Adoption – All Sides Matter

Posted on March 9, 2022 by Laureen

A commentary on the film “Stories From the Red Couch”

In case you haven’t seen it, here’s the trailer.

If you have the time, here’s a link to the forty-five minute video.

The trailer was released a month ago. The film was released just a week ago.

It’s promoted as simply a “Hollywood produced film about adoption,” and described as a project meant “to capture 99 years of [The Cradle’s] work through emotional, inspiring stories of adoption.”

It’s “Hollywood produced,” alright. It’s a polished, obviously professionally produced and edited documentary-style film. But to say it’s “about adoption” is terribly misleading. What it’s really about is fundraising. To facilitate adoption.

The Cradle is a private adoption agency that’s been around for nearly a hundred years. The film is presented and stylized as a celebration of The Cradle’s work by showcasing several “successful” adoption stories from the perspective of the heroic savior adoptive parents and the counselors employed by The Cradle. The fairy tale-like stories portray adoption as something “magical,” and The Cradle as someplace where “dreams come true.” Lofty words and phrases describing The Cradle and its work, such as “destiny,” “meant to be,” “special place,” and even “divine intervention,” are sprinkled throughout the forty-five minute campaign.

What’s missing? It’s obvious to adoptees. Whether we’re “well-adjusted” or struggling, in the fog or out, wrestling with identity issues, facing secondary rejection, muddling through a reunion, or fighting against the powers-that-be in a closed records nightmare, the emotional turmoil of the adoptee is sorely missing from The Cradle’s fables of the adoptive family. Even adoptees who claim a happy childhood and successful family life growing up adopted face issues related to adoption trauma. It’s a fact. The deep emotional experiences of great loss and grief are a common theme in the life of a adoptee. The trauma related to being separated from one’s mother and family at birth or soon thereafter is real. It may not be something an adoptee feels as a child growing up, but it often surfaces later in life, particularly during milestone events like marriage, childbirth, or death of an adoptive parent or someone close to the adoptee.

In the film, The Cradle claims to be a place that recognizes and nurtures a pregnant mother struggling with the decision of whether to keep her child. How does a mother even get to that point? How is the option of adoption introduced to a pregnant mother who is under duress? I turned to The Cradle’s website for answers.

The Cradle is proud of their on-site nursery. The website proclaims: “The Cradle is the only adoption agency in the country with an on-site nursery offering a safe, neutral place for infants to stay while their parents take the time they need to decide if adoption will be the plan for their child.” So, the mother and child are separated while the mother “decides” if adoption is right for their family situation? This is where the “options counseling” comes in. There is little positive or encouraging information on the website about the choice to parent. And there was even less mentioned in the film. What about options for parenting? What about support for the mother and child together rather than a nursery that separates mother and child? The website’s page for “options counseling” is sparse, and includes a simple comparison of “ADOPTION” and “PARENTING” that lists the things an expectant mother should consider (according to The Cradle) if she is thinking about parenting her child:

Your daily schedule and child care needs
Your budget, including housing, living expenses/bills, baby supplies, transportation, child care, etc.
Health care and medical insurance
Supportive people (family, friends, professionals) – identify who those people are for you, and talk with them about the kinds of help you can expect from them

That’s enough to scare the living motherhood out of me. Where are the answers? Where are the resources? And to make matters even more one-sided, the page on the website that features the nursery also features a big window with continuous scrolling photos of hopeful smiling potential adoptive parents with the caption, “Choose an Adoptive Family.” Problem solved.

The film does mention that a parent who has taken advantage of The Cradle’s services, like counseling and the nursery, can, of course, decide to keep her child and simply come and get the baby and take her home. Good to know. If The Cradle actually does this work (like counseling in favor of keeping your child and directing a mother and/or father to usable resources, etc.), why not highlight in the film a few of the stories where this sort of happy ending resulted? Or at least provide some statistics. I know I would have loved to have seen a few of these real-life fairy tales where mother decides to keep her child. I mean, really . . . this sounds like a much happier (and more natural) ending to any story than a child separated from his or her biology and family and thrown into the arms of strangers.

