trust in God, and you too can live with abandon.
That would suggest that there is no room for change, no room for advancement, and that life is stagnant, comprising of small feats and even smaller losses. You're probably thinking, small losses aren't anything to get upset about. But a loss isn't always for the worst.
In fact, I believe that some of our greatest losses give birth to our best wins.
With loss comes gain, because you can't lose something to not have it replaced by something else.
Many people stay so focused on their losses that they neglect to see their gains. Some people routinely subject themselves to their own pain because of their misdirected focus. It becomes habit to dwell, to worry.
If you live in the moment, you won't worry about anything. Practice for today enjoying who you're with. Practice just being. Practice being yourself, and loving others for who they are, not who you insist they be.
You don't have to stop working. You can still make lists and write goals, and complete your everyday tasks, but when you relieve yourself of worry and fret, you will gain an understanding that life is not about work. It's about living and enjoying life as it comes.
That's what God intended for us.
He didn't make us to work a set amount of time each week, like drones,like robots. He didn't want us to worry about bills and money and things. When we live the way He intended us to live, we find ourselves enjoying just being because the other things just fall into place the way He planned.
I am taking this moment to enjoy it. I might bask in this moment. It will not ever come back. It will never be the exact same moment. I'm fine with that. Are you?
Because we are often so focused on consistency and the drive to be consistent, we neglect to come to terms with change and variety.
We want to fit in. We dress alike. We talk alike. We claim to think alike. We make decisions based upon what others would think, or what they would do. We are losing ourselves in a sea of sameness.
Be bold. Stand apart. Trust yourself, trust in God, and you too can live with abandon.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Avoiding the inevitable- housework
Another Saturday. Another blog. Another day I loathe housework and laundry. What normal human being, or alien for that matter, likes to do chores like those? There is something wrong with those people. I know people like that, and they scare me. I guess it's the same as someone who writes. I probably scare people myself.
People get pleasure from diferent sources. Thank God they're not all the same sources or we'd all be pitted against eachother, as if we aren't already.
This is a man eat man world. I know it. You know it. But what are we gonna do about it?
Things like that make me think that there's nothing wrong with getting wrapped up in your own little world. But then, who is going to fight for change if we all succumb to our own unique blends of thinking.
Just something on my mind. I might become a recluse for a day, held up in my own thoughts and prayers.
I already feel like my lack of the need for news and tv watching is selfish. But, who wants to feed into all the negativity in the world through a box sitting in your home? Who wants to let that beast into her house on a regular basis? I don't.
This is what I'm thinking of right now, and it helps me to avoid what I really need to be doing to make my life simpler- laundry and cleaning the house.
How does it make my life simpler? It tricks my brain into thinking that it's safe and pleased because of an aesthetically pleasing atmosphere. Total bullshit if you ask me, but it works for some reason.
I guess it's the same as when you look at someone who you know is nothing more than a giant wart on the pointer finger of humanity, and just because he is good-looking you attribute other less destructive qualities to him, lightening the truth, and excusing the fact that he really is not someone you would want to spend time with. We are so shallow.
How can we overcome that?
It's attainable. It's just time consuming, I imagine. When I have done it myself, I will report back on it. Until then, I will wallow in my mire, and get up and do some housework. Uhhhg.
But not before I will eat a piece of Halloween candy from Hell. I'm convinced that Halloween is definately of the Devil. He knows I'm helpless against it. In fact, I incidentally typed fat on accident, I have a candy addiction. But it doesn't really bother me, because I know most others do too.
People get pleasure from diferent sources. Thank God they're not all the same sources or we'd all be pitted against eachother, as if we aren't already.
This is a man eat man world. I know it. You know it. But what are we gonna do about it?
Things like that make me think that there's nothing wrong with getting wrapped up in your own little world. But then, who is going to fight for change if we all succumb to our own unique blends of thinking.
Just something on my mind. I might become a recluse for a day, held up in my own thoughts and prayers.
I already feel like my lack of the need for news and tv watching is selfish. But, who wants to feed into all the negativity in the world through a box sitting in your home? Who wants to let that beast into her house on a regular basis? I don't.
This is what I'm thinking of right now, and it helps me to avoid what I really need to be doing to make my life simpler- laundry and cleaning the house.
How does it make my life simpler? It tricks my brain into thinking that it's safe and pleased because of an aesthetically pleasing atmosphere. Total bullshit if you ask me, but it works for some reason.
I guess it's the same as when you look at someone who you know is nothing more than a giant wart on the pointer finger of humanity, and just because he is good-looking you attribute other less destructive qualities to him, lightening the truth, and excusing the fact that he really is not someone you would want to spend time with. We are so shallow.
How can we overcome that?
It's attainable. It's just time consuming, I imagine. When I have done it myself, I will report back on it. Until then, I will wallow in my mire, and get up and do some housework. Uhhhg.
But not before I will eat a piece of Halloween candy from Hell. I'm convinced that Halloween is definately of the Devil. He knows I'm helpless against it. In fact, I incidentally typed fat on accident, I have a candy addiction. But it doesn't really bother me, because I know most others do too.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
I can't sleep.
I still am in shock of my stupidity. I have done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I think that is the boldest. Somehow, it's easy to equate the two.
When will she check her messages? Has she already? Should I go ahead and drop the letter?
I vote yes.
Maybe tomorrow night I will sit home, hopefully alone, and go ahead and do it- write the letter- the letter that finally makes sense, the letter the leads to learning and loving, take the leap.
I love words. I think that's called alliteration. My mom was an English teacher. Words were forced down my throat.
Hopefully tomorrow night, I will sit down on my couch, with some El Ten Eleven music playing low, maybe burn some essential oil (love that stuff), sans any alcohol, it really doesn't help, and maybe with some yoga pants and my most comfy Elevation t-shirt on (I have so many).
Man, it sounds like I should be sitting in some freakishly weird position where the tops of my feet are oddly rubbing my thighs. Maybe I'll be humming and talking in tongues too, maybe have a few hundred rings around my neck that stretch out my neck and pierce one ear, just one, with an insanely large object like a bowling ball or a yogurt cup. Ew that just feels yucky to type.
But, maybe the lights will be dim as they always are in my house. Maybe the heat will be pumping since it's supposed to actually freeze tomorrow night. Welcome winter. Uh no.
And maybe, just maybe, if I'm lucky enough, Sarah will be at Momo's house so I can have some peace of mind.
People who have no children have no idea how easy life is. And married couples with children have no clue either. But nothing can replace the bond between mother and child when you are a single mom.
I might cry thinking about it. No. I won't.
Sarah would say to me, "Mom, you cry too much," as she does when she sees me cry at a movie, or a commercial, or when we're riding in to work and I'm listening to my inspirational music station, 91.9 (some of the music is really horrible, but most is digestible.)I hear some sappy stories that some sappy listener felt neccessary to share with thousands of other listeners- like me, who are probably sappy also, that was very private and probably almost unbearable to live through, but somehow she survived. They always make my black mascara run for some reason.
Wait a second. Could I be that person? Is that me? No. I am not that cheesy. Nah. I couldn't call in and divulge all of this on the radio. Oh Lord, could I? Hells to the no, I couldn't.
Ok, back to freaking out. I am so glad I have undiagnosed ADD. I can get distracted like a mf. I will be fine. It will all be ok. It's in God's hands, and I need to remember that there is a master plan for my life, and through God, I can be the true star that I am called to be- even if it means it won't involve anyone that has the same Type O vampire blood that I have running through their tightly constricted arteries.
All four of my great grandparents died of heart attacks at ages under 70. Ouch. At least that's a quick way to go.
And I'm back to thinking of death. God, how morbid.
I should read another book on insecurity. But I'm not finished with the one I'm currently reading. It's a good day to start a new chapter- both in life and in my book on insecurity. I think I will. Ta-Ta.
When will she check her messages? Has she already? Should I go ahead and drop the letter?
I vote yes.
Maybe tomorrow night I will sit home, hopefully alone, and go ahead and do it- write the letter- the letter that finally makes sense, the letter the leads to learning and loving, take the leap.
I love words. I think that's called alliteration. My mom was an English teacher. Words were forced down my throat.
Hopefully tomorrow night, I will sit down on my couch, with some El Ten Eleven music playing low, maybe burn some essential oil (love that stuff), sans any alcohol, it really doesn't help, and maybe with some yoga pants and my most comfy Elevation t-shirt on (I have so many).
