We always called you Jason. My reunion story.

mattgrolnic@yahoo.com Her name is Nancy Harris, Daughter of Helen Harris, daughter of Gene Harris , deceased. She is 52. She is once divorced, once widowed. She is a tollbooth collector in St. Petersburg Florida. She has no children. She is my Mother. I have always held the title of adopted as a badge of honor. It makes me different, it makes me interesting. In my family, it was never the taboo topic that is portrayed in TV and other media. I was never special because I was CHOSEN; I was just my parents child. And adopted I have spent my whole life answering questions. Do you like your foster parents? I am not a foster child Is your brother your real brother?Ҕ Yes, hes my real brother. No, I mean your REAL brother. And, depending on how I was feeling, I answered this question two different ways: 1 Do you ever wish you could find your real parents? My adopted parents ARE my real parents. 2) Do you ever wish you could find your real parents? Yes. So I did. As I went through my horrible rebellious teens, I often fantasized about my real parents. My Mother: Beautiful, kind and brilliant (of course, we all think that), who spends her life wondering about me, and tirelessly searching for me, realizing her terrible mistake. . This fantasy was later tainted when I found out that the story I made up in my head was partly true, that she had in fact spent her whole life wondering about me, and let it virtually ruin her. When I was 18, I began my search. Many states, including Connecticut, my home state, have search services for adoptees and birth mothers who want to find each other. My agency, Jewish Family services would, at my request, find my Birth Mother, contact her, and tell her that I was interested in finding her. She could then accept, and receive my info, or decline, and that would seal the case forever. When they finally found her, she declined, or so I thought. That was a real slap in the face, and it was enough to make me stop searching for almost ten years. The second slap in the face came later when I found out that the agency had not even attempted to contact her, and actually had an unwritten policy of keeping Birth Families apart. Ten years later, my reasons for searching were different. Back then, I hated my parents, hated myself, and was so destructive, so alone and alienated. I know adolescents and teens feel this way, and this is not unique, but only a small percentage of us have an outlet to exploit. Everyone else who hates their parents when theyҒre eighteen is pretty well stuck with them. I had an alternative. My search was my attempt to escape my enemies, and find the family I knew would love me and accept me for who I was. People who UNDERSTOOD me. Had I found my them then, I would have made a mess of it, not that I did a whole lot better in when I actually did. I look a lot like like Nick Nolte. In my lifetime, hundreds of people have told me this. One of the things that non-adopted children take for granted is that they know who they look like. Good or bad, they know why they have their eyes, nose, hair, smile, degenerative heart condition, big feet, big ***, small ears. When someone is part of their Birth Family, and someone tells them they look like Nick Nolte, its no big deal. When an adoptee is told that they look like Nick Nolte, it opens up a whole new world of possibilities. So҅Ņ I was convinced that I was Nick Noltes child. I read every bio and blurb, every movie location, and anything else I could find to prove that Nick Nolte was in the Avon Connecticut area on or around October 1968. There was no doubt in my mind, and though I may have embellished some facts, I could prove that it was at least possible that he was my father. Maybe he was in New York doing a play back then, or maybe he was still in school. Maybe he decided that a weekend in exciting Avon, CT was just the thrill he needed, after facing night after night of boring NYC, or tedious LA. Regardless, it was POSSIBLE that he was my father, therefore in my head it was true. Through my 20s, I was content with this fantasy, and felt less of a need to find my birth family. At the same time I was rebuilding all the bridges I had burnt with my family, and was beginning to understand what I now know: My family is my family. I am my parentsҒ child. Blood isnt necessary.. When my bridges were building back up, and my life good, The need to search came creeping back, this time because I wanted to know, rather than needed to know. I searched Birth registries for notes from my Birth mother. I talked with other adoptees. I became an EXPERT on finding people without knowing their name. In my search, I helped four other people make contact, and became a semi-celebrity in the adoption world. I just couldnҒt find MY Birth parents. I was outspoken supporting reunions. I kept an online journal that was read