Note to adoptive parents: That baby isn’t bonding with you. It’s a matter of life or death for the baby–her needs must be met. It’s survival mode.

But there are no family preservation-style happy endings shown in the film. That’s because The Cradle is about adoption; more specifically, facilitating the brokering of babies. Period.

More to come on this topic–look for “Red Couch Rebuttal: Adoptees (and Others) Talk Back to The Cradle,” coming to NAAP Happy Hour soon.

Adoption is Everywhere – It Cannot Hide (Or Can It?)

Posted on November 16, 2019 by Laureen

I have a friend. She is older than me. Old enough to be my mother, in fact. She knows my story. She knows that I was adopted, that I was born in prison, that I struggled with my identity in my youth, and that I was cruelly rejected by my biological mother when I searched and found her over thirty years ago. She knew I continued to struggle over the years with feelings of anguish and inadequacy after the rejection from my birthmother, and that I wondered constantly about my biological origins. She listened sympathetically and supported me fully (or so I thought) as the story of finding my biological father unfolded.

After over twenty years of friendship, and me spilling my guts about my crazy adoptee-centric issues (closed records, lies, shame, rejection, fantasies, social media, stalking family members, DNA, family trees, etc.), my friend dropped a bombshell. A big one. One night, after a couple glasses of wine and talking about everything and nothing at all, she confessed: “I gave a child up for adoption the same year you were born. My daughter would be just a few months older than you.”

Uh . . . what!? I was dumbfounded. After picking my jaw up off the table and consciously unknitting my brow, I took a big gulp of wine.

At first, I was sympathetic. She told me she was shunned by her own mother and father and sent away to live with a relative during her pregnancy. She described being shamed by her family for being pregnant at eighteen and how she was coerced into relinquishing her daughter.

I think at this point I was uncorking another bottle of wine.

I asked her if she had ever heard from her daughter or from anyone on her behalf. She said no. I asked her if she had ever tried looking for her daughter. She said no. She went on to explain that through the years she “made sure” that if her daughter was looking for her, she had done everything she could to make herself “easy to find.” It sounded like she was simply waiting to be found.

I asked her if she wanted help finding her now. She said, “If my daughter wanted to find me, she could have. And she hasn’t.”

There were tears and more drunken talk . . . and when my friend left that night, I felt sorry for her. I felt sorry for her daughter out there somewhere. I wanted to do something about it, but it wasn’t my thing to do anything about.

That was nearly five years ago. Over time, I’ve given my friend’s situation a lot of thought. We’ve had a few discussions about it . . . but each time I bring it up, I get hit with, “You just don’t understand!” Really? Or, “Quit trying to push your agenda on me.” We end up frustrated and upset with each other. Now we don’t talk about it. It’s like this awful, sad, secret, adopted elephant in the room. Our friendship has suffered.

I don’t get it. She’s successful, retired, single, and has a grown son. Now that she’s retired she throws herself into volunteer work, which includes helping orphans in Mexico and mentoring foster children in her own community. As for the mentoring, she’s actually been mentoring foster kids for years—even before she was retired. I had always admired that she gave so much of herself to these motherless kids, but now I’m seeing it in a different light. In my mind, it’s like she’s trying to make up for orphaning her daughter. Of course, I shouldn’t assume this.

And about her being always “out there” to find . . . I’m not so sure she’s been truthful about “not hiding.” When she finally joined Facebook, she used a fake name. That’s kind of a big deal. Social media is one of the easiest ways for adoptees to track people down these days.

Of course, my assumption of her reluctance to be found makes me think of my own biological mother. She absolutely didn’t want to be found. That hurt. Now I have this friend who is behaving in a way that I believe is hurtful. I don’t think she’s dealing with her own emotions about relinquishing her child so many years ago. Maybe I’m wrong.

Anyway, it’s not my thing. It’s hers. I’ll continue to advocate—adoptees need to be heard. Birthmothers, too. Some just aren’t ready.