Man, it sounds like I should be sitting in some freakishly weird position where the tops of my feet are oddly rubbing my thighs. Maybe I'll be humming and talking in tongues too, maybe have a few hundred rings around my neck that stretch out my neck and pierce one ear, just one, with an insanely large object like a bowling ball or a yogurt cup. Ew that just feels yucky to type.
But, maybe the lights will be dim as they always are in my house. Maybe the heat will be pumping since it's supposed to actually freeze tomorrow night. Welcome winter. Uh no.
And maybe, just maybe, if I'm lucky enough, Sarah will be at Momo's house so I can have some peace of mind.
People who have no children have no idea how easy life is. And married couples with children have no clue either. But nothing can replace the bond between mother and child when you are a single mom.
I might cry thinking about it. No. I won't.
Sarah would say to me, "Mom, you cry too much," as she does when she sees me cry at a movie, or a commercial, or when we're riding in to work and I'm listening to my inspirational music station, 91.9 (some of the music is really horrible, but most is digestible.)I hear some sappy stories that some sappy listener felt neccessary to share with thousands of other listeners- like me, who are probably sappy also, that was very private and probably almost unbearable to live through, but somehow she survived. They always make my black mascara run for some reason.
Wait a second. Could I be that person? Is that me? No. I am not that cheesy. Nah. I couldn't call in and divulge all of this on the radio. Oh Lord, could I? Hells to the no, I couldn't.
Ok, back to freaking out. I am so glad I have undiagnosed ADD. I can get distracted like a mf. I will be fine. It will all be ok. It's in God's hands, and I need to remember that there is a master plan for my life, and through God, I can be the true star that I am called to be- even if it means it won't involve anyone that has the same Type O vampire blood that I have running through their tightly constricted arteries.
All four of my great grandparents died of heart attacks at ages under 70. Ouch. At least that's a quick way to go.
And I'm back to thinking of death. God, how morbid.
I should read another book on insecurity. But I'm not finished with the one I'm currently reading. It's a good day to start a new chapter- both in life and in my book on insecurity. I think I will. Ta-Ta.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
I did something I regret.
I sent a private facebook message to my birth aunt, who is on FB. OMG. What was I thinking.
The message was this: Do I look familiar to you?
It was totally unscrupulous. It was impulsive, thoughtless, and any other word out in the English Webster's Dictionary that means having NOT THINKING.
I cannot believe I did that. It goes against everything I believe in, against what I know to be true in adoption reunions. I do not know what I was thinking. I guess I was feeling self absorbed and rediculous. Maybe I just wanted it to end- the writing, the questioning, maybe I wanted closure.
Three days and no response. She is in her sixties. She might not ever get on Facebook. Who knows.
I think she is a realtor. What realtor doesn't have a smart phone? This is a fuck up that even a freezing cold Yuengling and pizza can't fix.
And now, I'm off to a neighborhood HOA meeting unable to concentrate. I need to be able to use my voice there. Good job Brooke. You have done it again- officially made yourself crazy.
The message was this: Do I look familiar to you?
It was totally unscrupulous. It was impulsive, thoughtless, and any other word out in the English Webster's Dictionary that means having NOT THINKING.
I cannot believe I did that. It goes against everything I believe in, against what I know to be true in adoption reunions. I do not know what I was thinking. I guess I was feeling self absorbed and rediculous. Maybe I just wanted it to end- the writing, the questioning, maybe I wanted closure.
Three days and no response. She is in her sixties. She might not ever get on Facebook. Who knows.
I think she is a realtor. What realtor doesn't have a smart phone? This is a fuck up that even a freezing cold Yuengling and pizza can't fix.
And now, I'm off to a neighborhood HOA meeting unable to concentrate. I need to be able to use my voice there. Good job Brooke. You have done it again- officially made yourself crazy.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Letter #4
Dear stranger who gave birth to me,
What an odd way to start a letter I'm sure you are thinking. I'm an odd person. Maybe you are too. I'm guessing you are quite a thinker, and maybe don't subscribe to the norms. I'm imagining you with your silver hair, your sweet Southern accent, something of a Paula Dean meets Sharon Osbourne meets Hilary Clinton. I envision you dressed conservatively, with thick rimmed glasses and no make-up, flats on your size 7 feet. I heard you were 5'7. Hey, that's not fair. I didn't get your height, or the supposed birth father's height either. He was 6'2 I was told in my "papers".
Maybe I was really the milkman's mistake. They probably still delivered milk way back then. Or did they? I'm only 35 for crying out loud.
For being only 35, I sure do have a long recovery time after a night out. Do you suffer from a constant desire to have fun like I do? Do you carry on at work like I do- distracting all your co-workers from their tasks, somewhat of a peanut galley all rolled into one little fiesty woman?
I bet you are toned down now, but I imagine you were a little devilish in your younger years. Surely you would not have the same mentality at age 54 that you had at age 35. Maybe it's the same mentality, but with less action.
Whatever you may be, whoever you might revel, however you might feel, you are still my birth mother. Your blood runs through my veins, and we have the same DNA. I'm not geneticist, but I think it's probably pretty similar. We probably have the same eye color.
It wasn't until recently that I noticed that my eyes are more green than they are blue, which is pretty weird to me. I have stared at the same ugly mug for all these years, messily smudged eye make-up on these same eyelids, always squinting these eyes to see everything. I am legally blind, and without correction, I wouldn't be able to identify a watermelon if it was sitting on my nose. I'm kidding about being ugly. I don't think I'm ugly. Some might differ, but, you know what I say about them? Well, I won't say that word because I want you to think I'm a good person- which I am- depending on who you ask.
Do you know I had a blankey until I was in college? Of course you don't know that. It's just as well. That's kind of humiliating to admit. My first "real" boyfriend, what a fuck-up he was (Oops I said the word,) threw it out one day. He took it and threw it away. I came home to our house one day, and it was gone. Do you know how mad I was at him? Really stinkin mad. I exercised language control just now. I talk like a sailor, and would probably write like one, if it wasn't annoying to me to read things that others have written doused with profanity. It's not necessary, but it's sometimes a good means of letting out some pent up aggression. Who doesn't have that? Even Mother Theresa probably did.
When I was 20, I lost my great aunt, Happy. She was the closest relative of mine, other than my mother of course. Looking back now, I think I may have been closer to Happy than my own Mom. She spoiled me to death- to her death that is.
It nearly killed me. I went through a serious undiagnosed clinical depression. I lived in a dorm room with the most selfish bitch on the planet- she refused to quit smoking in our dorm room, and I had just quit smoking miraculously. My bed was on the floor for some odd reason, I don't understand why, except maybe we were trying to save room for- I don't know-our mini-beer-fridge? That was always well stocked.
I cried myself to sleep every night for months.
And then I lost my brother just four short years later. He was only 20 at the time. I was 23, maybe 24. It's kinda of blurry. Age doesn't mean much to me.
I was a mess at the time. I was on drugs. No one knew. I always had a job though. I worked for a perfume company, and traveled every week.
For some reason though, it wasn't good enough for my parents. They refused to tell their friends of my career choice. I could never understand that about them. Maybe I tried to find comfort through drugs. Not being accepted by my parents, who always backed eachother up, was painful for me. I couldn't understand what they would not be proud of? The fact that their daughter had a decent job, got to travel the SouthEast, saved money (not a lot, but some), wasn't good enough for them. No, I wasn't a lawyer, or a doctor or a regular miserable drone who lived and breathed the florescent white walls of cubicle life. I wanted more. I didn't want to sit behind a desk and stare at a box all day- like I do now.
I wanted excitment, diversity. After all, that was what I thought I was. It's what I am still.
I wanted to travel, see new places, meet people that were not like me, and if I was lucky, have some part of them transcribed into who I would mold into. Luckily for me, I met some amazing and not-so amazing, even worn down, haggard people, which thankfully played a role in fueling my desire to help others.
Then I lost my Dad. I was 33 at that time. He was less than 70- a young age to someone who is still only half of it. That was another loss that cut me.
I imagined him walking me down the isle, when I was 40, because, quite honestly, I never envisioned myself getting married before that age. It never made sense to me. I know the rigamarole. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby carriage.
Not this one. I defied it all. I had the baby first. Have never had the love. Well maybe I did, but it's debatable.
I was looking forward to taking Sarah camping with Dad, having him teach her how to kayak on the Green River, just like he taught me.
I haven't been kayaking since he died. It's just not the same without him. I've never been down a whitewater river kayaking without him. It would be too hard. It wouldn't be the same.
I miss my Dad.
