Faith of love, understanding, and compromise ... let's get past the divisions

*note* I first posted this on facebook a few days ago, and I've gotten some very interesting comments, so I decided to post it in a bigger arena and see what transpires. Enjoy. Or maybe not. All commentary welcome.

Somehow many seem to have forgotten the one only commandment we were given, in any and all religions: Love. And one my father, Rev. John Dowd (who was a heck of a lot lot smarter than most people I have ever met, and very happy and blessed he raised me, rather than the blood who did not want me), ... Grace. Simple stuff really. And if you don't get it, that's your problem. I am tired of the divisional 

bullshit. Either choose to work together and bring our country together. Or get out of the way, so that those who do care can make it happen. Catch my drift? I surely pray you do.

As a side, I am sooooo reminded how lucky I was to have a father and a man like John Dowd teach me what it was all about. To not ignore those did not understand, but to know it is my charge to try and help them. But if they could not grasp the simple faith of love, understanding, and compromise, ..... well, then just leave them be. That is their problem.

Adoptee birthdays. Always best if celebrated day before, or day after.

Thanks to everyone who wished me a Happy Birthday today or this weekend, or whenever. It really means a lot. It's not always easy for us adoptees on our actual birthday. Sometimes it's best to celebrate before (as I did this weekend) or after (as I may do next weekend also, hey I am a Scorpio, we do like to drag out the party, you know). Because the 'day of' can sometimes be rather tough - unless you're in your '20s and just want to cut loose. Why? Because there are no 'this is what happened on your birthday' stories. We might get 'when we brought you home' tales, but it's not the same. No matter how well meant. It's one of those things, where the cliche 'you have to be one to know one' totally fits. It's one reason I'm so happy that my son popped out looking like me. My first blood. And thankful to all my friends who cared to take a moment for me today. Being human isn't always easy. Thanks for being there. Please let me know when/if you need me there for you. xoxoxo. Tracy

First contact: Solving my adoption puzzle

This is the very first article I ever had published. It is about my first conversation with my birth mother and a note to my adoptive parents. It took many hours of editing and re-writes to get it ready for print. I was, after all, a very inexperienced writer at the time. Twenty-nine years later, I realize the title should have been something like 'The beginning to solving my adoption puzzle,' because my story continues to unravel today. This was first published in the Baton Rouge Morning Advocate where I worked at a newsroom typist and aide and began my writing career in 1983.

 

A Mother's Day tale not to be shared on Mother's Day

Ok. I can write this down today. My cherished Mother’s Day card from Zach has fallen on the floor, landing amongst the dust bunnies behind the couch. My morning intake of caffeine is now sipped out of the odd-shaped ceramic coffee mug he lovingly made for me in electives class. And, I absolutely love the chamber pot (odd name I know, but it’s not for bathroom usage) he also created with his two ‘tiny always to Mommie’ hands. My eye drops fit perfectly in there upside down, helping me squeeze every $10 squirt out of there that I can. Those buggers are expensive.

I did not participate in the ever so social online posting of a picture of my mother a week and a half ago. I have two mothers. And neither one were ever much of a mom. One birthed me. The other raised me. Ain’t neither one getting elected for Mom of the Year.

The one who birthed me met me in my early 20s. She’s even seen a picture of my teen, her blood grandson, yet she cares not. She once told me, “How do we know whose baby they put my signature with? You’re dead to me. Leave me alone.”

The one who raised me, the one who I called Mother did love me in her own way. I think. I have a favorite picture of her. And it’s a beautiful one. I've always wished I had a picture of myself like that. I want to post it and maybe I will add it as an update. But, right now my computer has just recovered from a hard drive crash and I can’t yet connect to my scanner. And it was time to write this story. (Yes, an excuse, but the truth … love those kind.)

Anyway, Marietta, my adopted mom, was gorgeous. She was a ‘40s knock out. Her black and white portrait hints of a dark-haired Lauren Bacall. She was even a Rosie the Riveter, worked at Bell Helicopter in Fort Worth, Texas during World War II. She was one of the few skinny ones who could fit in those small spaces and for that, she got lots of attention. And dates, I’m sure.

She was a true Bohemian of that era. Wish I knew all of her stories, but she wasn’t that kind of mom. We never really talked much.

Instead, she took to the bottle when she should have been putting her natural artistry into the drawings and paintings she could have produced, or playing the piano or organ with the touch of an angel.

She’d met my Dad while he was still in the military. He was a dashing young Navy cook, wild as they came. They fell in lust, married, and were off to California to live a life of drinks, art, music, smoky nightclubs and who know’s what else. But that didn’t happen.

Instead, one day while Daddy was visiting my mom’s Methodist church with her parents, he up and joined and committed that very day to spending the rest of his life speaking from a pulpit and visiting those in need of the kind of Christian minister that was for real He’d been there, done it all and was truly given the Calling. He didn't judge. He talked of Grace.