by thousands of people. I was receiving hundreds of emails a day, and my advice was passed along across the country. As I ran out of conventional options, I went to the library, and went through the birth announcements, July 12, 1969, St. Francis hospital, Hartford CT. I was not mentioned for obvious reasons, but the other 10 or so births that day were listed in the microfiched Hartford Courant Many of the families still lived in the Hartford area, so I called them. I asked them if they remembered sharing a room with a 56 blond woman, 18, (non-identifying information is usually available for adoptees), no husband. Everyone I talked to wanted so hard to be helpful, but no one remembered anything definitive. One father, a Rabbi, remembered my Birth Mother. He remembered that she was from Avon, CT, something I hadnҒt known prior. She was very pretty, but he couldnt remember her name. It was so long ago IҒm sorry, good luck. It didnt actually help my search, but it invigorated me, and it made her more real. Using some of my new evidence, I got in touch with a woman who found adoptees and birth parents. My guess is that she worked for the state or the county, and she looks up confidential or sealed records. Midday, a whispering voice on the other end of the line: Get a pen, Nancy Harris, Avon, CT. Good luck. Click. That was it. Now I knew, now what? I looked her up in the phone book, but no Nancy Harris. I knew this would happen. She is married, she has moved, she is dead. I was actually no better off than I was 10 minutes ago. And Harris doesnҒt sound Jewish, though I have always been told that I dont look Jewish either. It turns out that my Birth Family came to the brilliant conclusion that all Jews are rich, so if I was adopted through Jewish Family Services I would end up with my Silver Spoon. Avon High School probably archives their yearbooks right? What if Nancy still lives in town? What if she is a teacher at the school, what if I open up a past she wanted secret? Am I about to ruin a life? She is probably married with children, and I am a secret that she never told. I made the selfish decision that it was my right to find out, regardless of the consequences, something that I later criticized in others who were still very active in the Adoption triad and reunion cause, and my criticism got me my first, and only death threat. I would advise others to avoid death threats at all costs. They are very unpleasant. The librarian at Avon High was very nice, and the fact is, as evidenced by Springers, and Oprahs, and Dr. Phils, people eat **** like this up. She couldnҒt WAIT to look up Nancy Harris , class of 65, maybe Ғ66, maybe 67, oh I donҒt know, can you look them all up for me please? You bet!. Hold on. The fax machine outside my office at Little, Brown was surrounded by my co-workers as paper fed through it, etching my first ever relative on a page. And it did it so ****ing slowly, and of course, it came through upside-down, so I saw my Mothers hands, breasts, neck, before I saw her face. It took forever. She was beautiful. Innocent, shy smile, hands folded, styled hair. And the same eyes as me And the same nose as me I looked like someone for the first time in my life. I was looking at my Birth Mother. The excitement of the picture kept me happy for a while, and my original plan, prior to finding out her name, to ONLY get a picture. I just wanted to find out why I looked the way I did. But, the search is like a drug, the high wears away, and I needed more to achieve the same level of ecstasy. I thought her name and picture would be enough, but I was soon on my way towards to the next step. In the notes under NancyҒs high school picture was a dedication to Helen, her Mom, my Grandmother. This was my only new lead to finding them. There are a lot of Helen Harriss in Connecticut. I know because I talked to almost every one of them. Based on my experience, people named Helen Harris are extremely nice. If you ever meet one, chances are it will be pleasant. Every one of them that wasnҒt my Grandmother was sympathetic, helpful, and wished me all the best. After I found MY Helen Harris, I ended up calling many of them back, as they made me promise to do so if and when I found her.. Is this Helen Harris? Yes, who is this? I am not sure I have the right Helen Harris. Do you have a daughter named Nancy? Yes, who is this? If you have a daughter named Nancy, then I think I am your Grandson. Silence Hello? Is this Jason? No, Matthew. We always called you Jason. This is the first conversation I had with a blood relative. We talked for a few minutes, where I lived, what I did. The she asked if she could call me right back. I said OK, but I was a little surprised. I wouldve expected her to keep talking to me, to need to keep me on the phone so I didnҒt disappear again. I hung up and waited. And waited. And waited. Was she implying that