So you see, Colette, I have been through a lot in my short time here on Earth. I have suffered loss. Some would wonder how I've made it. I'm semi-normal. I am a survivor, as I bet you are. I have suffered many losses, and know there are many to come. But I make it through each day knowing that God is with me. I know that I have more strength in my shortest eyelash than some people have stored in basements and locked trunks and bank accounts.
I wonder if my strength came from you. If so, I should not be worried about you rejecting me, because you are stronger than me. You made me from your womb. I am a production of you. And we can't be that much different. One day I will be proven right. You can prove your strength and I can display mine. I hope that day is soon.
With admiration for you and through my own strength I leave you once more,
Brooke
What an odd way to start a letter I'm sure you are thinking. I'm an odd person. Maybe you are too. I'm guessing you are quite a thinker, and maybe don't subscribe to the norms. I'm imagining you with your silver hair, your sweet Southern accent, something of a Paula Dean meets Sharon Osbourne meets Hilary Clinton. I envision you dressed conservatively, with thick rimmed glasses and no make-up, flats on your size 7 feet. I heard you were 5'7. Hey, that's not fair. I didn't get your height, or the supposed birth father's height either. He was 6'2 I was told in my "papers".
Maybe I was really the milkman's mistake. They probably still delivered milk way back then. Or did they? I'm only 35 for crying out loud.
For being only 35, I sure do have a long recovery time after a night out. Do you suffer from a constant desire to have fun like I do? Do you carry on at work like I do- distracting all your co-workers from their tasks, somewhat of a peanut galley all rolled into one little fiesty woman?
I bet you are toned down now, but I imagine you were a little devilish in your younger years. Surely you would not have the same mentality at age 54 that you had at age 35. Maybe it's the same mentality, but with less action.
Whatever you may be, whoever you might revel, however you might feel, you are still my birth mother. Your blood runs through my veins, and we have the same DNA. I'm not geneticist, but I think it's probably pretty similar. We probably have the same eye color.
It wasn't until recently that I noticed that my eyes are more green than they are blue, which is pretty weird to me. I have stared at the same ugly mug for all these years, messily smudged eye make-up on these same eyelids, always squinting these eyes to see everything. I am legally blind, and without correction, I wouldn't be able to identify a watermelon if it was sitting on my nose. I'm kidding about being ugly. I don't think I'm ugly. Some might differ, but, you know what I say about them? Well, I won't say that word because I want you to think I'm a good person- which I am- depending on who you ask.
Do you know I had a blankey until I was in college? Of course you don't know that. It's just as well. That's kind of humiliating to admit. My first "real" boyfriend, what a fuck-up he was (Oops I said the word,) threw it out one day. He took it and threw it away. I came home to our house one day, and it was gone. Do you know how mad I was at him? Really stinkin mad. I exercised language control just now. I talk like a sailor, and would probably write like one, if it wasn't annoying to me to read things that others have written doused with profanity. It's not necessary, but it's sometimes a good means of letting out some pent up aggression. Who doesn't have that? Even Mother Theresa probably did.
When I was 20, I lost my great aunt, Happy. She was the closest relative of mine, other than my mother of course. Looking back now, I think I may have been closer to Happy than my own Mom. She spoiled me to death- to her death that is.
It nearly killed me. I went through a serious undiagnosed clinical depression. I lived in a dorm room with the most selfish bitch on the planet- she refused to quit smoking in our dorm room, and I had just quit smoking miraculously. My bed was on the floor for some odd reason, I don't understand why, except maybe we were trying to save room for- I don't know-our mini-beer-fridge? That was always well stocked.
I cried myself to sleep every night for months.
And then I lost my brother just four short years later. He was only 20 at the time. I was 23, maybe 24. It's kinda of blurry. Age doesn't mean much to me.
I was a mess at the time. I was on drugs. No one knew. I always had a job though. I worked for a perfume company, and traveled every week.
For some reason though, it wasn't good enough for my parents. They refused to tell their friends of my career choice. I could never understand that about them. Maybe I tried to find comfort through drugs. Not being accepted by my parents, who always backed eachother up, was painful for me. I couldn't understand what they would not be proud of? The fact that their daughter had a decent job, got to travel the SouthEast, saved money (not a lot, but some), wasn't good enough for them. No, I wasn't a lawyer, or a doctor or a regular miserable drone who lived and breathed the florescent white walls of cubicle life. I wanted more. I didn't want to sit behind a desk and stare at a box all day- like I do now.
I wanted excitment, diversity. After all, that was what I thought I was. It's what I am still.
I wanted to travel, see new places, meet people that were not like me, and if I was lucky, have some part of them transcribed into who I would mold into. Luckily for me, I met some amazing and not-so amazing, even worn down, haggard people, which thankfully played a role in fueling my desire to help others.
Then I lost my Dad. I was 33 at that time. He was less than 70- a young age to someone who is still only half of it. That was another loss that cut me.
I imagined him walking me down the isle, when I was 40, because, quite honestly, I never envisioned myself getting married before that age. It never made sense to me. I know the rigamarole. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby carriage.
Not this one. I defied it all. I had the baby first. Have never had the love. Well maybe I did, but it's debatable.
I was looking forward to taking Sarah camping with Dad, having him teach her how to kayak on the Green River, just like he taught me.
I haven't been kayaking since he died. It's just not the same without him. I've never been down a whitewater river kayaking without him. It would be too hard. It wouldn't be the same.
I miss my Dad.
So you see, Colette, I have been through a lot in my short time here on Earth. I have suffered loss. Some would wonder how I've made it. I'm semi-normal. I am a survivor, as I bet you are. I have suffered many losses, and know there are many to come. But I make it through each day knowing that God is with me. I know that I have more strength in my shortest eyelash than some people have stored in basements and locked trunks and bank accounts.
I wonder if my strength came from you. If so, I should not be worried about you rejecting me, because you are stronger than me. You made me from your womb. I am a production of you. And we can't be that much different. One day I will be proven right. You can prove your strength and I can display mine. I hope that day is soon.
With admiration for you and through my own strength I leave you once more,
Brooke
Another story of adoption dribbles into my mind....
I was hanging out with a new friend over the weekend who told me that she had a friend who had met his birthparents. Her description of his reunion was quite touching. We were at his house in fact, when she was telling me about it. She, graciously, had agreed to let their dogs out, and we incidentally ended up sleeping there since it was so late when we had finally gotten there after our rather wild night out.
I think we hit up at least 5 bars, saw some live music, had a funny match.com encounter. Apparently I'm not the only one who's met some weirdos on there. We ended up across town scarfing down mini chocolate chip cookies and sliced turkey from a strangers fridge. At least they were strangers to me. They were her good friends.
Her story was this. Her friend, David, had been adopted in what was an open adoption. I'm thinking he is probably ten years younger than me. Adoption was much more open in the eighties than it was in the 70s- a sign of the times.
He didn't meet his birth mother till he 21 as I recall Lauren telling me. I find that odd, but men typically think much differently than women for some reason. I think it was by divine design.
He didn't find it necessary to meet his birth mother. His adoptive family gave him all he needed- similar to mine.
Whatever his reasoning was, he waited until he was mature enough to handle meeting her. And that's how I think it should be, given the right circumstances. So much is involved in a reunion. It's life altering. And that's the cold, hard truth.
He somehow met his birthfather, who was married with two of his own children. She went on to say that the birthmother had not told him about her pregnancy- like mine didn't, that I know of.
That would be such a shameful secret to hold onto for all of your life. How could you live with yourself knowing that you have held that secret for years? I can't even imagine what kind of guilt-ridden conscience one would have or not have.
I'm not sure which one is scarier-not having told anyone and bottling it in for your whole life, or not telling anyone, and not caring enough to worry about it. Either way. Both seems pretty dispicable.
The adoptee, whose comfy guest bed we were lying in while discussing his life, little did he know, ended up married to the love of his life.
At his wedding, guess who was in attendance-an interesting trinity of his birth mother and her family, his birth father and his family, and his Mom and Dad who raised him. What an interesting dynamic.
Can't you hear the conversations at the tables after the vino had been flowing. "OK, now which one is his real father? What? I thought it was him. What? What do you mean real father?"
At any rate, I think it's pretty cool. He danced the whole mother/son dance with his mother who raised him- as it should be. He didn't leave any time for is birth mother. Why would he, except to be nice, maybe to give her the feeling of inclusiveness. Oh well. Some things don't need to be done politically correctly.
This is just another story of adoption that somehow has been forwarded to my ears. In this quest I have been exposed to so many people who have been adopted or who have adopted. It's been absolutely amazing to hear the stories.
