In honor of November being National Adoption Awareness Month, Portrait of an Adoption is hosting the fourth annual acclaimed series, 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days. Designed to give a voice to the many different perspectives of adoption, this series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying experiences.
By Stephanie Goss Hlavin
I always fancied myself Jewish. At least half Jewish.
I wanted to be a balabusta, not a shiksa.
In college, my best friend would endure hearing how, in another life, I was sure I had been Jewish, had lived in Brooklyn. In my mind’s eye, I saw myself on the fire escape of some third-floor walkup, apron around my waist, yelling down to some offspring or two to ‘Come, eat.’ (I don’t know why I didn’t fancy myself a Jew on the Upper East Side.)
The thing is, I think I am Jewish. Half Jewish. But I’m not one-hundred percent certain.
I’m adopted. I’ve always known I was adopted; I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know. I grew up thinking I was half Russian, half German. (I also thought I was the love child of Elvis Presley and Elizabeth Taylor.)
Do you know this poem written from the adoptive mother’s point of view?
“Not flesh of my flesh, Nor bone of my bone, But still miraculously my own. Don't forget for a single minute, You grew not under my heart But in it.”
My mother kept a news-clipped copy of this poem in her jewelry box, tucked away with her Eastern Star pin, a lock of my hair and her stretchy, silver Timex watch. It’s yellowed now. Fading. Much like my memories of her. She was taken from me when I was six.
She, my older brother, and I were riding in our flesh-colored Volkswagen no more than a half-mile from our house. Where I grew up, you either drove your trash to the dump or you burned it; there was no trash-pickup Tuesday. You identified as either Baptist, Methodist or Episcopal, and even the latter was a stretch. Three-legged dogs, victims of the hunting traps left scattered in the woods, were not uncommon.
It was April and the fields had been plowed, readied for spring planting. Windy and dusty, it must have been difficult to see the car full of drunken teenagers headed straight for us on that road with no separating yellow line.
My brother was six years older than I, and he was also adopted. He had a penchant for Davey Crockett, coon-tailed hats and Boy Scouts. He was a sensitive soul and kind to me. A good big brother.
I was still in the hospital — both their funerals having already taken place and the ashes in the ground — when I was told about my mother and my brother. My dad couldn’t do it; someone else delivered the news. Gone. I’ll never forget the slice that red Charms lollipop made on the roof of my mouth.
The praying began. As did the worrying. “Please, dear God, don’t let anything happen to my daddy. Please, don’t take him from me.” Couple, three times a day. On my knees at night.
God’s a shitty listener.
My dad was at the wheel of our car, sinking, sinking into the James River. He was a fine enough swimmer but had he the skills of Michael Phelps, it wouldn’t have mattered. The tractor trailer hit him from behind hard, too hard. He drowned, knocked unconscious as he sat unbuckled and trapped in that silver Caprice Classic with the burgundy velour seats.
One father down, one to go.
No surprise that along with the absurd aligning of events I’d experienced, my fascination with serendipity grew. What if, this very minute, a kid in another country was reading the same book as me? What if, just like me, someone in say, Wisconsin, was cleaning their hamster cage too?
But what about her?
Was she thinking of me? My birthmother. Did she ever think of me? I’m surprised I didn’t wonder about that more often. Some unknown sixth sense buried deep inside kept me from it. It was too risky, too rich. Like Laura Ingalls Wilder when she had to try so hard not to eat all the maple candy that Pa brought back from the general store in one sitting. She wanted to, but she didn’t. She rationed it.
But I did indulge on my birthday. Surely, on this day she thought of me. If no other day, this was the day she remembered me. Yes, on December 3rd, she must have thought of me.
Not being a fan of work that requires time and patience, I began the search for my birthmother rather passively. I had found an adoption registry online that asked I enter only what little details I knew. (In Virginia, where I was born, birth records are sealed. The Commonwealth has all but declared us biological bastards.) If they any substantive information, someone would contact me.
The hulking Gateway desktop had mail for me. A note from an Earl Barnes from the adoption registry. He had some information. Some pretty substantial information.
“Your birthmother was likely living in Ashland, VA, when you were conceived. Her name is M___ , Katya M____.”
I emailed him back. “How can you be so sure? Are you certain?” His reply: “I wouldn’t share this kind of information if I weren’t 99% sure. In your case, I’m 110% sure.”
He put me in contact with my ‘adoption angel.’ Adoption angels are wonderful people that rarely anyone meets and who would never accept a dime for helping you find your biological family. My angel, Sherri, lived in Richmond, VA, near Ashland, and she was a spit fire.
Sherri dug deep and fast. She came back with phone numbers for two women who matched the information we had – birthdate and name. In what felt a little too much like that children’s book, ‘Are you my mother?’ I set about doing just that. Asking strange women if they were indeed my mother.
The first one lived in the Bronx. The second, Miami. Who knew, but there’s an entire protocol when you’re calling someone to find out if she is your biological parent. Sherri briefed me, “You don’t say why you’re calling. You never know who knows what, or who is there. If you come right out with it, you could spook the person and lose your shot. You need a reason for calling, a story.”
My reason? “My name is Stephanie and I’m calling about some unclaimed assets that may belong to Katya. May I please speak with her?”
Bronx first, then Miami. Two polite but befuddled women. Two strikes.
More digging. Sherri thinks she’s located Katya’s son, Alan M____. Alan lives in Ashland. I can hear the excitement in her voice. She thinks we’re close. I feel green.
The call with Alan does not go how I had hoped. He’s not buying the, ‘Is Katya there she has unclaimed assets,’ story. Alan yells that his sister (ah-hah) has no unclaimed assets, their father is dead, and he didn’t have anything. He will contact the police if I call there again. I ask would he please take down my number. He won’t.
When my phone rings a few minutes later, I’m surprised to hear it’s Alan’s fiancé. She’s fishing. ‘What did I really want,’ she asks. I stick by my story. She’s kind and skeptical, advising I not call there again.
With much disappointment, I give Sherri the news. She’s reassuring and positive. “Don’t worry. We’ll back-door-it if we have to.” Dear Lord, what does that mean? Don’t give up she says. I kind of do.
I had just gotten my daughter in bed. She was one-year-old, so it wasn’t late, probably around 7:30 pm. I answered the ringing phone.
“’Is Stephanie there?’”
“Yes, this is she. May I ask who’s calling?”
‘Katya. Katya M____.’
It was the call. THE call. This was happening. Oh my God Oh my God. This is my mother on the phone. I stand there like a dummy. Protocol, protocol. I have specific questions to ask. I saved them on the big computer. In the other room. I am in the kitchen. Oh my God I am making my maybe-mother hold on the phone while I stand here like an idiot.
I make my way back to the office where I’ve stored my questions, my identifying information. I pick up the extension. Good, she’s still there. (Alan or his fiancé must have given her my number after all.) I begin, explaining I first just need to ask a few questions. “What’s your full name?” check. “What are your parent’s names?” check. “What is your birthdate?” check. Getting closer. Two left.
Me, “Does the date December 3, 1968, mean anything to you?”
Her, “’Yes.”
Alright, this is it. Here comes the big one.
Me, “Does the name Stephanie Ann mean anything to you?”
Pause.
Her, “Yes.”
Me, “Well, I am that Stephanie.”
Another pause. No tears.
She tells me she’s so glad to hear from me. She wants to know about me, my family. Her granddaughter. I learn that I have a grandmother – she’s still living. And a brother. I have a half-brother! No tears, no sobbing. Just talking. It’s weird.
We agree to speak more the next day. I don’t want to hang up. Will she call me? Will we really talk again? It’s been so long. It’s been never actually.
Before we hang up, she says, “I want you to know, not a day went by that I didn’t think of you. I thought about you and I prayed for you every day.”
Now the tears. They come.
Ten years later. Another daughter, a granddaughter, a great-granddaughter, another niece. A brother, a babushka. A mother.
This past Christmas, I asked Katya about my biological father. I’m not sure why it took me so long. Is it a phenomenon similar to the missing mom in Disney movies? The father as afterthought? I don’t know.
She suggests I don’t contact him. “He was kind of arrogant. And probably even more so now. I think he is a doctor.” I am not deterred. I gather some information, details. Phonetic spelling of last name, university attended and when. I’ve got all I need.
After getting the girls to bed, I fire up my laptop. Clickety-clack, tappity-tap. The Internet’s an amazing thing. Type his name (misspelled). There he is. Just like that.
It all matches. He is a doctor – a surgeon – and a successful one. I find video footage of him testifying before the Senate advocating for patient’s rights. That doesn’t sound like a jerk.
He has daughters. (This means I have half-sisters!) He lives in New York. I study his picture. He’s handsome. Do I look like him at all? I look closer at the laptop screen, peering at it like it’s the inside of the refrigerator, and I can’t find the mayonnaise.
His surname, correctly spelled, is Goldbaum.
I knew it; I am half Jewish.
It’s been nine months since I found him online. The sketch my youngest daughter drew of him hangs on the refrigerator alongside the photograph of my two daughters, me, my brother, my mother and my grandmother on the couch, lined up like an opened set of matryoshka dolls.
I haven’t contacted him yet. My girls can’t understand why.
I’m scared.
He doesn’t know I exist. Can someone be your father when he doesn’t know you exist, that you take up space on this planet?
One father down, one to go. Mazel tov.
Stephanie Goss Hlavin lives in Raleigh, NC, with her two excellent daughters and their one-eyed dog YumYum. She likes anchovy paste out of the tube and has a newfound love of Scotch. She remains optimistic and is pretty sure NYC will be there when the time is right.
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