I shouldnt have called? Was this it? Was this the only conversation I would ever have with her? Would I ever find my Birth Mother? I started to panic. I called her back. She answered out of breath. She had been in the attic, looking for an Atlas, so she could see where Somerville, MA was. She wanted to find 74 Pearson Ave., my address. This was very important to her. This was my first foray into the fairly eccentric world of the Harris family. A very large, printed family tree and the 20-year-old pamphlet on how to bowl tenpin like the pros came later. Later on, when I casually mentioned that I enjoyed oranges, 50 pounds of them were sent to me UPS overnight in a crumbling box. They are an odd bunch of folks. Helen told me that she had held me for 30 minutes on July 12th, 1969, sitting in a rocking chair at the hospital. Then they came and took me to my parents. She had hugged me and cried on me, and said everything she could think of to get me started on my life. She had kissed me. We had met before. For 30 minutes. She wouldnҒt give me Nancys number. She wanted to be the one to call. I was eager, but I understood. There was no need to give two HarrisҒs heart attacks in one day. I want to make it clear that this is not a fairy tale. This is not the reunion story that adoptees fantasize about. Have I met or had contact with my Birth Mother, Father, and Brothers? Yes, Was I invited into the fold, where I am safe and secure with my new family? No. I do not want to be. I have a family, and one thing that seems to be forgotten or overlooked by adoptees and Birth parents is that the people that you search for and long for, and love in the abstract are strangers. You do not know them and they dont know you. Before my reunions, I had it stuck in my head that I would pull into the driveway, or step off the train, and they would run to me, with tears in their eyes, and hold me, hug me. ғWelcome back son, youre safe with us now, and weҒll never be apart again. This is a farce. When you meet your Birth family for the first time you meet people that you donԒt know. You meet people, and are met by people who could never live up to your 20 or 30 years of fantasies. The people in my Birth Family are very nice, but I got more from the names and the photographs than I ever did from the people. This is not meant to be bitter; its simply what happened. Nancy didnҒt want to talk to me when Helen told her the news. Birth Mothers feel so guilty about giving up children they were unable to care for. Birth Mothers feel they abandoned their children. Birth Mothers assume that we hate them for rejectingӔ us. Nancy was no different. I find the opposite true. Nancy was pregnant. Nancy went through all the discomfort and pain of pregnancy, knowing that she would receive no reward. She endured the stigma of an unwed pregnancy, whispers as she passed by. Nancy had morning sickness, and stretch marks and maternity clothes, and probing doctors visits. Nancy endured the pain of childbirth. At the end of all that, she loved me enough to put her own needs and desires aside, and do what was best for me. Even if it meant the lifetime of guilt, pain and loneliness that she ultimately suffers There is no better example of true pure love for a child. Birth MotherҒs should be proud of their expression of love. Helen and I talked often while Nancy prepared herself for the inevitable contact. I would talk to Helen, and as soon as I hung up, I knew theyd be on the phone with each other, rehashing every word. I sent, and began receiving pictures, family trees. I was given the history of the Harris family. Nick Nolte had officially left the gene pool! Helen and Gene Harris had one child, Nancy, who after me, though married twice, never had another child. Helen had never been a Grandmother until the day I called. She was the opposite of Nancy in her reaction. She was excited, and very pragmatic about the whole situation. She was a bit standoffish, but that is just her. She is the type of mother you would call Mother or Grandmother, not Mom or Nana. She is very New England, very proper. When she was widowed at a fairly young age, she had no intention of remarrying. She is big. Very tall, very strong. Not fat, but large. She has practical white hair that you can tell was originally blond. She wears pants, and no makeup. She is who she is, and if you donҒt like her, she doesnt care. I think she would be described as snobby, but she isnҒt, shes just proper Helen. I think that my coming into her life is pretty much the only thing that ever made her lose some of her composure. I was finally given NancyҒs phone number in St. Petersburg Florida. This was the pinnacle of my search, and I was terrified to call. But I did. I am so glad that Nancy was scared too. Nancy has never been a Mother. Everything she knows about mothering she learned from proper Helen and TV. In our first