One day, I will have my own story to tell. When? I ask myself the same question all the time. Right now, the ball is in my court. Im not ready to let that go yet. I'm not ready to be worried, to have my cell phone on constant charge in anxious anticipation of a phone call from area code 910.
I guess it's the control freak in me rearing it's unrealistic mug again. One day I will have control over the controller. Life is funny.
I think we hit up at least 5 bars, saw some live music, had a funny match.com encounter. Apparently I'm not the only one who's met some weirdos on there. We ended up across town scarfing down mini chocolate chip cookies and sliced turkey from a strangers fridge. At least they were strangers to me. They were her good friends.
Her story was this. Her friend, David, had been adopted in what was an open adoption. I'm thinking he is probably ten years younger than me. Adoption was much more open in the eighties than it was in the 70s- a sign of the times.
He didn't meet his birth mother till he 21 as I recall Lauren telling me. I find that odd, but men typically think much differently than women for some reason. I think it was by divine design.
He didn't find it necessary to meet his birth mother. His adoptive family gave him all he needed- similar to mine.
Whatever his reasoning was, he waited until he was mature enough to handle meeting her. And that's how I think it should be, given the right circumstances. So much is involved in a reunion. It's life altering. And that's the cold, hard truth.
He somehow met his birthfather, who was married with two of his own children. She went on to say that the birthmother had not told him about her pregnancy- like mine didn't, that I know of.
That would be such a shameful secret to hold onto for all of your life. How could you live with yourself knowing that you have held that secret for years? I can't even imagine what kind of guilt-ridden conscience one would have or not have.
I'm not sure which one is scarier-not having told anyone and bottling it in for your whole life, or not telling anyone, and not caring enough to worry about it. Either way. Both seems pretty dispicable.
The adoptee, whose comfy guest bed we were lying in while discussing his life, little did he know, ended up married to the love of his life.
At his wedding, guess who was in attendance-an interesting trinity of his birth mother and her family, his birth father and his family, and his Mom and Dad who raised him. What an interesting dynamic.
Can't you hear the conversations at the tables after the vino had been flowing. "OK, now which one is his real father? What? I thought it was him. What? What do you mean real father?"
At any rate, I think it's pretty cool. He danced the whole mother/son dance with his mother who raised him- as it should be. He didn't leave any time for is birth mother. Why would he, except to be nice, maybe to give her the feeling of inclusiveness. Oh well. Some things don't need to be done politically correctly.
This is just another story of adoption that somehow has been forwarded to my ears. In this quest I have been exposed to so many people who have been adopted or who have adopted. It's been absolutely amazing to hear the stories.
One day, I will have my own story to tell. When? I ask myself the same question all the time. Right now, the ball is in my court. Im not ready to let that go yet. I'm not ready to be worried, to have my cell phone on constant charge in anxious anticipation of a phone call from area code 910.
I guess it's the control freak in me rearing it's unrealistic mug again. One day I will have control over the controller. Life is funny.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Letter #3
Dear Colette,
I'm not sure how to start this letter. It is the third of a series of letters I anticipate writing. I'm not sure if you will ever even see this letter, nor will these words ever meet paper. I don't know how I feel today about you, but somehow writing this letter on my green couch, with the brazen sunlight willfully piercing my slightly hungover, and black eyeliner stained eyes might be theraputic. Then again, it might not be. But, it certainly beats paying a therapist 200 bucks to sit on her couch that's probably not as comfortable as mine only to tell her things that I can just write on my own for free.
My name is Brooke. I was born on April 12, 1976 in Charlotte, I now know. For over 35 years I didn't know where I was born. I just knew that I was adopted in Charlotte, well, looking back now, I don't think I even knew that.
All of my life I have been trying to identify who I am. Although, I am naturally quite aware of my surroundings most of the time, I have found it difficult to know myself. Plato would be sad.
Something that comes inherant to most people-those not adopted, comes wrapped tightly in a box sent from Africa, that has been through customs in seven different countries and rewrapped a few times, delivered with tears and rips patched messily by the hands of an uncaring agent. That is a fancy way of describing two words- self-awareness.
I can't blame you. You did what you thought was right. You did what you had to do at the time given the circumstances. I realize also that times have changed a lot. People are much more accepting of others now, or at least more tolerant because the world views have changed so much.
Although it's my assumption that the reality of the human mind is not particularly altered, as much as it is that the world view is not as dilluted as it was in the 1970s. People have come to grips with truth more and because thinking is so far advanced since then, people are less likely to pass judgement on accidental pregnancy. That's just my speculation. Who am I?
I've always found astrology stimulating and find myself constantly intrigued by descriptions of my sign. I'm aries in case you didn't know. Not until recently have I really found solace in knowing that it's not where I came from that determines who I am, but from who, and that's God.
My spirituality is constantly increasing, and through personal growth I am finally realizing the importance of things such as interpersonal relationships and love, and the correct ways to obtain and keep both healthy and steady.
Some people say that with each step forward they experience a few steps back, and while that might have some truth to it, I have found that the steps taken in advancement in thought processes are far longer than the steps taken backward. So growth is exactly described as what it is-growth.
Another thing fascinating to me is study of genetics. Since I have had no one to link myself to in my life, until 2007, when I had my daughter, Sarah, the absense of common characteristics and basic things that people often take for granted have meant much more to me. The fact that my friends look like their parents, and have common traits and likes and dislikes fascinates me.
I guess you could call me the missing link, or am I the puzzle missing the piece? Not sure.
Not sure, is a pretty good way to describe my feeling right now. I am not sure if I want to meet you. I am not sure if I want my whole life to be altered forever. I am not sure if I feel like writing these letters anymore. Not sure if I care enough about you to put my heart at risk for more pain.
I am toying with ideas today that I've never thought of before. I don't want to share them with anyone, and that scares me. Something that I can be proud of is my capacity for sharing. Are you that way?
I just realized yesterday that your career path led you to a position that allows you to give away money. I love to do that too. Are we alike in that respect? Do you give of yourself as freely or are you secretive? Do you bare burdens that no one knows of? Am I one of them? Do you wear you heart on your sleeve like I do? Do you often find yourself caring about others in ways that they don't reciprocate, and upon noticing, remain faithful to them? Do you trust in the Lord with your finances? Do you trust in Him at all?
I would find it hard to believe that someone who has given up their child, and has lived 35 years wondering where she is, would not trust the Lord. Maybe you know who I am already and are like me, a coward. If I find out that you have known who I am for years and have never contacted me, I don't know how I will feel. I guess it's the same as me knowing who you are, writing a very personal blog for the world to read and share in emotion with, and not having contacted you.
It's now been three months. I am not ready to mail a letter. I keep finding feelings pushed back in my soul that I didn't know I had. I don't know if I'm ready to start healing or ready to have closure. Maybe they are hand in hand, and to know one, is to know the other. Maybe writing this letter has made me wonder who I am some more. Is this really helping me? Maybe I should see a therapist. Nah. I'll keep writing, and through writing, I will find the answer, because when you think about it, as I have many times over, writing is just verbalizing your soul. It's letting your insides out to play. It's being pushed in the swing by your grandmother, and screaming, "Higher, Higher!"
I thought I was ready to send a letter this weekend. I went out last night with every intention of waking up this morning, stuffing an envelope, and recording myself dropping it into a mailbox. It's not gonna happen. Not today.
With disdain and uncertainty again I leave you,
Brooke
I'm not sure how to start this letter. It is the third of a series of letters I anticipate writing. I'm not sure if you will ever even see this letter, nor will these words ever meet paper. I don't know how I feel today about you, but somehow writing this letter on my green couch, with the brazen sunlight willfully piercing my slightly hungover, and black eyeliner stained eyes might be theraputic. Then again, it might not be. But, it certainly beats paying a therapist 200 bucks to sit on her couch that's probably not as comfortable as mine only to tell her things that I can just write on my own for free.
My name is Brooke. I was born on April 12, 1976 in Charlotte, I now know. For over 35 years I didn't know where I was born. I just knew that I was adopted in Charlotte, well, looking back now, I don't think I even knew that.
All of my life I have been trying to identify who I am. Although, I am naturally quite aware of my surroundings most of the time, I have found it difficult to know myself. Plato would be sad.
Something that comes inherant to most people-those not adopted, comes wrapped tightly in a box sent from Africa, that has been through customs in seven different countries and rewrapped a few times, delivered with tears and rips patched messily by the hands of an uncaring agent. That is a fancy way of describing two words- self-awareness.
