2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 30,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 11 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Search for Logic…and My Father’s Name.

(If you haven’t already,  you might want to read part 1 of my search. )

I walked in to the Lincoln Hall of Justice Probate court for Wayne County on Forest avenue in Detroit on Friday December 12, 2011.  Up on the third floor in courtroom B is where I would ask a judge to release my birth father’s last name.  I took the small elevator up to the third floor, thanking God I wasn’t claustrophobic because this metal box felt like a straight jacket as I rode up two flights.

I exited the elevator, and drew in enough clean air to inflate both my lungs.  I blew out the stale elevator air and told myself to calm down.  Logically, this court hearing should be short and bitter-sweet.  This was a simple case of returning to me what was mine.  Everyone involved agreed this information was in MY file and the man’s name in the file was MY father.   No one was arguing that, so in my mind it was a basic three step process.  I should step up, identify myself, and the court should turn over the information.

Unfortunately,  in this tangled web of legalese some feel I don’t have a right to this information and I wasn’t sure what side of this argument the judge would sit.

The court time was set for 12:00 pm and I was 15 minutes early.  I sat outside the court room waiting to hear my name called.  Soon I heard my name over the gargled it’s-about-time-we-invested-in-a new-system-intercom.  The static-filled voice told me to report to 3B.  I walked in and the judge asked my name.  I gave it to her and she told me to go back to the waiting room.  My case would be heard after the young woman whose name was called over the dying intercom just prior to mine.  I began to fear the reality that logic didn’t live in this court house.  Why would you call two people when there was only room for one?

The spike in adrenaline that was pushed through my nervous system when my name was called had no where to go.  I returned as ordered to the waiting room and the adrenaline busied itself by pushing worry in to my head.  The “what-if” game began and scenario after scenario played on the back wall of my skull.

“What if the judge denies me access?  How many tables can I turn over before being tackled by the bailiff?”

“What if the judge denies me access?  How long will they allow me to yell and scream before being tackled by the bailiff?”

“What if…”

“STOP!”

Logic, who was sitting in the front row in my head watching these scenarios, screamed for the projector to stop.  The “what-if” reel snapped, the lights came on, and the show in my head was over.  The adrenaline retreated and the worry was replaced by calm.

A few moment later over the intercom I was asked to return to the court room.  I walked in and was told to sit at a table in front of and below the judge who sat in a raised wooden box.  Joining me at the table was the CI(court appointed intermediary) who was assigned to my case a few months prior to this hearing as part of this never-ending, logic-lacking process by the court.  There was another woman at the table and I assume she represented Wayne County.  She introduced herself but my mind was too distracted to hear who she was or how she figured into this process.

“This matter is in regards to the release of information to adoptee Kevin Hofmann.  I see you petitioned the court back in 1999 for this same process is that true?”

My mind wanted to get things moving, not review what was tried and failed in the past.  I couldn’t see what this had to do with today.  The question caught me off guard, but I answered as honestly as I could.

“I have to be honest,  this has been a process that has taken 20+ years and couldn’t tell you if I did or did not petition the court in 1999.”

The judge then questioned me again about what I did in 1999 and I again told her I couldn’t remember.  She then stated,  “Our records show that in 1999 you petitioned the court and then never followed up with it and that is why this matter is closed!”

I’m standing at the table trying to catch logic as it’s swirling around in my head with confusion.  I still didn’t understand why this was so important whether I did or didn’t do this back in 1999.  I was standing here 12 years later following through with it. The words, “this matter is closed,” sped up the swirling in my head.  Was she saying that because I didn’t follow through with this 12 years ago that I was going to be denied?

It was my understanding this matter was closed because Michigan law refuses to release this information.  I’m standing there trying to sort all this out but as I looked up at the judge I could see by the way her eyebrows are raised that she is anticipating a response.  Again I was confused.  She never asked a question, she simply finished her last response with a statement so I wasn’t sure how to answer her.  I decided I would respond saying the same thing I  have already  but in a different way.

“I have done what many adoptees do in their search for this biological connection.  I searched for a period  and then I would stop.  I did this off and on for 20 plus years and in that time I may have petitioned the court but today I can’t remember whether I did or didn’t.”

She didn’t acknowledge nor ignore what I said.  She just decided to move on.

“I see you have been in contact with your biological mother is that correct?”

“Yes, and no,” I replied.  I was thinking, oh man, I better explain myself or she’s going to think I’m just here to make sure her day is longer than it needs to be.

I immediately continued.  “I did find out who my biological mother was in 2009 but I also found out she died in 2003.  I was 6 years too late.”

A large part of me wanted to let the court know that because of this ridiculous process I missed the chance of getting to meet my mother.  A large part of participating in this court hearing was to let them see what the result is of these stupid out-dated laws.  I went in to this process knowing whether I am granted my father’s information or not, I am going to say what I need to say and the court would have to listen.

The emotional grenade I lobbed up to her bench had no effect.  She continued without a response or reaction to what I said.

“I see here you also know your father’s first name is that correct?”

“Yes,  I found out his name was Lawrence.”  I said clearly.

This was another point I wanted to get out.  The adoption agency was shifting through my information and randomly deciding what information to give to me and what not to give to me.  On several documents, I obtained from the agency, they choose to leave my birth father’s first name in and cross out his last name.  I knew this went against what the agency was required by law to do.  This was another opportunity to point out  how broken this system  is and that information that is given or not given is  done very randomly.

Still no reaction came from the judge.

“How did you get that information?”  She asked.

” It was given to me by the agency.”  I said still hoping for a more-than-dead-pan response.

“Really? What do you mean the agency gave you this information?”  The judge said now leaning forward in anticipation of my answer.

“When I found out my mother was dead, I ordered her death certificate and then requested the agency release additional information to me about my mother and in that paperwork was my father’s first name with his last name blacked out.  I have copies of it here, would you like to see the paperwork?”

“Yes, I would.”  The judge stated a little annoyed at what the agency did or failed to do.