My birthmother didn’t want to be found, either, but I found her anyway. Read my story, The Lies That Bind, An Adoptee’s Journey of Rejection, Redirection, DNA, and Discovery

Release Your Truth . . . Find Your Strength

Posted on November 9, 2019 by Laureen

If you follow my blog (or any other adoption-centric blog or group), you already know it’s National Adoption Awareness Month (#NAAM). And you probably know that adoptees are making a concerted effort to switch the focus of the awareness to the people involved in adoption that matter the most: THE ADOPTEE.

It’s complicated. Most adoptees, at one point or another, deal with one or more of the following confounding issues:

loss of family (even if he or she gained a “good one” through adoption)
unknown or confused heritage
unknown health history
sealed records
family secrets
lies (sometimes)

And these issues often lead to anxiety, identity confusion, depression, low self-esteem, and more.

It helps to know and talk with other adoptees experiencing the same issues. It helps to bring your fears out into the open and deal with them. Release your truth and you will find your strength.

Last March, I attended the Indiana Adoptee Network‘s Annual Conference . What an eye-opener. It was fantastic to be with such a large group of people who just “get it.” While I was there, I was lucky enough to meet a woman who truly understands the power of opening up. She wrote a book about it. And guess what? She’s not an adoptee. She’s a birth mother (or “first mother,” if you prefer). I love what she’s done–for birth mothers and adoptees. And for anyone else holding in the pain of a traumatic event.

Shoebox Cover

In her book, The Shoebox Effect, Marcie Keithley tells the heart-wrenching story of relinquishing a child for adoption and how it affected her life and the lives of her family. As an adoptee, Marcie’s story helped me to understand the heart of a young mother suffering through her quiet desperation during a difficult time.

But, Marcie goes beyond just story-telling in her book. Marcie wants us all to open our hearts—and our shoeboxes—to let out the secrets and explore the truths within. There is healing in sharing. There is freedom and peace in understanding why we pack away and hide what hurts us. Marcie’s book offers a guide of sorts at the end of each chapter, to help us coax out our own secrets and unpack the shame, guilt, and unresolved grief. I wish my own birth mother would read this book . . .

Too often, we go through life as intimate strangers with the people we love. We avoid certain topics in fear they might open up a Pandora’s Box, so we take an opposing approach. Many of us stuff reminders of those topics inside shoeboxes or other containers, in hopes we can hide the situation away. But this is a mistake. –Marcie Keithley, The Shoebox Effect

This book is not just for birth mothers and adoptees. It’s for anyone who is hiding away bits and pieces (or big ol’ chunks) of his or her life in the hopes of avoiding difficult feelings. I highly recommend actively reading this book!

Marcie’s book, The Shoebox Effect, Transforming Pain Into Fortitude and Purpose, will be released November 12. You can pre-order it now on Amazon.

Click on the links here if you’re interested in learning more about the Indiana Adoptee Network and the Indiana Adoptee Network 4th Annual Conference.

Legalized Fraud?

Posted on April 15, 2014 by Laureen

My birth certificate bears the words: Certificate of Live Birth, under the two separate, official-looking headers:

State of California

Certification of Vital Records

and

State of California

Department of Public Health

It also bears “The Great Seal of the State of California,” on the left bottom corner, as well as a funky, more modern looking “CDPH” (California Department of Public Health) seal on the bottom right corner. The paper itself is really official and fancy, too–pretty even–shades of red, white and blue–with a serious blue border with the somber words “Any Alteration or Erasure Voids this Certificate” on the bottom. When you hold up the certificate to the light, you can see a watermark: “OFFICIAL VITAL RECORD.”

A birth certificate. Big deal. Well, the one I have in my possession is a fraud. Officially, it’s called an amended birth certificate. And there is actually a legitimate reason for it (although I have a problem with the form of it being the same as an original birth certificate).