I can't blame you. You did what you thought was right. You did what you had to do at the time given the circumstances. I realize also that times have changed a lot. People are much more accepting of others now, or at least more tolerant because the world views have changed so much.
Although it's my assumption that the reality of the human mind is not particularly altered, as much as it is that the world view is not as dilluted as it was in the 1970s. People have come to grips with truth more and because thinking is so far advanced since then, people are less likely to pass judgement on accidental pregnancy. That's just my speculation. Who am I?
I've always found astrology stimulating and find myself constantly intrigued by descriptions of my sign. I'm aries in case you didn't know. Not until recently have I really found solace in knowing that it's not where I came from that determines who I am, but from who, and that's God.
My spirituality is constantly increasing, and through personal growth I am finally realizing the importance of things such as interpersonal relationships and love, and the correct ways to obtain and keep both healthy and steady.
Some people say that with each step forward they experience a few steps back, and while that might have some truth to it, I have found that the steps taken in advancement in thought processes are far longer than the steps taken backward. So growth is exactly described as what it is-growth.
Another thing fascinating to me is study of genetics. Since I have had no one to link myself to in my life, until 2007, when I had my daughter, Sarah, the absense of common characteristics and basic things that people often take for granted have meant much more to me. The fact that my friends look like their parents, and have common traits and likes and dislikes fascinates me.
I guess you could call me the missing link, or am I the puzzle missing the piece? Not sure.
Not sure, is a pretty good way to describe my feeling right now. I am not sure if I want to meet you. I am not sure if I want my whole life to be altered forever. I am not sure if I feel like writing these letters anymore. Not sure if I care enough about you to put my heart at risk for more pain.
I am toying with ideas today that I've never thought of before. I don't want to share them with anyone, and that scares me. Something that I can be proud of is my capacity for sharing. Are you that way?
I just realized yesterday that your career path led you to a position that allows you to give away money. I love to do that too. Are we alike in that respect? Do you give of yourself as freely or are you secretive? Do you bare burdens that no one knows of? Am I one of them? Do you wear you heart on your sleeve like I do? Do you often find yourself caring about others in ways that they don't reciprocate, and upon noticing, remain faithful to them? Do you trust in the Lord with your finances? Do you trust in Him at all?
I would find it hard to believe that someone who has given up their child, and has lived 35 years wondering where she is, would not trust the Lord. Maybe you know who I am already and are like me, a coward. If I find out that you have known who I am for years and have never contacted me, I don't know how I will feel. I guess it's the same as me knowing who you are, writing a very personal blog for the world to read and share in emotion with, and not having contacted you.
It's now been three months. I am not ready to mail a letter. I keep finding feelings pushed back in my soul that I didn't know I had. I don't know if I'm ready to start healing or ready to have closure. Maybe they are hand in hand, and to know one, is to know the other. Maybe writing this letter has made me wonder who I am some more. Is this really helping me? Maybe I should see a therapist. Nah. I'll keep writing, and through writing, I will find the answer, because when you think about it, as I have many times over, writing is just verbalizing your soul. It's letting your insides out to play. It's being pushed in the swing by your grandmother, and screaming, "Higher, Higher!"
I thought I was ready to send a letter this weekend. I went out last night with every intention of waking up this morning, stuffing an envelope, and recording myself dropping it into a mailbox. It's not gonna happen. Not today.
With disdain and uncertainty again I leave you,
Brooke
Saturday, October 29, 2011
The restaurant
Upon rereading my last blog entry, I noticed that I had left out a lot about the meeting, the restaurant, and the night that I drove up to Greensboro. If this is to ever go to publishing I better not leave anything out.
I can just imagine the editor's red strike throughs and abundancy of notes and suggestions, "expand- this needs more detail," common notes I received in college in writing classes I selfishly embarked on even though I knew the credits had nothing to do with obtaining my degree. It ultimately didn't matter anyway, since I dropped out my senior year.
I will go back to finish sometime. Probably next year since my company will absorb 90% of the costs, and the fact that I am both a single mom and a homeowner, somehow increases my odds of becoming a scholarship recipient.
I guess the fact that Sarah has only one cool killer mom instead of possibly one lazy mother and another drunk dad, she is somehow against the odds of being "normal" and a consummate contributor to society. I'm not sure how society can claim that she is "at risk," considering that there are many children out there who suffer more from having two parents still married to eachother, still living under the same roof, and hating eachother, spilling disgust all throughout their house, while in front of their poor children, who will really suffer in the long run. But somehow, Sarah is, "at risk". If it means I get more scholarship help, I guess I'll put up with a stereotypical demograph for the time being. That was a rant, and off the subject. Sorry for that. I guess I get carried away sometimes.
So back to the restaurant. When I walked in from the rain, which incessantly kissed my windshield the entire way there, and back. I was a little relieved, and nervous, to have finally made it. Driving through Greensboro was intense.
Much like Charlotte, Greensboro has many main roads that are like highways, with many exits and on ramps and neighborhoods which hug the side of most of them, which always makes traffic particularly hairy. I was shuffling through my overcrowded, brown leather purse looking for the crumpled up sheet of paper that I had last minute printed off my office printer.
Mapquest is not always the best choice. In fact, I go with Google Maps myself, but for some reason it was not loading at 3:55 when I decided I best find out how to get to the restaurant. I guess my mind was still not wrapped around the fact that I have a fancy phone that has 4G Navigation on it. And good thing, because for some reason, probably due to user error, it wasn't working anyway.
Forget about getting the directions to the CHS. I had already made up my mind I would follow some unlikely suspect over.
Thank God, it was so close. The way the weather was, I could have easily gotten lost, even though I did live in that city for a long time by my standards. Greensboro kinda sucks.
I expected my memory to be better. Note to self, your memory sucks, too.
There was a funny incident at the restaurant that I left out. I think I mentioned that it was a Mexican restaurant, which I think to most American's means, there were hardly any fluent English speaking waiters. I appologize if that sounds racist, but in all fairness, I think that statement is pretty accurate. If you are a margarita connoisseur like I am, you make it a point not to discriminate against any margarita selling establishment within a 25 mile range of your house, or job.
When I noticed that the time was getting short, and we were down to three of us left at the restaurant, and I had over half of my small margarita left to quickly, but assuredly be consummed (to ease my nerves, of course), I had think quickly.
The ladies were rushing me to eat because they didn't want to be late, which is understandable.
They both had driven a long distance as well. Actually, I think just the mother did. She drove from Jacksonville. NC. Which is a pretty long drive. I think the birthdaughter lives in Greensboro, as I now stand corrected.
When I noticed that my waiter, who was in no rush to get back to my table, but who didn't mind giving me the goo-goo eyes, and one up when I first walked in, I had to, what some might call spastically, wave my arm to get the attention of one of the other waiters who was apparently holding up the wall on the other side of the small, dimly lit room. A family sitting beside us had just been sung what I'm imaging was a birthday song, by the group of short waiters. He was wearing an unusually large sombrero, and his face was filled with laughter and I could tell he may have been a margarita connoisseur himself.
There were at least three waiters herded together, no doubt, laughing at some unsuspecting patron of the restaurant. I used to be a waitress. That is very common, I'm embarrassed to admit. They pretended not to see me, and when finally, one locked eyes with me, he acted like he didn't speak non-verbal English either. He shook his head. He was not going to help me.
I had to stand up right before I stomped on his foot. Just joking, but that would have been too funny.
Instead, I did what all annoyed restaurant patrons do when their waiter sucks. I got up and got it myself. But unlike most annoyed patrons, I left a good tip despite his lack of attentiveness.
In my opinion all people should be forced to wait tables at least once in their lives, even if, for only one night.
What demanding and unendingly rude restaurant patrons don't understand, is that a server's job is not to make you happy. It's to serve you food. I can't tell you enough, how many people go to restaurants to take out all their aggressions on the server. It's a sad display of character, and unfortunately it happens more than you think.
I can just imagine the editor's red strike throughs and abundancy of notes and suggestions, "expand- this needs more detail," common notes I received in college in writing classes I selfishly embarked on even though I knew the credits had nothing to do with obtaining my degree. It ultimately didn't matter anyway, since I dropped out my senior year.
I will go back to finish sometime. Probably next year since my company will absorb 90% of the costs, and the fact that I am both a single mom and a homeowner, somehow increases my odds of becoming a scholarship recipient.
