My Mythic Journey

Life begins somewhat the same way for most of us. Our mom and dad meet, fall in love, get married and then … here we are! Born into a life in which we have no clue what it holds for us. And at any time, the journey in which we started at birth can be changed to go in various directions depending on certain life situations that occur.

My life began sort of the same, but in a little different order. My mom and dad met, fell in love, got pregnant, lived together and then came me. They never married and “happily ever after” was not a term they understood. I was born December 18, 1962 in Kansas City, Kansas and put up for adoption not too long after.

I was adopted by a wonderful family in Independence, Missouri. My new parents received a phone call on a Thursday night that a child was available for them and they could come see me and pick me up the next morning. They frantically called friends and family to tell them the news and gather the necessary items needed for a newborn. Friday morning, they came to meet their new daughter. My mother said I reminded her of a baby bird, opening my mouth to eat, big brown eyes that noticed everything, but no smile, cooing or tears.

Erik Liu, author of Notes of a Native Speaker, wrote, “In many ways, I fit the psychological profile of the so-called human banana: imitative, impressionable, rootless, and eager to please.” This describes my young life to a tee; I didn’t know who I was or where I came from, but I tried to fit in wherever I could. I didn’t ask to be adopted and as I grew older, I often wondered why my birth parents didn’t want me. My mother had a small amount of information from the court when my adoption was final, but nothing in concrete. When I turned eighteen, I began to search for my birth parents but after many doors being closed in my face, I quit. It was an empty space I would have to live with until many years later when the Internet would bring me face to face with my past and my humble beginnings.

I met my birth father Memorial Day weekend in 1996 and I asked him how I came to be adopted. We lived in an apartment in a very poor part of downtown Kansas City, Missouri. My mom and dad fought constantly. Day after day, she would take me out on the streets in my carriage and tell people, “Isn’t she pretty? Would you like to buy her?” My father couldn’t take any more and made her leave the house. He tried his best to raise me on his own, working as a welder from 3 to 11 five evenings a week. I was left with a babysitter who lived in the same building and my father would pick me up, put me to bed, and in the morning play with me until he had to leave for work once again.

One night when he came to pick me up from the babysitter, she told my father that my mother came during the day to take me to the doctor and never brought me back. My father knew this wasn’t the reason she came to pick me up and asked the babysitter if she was going to take me anywhere else. She told my father she didn’t think so and that she only took my sweater, a small pink blanket and my teddy bear with me.

My father made phone calls trying to locate me, but to no avail. He had no idea where she had taken me. He found out later she had taken me to the Kansas Children’s Home and put me up for adoption. But year after year, he would think about me and wonder where I was, who I was, and if I was being taken good care of. He put ads in the newspapers on my birthday, but until I was 18, I didn’t know what my birth name was. I don’t know if finding my birth parents made me feel like I finally fit in somewhere, but I think it brought some closure to the many questions of why I felt I wasn’t wanted anywhere.

I think the beginning of my life, knowing I was different because I was adopted, helped me down the road to become the survivor I am today. I survived childhood abuse, marital abuse, two rapes and the horrific pain of burying two children and a grandchild. Because of this, I have become an avid supporter and speaker for women’s causes. I understand the pain they have endured. I’ve walked a mile in their shoes and bought a new pair. I found a place in this world through talking to and through these women that have gone through the same things I have and identified themselves as survivors.

Gloria Anzaldua, author of Beyond Traditional Notions of Identity, wrote, “Though most people self-define by what they exclude, we define who we are by what we include.” There are other things in my life that have shaped my identity from being a mother of handicapped children to an older student coming back to college after thirty years of working. But I feel being adopted and a survivor have formed my identity and set my feet on the path that I travel more than anything else has.