I walked forward and gave her my paperwork.  She looked it over and then described what it was she was looking at so it was captured in the court record.

I think that agency will be getting a call from the judge in the next few days.

The judge moved forward and directed her conversation to the CI.  The CI stood up and said she did gain access into my file and was given father’s full name  but because my father’s last name was so common she didn’t think that she would be able to locate him with the limited amount of information she had in the file.

The judge turned to me and said, “In reference to this matter, the court finds in your favor and will release the information to you.  Is there anything else, Mr. Hofmann?”

Again, it took me a minute to process what just happened.  In my head, someone said,  “You won, fool!”

I replied, “No, that is it…Thank you.”

Earlier in the day, on my way to the court hearing I had called a good friend of mine and as we discussed where I was going he asked who the judge was and I told him.  Turns out he was in very good standing with the judge and told me to mention his name.  He was confident it would gain some favor.  During the hearing there was no logical way to work it in and logic should rule over favor everyday of the week at least I hoped.

Having won and now relaxed, as I backed out of the court room, I told the judge a mutual friend said “Hi” and gave his name.  The stone-like facade that she carried as a judge melted and for the first time since meeting her I saw a person and not a judge.  She was happy to hear from our friend and she  became so warm and personable as we volleyed  small talk.  I thanked her again more sincerely now that I was talking to a person and not a process, and I left her court room.

In the hall the CI waited for me, and she asked some questions, wished me luck,  and I think she  hoped I would absolve her for her lack of success.  I didn’t say much.  I don’t hold anything against her, but I also don’t think she was too committed to helping me and I was frustrated by that.  We parted at the front door of the Lincoln Hall of Justice and I stepped out in to the cold air anxious to begin the search for the man attached to the  last name  that will be sent to me in the next week or so.

Predictable Residue–Part 1

Part of the residue that attaches itself to an adoptee as a by-product of the rejection issues we often face is the need to be liked and accepted.  Looking back at my life as an adolescent,  I can zoom in with laser point accuracy at the many times I did things purposely to fit in or be liked.  Recently, I have come to the realization that I spent a large amount of my time and energy in school being very intentional.  There was a strategy to a lot of what I did and said.  The end-game was to fit in–at all costs.  The attention I got from that, as I have said, help quiet the voices in my head that said I wasn’t good enough. The practices I perfected in adolescence would stay with me for the majority of my life.

The luxury of having a job now where I analyze my life is that the more I learn the more I can apply to my life and intimately see how my life was affected by things like this.  When I speak to a group of professionals and talk about how I processed this rejection, I often see head after head nodding in agreement.  It is understood in the professional world of adoption the affect that that initial rejection has on adoptees and how we often will look for attention to silence that rejection.

This need for attention can manifest itself in relationships particularly and can result in an adoptee picking a mate solely on the fact that that person gave us attention.  It doesn’t matter that the attention is attached to a broken person.  It doesn’t matter that the cost we pay for attention is paid for in mistreatment.

Shortly after graduating from college, I moved back to Detroit and began dating a woman who was verbally abusive.  When we went out and I took a wrong turn I was chastised for my dumb decision to turn left instead of right.  If we were walking in a parking lot and I wasn’t walking on the right side of her, to create a human shield between her and the cars traveling down the aisle-way, I was reminded of how less-than-smart and insensitive I was. She was giving volume to the voices in my head which said the same things.   HER friends would often remind me that I was too good for her but I couldn’t see it.  The attention that I inhaled blinded me from the obvious.

There was one incident in particular that summed up the relationship and what it was doing to me.

One night I was supposed to pick her up from her Christian roller-skating night.  I retired from roller skating in grade school so I didn’t see the need to go with her.  I was late in picking her up by 5 minutes and instead she choose to go home with a male friend.  I was panicked when I searched the rink and she was not there. I sped home to her house to catch her getting out of a white vehicle driven by a man.  She turned around to see me  as I pulled in her drive way.  She acknowledged she saw me  by turning around and going inside.  When I came to the door she refused to answer it.

I left her house and began my 30 minute trek home.   As I passed a white vehicle on my way home, not far from her house,  the man in the white vehicle motioned for me to pull over.  I agreed and pulled over into a nearby gas station parking lot.  He motioned for me to come in to his vehicle.  I did assuming he wanted to straighten out what has just happened.  As I sat in the passenger seat,  he simply asked what I was doing that night.  I began to explain why I was late.  He then continued and ignoring what I just said.  “So you want to do something now?”

Being so punch-drunk from this relationship, I abandoned all rational thought up until this point.  Quickly, my senses came screaming back to me.  My route home was to take 7 mile Road home from Detroit’s East side which passed by a string of gay bars.  Right in front of a very popular gay bar is where I was motioned to pull over.  This was a different white car, and different driver than who I assumed it was.    My mind was now piecing all the facts together at the speed of light and I now clearly understood where I was, why I was there, and what this man wanted.  The presence of me sitting in the front seat of this strange man’s car became abundantly, and painfully clear.

My mind screamed,  “Prove you are heterosexual!”  But I wasn’t sure how to do that. I just began to ramble.   The only thing I remember is every other word I said was “girlfriend.”  My response to his question was something like,  “My girlfriend…just left my girlfriend’s house… my girlfriend, SHE’S mad at me…my girlfriend… gotta go call my GIRLFRIEND!”

I reached for the car door, pulled the handle and vaporized.  I was back in my car and speeding down 7 mile before he could unravel the nonsense that I spitted out.

The next morning,  I picked up the Detroit Free Press trying to do something to distract my mind from the incidents of the night before.  The first story I came to was about a man who was raping other men at gun point in the Detroit area.   I placed the paper down and just sat in the soft chair in the living room staring straight ahead at what could have happened.

This story made my life’s most embarrassing moments and fortunately didn’t make the Sunday morning news.  It speaks a lot to how mentally fried I was from this relationship.  It truly hindered my ability to think straight and the cost could have been much more.