Adoption files (usually held by the state department of health or social services and the courts) and original birth certificates of adoptees were sealed to all parties in most states starting in the early 1930’s (open adoption records were the norm prior to this time). Historically, there are a number of reasons cited for the sealing of the records. Basically, birth records were amended and sealed based on ideas of the shame of adoption, the stigma of illegitimacy, and the attempt to hide the adoptive family from the socially scorned birth mother. I won’t go into the details here because there has been so much written on the subject of anonymity in adoptions and there are so many opinions out there. If you want to read about it in more depth, you can go here: Bastard Nation; or here: California Open (related specifically to California adoptions); or just Google “sealed adoption records” and you’ll get all kinds of articles and all kinds of opinions on the subject.

I understand the need for privacy when a child is placed for adoption. The adoptive family needs to bond with the child and eventually tell the story of their family (including the adoption) in their own way. But the story needs to be told. Families that don’t tell their adopted children that they were adopted really scare me. But that’s another blog–not mine. I always knew I was adopted. It was a happy story.

Back to sealed records. There is just one argument on the side of sealed records that I don’t like. It’s not just that I don’t agree with it–it’s that it’s just plain wrong. And I want to be clear about it so it doesn’t clog up any argument you may want to have with me about sealed records and any so-called right to privacy. Plain and simple: there is no right to privacy in adoption that extends to a birth parent. Anonymity may have been promised and may have been desired by a birth parent, but there is nothing in any adoption law or even in the official relinquishment papers signed by the birth parent(s), that guarantees anonymity. It’s a funny idea to me–like wanting to be in the witness protection program. I just don’t get it. You gave birth to a person. A thinking person.

The Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals said it quite simply when it upheld a Tennessee law granting adult adoptees access to their original birth certificates:

“A birth is simultaneously an intimate occasion and a public event — the government has long kept records of when, where, and by whom babies are born. Such records have myriad purposes, such as furthering the interest of children in knowing the circumstances of their birth.

The judges of the Sixth Circuit Court also wrote: “if there is a federal constitutional right of familial privacy, it does not extend [to birth parents who have relinquished children to adoption]” and cited a 1981 decision in which the appeals court found that

[T]he Constitution does not encompass a general right to nondisclosure of private information.

Interestingly, the Court went a little further and dealt with the emotion of it all and found that the interest of an adoptee to know who his or her birth parents are is

an interest entitled to a good deal of respect and sympathy.

[106 F.3d 703 (6th Cir. 1997)]

The U.S. Supreme Court declined to overrule the Appeals Court ruling in favor of open records.

Remember that I am talking about information and identity and the documentation that can provide this information. I am not talking about relationships. If you’ve been reading my blog, you probably know that I gave up my idea of ever having any kind of relationship with my biological mother. She refuses even to communicate in any meaningful way, so it’s a non-issue for me. It has become an issue for others, though, namely Jackson, my biological father, who cannot remember anything about his apparently fleeting relationship with Margaret. He’d like to communicate with her. But we cannot legislate communication, relationships, or emotions. So there you have it.

My record of identity–my amended birth certificate (the only one I have)–is fraught with obvious inaccuracies. For starters, I think it would be helpful if adopted persons were provided with a document with a different title, such as, Amended Birth Certificate or Certificate of Adoption. It’s quite confusing to see the words “Certificate of Live Birth” showing “Mother of Child” as my adoptive mother and “Father of Child” as my adoptive father. “Informant’s Certification” lists my adoptive mother’s name (typewritten in where there is supposed to be a signature) and dashes (—–) in the blank for “Date Signed By Informant.”

Even weirder, for “Place of Birth,” the “City or Town” is listed as Corona; however, the “County” is listed as “San Bernardino.” The City of Corona is actually located in Riverside County, not San Bernardino County. But the Chino Institute for Women is actually located in Chino, in the County of San Bernardino (I’m not sure what hospital facilities were used when I was born). You’d think if my birth parents wanted to “hide” the fact that I was born in prison by changing the city from Chino to Corona, you’d think they’d figure out that they’d need to change the County to Riverside, as well. In addition, the “Place of Birth – Name of Hospital” and “Street Address” spots are left completely blank. Like I just appeared into thin air into the arms of my adoptive parents. It’s a fill-in-the-blanks-who-cares-it-does’t-matter nightmare. Okay, so it’s not a nightmare–it’s just a fraud. A fake. It makes me feel like a phony.