conversation, we skirted many of the questions I had. Who is my Birth Father? Did you marry him? Why did you give me up? Do you miss me? We just talked, and I remember that in her nervousness, and in her need to make a good first impression, she talked to me in the way June Cleaver talked to the Beav. She kind of sang her words. She had a kind of poetic justification for the end of each paragraph. She was so scared, and had no idea what to say or how to say it. She had been married to an extremely prominent lawyer in the South, and had recently divorced him. She now lived with a retired cop named John. John was dying. She stayed home to care for him. He seemed like a great guy, and as we talked more often, I could tell that he truly loved her, and she loved him. Then he died. Nancy seems to be passed over by good fortune at every turn. She cannot win, and she is a sad woman. Shes not bitter, just someone who has given up, someone who knows that ғit will never happen for her, whatever ԑit is.. Though she and I talked often in the beginning, we never really connected. She was very open talking about people and things, but her feelings are something private for her. She does not talk about them. She tells the story of my conception, my birth and adoption, and of most of her life almost in the third person. She tells the physical details and facts bluntly, even the embarrassing ones. Her affair with the much older, married cop, the pregnancy, the birth. She left nothing out, but it was like she was reading a story about somebody else. She was eighteen, and found boys her age immature. She was a secretary, and a handsome 33 year old cop, would come into her office and flirt with her. She knew he was married, but he was mature, he was what she considered worldy, manly, and desirable. They had secret dates, they had sex, she got pregnant, and she stopped returning his calls, he showed up at her work to charm her back into the affair, and she gave him the cold shoulder. She never told him about the pregnancy. She had me, she gave me up, the end. His name is Don Johnson, thankfully not THAT Don Johnson. He is not a nice man. He was a 33-year-old man that charmed, dated and ****ed an eighteen-year-old girl. He used his charm, and his uniform to get what he wanted. When I was conceived, he had four other children at home already with the wife that he is still married to today. We have had one conversation. ғIs this Matt? ԓYes. ԓThis is Don Johnson, I hear you want to talk to me. ԓYeah, youre my Birth Father.Ҕ So I hear. This isnӒt a good time, can I call you back? ԓSure. ԓOK, Ill talk to you.Ҕ Click. He never did call back, which is fine. Helens house is white of course. It is modest, but in a very nice area of Connecticut. The lawn is immaculate, and there are flowers all around. Proper appearances are so important. What would the neighbors think? Inside the house is another story. It is clean, but full of every single artifact ever owned by the HarrisҒ. Helen does not throw things away. I lived in Somerville, and didnt have a car. I stepped off the train in Middletown, CT, and there she was. Helen, my Grandmother. I called her Helen. We didnҒt hug, or even shake hands. In these situations, you are sort of conditioned to know what you SHOULD do, and what you SHOULD feel, but I found that I didnt. The whole trip down, I thought I would step off the train and weҒd both cry over the lost years, and the lost love, and that wed just hold each other there at the station. Instead we said formal hellos, got in the car, and drove to her house. Nothing more. We had no familiarity. In spite of that, we had a wonderful day. I saw pictures and keepsakes. I mowed her lawn. She had gone to the store to get milk and cookies, as if I was a child coming to visit. And we talked, and talked, and talked. We caught up on almost 30 years of life, both of us wanting to know everything about the other. She marveled at how much I looked like Nancy. This makes sense, as I am the only child, the last of the bloodline. Helen had seen plenty of family that Nancy looked like, but had never seen someone who looks like Nancy. Helen is a bowler. It is something that seems the opposite of every other trait about her. If she told me she played bridge, or was in a book club, or a gardening club, itҒd fit. Being an avid member of a bowling league, silly shirt and all, which is fine, just dont fit. She asked if I bowled, and I said sometimes, but I wasnҒt very good. Hold on, Ill be right back. Up the stairs, through closets, trunks, old boxes. Back down the stairs, and in my hand is ғHow To Bowl Tenpin Like The Pros, a pamphlet that looks like the instructions that come with your vacuum cleaner. It was endorsed by the PBA probably around 1975. I still have it, and I am still not any good. We hugged when I left. A lot can change in a day. I look at NancyԒs picture a