The Family in My Mind

I touched my swollen belly as I sat at the dining room table. Inside of me was a little life growing strong and, soon, I would be a mother. Someone would be alive in this world that looked like me! I had never known that before. My husband’s family all looks the same with their deep blue eyes, black hair and broad shoulders. A small part of me hated that. I remember being jealous of my friends growing up because they all knew at exactly what age they would go gray, or how tall they would be. All I had was a non-identifying physical description of my “birth father” and “birth mother” written down on some legal papers. Any identifying information about them had been crossed out with black magic marker before the photocopies were made and sent to me. I was planning to initiate a search for my birth family and I had just finished devouring all ten pages of medical records of my birth and life in Richmond, Virginia as a newborn in 1971. According to reports, I was happy, healthy and well adjusted. My adoptive parents seemed eager for a child and ready to take on both the responsibilities and the stigma that went with adopting a bastard daughter whose “birth parents” had no resources or ability to care for her. I began to feel like a charity case. I began to get angry. I began to cry.

That was more than ten years ago. My search was delayed as I gave birth to two more children and, along with my stepdaughter, brought the total of children in our family to four. Each one of my children has a little of me in them, but I have to say, they still look more like their dad and sometimes I get a little jealous of that. But each year I would read over those ten pages of records again. I learned that my “birth mother” wrote poetry, short stories, played the flute and attended college. All of those things I have done. She had dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. My “birth father” was green-eyed, sandy-haired and short. I must look like him.

My anger began to subside and the desire to find them surfaced again. To touch her, see him or find out anything about them that I could. I was sure I had missed out on siblings and nieces or nephews. Instead of living as a child of Mennonite missionaries in Asia, I could’ve been brought up as the All American girl and had a more normal life! The more I imagined what I had missed by not having this “birth family” the larger and more wonderful they became in my mind. They would be big and happy. Laughing and living close together where they all got along all the time. I wanted to meet them. I asked again for the state to search for them.

But as I waited for the Goochland Department of Public Welfare lady to conduct her court sanctioned search I started looking around at my life. I have the most amazing husband. Many women feel that way, but mine is really the best. Without him, I would be only half of what I am. And I wouldn’t have these great kids that sort of look like me. I also have experienced so much richness in my life. Growing up in Southeast Asia, Hong Kong and Malaysia is not an every day life for an American kid. Vacations in Singapore, Thailand and the USSR were our family’s norm. I have inherited a rich Mennonite heritage that smacks of community to a depth that some only dream of. Each time I turn around I run into someone who loves me. I am successful in my business, firm in my faith and delighted with my life. My brother is Korean, my niece is Chinese and it doesn’t get more diverse in one family than that! I would not have any of this richness if two people in 1971 had not been longing for a child and willing to take on the responsibility of a baby they had to learn to love and been ready to commit their lives to that. I would not have this wonderful life if I had not been adopted.

When the lady from the Goochland Department of Public Welfare called a few months later, she quietly told me that she had met a dead end in her search. She had tracked my “birth mother” to Mexico and then lost all record of her. Welfare lady had my “birth mother’s” name, but was legally barred from giving it to me. We were done searching. Nowhere left to look and no one left to try. I thanked her and tearfully hung up.

Then, I called my real Mother. I told her the search was over and she cried with me. She asked if there was anything at all she could do to help me find them. My father apologized for not remembering vital information that would have helped me in my search and agonized over this loss. It was then that I realized how incredibly and unconditionally these people loved me. Not flesh of their flesh, but heart of their heart. They didn’t have to, they chose to, and they did it magnificently and still do.

The family in my mind is still there, only now they are also the family in my life. And nothing could be more real than that.

Copywright 2006 Audrey Gilger/Divine Graffiti