I’m working on my Petition for Authorization to Inspect Adoption and Birth Record Information, which I will file with the Superior Court. California law provides that I must show good cause and state the reasons that I need to see my own birth record. It’s up to the judge to decide whether my reasons are compelling enough. If my petition is successful, I will be able to view my original sealed birth certificate. It will remain sealed–not open to public inspection. I would also gain access to view my adoption :”file,” which contains all of the information and documentation provided by the Department of Social Services to the Court and the Court documents relating to my adoption. Some counties have simple petition “forms” to complete and file. The county that I need to file in does not, so I am drafting it from scratch. There aren’t many useful “samples” out there, so I am struggling to get it just right. I’ll post a copy when I’m finished with it. After all, it’s public record.

Wish me luck!

It’s a Good Thing. Why do People Think It’s So Bad?

Posted on January 29, 2014 by Laureen

I’m tired. Emotionally and physically. I have a guest post today written by one of my best friends . . . she’s lived an exemplary life and want to be her when I grow up. A beautiful soul and a great writer. We’ve been friends for a very long time. We know each other’s stories. She’s been following my blog. Thank you, Catherine, for your kind and wise words.

But first, as I usually like to do, I want to start with a quote:

“The baby explodes into an unknown world that is only knowable through some kind of a story – of course that is how we all live, it’s the narrative of our lives, but adoption drops you into the story after it has started. It’s like reading a book with the first few pages missing. It’s like arriving after curtain up. The feeling that something is missing never, ever leaves you – and it can’t, and it shouldn’t, because something IS missing. That isn’t of its nature negative. The missing part, the missing past, can be an opening, not a void. It can be an entry as well as an exit. It is the fossil record, the imprint of another life, and although you can never have that life, your fingers trace the space where it might have been, and your fingers learn a kind of Braille.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

Adoptive Moms Know

By: Catherine Wilkinson

I have a few things to say about adoption and Laureen’s emotional and frustrating journey toward honest answers about herself and her birth family. Answers she deserves.
I am an adoptive Mom to two “kids”, now 26 and 29 years old. I gained two more children, ages 28 and 30, through my husband, when they were very small. I also am a Grandmother to 8, soon to be 9, two of whom I “inherited” through my son-in-law, who brought his two little ones into our family. So, I am familiar with the idea that families come together in many ways. Through adoption, surrogacy, inheritance and sometimes we gain family members by surprise, after many years of not even knowing they were there.

I do know that if either one of my adoptive children chose to pursue finding their birth parents or decided to include them in their lives, I would be the first one in line to welcome them. I would get down ON MY KNEES and thank them for my two precious kids, regardless of how they arrived at the hard and painful decision to give them up for adoption. I would never look upon their decision as anything other than a GIFT TO ME. There is no room for shame, guilt, regret, or anger. How can that even be? My kids are extraordinary and they are loved and lovable. That’s my gift TO THE BIRTH PARENTS. In my mind, if I was a birth parent who gave the opportunity to raise my child to another, I would feel such peace and relief knowing I did the right thing.

I have encouraged my kids (at appropriate times) throughout their lives to pursue a birth family search. One is interested, one is not. It’s their choice and their journey….I’m just there to help. They were born in Taiwan, and there are adequate records and it would be a fairly easy search. I’m as curious as Laureen….I want to know more about my children’s’ birth parents. And I selfishly want the opportunity to thank them. To tell them how wonderful their birth children turned out to be and what joy they have brought me.

Laureen’s adoptive parents have both passed on. But I know in my heart that they too would feel as I do even though I never met them. How do I know? Because I know Laureen and what kind of woman she is and they are the ones who raised her – a strong, compassionate, funny, talented, generous, intelligent person. They would thank her birth parents for giving them the opportunity to raise such a wonderful daughter. I would hope that every adoptive parent wants that chance. Sometimes they get it, sometimes not. It’s up to their child. Laureen is searching alone (well, her husband, her two sons, and her many friends are with her on this journey!) and my heart breaks that her Mom and Dad can’t be here for her, because I know they loved her so much, they would want her to find the answers, the peace, and the acceptance from her birth family. I know it.