I guess the fact that Sarah has only one cool killer mom instead of possibly one lazy mother and another drunk dad, she is somehow against the odds of being "normal" and a consummate contributor to society. I'm not sure how society can claim that she is "at risk," considering that there are many children out there who suffer more from having two parents still married to eachother, still living under the same roof, and hating eachother, spilling disgust all throughout their house, while in front of their poor children, who will really suffer in the long run. But somehow, Sarah is, "at risk". If it means I get more scholarship help, I guess I'll put up with a stereotypical demograph for the time being. That was a rant, and off the subject. Sorry for that. I guess I get carried away sometimes.
So back to the restaurant. When I walked in from the rain, which incessantly kissed my windshield the entire way there, and back. I was a little relieved, and nervous, to have finally made it. Driving through Greensboro was intense.
Much like Charlotte, Greensboro has many main roads that are like highways, with many exits and on ramps and neighborhoods which hug the side of most of them, which always makes traffic particularly hairy. I was shuffling through my overcrowded, brown leather purse looking for the crumpled up sheet of paper that I had last minute printed off my office printer.
Mapquest is not always the best choice. In fact, I go with Google Maps myself, but for some reason it was not loading at 3:55 when I decided I best find out how to get to the restaurant. I guess my mind was still not wrapped around the fact that I have a fancy phone that has 4G Navigation on it. And good thing, because for some reason, probably due to user error, it wasn't working anyway.
Forget about getting the directions to the CHS. I had already made up my mind I would follow some unlikely suspect over.
Thank God, it was so close. The way the weather was, I could have easily gotten lost, even though I did live in that city for a long time by my standards. Greensboro kinda sucks.
I expected my memory to be better. Note to self, your memory sucks, too.
There was a funny incident at the restaurant that I left out. I think I mentioned that it was a Mexican restaurant, which I think to most American's means, there were hardly any fluent English speaking waiters. I appologize if that sounds racist, but in all fairness, I think that statement is pretty accurate. If you are a margarita connoisseur like I am, you make it a point not to discriminate against any margarita selling establishment within a 25 mile range of your house, or job.
When I noticed that the time was getting short, and we were down to three of us left at the restaurant, and I had over half of my small margarita left to quickly, but assuredly be consummed (to ease my nerves, of course), I had think quickly.
The ladies were rushing me to eat because they didn't want to be late, which is understandable.
They both had driven a long distance as well. Actually, I think just the mother did. She drove from Jacksonville. NC. Which is a pretty long drive. I think the birthdaughter lives in Greensboro, as I now stand corrected.
When I noticed that my waiter, who was in no rush to get back to my table, but who didn't mind giving me the goo-goo eyes, and one up when I first walked in, I had to, what some might call spastically, wave my arm to get the attention of one of the other waiters who was apparently holding up the wall on the other side of the small, dimly lit room. A family sitting beside us had just been sung what I'm imaging was a birthday song, by the group of short waiters. He was wearing an unusually large sombrero, and his face was filled with laughter and I could tell he may have been a margarita connoisseur himself.
There were at least three waiters herded together, no doubt, laughing at some unsuspecting patron of the restaurant. I used to be a waitress. That is very common, I'm embarrassed to admit. They pretended not to see me, and when finally, one locked eyes with me, he acted like he didn't speak non-verbal English either. He shook his head. He was not going to help me.
I had to stand up right before I stomped on his foot. Just joking, but that would have been too funny.
Instead, I did what all annoyed restaurant patrons do when their waiter sucks. I got up and got it myself. But unlike most annoyed patrons, I left a good tip despite his lack of attentiveness.
In my opinion all people should be forced to wait tables at least once in their lives, even if, for only one night.
What demanding and unendingly rude restaurant patrons don't understand, is that a server's job is not to make you happy. It's to serve you food. I can't tell you enough, how many people go to restaurants to take out all their aggressions on the server. It's a sad display of character, and unfortunately it happens more than you think.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Support Group
It has been some time since I've shared anything recent on my quest. I have been neglectful in ways more than the obvious lack of posts. Although, I did sign up to be a writer for the Examiner.com's local adoption page, I have yet to make one entry. The Examiner is an online publication that posts local writers' articles on a variety of subjects. It was my thought that I would probably copy a few of my entries here, and make it an editorial-ish page.
The Examiner, which I somehow stumbled across while flipping through the world wide web, claims to be supreme in readership attraction and promotion, delivering increasingly consuming audiences and in some cases ultimately leading to book publication. We'll see about that. I'm not taking odds yet.
I decided I would give it a shot, just to see what kind of numbers I can generate as far as hits. I have somehow become a hit junkie. I keep finding myself logging into Blogger even when I haven't published anything recently, just to see if my numbers are increasing. Somehow they are, which pleases me. I finally made it to the 1000 mark. I don't know if that is a wimpy number in the grand scheme of bloggerdome, but to me, it's somewhat of an accomplishment. It's really just a round number, but still.
I've seen some blogs out there that made me shudder to think they have regular readership. One recent winner of most read blog on Blogger is a page by some Asian woman who describes putting on make-up. My God. What is that about? Moreso, who gives a rat's ass? Someone does I suppose, just not this chic.
Instead, the competition for the most hits of a blog really is not dependent upon the actual content as much as it is the intensity of promotion being emitted- the advertising. That is sad, but not surprising, considering that most of what you see on tv is junk, and most of what People Magazine writes about is smut and questionably credible. We are a society that follows others, not as freethinking as we wish and sometimes claim to be. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I want to be opposite of the norm. Being normal doesn't work. I won't elaborate, don't think I need to.
So, I decided to go to a support group in Greensboro at the urging of Karen, the former Post Adoption counselor at the Children's Home Society. Sure, Greensboro is 95 miles from Charlotte, and it was a school night, and raining enough to irritate the roaches and force worms out of their homes at alarming rates, but it wasn't enough to hinder me. The meeting started at 7 as I recall. I got there early and met the regulars at La Bamba for some authentic Mexican dinner beforehand. The invitation was extended, and I have trouble saying no to any sort of social gathering, especially when the people that would be meeting for dinner were all somehow tied to adoption, by either being a birthparent, adoptee, or adoptive mother. All areas were represented by this seemingly normal crowd.
Had I not gotten the call from the mediator/facilitator of the group, Francie, who also happens to be a licensed counselor at the CHS and a reunited adoptee herself, I might have put it off for one more month. I won't go back until December, when they have the Christmas party. Next month is movie night. Greensboro is simply too far to drive for a movie. I like movies as much as the next gal, but Netflix might boast the same movie, and I can certainly rent it and maybe in their honor watch it on the same night and hold a silent vigil from my comfy green couch with the squishy salmon colored down stuffed pillows that I can scrunch under my neck just perfectly.
When I finally made it to the restaurant where a few members of the group meet for dinner every second Tuesday of the month, I was somewhat jittery feeling, which is not me. I was shaking when I was applying my lipstick, as if I had gone out the night before and really tied one on (not the case, if you were wondering.)
I walked in the room that I thought Francie had described, probably looking touristy, with a puzzled look on my face, trying to blindly identify a group of adopted people.
I was expecting the group to be more my age. I'm 35. It was not the case. They were mostly 40ish and over. Immediately, they recognized me, maybe it was my slow walk and full scan of the room. I noticed a few whisper. It was to be expected. After all, I am a newcomer, a foreigner, but somehow still connected, still integrated through the very fabric of adoption, which brings me to have an even deeper respect for the synergy of adoption.
They were curious of how I got there. I was one of them.
After an initial awkwardness, quickly relieved by one of the ladies leaving early to meet the camera crew (I'll explain later), so that I could sit at their table, things felt comfortable again. Initially, I had to sit alone at a neighboring table because, I assume they had not predicted I would show. I think I maybe have been non-committal in my discussion with Francie that afternoon, since I hadn't made any previous arrangements for Sarah. Thank you Carole. You always come through.
At the table were an adoptee reunion match- both the birthmother and the adoptee drove from different cities to attend, one of which lives in the very city that my birthmother lives, and formerly worked at the same college Colette presently works for. Small world, I agree. There was another older women there, maybe late 60s, early 70s, who was an adoptee, who had never been reunited.
I found it somewhat odd that she still cared. I guess that interpersonal dialouge never subsides. Who am I really? Where am I from? Who gave birth to me? Why can't I know that person?
Another lady, who was a bit stand-offish initially, maybe not friendly is a better way of putting it, because I found that I really liked her when it was all said and done, who was adopted and reunited sat beside me. Her story was amazing to hear and brought me to tears, and has been replayed like a broken record in my mind ever since.
