I have two family trees. All adoptees do. The first is the family whose name I share, who I grew up with, my family. The other tree is newer, yet with older roots. It is my DNA tree. I had done a DNA test over fifteen years ago, but the parameters were much broader back then. This time, the motivation was from Dad. He had his DNA tested and showed me the results. I asked Katie if she wanted to get tested because they were running a two-for-one special. To my surprise, she really wanted to see what her genetic background was.
The irony of her enthusiasm is that I searched for my other family tree because of Katie. When she was in high school, she had a rough time. Was there some clue in my birth family that might help me help her? I must have had an unconscious desire to know myself, but I sure didn’t know that then. I just wanted to find out my genetic background, I told myself.
I hope Dad understands this journey is completely separate from my relationship with him. I am always, and forever, Bob’s daughter. Shirley’s daughter. Mike’s sister. Ginger’s cousin. Katie’s Mom. Me. I never expected that this quest begun for Katie would awaken a desire to know my other family tree.
As an adoptee, not knowing your DNA family is nothing new. In fact, it was probably more common to have been orphaned or abandoned throughout history than now. I can tell you that no matter how wonderful your family is, or how good a fit (mine were/is, on both accounts), being an adoptee is incredibly lonely. There is no one who looks like you. There is always the stark words ‘adopted’ written across your medical history. No one compares you to an aunt, or brothers and sisters, or mom and dad. You are an island unto yourself. I coped by keeping a little part of me protected. I wasn’t aware that I did this until recently, and I wasn’t too happy to see that.
I already knew who my birth parents were when I ordered the tests. My journey started back in August of 2007. Apparently I had to mull over my options because this was three years after Katie had graduated from high school. For $65 I ordered my de-identified adoption paperwork from the Methodist Mission Home in San Antonio. The heavily inked out lines are reminiscent of secret government files.
There have been a lot of emotionally jolting firsts for me since then. The afternoon I received a packet from Methodist Mission Home, I pored over the papers. My birth mother wanted to be a journalist, her family owned a restaurant; she was one of eleven kids. My birth father was a musician and a journalism teacher. Huh. Imagine that. September 5th, 2007, two months after listing my information on every adoption reunion site I could find, an “adoption angel” who had seen my request sent me my birth mother’s name and a link to my original birth certificate (my birth mother had named me “Suzie”. I’ll give her a pass because she was 18 and it was the late 50s). After months of sleuthing, I saw a picture of my birth mother. I remember I sat there, stunned, staring at the young girl who looked a lot like me. Some five years later, I finally, finally, put all the pieces of the puzzle together and found out who my birth father was. His picture confirmed everything. I look like him, too. At long last, I had images of the people who created me.
I now have a dual-track family narrative. The one that is, that I’ve known my whole life, and one that I’m struggling to form into a new narrative. They will never meld. I have no desire to spring myself, uninvited, into my birth mother’s life. I don’t care to hear her story, the mea culpas and rationalizations behind her choices. It is enough—more than enough—to know who I came from, to see their pictures and names, and to see what I am made of.