Nope. Marietta didn’t like that too much. She tried. For a while, she played the organ like the good little preacher’s wife, tried to keep the smile on at all the churchly functions. But it just wasn’t meant for her. She had the style of Jackie Kennedy and the looks of a movie star, but lived in a glass house under the watchful eyes of many a judgemental sinner.

She tried to share some of her creativity with me. I still sometimes redraw a painting of hers that hung in the living room of whatever parsonage we were in at the time. And she did sit me down at the ripe young age of five and go over and over and over ‘Ke Sera Sera’ with me until I finally got it right so I could star in the Weatherford Kindergarten School Musical Finale. I had a voice, she said, but I’d been hanging around my father too much and I was acting tone deaf just because he was.

And there was the key to our very awkward mother/daugther relationship. She was jealous of me. All because I loved my Daddy. Just the way he was.

Thank God for Zach. Through him, with him, I have learned how to be a good Mom. Happy Belated!

Beginning of my adoption story, in play format

This is an evolving process and I'm looking for feedback on the beginning. I've written it several different ways and I'm stuck. Would love to hear some feedback. Good, bad, don't care, whatever. Criticism does not bother me.

"ACT I

1.1.Lights up on Tracy center of stage, almost backlit.

Tracy: My story begins with her story. But she never wanted me to know about all that.


Lights down on Tracy

1.2.  Lights up on young Judy standing on box. Lights only on her.

Judy: It won’t fit.

Voice: (not on stage) Of course it will fit.

Judy: No, it won’t.

Voice: You’re being silly, dear. I just did the measurements a couple of weeks ago. It will be fine.

Judy. No, it won’t. I’ve gained some weight. ….  I am pregnant.


Lights out on Judy.

1.3 Lights up on two nurses, sitting at single, stark desk

Nurse 1: Well, we got another one coming here real soon.

Nurse 2: Where from?

Nurse 1: Big Spring.

Nurse 2: Where in the world is that?

Nurse 1: Somewhere out west ‘a Abilene. Another po-dunk in the middle of nowhere.

Nurse 2: When is she gettin’ here?

Nurse 1: Last week of July. Her family’s supposed to bring her. But I’ll check the bus schedule just the same.


Lights out on Nurses.

1.4  Lights back up on Tracy, sparse set, desk, laptop, floor-length lamp

Tracy: My first bus ride into the big city. How exciting. Not. It was a lonely, sad trip. Judy didn’t say much. Mostly she just read the romance novel (insert novel of the time here) she’d brought along to read. I think she touched me at least once or twice, maybe three times at the most. I felt her hand tap her tummy. I also felt fed and nourished. But I didn’t feel much of the ‘love thing.’ This would be my first – and last bus ride taken with my biological mother."

I know. Not much there right now, but that's why I'm stuck and wouldn't mind some honest feedback. I've told this story a million times. Wish I'd had a tape recorder. But I'm going the play route first, at least for now, and I'm not all that experienced writing plays even though I'e acted in many, many shows. It's not the same. So, lay it on me, will ya? Thanks, ya'll

Lunch with my bio sister - shocking, expected, mostly awkward

It took forever for her to look at me. Really look at me. Until we actually sat down to eat, she aimed most of her conversation at my husband. When I first walked through the restaurant, I noticed her right away; we’ve seen each other’s twitter picture, so I acknowledged her. She held out her hand, said “Nice to meet you.” I said, “Nice to meet you also.” She and her husband were waiting in line to check the reservation list. I had not made a reservation. Nerves took over. This was no ordinary ‘how do you do?’ meeting. No matter how casual we tried to act.

I’m adopted, have found my bio parents. Or at least I’ve found my bio mom for sure. Thought I had found and met my bio dad also, but some questions have recently been raised. This meeting was between me and my bio sister on my mom’s side to talk about some of these new questions. Husbands were invited. She took off her glasses, and I saw a smaller, slimmer version of myself. Her eyes are blue like mine, but hers are bright blue. Ocean bright blue. Mine? Well, one is messed up because of all my eye surgeries and the other one is more of a true blue. If someone had gotten a picture of us together, you’d be able to tell we were sisters. My husband noticed that immediately. I would like to have gotten a picture of me and my bio sister but it wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t that kind of family gathering.

This meeting was set up to clarify some questions that don’t need to be exposed here, but she’s known about me since she was a teenager and has been perfectly fine with the relationship as it is. Or, rather as it is not. On the surface, you would have thought two couples had just met, decided to have lunch together. The usual ‘get to know you’ comments and questions were asked. How many children do you have? What’s the weather like where you live? Exactly what part of Texas is your town nearby? How long have you been in Asheville? So on and so on.