Shortly after that and after a few more clashes with the unreasonable, and then the opportunity to date someone who wasn’t abusive, I had enough courage to just walk away from this dysfunctional relationship.  But during that time I was seriously considering marrying this woman and we would have been miserable.  I came dangerously close to just settling for someone because she gave me attention and the payment in the form of pride and respect was something I was willing to endorse.

Children of alcoholics are more likely to grow up to be alcoholics than those whose parent’s aren’t alcoholics.  This doesn’t mean that children who come from non-alcoholic homes will never become alcoholics.

I understand that some non-adopted children have relationship issues.  I understand  some non-adopted children just want to fit it and crave attention.  My point is that with adoption can come with  predictable residue that if understood can be addressed.  It comes with its own laser pointer pointing you to things you might want to watch out for so you can prepare and possibly avoid.

************

Coming Soon:    Predictable Residue Part II– My next post will address this issue as it manifests itself in the business world particularly with adoptees who serve or are asked to serve  in the adoption community.

 

The Search For The Possible

“His name is too common for me to do a search.”

This was the response I got from the Court Appointed Intermediary(C/I) I hired to find my biological father.  Since I have no information on my biological father my only recourse was to hire a C/I  who is appointed by the court to go into my file and find out the name of my father and then search for him.

She was willing to take a partial payment initially to get started, so I sent out $150.00 of the $250.00 fee.  It took about 5 weeks for my C/I to be assigned and once assigned she called me to let me know she would be getting into MY file and would get back with me in a few days to let me know what she found.  A few days turned in to a week and the desire to know something forced my finger to punch in her number in to my phone.

“I was just going to call you,” was her response.  I’ve always had great timing and I was sure this was just another example of  the collision between my impeccable timing and my power to controll coincidence.

In our 5 minute conversation she advised, “His name is too common for me to do a search.”  My initial automatic response was,  “OK, I understand.”  She asked me to think about if I wanted her to continue or just return my $150.00.  She explained that the name that is attached to my father and the limited information on him in my file would make her search very difficult.  She continued to explain that it was her opinion that this limited information would yield a dead end.

“Think it over for a few days and I will call you next week to see what you want me to do.”

I agreed to think it over and while I was thinking logic crept in.  I knew she had a name;  a name that she was not allowed to share with me, and an approximate age.  The frustration attached to  the understanding that this stranger knew my father’s name and I couldn’t still gnaws at my sensitive nerves but I am aware of the unjust rules in this insane game so I push on.  Logic tells me with a name, an approximate age, and that fact that he has lived in the Detroit area, that there is a place to start the search.  The internet has made something impossible possible and I know enough to know with the right access to the right search data bases, although it would be hard, this search is possible.  It may mean calling several people with the same name and asking them if they or a relative ever worked at the Chevy Bumper plant in Livonia Michigan in the late ’60′s, but it is a start.  It would not be easy, but it is possible.

Since it is MY search,  to me it is VERY possible.  The difference comes down to desire and time.  My desire to find my father and the time I would put into it far outweighs someone who has a mountain-high stack of files full of people to find.  I would be willing to call and search and locate name after name knowing each call could be the last one.  The C/I isn’t invested in this like I am and I can’t say I blame her.  Her time is better spent on a case whose probability is higher than possible.

After two weeks and no return call, I called my C/I.  “I was just going to call you.”

Impeccable!

I advised I would like my money returned.  I came to the realization that no matter what I said, this was a dead end to her so there really wasn’t a decision for me to make.  I could request she do more but the probability that she would do more was less than possible.

She agreed to return my money and explained I had the option to hire another C/I or petition the court to release my father’s information to me since I tired it the court’s way and had no success.  Again, really not much of a decision.

Last week, I called Wayne County Probate Court/Adoption Search Division and requested the paper work. When it arrives I will fill out the request and pay $20.00 to file the petition. Soon after that, I will be given a court date to go in front of a judge and plead for them to give me what is mine.  I’m excited to finally be able to look in to the eyes of someone and see how they can rationalize and justify keeping my records locked away from me.

The opportunity to be heard about this unjust process makes me excited.  It has been 44 years and finally I get to state my case. My case is simple;  give me my father’s name and let me lift up, turn over, and displace every rock in my way to find him or his family.  I only ask the courts return to me what is mine so I can begin to fill in and repair the foundational crack created so many years ago.

My Journey To Me

Two years ago at the same desk I sit now I began this blog with the purpose of creating a space for me to exhaust some creative energy.  It was a way to bleed from my system these unusual and imaginative thoughts and pictures I had trapped somewhere inside my skull.  So initially I wrote about writing, and Michael Jackson, and my family, and me.

Slowly the focus organically changed and easily flowed in to more and more posts about adoption and what it means to me to be adopted.  As my writing changed so did my passion.  The passion I had about writing transformed into a passion about adoption which came through my writing.  My thoughts became more focused, more precise, and the inspiration to write always circled back and around to adoption.  The more I wrote about adoption the more I had to get involved and study adoption.  This led to me changing the focus of my book Growing Up Black In White. Initially, it started out about growing up from a young boys point of view very much like Christmas Story or The Sandlot, to a story about this adopted kid and what it was like to grow up adopted and different.

Many times I would joke as I began to speak about my adoption experience, that this was great therapy for me to be able to talk about adoption and me in a way I never had before.  As I spoke early on it was mostly about my experiences.  It was me telling my story about growing up adopted, growing up black in a white house, in a  white community, and in a white world.

I continued to read and learn more.  I began to hear people talk about what was never talked about when I was growing up.  Small thought-grenades would explode in my head as I learned about attachment, rejection, and the quiet collateral damage that comes with adoption.  As the new knowledge came in I would measure it against my life, my thoughts, and my feelings and on these digital pages I shared me and this new awakening.

In this new awakening with new eyes, I often look back at past thoughts or writings and have to admit I may not now agree with certain things at certain stages but that is an exciting way to measure growth.  My view has and will continue to change as I express my view through my thoughts. Sometimes my thoughts and my expression of them make some readers uncomfortable because adoption isn’t getting painted with warm Kum By Ya colors.  I’ve been challenged because some think I concentrate on the darker side of adoption at times and I can’t argue against that.  There are days when my response to this deeply emotional journey isn’t butterflies and puppies.  Some days it’s ravenous hawks and junk yard dogs but that doesn’t mean I hate the butterfly and puppy days.