lot. Her High School picture is hanging in my house, and some Polaroids of her brief stint as a hair model are on my refrigerator. She is so beautiful. Not just because she is my Birth Mother, but because she just is. It is so nice to look at her and see myself. It is a joy that non-adoptees donҒt cherish. They dont know how lucky they are. In this particular Polaroid, her hair is just done. It is reddish blond, and she is looking up and to the right. Her blue eyes are huge and deep. It has that cheesy hair salon pose look. Anyone else posing like that would get a laugh from me, but I love this picture. I am not the adoption expert, or the reunion expert. I can only tell how I feel, and as disappointing as this may be to some adoptees still searching, the pictures are the best part for me. They are the art of my life, my connection to my past. At least one quarter of my past. I am a biological English Polish Lakota Sioux Indian, and an adopted Russian Hungarian Jew. I donҒt know why people are so fascinated with nationalities, but I seem to be asked all the time, not necessarily in an adoption conversation, but in everyday life. I notice that I answer differently all the time, as if one of my many nationalities is the rightӔ answer for that particular conversation. I do not know very many adoptees, and many that I do know are so engrossed in the negative aspects, in the search for love, and their perceived or true alienation from family, society, whatever, that you cant have a regular conversation without it reverting to the pain of loss, etc. For me, being adopted gave me some feelings of not belonging too. I am blond, blue eyed, big. My family all have black hair dark brown eyes, and they are short, with the exception of my 6Ғ2 brother, but no one knows how that happened. Plus, he weighs about 100 lbs, so we are very different. I am about 220. My brother shaves twice a day, I shave twice a month. I think this small feeling of being outside the circle has had some negatives, but the positives reign as far as my life is concerned. Being outside the circle has made me independent and self-sufficient. It has made me unafraid to try new things, as if there was no one but me anyway, so if I fall on my face, no one else suffers. I have been a professional musician on both coasts, I have been a commercial fisherman in Alaska, I have worked in publishing, and I have moved furniture. My wife and I have trekked from Boston to Seattle, to Alaska, to Wisconsin, and made a happy home in each place. We traveled 28 states in four years, as well as much of Canada. I dont want this to end up being my biography, I want to show that there ARE benefits to adoption, that the need to belong can be lessened Nancy didnҒt do any of these things. She became a caregiver for her whole life, seeking out men who needed love, who needed to be nurtured and tended to. I believe this is a direct result of her loss, and in case anyone asks, I do not feel guilty about this. I am of the complete belief that none of this is my fault, or any other adoptees fault for that matter. I received a note on a discussion board from a Birth Mother after some of this story was published in Adoptive Families magazine, and she said sarcastically that she was glad we were all amused by the story of a woman who died at 18 Babies are ғtaken away from parents all the time. Crib Death, accidents, adoptions, the loss and trauma are very real. What you as the mourner choose to do after that is entirely up to you. If you choose to die, as this woman says she has, or as Nancy most certainly did, it was entirely their choice. Help is there. The thing that bothers me most about her statement, is that this woman obviously feels horrible about giving up her baby and I truly believe that Birth MotherԒs should walk tall, and carry this badge of what has traditionally been a taboo subject, with pride and honor. Birth Mothers are the epitome of Motherhood, of selfless love. They are the examples that bad mothers should follow. Though they get no reward or recognition, they are parents. To any Nay Sayers. Nancy doesnt believe this either. She just feels sad. I have two kids of my own now. Rachel is 2 and Samuel is 1. I probably look at my kids more often and more deeply than other parents. I have an endless fascination with their features, and spend a lot of time stealing my little pieces of each little face. The pieces that are mine, were made by me. My mom and dad didnҒt make them, neither one looks like my brother or my grandmother, or a long lost uncle or aunt. There is an argument regarding which makes a person who they are? Nature or nurture. I am absolutely a product of nurture. I am a lot like my mom in personality, with some of my ****tier bits attributable to my dad. On the nature side of this argument, I am Adam and my wife is Eve, and we are the seedlings of this new family tree.