Adopted.

I have a story to tell. It’s not a short one, but this is the beginning.

I’m the inquisitive type. Stubborn. Both emotional and logical.

At three days old I met my parents. My father wore a blue suit with a yellow tie. My mother laid me on her stomach in the hotel room and I smiled up at her when her tummy rumbled. She always said, “You may not have grown under my heart, but you grew in it.” I knew that I was loved. Always.

A few times in elementary school I was teased about being adopted. “Your mom must not have loved you. That’s why she gave you up. That’s why nobody likes you.”

It never bothered me. I laughed at them. My mom always made sure my brother and I knew that we were chosen. We were never mistakes. They prayed for us for years.

That never stopped me from being curious. Where did I come from? What was my story? Did I look like someone out there? Do I have biological siblings? What’s the strength of nature vs. nurture? Did she care about me? Did she want to meet me? She’s like me, I know it. She’ll want to meet me. Prepare for the worst. Protect your heart. She might not be what you think. She may not want you. She might be a drug addict. She might be dead. She’s not your family. You have a family. Family doesn’t have to be blood. Family is a bond. Where does she live? I love you, daddy. I love you, mommy. You are my angels. Thank you for this life. Thank you for everything. Thank you for picking me. Thank you for loving me, even when I don’t deserve your pureness. I love you. Do you know how much I love you? Does she have my eyes? Does she want to meet me?

–

My childhood was bliss. My father worked so hard for us. I missed him a lot, especially at night. When he would get in late from work he made sure I knew he was there. In the middle of the night I would wake up horizontal in my bed, he would gently turn me while I was sleeping, and I would go back to sleep knowing he was home. Then, in the morning mom would give him his breakfast of muffins, banana bars, and egg rolls and send him off to work again with me waving out the front window.

“Bye Daddy! Daddy! Love you! Can he hear me. He waved. Ok, bye daddy!”

We traveled the world. My entire childhood is filled with memories of the Alps, the Rockies, The Appalachians. We lived in the Bahamas for a summer. We hiked mountainous Canadian expert level trails when I was 8 years old.

I took piano lessons for 14 years. Learned violin easily. Ran track and eventually cross-country in college. I had a choir scholarship and turned down an art scholarship so I could run on scholarship instead. I won state-wide writing contests, science fairs, and piano contests. My mother was my rock. My backbone when I didn’t even deserve her kindness. I was hot tempered, always.

One day I heard her crying in her room. When she came out she looked at me and said, “Sometimes your father and I just don’t understand you. Maybe it’s because you’re adopted but we love you so much. We are doing the best we can do.”

I don’t know if she remembers that, but I’ve never forgotten it. It’s true.

–

Nature vs. nurture is an entrancing thing. Every good part of me comes from my parents. Every. single. little. bit. Every ounce of drive, passion, inability to quit something I’ve started, the conscience in my brain that guides me daily, the slap on the hand when I’m doing something questionable. They’re always there. But I’m also me. Always a little different. Always doing things my own way. The hard way.

I have a ‘unique’ personality. I’m weird, pretty quirky and edgy. My mother is a saint. My father is the most intelligent man I know. My mother once said, “Why can’t you just follow my example and date one man like I dated your father. Follow our example, your life will be so much easier.”

Easier indeed it would have been. But it wouldn’t have been my life. I like it messy and hard. Diamonds are formed from high pressure in the depths and darkness before anyone is ever able to bring them to light and see exactly what they’re made of. They’re the hardest stones and the most beautiful, at the same time.

–

When I met Deb, I both liked her and disliked her. I see parts of her in me that I try to bury. She’s funny. Her sense of humor is like mine. Her brain works like mine. She’s a writer and photographer. The way her words flow on a page are the same way they flow from me. Her life is messy. She has my nose. She’s an inch taller. She’s emotional. She’s a sharer but she’s also guarded. She has blonde hair and freckles. She burns easily in the sun. She waited years for me to find her. One of her passwords was my name.

She’s like me. But not like me.

Originally, my name was Valerie Dawn. When Deb was pregnant, she would sit in her trailer and watch the sunrise. She thought the name Valerie was beautiful. And the dawn brought her happiness. In fact, it was one of the only things that brought her happiness as she tried to figure out what to do with the baby she was carrying. Her life was hard. A stark difference to mine. Night and day.

Deb’s biological family lives in Florida. Her father and grandfather were both alcoholics, abusive. Her father doesn’t have any contact with any of his children, for good reason. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree with one of his sons, either. When I finally saw pictures of the people that share my blood, I saw individuals I wouldn’t even make eye contact with if I were to pass them on the street.

Deb was worried about my reaction to seeing them. In the five years since meeting her she still hadn’t shared some of the most disturbing information about my biological family that I know now. “Don’t worry,” I said. “This isn’t emotional for me. It’s interesting. I’ve been wondering where I came from since the moment I could conceive what adoption was.”

Deb left Florida and was adopted herself. She lived in a trailer park in Scotts Bluff, Nebraska. I hate Nebraska. It’s just the state you have to go through to get to Colorado.

She was so poor they lived off food stamps and clothing from the government. She was on the geography bowl team. They made it to state. She was too poor to go. There’s more, but that’s her story to tell, not mine.

At 28 years old, I finally know my ethnicity.

She’s still hesitant, as am I. She answers all my questions and offers information on her own slowly. If she were any different I may not have been as comfortable with our relationship as I am now.

–

“Does your real mom talk to you a lot?”

Nothing gets my blood boiling quicker than calling Deb my real mom.

It’s not an insult to her. It’s an insult to my mother. She is my real mom. She is my literal angel sent from Heaven to look over me on this earth. She is a caregiver, someone that puts others happiness and well-being before her own with no question. She cooks with love and gardens like it’s an art. Her flowers are the talk of our small town. It’s her voice that whispers to me each minute of each day, when I’m not sure what I should do next. My dad is my real dad. My brother is my real brother. My family is my real family.

I just also happen to have a different set of people that share my DNA.

–

We met at Niagara Falls. I had never been and neither had she. As the constant adventurer I’ve become, it seemed perfect. Halfway between Michigan and New York, where Deb lives with her husband, Kofi. I was nervous, but called upon my logical side to take control. I was happy. Excited. It was all surreal. I tried to get a read on her.

We were supposed to be together all weekend.

I went home early.

I cried in the car on the way home, driving through Canada. It was a quiet highway with not much scenery. Everything was clear and clean. A new slate. I was so grateful for my family. So. Grateful.

It was a new chapter in my life; one where I didn’t wonder anymore. I had waited 24 years to meet this woman and it finally happened. Now what?

I am lucky.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve thanked Deb for making the decision she did. “It was the only decision to make. I couldn’t let you grow up like I did,” she said.

Photo taken by Deb at Niagara Falls, the first time we met.