Naturally, since I was new, they flooded me with questions, but were urged by Francie to stop, and to wait until we got to the actual meeting. For the first few minutes, while Francie was there, they only asked me the basics. What do you know? Are you reunited? Does your adoptive family know you are searching? All normal and to be expected questions from people who know the entailments of adoption. I knew it would go down like that. I have been asked the same questions many times over the years, but there is a noticeable difference in the questions adoptees ask versus the questions non adoptees ask. One asks the question, "why are you looking?" The other knows the answer, and asks, "how" instead. The phenomena is quite amazing, and the representation of ideas and strategies revolving around the search are quite expansive depending on who you are talking to.
That night, there was a camera man recording the conversation for the local FOX news station. One of the reporters was doing a three part series on adoption and reunition. She happened to have her own story of adoption. One day she met her full blooded sister, whom her parents had given up for adoption. Incidentally, they ended up married to eachother and had gone on to have more children- one of whom was the reporter.
I was somewhat nervous to tell my story, again, not a character trait of mine normally. I could tell my voice was cracking some. I was steadily trying to have eye contact with all who were at the long cafeteria style table, so as not to leave anyone out, because of my deeply felt connection that was naturally integrated because of our similar stories.
It wasn't until I heard the story of the lady I referred to at the dinner table, that I started to really become emotional.
Her story was this.
She had been adopted. She somehow, she didn't go into the nitty gritty details of the search, found her birthmother. She had an address and instead of knocking on the door, she sat silently in her car out front of her birthmother's house in fear. For six years she didn't have any contact with the birthmother until her phone rang one day, and it was her half sister (I think, I don't know for sure) telling her to come to the hopsital as soon as she could. Her birthmother had been given 3-4 days to live and was in stage 4 lung cancer. Hospice was there, a tell-tale sign that death is near. Because of the birthmother's husband's strong will to keep them separated, I'm guessing driven by fear, the adoptee, let's call her Sam, for some reason she reminded me of a Sam, Sam could never get through to her birthmother. The husband, who was not the birthfather, was acting as a barrier. When she had tried to reach out to her birthmother, he made it impossible for the reunion to take place, filling each of their heads with deceitful and hurtful lies.
As Sam walked into the hospital room in Shelby, NC, where the birthmother resided, the mean old husband tried to stand in her way, prompting his own daughter to stand up to him. She looked him square in the eye with her finger pointed at his nose, and said, "If anyone in this world has a right to be in this hosptal room right now more than you, it's her. You have kept them apart for way too long, and she's going to come in here and meet the woman that gave birth to her. You aren't going to stop her."
He backed off, and let her in. I hope that he finally realized how wrong he had been all those years by intentionally keeping them apart, through his undoubtedly selfish motives.
And you know what? She didn't live the 3-4 days that the doctors had predicted. She lived another 9 months. If that's not will to live, I don't know what is.
She developed a wonderful bond with her birthmother, and now has memories of her, even though she doesn't have her.
I told that story to almost everyone I spoke to at work the next day who knew why I was dipping out at 4 instead of the normal 5. I still revel in the beauty, and had to take a moment to ponder it again while typing it just now.
This makes me think I should not wait any longer.I should print out the letter, and drop it in the mailbox. I don't want her to get sick and die before I ever get to meet her. Wow, I shouldn't be offing her so quickly. That's kind of morbid. Maybe I'll rethink that.
There's more to the meeting, but I am tired. It's 12:45 and I have a lot to do tomorrow.
The Examiner, which I somehow stumbled across while flipping through the world wide web, claims to be supreme in readership attraction and promotion, delivering increasingly consuming audiences and in some cases ultimately leading to book publication. We'll see about that. I'm not taking odds yet.
I decided I would give it a shot, just to see what kind of numbers I can generate as far as hits. I have somehow become a hit junkie. I keep finding myself logging into Blogger even when I haven't published anything recently, just to see if my numbers are increasing. Somehow they are, which pleases me. I finally made it to the 1000 mark. I don't know if that is a wimpy number in the grand scheme of bloggerdome, but to me, it's somewhat of an accomplishment. It's really just a round number, but still.
I've seen some blogs out there that made me shudder to think they have regular readership. One recent winner of most read blog on Blogger is a page by some Asian woman who describes putting on make-up. My God. What is that about? Moreso, who gives a rat's ass? Someone does I suppose, just not this chic.
Instead, the competition for the most hits of a blog really is not dependent upon the actual content as much as it is the intensity of promotion being emitted- the advertising. That is sad, but not surprising, considering that most of what you see on tv is junk, and most of what People Magazine writes about is smut and questionably credible. We are a society that follows others, not as freethinking as we wish and sometimes claim to be. I can't speak for anyone but myself, but I want to be opposite of the norm. Being normal doesn't work. I won't elaborate, don't think I need to.
So, I decided to go to a support group in Greensboro at the urging of Karen, the former Post Adoption counselor at the Children's Home Society. Sure, Greensboro is 95 miles from Charlotte, and it was a school night, and raining enough to irritate the roaches and force worms out of their homes at alarming rates, but it wasn't enough to hinder me. The meeting started at 7 as I recall. I got there early and met the regulars at La Bamba for some authentic Mexican dinner beforehand. The invitation was extended, and I have trouble saying no to any sort of social gathering, especially when the people that would be meeting for dinner were all somehow tied to adoption, by either being a birthparent, adoptee, or adoptive mother. All areas were represented by this seemingly normal crowd.
Had I not gotten the call from the mediator/facilitator of the group, Francie, who also happens to be a licensed counselor at the CHS and a reunited adoptee herself, I might have put it off for one more month. I won't go back until December, when they have the Christmas party. Next month is movie night. Greensboro is simply too far to drive for a movie. I like movies as much as the next gal, but Netflix might boast the same movie, and I can certainly rent it and maybe in their honor watch it on the same night and hold a silent vigil from my comfy green couch with the squishy salmon colored down stuffed pillows that I can scrunch under my neck just perfectly.
When I finally made it to the restaurant where a few members of the group meet for dinner every second Tuesday of the month, I was somewhat jittery feeling, which is not me. I was shaking when I was applying my lipstick, as if I had gone out the night before and really tied one on (not the case, if you were wondering.)
I walked in the room that I thought Francie had described, probably looking touristy, with a puzzled look on my face, trying to blindly identify a group of adopted people.
I was expecting the group to be more my age. I'm 35. It was not the case. They were mostly 40ish and over. Immediately, they recognized me, maybe it was my slow walk and full scan of the room. I noticed a few whisper. It was to be expected. After all, I am a newcomer, a foreigner, but somehow still connected, still integrated through the very fabric of adoption, which brings me to have an even deeper respect for the synergy of adoption.
They were curious of how I got there. I was one of them.
After an initial awkwardness, quickly relieved by one of the ladies leaving early to meet the camera crew (I'll explain later), so that I could sit at their table, things felt comfortable again. Initially, I had to sit alone at a neighboring table because, I assume they had not predicted I would show. I think I maybe have been non-committal in my discussion with Francie that afternoon, since I hadn't made any previous arrangements for Sarah. Thank you Carole. You always come through.
At the table were an adoptee reunion match- both the birthmother and the adoptee drove from different cities to attend, one of which lives in the very city that my birthmother lives, and formerly worked at the same college Colette presently works for. Small world, I agree. There was another older women there, maybe late 60s, early 70s, who was an adoptee, who had never been reunited.
I found it somewhat odd that she still cared. I guess that interpersonal dialouge never subsides. Who am I really? Where am I from? Who gave birth to me? Why can't I know that person?
Another lady, who was a bit stand-offish initially, maybe not friendly is a better way of putting it, because I found that I really liked her when it was all said and done, who was adopted and reunited sat beside me. Her story was amazing to hear and brought me to tears, and has been replayed like a broken record in my mind ever since.
Naturally, since I was new, they flooded me with questions, but were urged by Francie to stop, and to wait until we got to the actual meeting. For the first few minutes, while Francie was there, they only asked me the basics. What do you know? Are you reunited? Does your adoptive family know you are searching? All normal and to be expected questions from people who know the entailments of adoption. I knew it would go down like that. I have been asked the same questions many times over the years, but there is a noticeable difference in the questions adoptees ask versus the questions non adoptees ask. One asks the question, "why are you looking?" The other knows the answer, and asks, "how" instead. The phenomena is quite amazing, and the representation of ideas and strategies revolving around the search are quite expansive depending on who you are talking to.
That night, there was a camera man recording the conversation for the local FOX news station. One of the reporters was doing a three part series on adoption and reunition. She happened to have her own story of adoption. One day she met her full blooded sister, whom her parents had given up for adoption. Incidentally, they ended up married to eachother and had gone on to have more children- one of whom was the reporter.