When the plates were cleared, it was time to get down to business. I brought up the reason for our get-together. Questions and comments were once more exchanged. These were more serious and personal. Some shocking. Some expected. All awkward.

No definite answers at this meeting, but we left with a better understanding of this very strange situation in which we found ourselves. Neither one of us had expected this in our lives. She’s the oldest in her family; she had just met an older sister. I’m the youngest in my adopted family, but I had just met my little bio sister.

When there was nothing more to say, once again she held out her hand and said “Nice to have met you.” I returned her handshake. We turned and left in our own directions. I’m not sure if we will ever physically be together again. Probably not. That is her choice. But, I do know that each of us left that restaurant a changed woman. Whether we care to admit it, or not.

A tale of two grandfathers .... 'you're number one'

Many of you know I'm adopted. Some of you know I've found both of my biological parents. Some of you have not a clue as to what I'm talking about. Sorry, but I'm not going into that tale right now. You're just going to have to deal with that little tidbit of my life and let me move on with my adventure. But, it's important for you to understand that fact so you'll appreciate this story about my dad. My adopted dad. My preacher daddy. My daddy.

My biological father and I lost touch for several years for various reasons. My son was about nine when bio dad and I reconnected. I knew he'd kill me if he ever found out he had a grandson and I had not told him, so it was time for new introductions. We were all waiting for bio dad to show up at my dad's house.(My adopted dad ... I know it's gets confusing, but try and hold on here with me. How do you think I feel?) Daddy kept us entertained with his ever colorful stories of his everyday life.

He and a woman were driving - in separate cars - on one of the gazillion of freeway miles somewhere between Dallas and Fort Worth. And, although my 80-something father liked to drive no less than 80 miles an hour, that speed was too slow for her. She finally passed him, sailed by, showing him her middle finger held high. The bird. The big 'ef off. Daddy smiled at her, laughed to himself, then decided she must have really liked him because "she was telling me I was number 1." My son lay on the floor, at the feet of one beloved grandfather, waiting to meet a new grandfather and had himself a fierce giggle when he saw his grandpa give the bird sign.

The doorbell rang as soon as the story was over. (My dad had great timing.) He answered the door and greeted my bio dad (they had met several times years before). Bio dad walks in and Daddy says, "Hi there, how have you been? I'd like you to meet our grandson, Zach." Bio dad bends down to shake hands with my well-mannered 9-year-old and tells him how nice it is to meet him. Rather than a handshake, bio dad is greeted with an upheld middle finger. "Hi. It's nice to meet you, too. You're number one."

So many things on my mind

I wasn't going to post anything today, because I just didn't know where to begin. That's how it is so many days, for so many of us. Or, at least I think it is. So many things on my mind. My dad. My niece's dog, Boxer, who got hit by some stupid driver who didn't actually realize real people and animals live on those two-lane roads in Texas. Two friends who sent me wonderful memories of my dad that weren't just "preacher" stuff stories. 'Bewitched' and how I always wished I were Samantha. Actually, I really liked Serena (sp?) best. She got away with everything, just like I did sometimes. Or perhaps just wished I had been able to do that. Meeting a biological sister at the end of this month. I don't know. World, where are we headed? God, where are headed? Who knows? So, I'll just end with this verse from 'The Sopranos' theme song: 'Woke up this morning, got yourself a gun. Mama always said you'd be the chosen one. ... born under the bad sign. got the blue moon in your eyes.'

Depression-era orphan, drunk navy cook, turned Methodist minister

That's my dad, in case you're wondering. He'd say that title described him all right, but there was a little more to it than that. Actually there was a lot more to his story. Rev. John Dowd. Bro. Dowd. John Dowd. John. Preacher Daddy. Daddy. Granddaddy. PaPa. He would have turned 88 this coming July 9th, three days from now, so I'm gathering up stories and reminiscing.

He was an interesting man, to say the least. I shared him with many people - not always particularly liking that fact - but that's just how it was. He wasn't a material man. What he left me were all of his old sermons ... maybe 50 years worth. Maybe more. Maybe less. Sermons he was going to throw away fours ago because he had been diagnosed with leukemia and only had two months to live. Said he didn't need those sermons anymore, where he was going, that'd he'd already told everything he knew. Actually I had to rescue those sermons out of some trash bags, but that's a story for another time.

He'd been a 5+ year colon cancer survivor, so to find out he had leukemia was rather shocking. He chose not to have a bone marrow transplant. However, he did choose me. Sometime around Thanksgiving 1960, after I'd been in the Volunteer Home of America for just over a month in Ft. Worth, Texas. He didn't actually choose me, but he liked to say so, "picked me up from the baby supermarket." That also is a story for another time.

I like to think we chose each other.