So this brings me to addressing her birth family directly: there is no downside to being honest and helpful. If you think you are “protecting” those who have no idea that Laureen even exists, you are just denying an absolute and wonderful truth. If you think you are “protecting” those who don’t know they have two great-grandsons, or nephews, or niece, or whatever the relationship is, you are perpetuating the idea that adoption is shameful and a legacy that needs to remain secret. If you are afraid, ashamed or embarrassed, let me tell you, unreservedly, those are fearful reactions to a miracle. If you think are “protecting” someone, have you considered you are robbing them of a wonderful opportunity to at least acknowledge that something quite extraordinary came out of a difficult situation?

“The truth shall set you free”. Truth ALWAYS trumps secrets and fear. It’s time for truth for Laureen. Since I have a lot of experience with “blending” families and Laureen and I are so close, I feel comfortable appointing myself as Laureen’s surrogate Mom during her journey. I’m standing in for her loving parents and waiting for the chance to thank the birth family for Laureen. It may sting a few fearful people at first, but I promise every single one of you, there will be no regrets.

I mean, have you tasted her cooking?

Rewriting The Past

Posted on January 24, 2014 by Laureen

Anyone who isn’t confused really doesn’t understand the situation. — Edward R. Murrow

I had answers to some of the most basic, vital questions. I knew the identity of my biological mother: Margaret Michaels.

I knew the identity of my biological father (thanks to DNA): Jackson Summer.

As you know, I have never actually spoken to Margaret. The last “contact” I had with her was the self-bloated letter I received from her over 20 years ago. She has no desire to meet me or to even carry on a conversation via letter or e-mail. I have respected that. She never disclosed to anyone, including her mother, my biological father, or her siblings (4 of them) that she was ever pregnant. The only people in her “world” who knew she was pregnant and relinquished a child were the prison personnel (and presumably other inmates), social workers and hospital personnel. It is also possible that her stepfather knew. According to the story from the social worker (my non-identifying story), he was the one who turned Margaret in to the authorities, which resulted in her arrest.

So was it true that none of Margaret’s family came to visit her during her stay at the Greybar Inn? She was there for 3 1/2 years (sentenced to 10). If anyone came to see her during the first 3 months of her incarceration, they would have surely guessed she was pregnant (or she really liked the prison food). I guess they could have come to visit after December (she was arrested in September) and not known she was ever pregnant. That makes a little bit of sense. Margaret’s mother (my grandmother) was actually pregnant at the same time as Margaret (let’s get all the complicated details together, here). Remember this tidbit from my non-identifying story?

Baby Christopher is the 3-month old half brother.

Margaret’s mother (my maternal grandmother) gave birth to Baby Christopher (my uncle) about the same time that Margaret was arrested. And it was Baby Christopher’s father (Margaret’s stepfather) who turned Margaret in. Margaret’s mother was busy raising 4 young children while Margaret was out partying, getting pregnant and getting arrested. You follow?

Jackson Summer didn’t know Margaret was pregnant. Jackson claims he doesn’t even know who Margaret Michaels is. More likely, he doesn’t remember. There were drugs involved. Drugs can alter memories, for sure. But Jackson does remember Marion Michaels. His first love. He’s still in touch with her. Jackson even told Marion about me and our curious DNA match and about this mysterious Margaret person who has the same last name as Marion. According to Jackson, Marion was not able to provide any information that would be helpful to us.

If you’ll recall, I mentioned that I have been in touch with one of Margaret’s siblings. We even talked about getting together to meet and talk. I was hopeful that she could fill in some of the odd-shaped blanks hanging out there. She was very clear that Margaret did not want to discuss the matter and did not want to be involved in any contact with me. She also confirmed that their mother (my maternal grandmother) still did not know about me.