I was somewhat nervous to tell my story, again, not a character trait of mine normally. I could tell my voice was cracking some. I was steadily trying to have eye contact with all who were at the long cafeteria style table, so as not to leave anyone out, because of my deeply felt connection that was naturally integrated because of our similar stories.
It wasn't until I heard the story of the lady I referred to at the dinner table, that I started to really become emotional.
Her story was this.
She had been adopted. She somehow, she didn't go into the nitty gritty details of the search, found her birthmother. She had an address and instead of knocking on the door, she sat silently in her car out front of her birthmother's house in fear. For six years she didn't have any contact with the birthmother until her phone rang one day, and it was her half sister (I think, I don't know for sure) telling her to come to the hopsital as soon as she could. Her birthmother had been given 3-4 days to live and was in stage 4 lung cancer. Hospice was there, a tell-tale sign that death is near. Because of the birthmother's husband's strong will to keep them separated, I'm guessing driven by fear, the adoptee, let's call her Sam, for some reason she reminded me of a Sam, Sam could never get through to her birthmother. The husband, who was not the birthfather, was acting as a barrier. When she had tried to reach out to her birthmother, he made it impossible for the reunion to take place, filling each of their heads with deceitful and hurtful lies.
As Sam walked into the hospital room in Shelby, NC, where the birthmother resided, the mean old husband tried to stand in her way, prompting his own daughter to stand up to him. She looked him square in the eye with her finger pointed at his nose, and said, "If anyone in this world has a right to be in this hosptal room right now more than you, it's her. You have kept them apart for way too long, and she's going to come in here and meet the woman that gave birth to her. You aren't going to stop her."
He backed off, and let her in. I hope that he finally realized how wrong he had been all those years by intentionally keeping them apart, through his undoubtedly selfish motives.
And you know what? She didn't live the 3-4 days that the doctors had predicted. She lived another 9 months. If that's not will to live, I don't know what is.
She developed a wonderful bond with her birthmother, and now has memories of her, even though she doesn't have her.
I told that story to almost everyone I spoke to at work the next day who knew why I was dipping out at 4 instead of the normal 5. I still revel in the beauty, and had to take a moment to ponder it again while typing it just now.
This makes me think I should not wait any longer.I should print out the letter, and drop it in the mailbox. I don't want her to get sick and die before I ever get to meet her. Wow, I shouldn't be offing her so quickly. That's kind of morbid. Maybe I'll rethink that.
There's more to the meeting, but I am tired. It's 12:45 and I have a lot to do tomorrow.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Figuring it all out...a walk through my adoption search: 10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.
Figuring it all out...a walk through my adoption search: 10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.: I realized something this morning, upon waking up at 6am, bright and ugly, and I say ugly because waking up that early is never pretty for m...
10/6/11 Give up your child? I could never.
I realized something this morning, upon waking up at 6am, bright and ugly, and I say ugly because waking up that early is never pretty for me, or for most normal people. I'm convinced that people who wake up naturally at obsenely early hours in the morning like 4 and 5, even 6, are cursed, and should not be trusted, definately should not be looked up to. My questions to those people are these, "When do you go to sleep? And do you consider yourself to be human?"
I realized this morning, as I was scrambling through a medicine cabinet full of old lotion bottles and previous live-in boyfriend's half used deodorant bars and toothbrushes, stained with green toothpaste (that always has grossed me out by the way), that even though there are things in this world that I absolutely abhor, and would full on reject to in a court of law, that I would never give up my child.
I didn't want to slug out of bed at 5:50 because Sarah was coughing. I didn't want to feel my way to the lightswitch through the pile of clean clothes that had somehow rolled onto the floor from the chair that was piled a bit too daringly. It wasn't easy to rip away the covers from my curled up twinkle toes, and peel my cranium from that incredibly comfortably formed pillow structure that took all night to form in a perfect shape that just so perfectly cradled my head.
But I did.
I did it because I love my daughter more. As wonderfully comfortable as my bed is, 500 count thread sheets, down coverlet, NASA generated mattress, it's simply not enough to keep my from being a good mother.
Motherly love is something that can't be screwed with. You can't take it away. You can't strip someone of their feelings, like you're wiping away an embarrassing tear drop that might have formed from watching a Samaritan's Purse commercial with what's her face, Sally something, who got so fat and in my opinion really became a horrible spokesperson for the starving children in Africa.
There's nothing in the world that could ever take away motherly love.
Time can't even touch it.
I was reading something tonight on Facebook that another parent I feel a connection with wrote about losing her infant son 7 years ago, and realized that time doesn't change love either. She clearly still feels love for her child whom she lost, still feels the pangs of loss, and will probably always feel those despite how many other children she might have. And there is nothing wrong with that. She knows it. Her husband knows it.
My mom knows it. We suddenly lost my brother when he was only 20. She didn't stop loving him. She hasn't yet stopped missing him. Neither have I for that matter.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, except that you can not exchange motherly love for anything. And I am truly happy to be a mom, even if it means I have to get up in the middle of the night sometimes only to find barf all over the bed and floor, and spilled food coloring dyed green water all over my brand new cream colored Martha Stewart carpet that I am still paying on. I'm on a no-interest payment plan thankfully, that was sold to me by a very helpful and humble Indian man at Home Depot. I would suggest the store in Matthews over the one on Albermarle Rd.
The birthday parties get rediculous at times. We are on a four a month roll currently, but what can you say? No? Sure you could, but then you wouldn't get to talk about how Sam got stuck on the stairs at Monkey Joes and how Amanda cried all the way home from her shock from seeing Monkey Joe himself, and answering questions about what kind of a person "lives inside" of Monkey Joe is a hoot. You wouldn't have those moments.
Life would be dull without children. My life would be dull without Sarah.
I realized this morning, as I was scrambling through a medicine cabinet full of old lotion bottles and previous live-in boyfriend's half used deodorant bars and toothbrushes, stained with green toothpaste (that always has grossed me out by the way), that even though there are things in this world that I absolutely abhor, and would full on reject to in a court of law, that I would never give up my child.
I didn't want to slug out of bed at 5:50 because Sarah was coughing. I didn't want to feel my way to the lightswitch through the pile of clean clothes that had somehow rolled onto the floor from the chair that was piled a bit too daringly. It wasn't easy to rip away the covers from my curled up twinkle toes, and peel my cranium from that incredibly comfortably formed pillow structure that took all night to form in a perfect shape that just so perfectly cradled my head.
But I did.
I did it because I love my daughter more. As wonderfully comfortable as my bed is, 500 count thread sheets, down coverlet, NASA generated mattress, it's simply not enough to keep my from being a good mother.
Motherly love is something that can't be screwed with. You can't take it away. You can't strip someone of their feelings, like you're wiping away an embarrassing tear drop that might have formed from watching a Samaritan's Purse commercial with what's her face, Sally something, who got so fat and in my opinion really became a horrible spokesperson for the starving children in Africa.
There's nothing in the world that could ever take away motherly love.
Time can't even touch it.
I was reading something tonight on Facebook that another parent I feel a connection with wrote about losing her infant son 7 years ago, and realized that time doesn't change love either. She clearly still feels love for her child whom she lost, still feels the pangs of loss, and will probably always feel those despite how many other children she might have. And there is nothing wrong with that. She knows it. Her husband knows it.
My mom knows it. We suddenly lost my brother when he was only 20. She didn't stop loving him. She hasn't yet stopped missing him. Neither have I for that matter.
I'm not sure where I was going with this, except that you can not exchange motherly love for anything. And I am truly happy to be a mom, even if it means I have to get up in the middle of the night sometimes only to find barf all over the bed and floor, and spilled food coloring dyed green water all over my brand new cream colored Martha Stewart carpet that I am still paying on. I'm on a no-interest payment plan thankfully, that was sold to me by a very helpful and humble Indian man at Home Depot. I would suggest the store in Matthews over the one on Albermarle Rd.
The birthday parties get rediculous at times. We are on a four a month roll currently, but what can you say? No? Sure you could, but then you wouldn't get to talk about how Sam got stuck on the stairs at Monkey Joes and how Amanda cried all the way home from her shock from seeing Monkey Joe himself, and answering questions about what kind of a person "lives inside" of Monkey Joe is a hoot. You wouldn't have those moments.
Life would be dull without children. My life would be dull without Sarah.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, September 12, 2011
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
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
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.
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Vital records