In my evolution as an adoptee and writer I enjoy my new found freedom to question many of  the assumptions about adoption that I have had and heard.  I enjoy the freedom that gives me the right to be the angry adoptee this week and the grateful adoptee next week.  I enjoy the freedom that allows me to be angry, grateful and contemplative.  This freedom comes from learning and understanding and working through learning and understanding that this journey at 44 years and counting is not close to being completed.  Each step I take is exciting and interesting and difficult and scary but the learning is empowering.  Because the more I learn and apply to me brings me closer to destination me:  a destination that is fluid and no longer static.

This journey is an amazing one and I enjoy those who challenge as well as those who encourage because each moves me along this winding road.  I welcome any and all travelers to watch as I chronicle, laugh, scream, rage, shout, chuckle, ponder, trip and recover, sprint, walk, and stroll to a better understanding of myself.

*****************************************************

   AUGUST & SEPTEMBER SPECIAL

Any one who purchases a copy of my book, Growing Up Black In White, from this website before October 1st, 2011 will get a FREE download of my 90 minute webinar ,  The Transcultural 10:  The 10 essentials for transcultural adoption.

Smashing Fun House Mirrors

My first mother transported me from  Martin Place West Hospital where I was born a few days before to my first and only foster home.  For reasons unknown it was her job to make sure I was taken to the foster home.  My foster mother met my first mother outside her home and there I was turned over and relinquished.  A few weeks later, my first mother would return with some diapers and t-shirts for me.  She was accompanied by her best friend who waited in the car while my first mother went inside my foster home with the gifts.  After a few moments, my mother returned to the car and what transpired in the home between me and my first mother was never mentioned.  As they pulled from the curb in front of my temporary home,  I often wonder if my first mother knew it would be the last time we saw each other.  The amount of time we spent together was minimal.  There is no record as to how much time we spent together in the hospital and this last visit appears as if it could be measured with an egg timer not a calendar.  Although our interaction was limited, the split from my first mother would affect me the rest of my life.

Last week, I sat in a room in Denver Colorado at the African/Caribbean Heritage Camp and just 3-5 feet from me sat several teenage adoptees.  Surprisingly, this was the first time I have ever had the opportunity to sit down with teenage adoptees and talk.  I was part of a panel that included African nationals, fellow adoptees, and an African American camp counselor.  The panel was about identity and connecting with their transracial origins. About 30 minutes into our discussion reality descended upon me like an unexpected early morning fog.  As other panel members spoke to the teenagers, my mind took flight.  I was still part of the conversation but preoccupied with other thoughts.

About 10-12 beautiful adoptees sat in front of me ranging from ages 13-17,  and mostly female.  The thought that keep bouncing around in my head made me sad and very reflective.  I wondered if the kids knew just how beautiful and special they all were.  Churning over and over in my head was the thought of myself at their age.  That split from my first mother played itself out over and over and over in friendships and relationships in ways that I was blinded to at their age but in ways that are so clear to me today.  The fracture of the very first relationship I ever had tilted every other relationship since then.

The subtle whispering that crept through my thoughts convinced me of a picture of myself far different than was actually there.  It was as if I stood in front of a fun house mirror everyday and the image that reflected back to me was distorted.  It was this image that I took with me everyday that told me I wasn’t good enough; I wasn’t worthy.  This image and subliminal understanding affected how I interacted with people.  It created an invisible line that I rarely would cross.  My relationships and friendships were superficial and kept at a safe distance.  This protected me from the rejection that I feared and came accustomed to expect.  If I only waded in to relationships, I couldn’t be drowned by the rejection that was sure to follow.  So I stood back, and watched as others formed deeper relationships and wondered why I couldn’t do the same.  I wondered why my emotional roots only went down so far and others had deep strong giant oak-like roots that drew people in and hugged them.   

The saddle bags full of issues that accompany adoption are compounded in Transracial adoption.  The whispers that bounce around in your head like the digital tennis ball in the video game Pong are verified when the subtle messages from society and not so subtle messages from peers tell you you’re different.  Not only do they tell you you’re different but that tell you in a way that cosigns the whispers that say you are not as good.  The thoughts are sinister on their own but when something on the exterior supports them it makes it difficult to overcome them.

This all came back to me as I sat in front of these kids and I couldn’t help but wonder how they were affected by this invisible poisonous fog that clings to thoughts and images.

In a predominately white environment, as a child of color at the age of dating I wondered what messages were being sent to these children.  Were the messages that they weren’t as beautiful or attractive as the white kids getting through to them?  As these teenagers begin the process of pairing up with other teens are some being left out because of the cultural differences in beauty?

It was the girls I worried about the most.  The boys of color have, for lack of a better term, better cross over appeal.  White girls being attracted to black boys is more common then white boys being attracted to black girls.  My fear was that the pursuit of them in the white community is different than if they were in a black community.  The girls who would get a great deal of attention in the black community may find the line of friendship stops at dating when you are a female of color in a predominately white community.  The message that that sends to a young girl could be devastating.  The fun house mirror that I constantly struggle with is making house calls to generations behind me and I wanted to stand up and tell one adoptee at a time that the reduced image of themselves was altered.  The image that I see of them stands taller, is more capable, is funnier, kinder, more powerful, and their REAL potential is so bright it was burning my corneas.

I wanted to shout down the whispers that began at that initial separation from their first mother that says they are not good enough.  I wanted to summon all the strength I’ve gained from my own powerful introspection and use it to strangle the exterior coy messages that support those whispers.

This was a new realization to me and the information was traveling through my brain at a pace that was hard to digest.  It was a series of powerful messages that when organized would be inspiring but at this time the unorganized messages pounding against my skull would only come out as babble, inaudible and incoherent streams of thought. The ability to string the thoughts together without looking like a 42 year old creeper who was telling teenagers they were beautiful was not solidified in this instant.

I left the panel frustrated and saddened because what the kids needed to hear they didn’t get to hear from and the echoes of the thought, “They are better than the image they see,”  followed me to lunch.

Still I am frustrated and saddened but inspired because from this encounter will come an amazing message that I will share with the next group, most likely through my tears, as I picture mirror after fun house mirror being shattered and the real images of these beautiful kids emerging.  For those who attended the camp please pass this along to your children and let them know,  they are better than the image they see.

**********************

THE ADOPTION PROJECT:  I am working on a special project that will combine the shared experiences of adult adoptees, First mothers, and Adoptive parents, in a powerful way to send an empowering and inspirational message to today’s adoptees.  If you are interested in sharing from your own experience please contact me for the particulars @ Kevin8967@sbcglobal.net.  Feel free to share this with other who also may be interested.

SIGN UP: Those who are new be sure to sign up so you will be notified via email when I post a new blog.

The Power of My Skin

The sun reaches in the large window at the head of my bed and grabs my upper eye lids and pulls them open.  I shift my body in bed and my 5 pound dog, Halle, groans as my change in position displaces her from her comfortable lounging posture in the bed next to me.  I kiss the shoulder of my wife who lies on the other side of me. Halle is gracious and allows my wife space on the bed also.

I shower and run through my daily beauty routine and pull on my caramel colored skin.  Throughout the day it will provide me with special powers that most of those who lack color don’t realize are possible.

Today is Sunday, so church is on the agenda.  I have mixed feelings about church because at this more diverse church where I am a minority, my skin and how it is received and perceived is always at the front of my mind.

By now my wife is up and heading to the shower and I go and wake up the boys.  Our 10 year old hates it when I come and put an end to his relationship with sleep.  He grunts as I direct him to his bathroom to take a shower.  The shower washes away the attitude and when he exits the bathroom we can speak and acknowledge a new day has begun.

Our 15 year old is the last to be robbed of sleep.  He is easier to wake up than his brother but the pull of electronics is what I now battle with.  I stand guard at his door and make sure it takes the 5 necessary steps in to his bathroom instead of down the hall to the X-Box or downstairs to the computer.  Once he is secured in the bathroom I can go eat breakfast.

Soon we are all assembled in the car and on our way to church.  I drop the boys and my wife at the front door and I go and park the car.  As I pass through the parking lot I wonder if  the greeter that stands in the parking lot will acknowledge me today.  I wait to catch his eyes and I smile.  He returns my smile with one of his own and waves.  Continuing through the parking lot I dodge people leaving church from the earlier service and those coming to this service.  I park my white Honda with the Obama sticker on the back and chuckle to myself.  Obama is to conservative Christians as water is to oil.  But he is OUR leader and the bible instructs us to pray for our leaders whether you voted for him or not.  Part of me sits in the White House and I am proud to remind people of that important fact.

I walk towards the side door of the Church and through another gauntlet.  There is a greeter at the door and I watch how she greets the white couple who makes it to her post just before me.  She is very friendly and her greeting is warm and inviting.  This is what I will compare my greeting to.  She offers me the same greeting and I exhale and push out relief.  Now I walk down a long hall on the way to the sanctuary passing more people who were disciplined enough to get up early for the first service.  Again, I compare the way they greet the white couple in front of me as  they pass.  Some are just as cordial with me.  Others divert their attention away from me as we pass as if the 5 steps between me and the couple in front of me change them in to a different person.  It is here where for the first time today my skin begins to enact its power.  My skin allows me the ability to become invisible.  It is my power of invisibility that causes some people to not acknowledge me.  I groan on the inside because at church my invisible powers shouldn’t be able to work.  Shrugging it off, I look up and greet the next person to pass me with an inviting and attentive hello smile.  It is returned with an enthusiast “Good Morning!”

I am back.

Powers disabled.

In the lobby I greet my wife and oldest son. Our youngest son has gone up to Kids church.  The 3 of us go into the sanctuary and search for a seat.  I avoid the seats to the far right because that has become the “black section.”  It has the highest concentration of blacks in the church.  My wife and I avoid it because we want to be a part of the diversity not separate from it.  We find a seat towards the middle and church begins.  As the praise and worship band begins,  my stream of consciousness takes be away from the church.

I think back to a recent trip I had.  As I was boarding the plane to come home again I wonder how I will be received by those that I will sit with on the plane ride home.

As I walk down the cramped aisle of the plane I look up a the seat numbers just below the storage bins above the seats.  About 6 rows away I spot my seat.  I am relieved, I have the aisle seat.  To my right sits my best friend for the next three hours.  Silently, I pray my skin doesn’t activate my invisibility.  At my seat, I stop and stow away my carry-on in the bin above.  As I do this,  I make eye contact with my travel buddy.  He smiles, and says casually,  “Hey, boss.”  He is dressed in army fatigues and quickly my mind starts to cross reference what I see.   One by one I link up things.

He is in the military.

Young white kids in the military are exposed to more people of color then most white kids his age.

He’s looks to be about 20-21

His generation is often more accepting of people of color.

The ease in which he speaks  me sends a positive message.

He has cleared inspection.  My mind flashes “friend” and not a “foe.”

As I position my carrying on and cram it in the space that now appears to be the size of a mail slot in someone’s front door, he sits relaxed across both seats.  His legs are spread wide as if he is holds Texas in his Fruit of The Looms.  I secure my carry-on and he conforms his body to fit in to his seat..  He sports his dessert camouflage and worn and dusty combat boots that look shockingly comfortable..  He is young, friendly, with small squinty eyes and a slight southern draw when he speaks.  Fortunately, the military exposure trumps his southern exposure and I learn over the next few hours he is genuinely kind.  He tells me what it’s like to drive a tank and that the tracks of the tank make the ride  bumpy;  much more than the things you crush when you roll over them.  He doesn’t talk too much and bounces between flirting with the flight attendant and the two older woman behind us.  I picture him sitting in a bar on base sharing his personality and stories with any one who walks by.  He shares stories about Iraq or Afghanistan that are more BS than fact and keeps the real stories; the stories that visit him in his nightmares, to himself.  He is character from a future book I will write and he is kind.  The desire just to be greeted by someone kind brings me back to church.

Only two to three seconds has elapsed since I took a ride on the rapids of my stream of consciousness.  Next is the part of service I dread the most.  The part where we are instructed to greet those around us with a handshake, high five or fist bump.  Again,  I move back and observe.  The white couple in front of me is very cordial and friendly to the white couple in front of them.  They avoid turning around to greet me and my family and my eyes reach out to catch their eyes.  My friendliness is exaggerated because I feel the pressure to show them a different black than the black they assume.  They never turn around.  I sit down disappointed.

The pastor gets up and preaches and his style and message remind me why I put myself in this situation once a week.

Church ends and we stop off at the grocery store to pick up something for lunch.  The boys wait in the car and my wife and I go in to the grocery store.  There is a thin white woman in her forties who is exiting as we walk in.  Again, my eyes try to catch hers.  She sees me and looks through me as soon as her eyes fall on me.  The change in expression in her face from life to nothing I have seen before.  It is now a reflex because she has done it so often like flipping on a light switch in a dark closet.  It is a punch to my sternum that no one else sees.  I am dismissed.

As we walk up and down the aisles we pass a woman who is shopping with a cart that is half full.  In the child seat sits her purse wide open.  I see it and know it’s important to walk very clear of it so no assumptions or accusations can be made.

We retrieve milk from the back of the store and go to check out.  Once again I analyze how the white man in front of us is received by the cashier.  She greets him warmly, asks how he is and says goodbye.  As my milk passes me on the conveyor belt, I get no greeting, no smile, no acknowledgement.  My skin is doing its thing again.  The milk is very present as she scans it and passes it along to be bagged.  My invisible hand swipes my card through the card reader as she speaks for the first time to tell me what the total is for the milk.  The teenage bagger hands me my milk with a smile that helps melt the cold cashier’s reception.  He wishes us a nice afternoon and I clearly, warmly, and loudly wish him the same.  Again, the pressure of being a black ambassador to all around makes sure I project a warm approachable black.

We return home and I relax.  No more questioning, no more judging, no more figuring out until the next trip out.

Many will read this with dread, or with suspicion.  Many will conclude I concentrate on race too much and it is me whose thinking is flawed.   The uncomfortableness that comes with the realization that life looks different than what you have been told or experience will cause some to argue and explain away my view.  This comes from 42 years of experience and treatment.  It has crafted a keen sense and given me the ability to interpret the subtle.  I can  easily identify someone calling me a nigger through a look and no sound has to be heard.  The woman who looked through me at the grocery store was close but her eyes lacked the emotion that comes with that particular look.

I don’t dread going out, nor do I wish I wasn’t part of the powerful skin club.  I understand what may happen and the power that comes with my skin.  There are times when it hurts and times when I can ignore it and not analyze it.  Mostly, I push those exchanges to a cold corner of my mind and try and relish the warm hugs that come with the acceptance of encounters like the one with the cocky army kid.  There are times when these exchanges instantly change my mood and other times when I can shrug them off.  Pushing out the dents to myself esteem can get exhausting and  having to remind myself I am more and not less is a challenge sometimes.

I have thought about the camouflaged kid from the plane a lot because some how he was able to resist the power of my skin and it was nice to just relax and not have activate my bullet-proof powers.

Fortunate Rape

Julie, the shy slight teenager approached her close friend,  “I have something I need to tell you.”

“Girl, you can tell me anything.  What is it?  You look so serious.”  The friend replied.

“Remember that party we went to after the basketball game a few weeks ago?  Remember I disappeared for a while and you asked me where I went?”  Julie pushed out.

“Yeah,  you told me you went to talk Damon right?”

“Well, kind of…”

“Girl you’re talking in code.  What is it?”  The concerned friend inquired.

“He… He took me in to a room and… raped me.”  Julie said as tears washed down her cheeks.

“Is that it?  You should be happy he didn’t kill you.”

Last week I had an exchange that made me feel like I imagine Julie felt after her “friend” responded  in such a callous way.

I received a phone message from my court-appointed intermediary(CI) who was assigned to helping me find my biological father.  Excited to hear from her, I excused myself from the meeting my and quickly returned her call.  She explained that she was able to access the court records and had in front of her my biological father’s full name.  She had the ever-important name that followed, “Lawrence.”

Two years ago, after I found out my biological mother died 6 years before I located her,  I was given some additional records from the adoption agency.  Her death purchased two sheets of additional paperwork that wasn’t included in my non-identifying information.  In those two sheets of paper was my biological father’s first name, Lawrence.  His last name was blacked out with a Sharpie.  I held that paper up to the light in my office so many times hoping the additional light would betray the concealer and magically his name would shine clearly and legibly.   The light in my office failed to conjure up the mystical powers I needed and the last name remained a mystery along with my beginnings.

Last week I sat on the phone with a woman who knew the name I needed but she was unable to share it with me.  Her job is to contact my biological father and, if alive, see if he is interested in meeting.  She hinted that the last name was a very common last name and that her search may be a tough one.  Her next step was to contact the adoption agency and see what additional information they may have on my biological father; such as a birth date. She  informed me she had left a message with the agency and was awaiting a return call.

I thanked her and returned to my meeting as the “What-ifs” circled over and over in my mind.  The hope and fantasy of my father being alive started like a tiny blip on an EKG machine after this hope had flat lined so long go.  As time increases and is stretched out by this process,  the blip turns into one large arch followed by another.  Concentrating in my meeting was impossible and the information that I could have benefited from in this meeting had been swallowed up by the fantasy of how the meeting with my biological father would take place.  I know the quicker we find him the less time there is for this fantasy to grow.  The bigger the fantasy the more dangerous it gets.

A few hours later, I received a voicemail from my CI.  She left a message that the one person in charge of the records at the agency is on vacation and won’t return until next week.  The ludicrous idea that only one person is capable of doing this vital job hits me like 300 joules to my system.

Vacation!

REALLY!

As I waded through the emotions that were up to my knees and rising, I shared with a group of people my frustrations with the process.  If my CI was only allowed to give me his last name I am confident with the sleuths I know we could find him within minutes.  The internet has made searching which used to be measured in months and years almost an instantaneous journey.  If the right people are doing it with the right tools at their disposal the impossible dissolves into possible quickly.  20 months ago armed with a last name, and an approximate age, my adoption angel found my biological mother in 27 minutes.

27 MINUTES!

A last name is the Holy Grail and it is so close but yet so many states away from me.  This breeds a level of frustration I can’t measure.  In my frustration and disappointment I needed a relief valve.  I needed to slowly let some of it out to prevent a messy explosion.  I choose to share this with a few people and one response came back cold.

“You should be lucky, you were only raped and not killed!”  This is what I heard.

“You should feel fortunate that at least you have a last name.  Some adoptees don’t have that.” In reality this is what was said.

My further Translation: “Stop whining! Remember adoptees are special, chosen, and lucky.”

Comments like this don’t do any good.  It didn’t make me feel better.  Reminding me that some have it worse didn’t sooth my hurt or make me feel special, chosen or lucky.  It made me feel like I was eight years old and my feelings were being dismissed, and replaced with guilt because I wasn’t mindful of those who have it worse than me.

As parents of adoptees I ask that you do a better job of meeting your children where they are and not where they could be or should be.  Some times the best response when there is no good response or the subject matter makes us so uncomfortable that we want to fill the silence with logic instead of compassion is, ” You know what, that just sucks!”

Being heard and understood is another  priceless Holy Grail that many search for and can easily be given without any cost.

*****************************************

Last night we held a very successful webinar for TRA parents and professionals called Creating A Cultural Connection: How to Design and Implement a Cultural Connection Plan for a multicultural family.  We recorded it so others could enjoy it as well.  Just click on the link top right of this page got more information.

42 Ties and I Have None

He missed out on 42 cards and 42 ties.  He missed the day I took my first step, said my first word, hit my first ball, dated my first girl, married my first(and only) wife, had my first two(and only two) kids, and I’m not sure he even knew the opportunities he was missing.

My biological father had an affair with my biological mother, a coworker.  My mother had me, gave me up for adoption, and never said anything else about me or their affair.  I am not sure he knew anything about me, although working with a woman you had “relations” with and seeing her stomach swell would cause some concern, you would think.  The beauty of the mind is it can create connections, make up stories, and absolve us of any responsibility.  Since my biological mother was married, who’s to say the increase in belly circumference wasn’t due to her husband.

So maybe he didn’t know or didn’t want to know.  After all, my non-identifying information that I received from the adoption agency tells me he already had children of his own from his own marriage.  Therefore, maybe he already had enough ties, saw enough first steps, heard enough first words, witnessed enough first dates, weddings, grand kids and opportunities.  Why would or should one more mean anything?

Because it was mine.

Over those 42 Father’s days, I can’t say I thought a lot about my biological father.  That statement does not come from a bitter corner of my heart and is not said to inflict retaliatory pain.  It is said honestly and matter-of-factly.  The emotion that should be connected to this person was never planted so it never grew and that is a shame.  Every now and then I run back to that little patch of heart-space where that feeling should be hoping the beginnings of something will show; hoping a small, tiny, curled up leaf will be breaking through the flesh of my heart right next to my right coronary artery or from underneath my left anterior descending artery.

Logically, it makes sense.  How can I feel a connection to something I never had a connection with.  But hope and the fact that so many have that connection to their biological father  makes me stroll by that place straining to see the first sign of growth from this germinating seed.

Nothing.

This week I reached out to test this absence of feeling.  I wrote a check and signed the paperwork to begin the process of locating my biological father.  Since his co-worker/my biological mother never shared with anyone his name, no one but the adoption agency knows his name.  To get his name, that was typed out clearly by a manual type writer and added to MY file that I can’t get access to,  I had to petition the probate court of Wayne County, Michigan to allow access to MY file.  Once that was done,  the court gave access to MY file, to a court appointed intermediary, an unrelated third party, who will open my file, get MY biological father’s name and begin the search.  Although, the intermediary is appointed by the court, she is paid by me.  Last Wednesday, I wrote the check and signed the agreement to move forward in this unjust process.

Now I wait and calculate and strategize.  I calmly run through possible scenarios like a pilot would run through a checklist prior to a flight.

If he’s alive and willing to meet, request a meeting.

—–If the meeting goes well…

—–If the meeting doesn’t go well…

If he’s alive and unwilling to meet, hope shrivels and dies; the heat too intense for survival.

—–Hope could still live in another relative that wants to meet.

If he’s dead, request a death certificate, search for an obituary tied to the name that is now released because dead people can’t object to their privacy being violated.  In the obituary search for names of relatives and reach out to them; knowing I maybe the one who has to tell someone their father, brother, uncle, cousin had an affair 43 years ago.  Request a meeting.

—–If that meeting goes well…

—–If  that meeting doesn’t go well…

The possibilities branch out like roots from a tree moving and sprawling in every direction; over and back, reaching and clawing for room to grow.

My hope is that through the stress, as I plod forward in a mechanical and logical way, a connection to my DNA will water and feed that small dark and cold place in my heart.  My hope continues. From the stressful search, I will find someone who looks like me, acts like me, and someone who will accept me; be excited to find me. Someone who was looking for me. Someone who…

Hope quickly grows into fantasy as it has since I can remember.  As a child, the thoughts of who I came from rode on my stream of consciousness and this simple question evolved in to an elaborate secret fantasy.  A fantasy that over the years got pushed further and further in to that dark corner because no one shared it with me.  No one came looking for me.  No one spoke about it in my home. I assume because they thought it would bring up too much pain. But ignoring my reality probably created more pain than was ever tied to this small seed. So I danced alone with this elaborate secret fantasy for many years and as most children do, I grew out of the need for this imaginary relationship;  frustrated with a relationship that only took and never gave.  I filed it away but occasionally I would return but never spending much time with it.

