MY birth certificate has been falsified and no one is alarmed.
MY birth certificate has been changed and the original one is locked away so I can’t see it. The fact that “MY” proceeds “birth certificate” means nothing. On MY original birth certificate is the full name of MY birth father and MY birth mother; the two people I have spent the last 21 years looking for.
Last fall, I found MY birth mother and I was six years, five months and 13 days too late. She died on May 18th 2003 and the laws that kept her name from me also denied me the chance to meet the woman who gave birth to me. I never touched her hand, heard her voice or told her it was ok to give me up. MY mother died never knowing how I turned out and I wanted to be the one to tell her I came out ok. I wanted to thank her for making such a tough decision. I wanted to ease her guilt and lift it off her chest and heal the crack in her heart that occurred when she gave me away. I didn’t get to her in time.
MY birth mother died with MY birth father’s name and she shared it with no one. It is more than likely MY birth father will die or has already died and in either scenario, I will again be denied the chance to meet MY birth parent.
The laws to seal this information were done to protect the birth parents’ privacy but who has the right to prioritize their privacy over my right to know my origin. I want to scream, I want to grab a politician by the jacket and scream for them to make a change but I can’t.
I want to storm the agency that conducted my adoption and rifle through there records so I can find myself. I want to demand my information, demand a last name connected to my birth father, Lawrence. I want to get his last name and then run to the closest computer and see if the internet will open up and reveal him to me. I want to find him, have one conversation with him, ask him about the 82 years of life he had.
His clock is ticking loudly, if it still ticks. He is over 80 years old and he is a black man and if genetics and statistics are accurate then the sand that is in his hour glass is flowing quickly from the top to the bottom, if it still flows.
Each day I go without knowing his last name is one day I am denied the right to speak to him. I live in America and I am denied the right to speak to MY father and there is nothing I can do about. I want to ask him questions, I want to see what he looks like, I want to see the brothers and sisters I have through him. I want, I want, I want, and IT DOES NOT MATTER. WHAT I WANT DOES NOT MATTER. IT JUST DOES NOT MATTER.
…but it does.