Well, our meeting has not happened (yet). Real life and busy schedules got in the way. In the meanwhile, I started this blog to help me sort through it all. My aunt read the blog. She expressed her disappointment with the information I was putting “out there” in the cyber-world for anyone to see (even though I’ve changed the names of the key players). We had an e-mail exchange about it. She asked me to “Please stop.”

And you know what’s ironic? Before the blog, this aunt had asked me to share the information I had discovered about my biological father through the DNA match. She wanted to know what I had learned about my biological father. I believed she was sympathetic to my plight and genuinely interested. Without hesitation I told her about the DNA match and gave details that Jackson had shared with me, in the hopes that sharing the information may lead to more sharing on her side of the family. Absolutely not. I’ve since asked my aunt specific questions about Margaret and their mother, and I’ve made a request for some specific health information that would aid me in making a decision about my future. She never answered any of my questions.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that she owes me nothing. I’m beginning to see a pattern.

I think perhaps Margaret is “bullying” her siblings. Maybe not in a schoolyard, overt kind of way, but definitely subliminally. From what I can figure out, they are worried that the knowledge of my existence will “crush” their mother (my grandmother). What information exactly, I wonder, is going to crush my grandmother? The fact that Margaret had a child? No . . . that can’t be. Seriously, I haven’t lived the kind of life that can be deemed a disappointment to anyone, in my own humble opinion. It’s gotta be the 50 year old lie. That her daughter, Margaret, never told her she had a child. Surely, she knew that Margaret had been in prison. That “disappointment” had already been felt, processed, and dealt with. I would think. Perhaps there is more to the story that I don’t know. Margaret’s sibling wrote:

We do not know the circumstances leading to her pregnancy; it may have been quite traumatic.

She also mentioned several times that some of the information I’ve published wasn’t even true. What!? Not true? You mean the story that I know and live every day about my identity and how I came into this world is riddled with untruths, cover-ups, and lies? Imagine that. No seriously, why don’t you try to imagine that? I’ve lived this way my entire life.

So tell me something new. Like the truth. There are people that actually know the truth, but won’t tell me. Imagine that!

So here are some theories. These theories, of course, include questions or lead to more questions. They were either drummed up by me, or by friends and relatives of mine in an attempt to fill the odd-shaped holes. Anyone out there good at solving mysteries?

About Marian

Is Marian is somehow related to Margaret? A half-sister? Remember–they have the same last name, and Margaret never really knew her biological father. Her mother and father were separated and/or divorced (perhaps she wasn’t even married when she gave birth to Margaret at age 18!) when she was just an infant. Marian and Margaret grew up in the same town. Marian claims she knows nothing about Margaret or me. It is unclear whether Margaret knows Marian.

About Margaret

It’s clear the story she gave the social workers about my biological father was not true. It could have been an outright lie to mislead, or she could have simply not known exactly who the father was, so she described several individuals.

Why did Margaret’s stepfather “turn her in” and have her arrested? How and why was he involved to the degree of having her arrested? I have not mentioned this before, but Margaret’s stepfather was a well-known and recognizable figure in the community where they lived. He was probably in his late 30’s at the time of Margaret’s pregnancy and arrest–and his wife (Margaret’s mother) was pregnant and about to give birth). Did he know Margaret was pregnant? Perhaps he suspected she was pregnant and knew about the drugs and didn’t want Margaret to continue with the drugs while pregnant? I wish I could contact him. He passed away in 2006.

About Jackson

Jackson says he was never arrested. So who was the man who was arrested with Margaret? Was that made up, too? I suppose that was something that Margaret could have told the social workers, but I assumed that they would have checked that fact–the arrest records would have been easy to find and confirm. If they knew his identity, wouldn’t he have to sign the relinquishment papers? Apparently not. The information I have simply states, “We have no information about your birthfather following his arrest.”

About “The Deed”

How did Jackson and Margaret come to meet and get together? They lived in the same town, but went to different schools. Both were obviously exploring the counterculture of the 1960’s via drug use. They most likely knew some of the same people. Obviously, Jackson doesn’t remember knowing her, let alone having some sort of relationship with her (even if it was only a one night stand). