My nose is from Poland.

Well, this journey has quickened. Two mornings ago, I read a long email from my birth father. I found out about his existence an hour after I wrote the last post on this blog. I'm feeling completely overwhelmed. The bf seems like a very warm, passionate and intelligent fellow. He has dabbled in journalism, and currently works on behalf of the public school teachers of California. He has been married for 16 years, traveled Europe extensively, and run with the bulls in Pamplona. These facts are powerful, and they sit heavy on that blank page.

Plus, he sent me a photo of himself. I spent about 10 minutes straight looking at it. The understanding that I look like somebody's son slowly seeped into my cells and my psyche. I always imagined an instant recognition when I saw a blood relative, but that was not the case. As I looked, I began to see my nose emerge, later that day I saw my teeth. Yesterday I realized how I look like him in the same way Zadok and other friends of mine look like their fathers-- about half. It's just funny that I never picked up on this subtlety of family resemblance. He is as much a part of my DNA as he is not. There's another half to pursue, and then even that mixture becomes something else entirely as it finds expression in me. It is a significant item to place on my blank page, this photo, but I learned it is not as conclusive as I thought it would be.

I was prepared (as much as I could be) for any number of scenarios to emerge from contact with my birth father. Despite the exciting and romantic details of his life, the most reassuring part of his email was his closing line, "let the dialogue continue...." I've received an invitation to know and be known by my birth father. I don't think I could have hoped for more at this point.

Just what am I looking for?

A great quote from Barack's book:

"What is a family? Is it just a genetic chain, parents and siblings, people like me? Or is it a social construct, an economic unit, optimal for child rearing and divisions of labor? Or is it something else entirely: a store of shared memories, say? An ambit of love? A reach across the void?"

Soon after this reflection, he learns that the young man who he thought was his half-brother (and bonded with under that assumption), might actually have had a different father. He wonders, "And what about Bernard-- should my feelings for him somehow be different now?"

There's an implicit understanding of family in the eagerness of my search that may not be true, or at least may not hold up in reality. For Barack, finding his extended African family did fill in his empty page, but it didn't bring to a close his question of where do I belong. The blood relatives he found didn't offer the clear line of distinction he longed for between his people and everyone else.

I know I can't not have eagerness when I consider meeting a blood relative. I have never met one, nor have I ever seen my resemblance in the face of another. Has the absence of this DNA connection to another spawned an inflated hope in the healing power of knowing a blood relative? Absolutely. Though I can't not have this inflated hope, I feel more prepared somehow knowing I can't not have it. It's like I'm already able to grieve the let down I haven't experienced yet.

This kind of understanding is what I felt lacking in myself after my last attempt at searching. Now, I take the first tentative steps...

History, Barack

Two summers ago (almost exactly), I initiated a search for the birth family. Jena had a friend who found her birth parents through a private investigator with much success. We contacted this person and paid an upfront deposit. Sparing you the details, this investigator sucked. She went weeks in between communication, and wasn't able to produce any results despite the very good information I had for her (potential birth parents' names). I went from bold anticipation, to confusion, to devastation at meeting this dead end. I told her to stop, and surrendered the deposit with nothing to show.

Months past, a year past, and I flailed at attempts to open my heart to hope again. Jena patiently continued the conversation at long intervals, but I just felt the need to go at my own pace. I so believe (for better and worse) in acting on inspiration. This requires a lot of waiting around sometimes, and sometimes perhaps it is better to make your own kind of inspiration, but not for this thing. I needed to know the Inspirer was with me. It was ok to wait for God to call. My heart is not strong on its own when it came to this.

Well, after Jena opened up my mind again recently, I heard the call from an unforeseen source. I began reading Barack Obama's "Dreams of My Father" while traveling in mid-June. The book is a remarkable experience. When I got to Part III, where Barack begins a journey to Kenya in search of relatives from his deceased father's side, things began to click for me. I knew I needed to be sure of where I was coming from internally-- my expectations, my fears, my hopes, etc-- before I opened things up to searching. Barack's patient and delicate exploration of his schizophrenic identity throughout the book (all preceding his journey to Kenya) helped me reflect on my own situation. He has been my guide through the past couple of weeks. His story is remarkably helpful to me in understanding my own. Reading this book gave me a beautiful experience. I'll include some of the things that spoke to me later on.

Peace,
Patrick

First Things

I am 32 years old, and was adopted as a new baby in 1975. I have never met my birth parents. I've had a lot of opportunity to think about the question, 'what is it like to be adopted?' I suppose it's different for everyone, but for me it's as though there's a book I can pick up off the shelf every now and again that helps me know my identity. It reminds me things about myself when I forget. I can read about my life growing up, the parents who gave me a good home, the friends who've loved me, my wife. They all help me know something about myself. I've been to Ireland twice, and that's a whole chapter. When I think about where I'm going, or when I face a challenge and consider what tools I've been given to deal with it, I draw from these pages to help guide me. They contain my idea of myself, my foundation, my identity.

One whole chapter, however, is full of blank pages. When I flip through this book, I'm left with one big question mark-- where did my DNA come from? I know I have much of the strong character traits of my adoptive father, but who has gone before my bones and my muscles? Who gave my body it's strong traits? How strong are they? What about my smile, my crazy eyebrows? The pages are empty. The questions remain.

I hope to put something on these pages in the next few months, years. I'm not overly concerned with what fills them (I'll deal with all that in time), but my current urgency is to fill the pages with the info I don't have about myself.

We'll see what happens...