Now I’ve come to a point where I just want it resolved.  I want a real story and not fantasy.  The unworthiness that attaches itself to adoption tries to convince me I don’t need this or I shouldn’t be entitled to answers.  But my ever-evolving,  I-deserve-more-attitude pushes through to find more of me in those answers.

The unstoppable ball is in motion and soon the answer will come and I’m not sure how I will respond, if at all.  Maybe, I’ll find him alive and he will want to meet and at that meeting,  I can give him a Father’s day card and 43 ties…

************

DON’T MISS OUT!  My two webinars are now available to listen to at your convenience on your computer.  Check out the link to the right at the top!

The Evolution From Panic to Pride

Looking back on grade school, I can now admit that I really struggled with fitting in.  I was submerged in an environment that made it easy for me to blend-in.  My grade school was a Black-utopia.  98% of  the children in my small private school checked “Black” on their admission paperwork.  In the 70′s checking “Biracial” was not an option and I wouldn’t have checked it anyway because I wasn’t aware I was biracial.  My parents knew I was biracial but since race was not discussed in our home no one shared this vital piece of identity until I was in my 20′s.

I appeared closer to the Black kids than the few White kids so I clung with all the strength in me to the Black population.  Every day was a cautious and prayerful walk. I just wanted to be like every other Black kid.  I didn’t want to be singled out because I wasn’t like the Black kids that I admired.  To be rejected by them meant certain death.  It meant that I would be cast into a racial purgatory-suspended between the races.

So my steps were calculated and the majority of my actions premeditated.  It took a lot of energy to conceal I wasn’t the typical Black child.

I compartmentalized my life.  The White family that I was attached to didn’t bring me shame or embarrassment because they were my normal and rarely did I wear a shirt that said, “I’m being raised by white people.”  My parents were very involved at my grade school and I cherished their support.  Being part of the Black community was paramount and that didn’t reflect, in my mind, badly on who I was raised by.

My biggest fear was being seen as a fake.  There were the conversations and confrontations that I played out in my mind that made some daily daydreams in to day-mares.  It was my fear that someone who saw a way to advance their popularity or status would single me out and publicly ridicule me for not really being Black.  The scenarios that I would invent in my head never materialized to the graphic detail I imagined them because I played great defense.  Whenever the conversation started to go down this nightmarish path I would re-direct the conversation.  I stood guard like  Cerberus, as my three heads moved in each direction waiting for the inevitable, “You sound proper,” or more clearly, “You sound white.”  As soon as this phrase orsomething similar passed across the lips of a friend or foe, I’d jump to action.  Inside my head my internal cheerleaders were screaming, “De-fense! De-fense!”  Instinctively I would shoot back something to derail the conversation.  Comments like,  “Shut up,” would casually flow from my mouth.  If my initial volley of insults didn’t change the path of the conversation, I would zero in on a more personal retort which was risky because I never knew how it would be received.  Comments like, “Your mother,” were effective but would usually draw in the local instigator who would loudly repeat what I said hoping punches would soon follow.  I was aware of the risk but the pain of a punch would subside and the desired outcome would be achieved.

Early on as a defensive player, I learned that I was especially skilled at insulting others.  At birth, installed deep into my brain was the ability to strike quick and hard with my tongue.  It was this dangerous wit that deflected so much and saved me from my worst fear.

In a word, my worst fear was rejection.  As I analyze it now the connection between this fear and adoption are blatantly obvious.  One of the side effects of adoption is the feeling of being rejected which for me created a monstrous-size fear of being rejected again by anyone.  So I did whatever I could to avoid it.  This often meant doing things to please others so they wouldn’t reject me,; accepting not-so-healthly relationships on not-so-healthy terms just to be accepted.  Things that were unacceptable to others became very acceptable to me because it protected the relationship.

Once when I was in the 3rd grade,  one of the leaders of our class found my house key that I lost.  He approached me with a business proposition.  If I paid him a dollar he would return my key.  Never once did I consider just telling the teacher.  This type of action would risk a break in the relationship.  Instead, I approached my big sister and asked for a dollar.  Of course she asked why and she immediately reduced this negotiation to what it was; nonsense.  She approached my friend and demanded the key back.  Being 5 years older than us and much bigger she resolved the situation quickly.  Since my friend had conceded to a girl out of fear for his life, the situation quietly went away.   This is a simple example of how I was willing to exchange common sense for connection.  The risk to me here was not so great but what if  I was presented with something more grand.  Would I again have forfeited common sense?  Peer pressure potentially came with extra weight for me.

My trump card turned out to be my wit and razor tongue.  After awhile, those that tried to attack me felt the pain of my smooth cuts.  I learned that by retaliating in a very loud voice and hammering back with insults meant less and less challenges from others.  Many saw the advantage to having me, and my tongue, on their side instead of against them.  My other advantage was that the private school brought some protection.  There was some latitude given to behaviors but only to a certain degree and all of us knew the boundaries and what edges not to step off.  Enrollment in  private school meant our tough kids operated at 50% of what real tough kids did. Therefore, acceptance into this group was assisted and with acceptance came an increased self-esteem.  I was able to pull it off and be a part of the group I so admired.  This meant that later in life when confronted by unrestrained toughness I was confident to stand firm in who I was.

There were so many combinations of events that spared me from a more difficult life and one of the biggest impacts to me was to be a part of the Black community.  This environment answered back to a society who tried over and over to tell me Black was less than.  In this community that I grabbed on to showed me the strength and power of being black.  I learned all about inequality from the side of the unequal but I also learned the strength it took to mentally equal out the scales.  It was in this power that I learned a pride and that pride protected me from ever thinking, desiring, or craving to be anything but a child of color.

********************

Don’t miss out on the upcoming webinar:  Creating a Cultural Connection.  Click HERE for more information and to register.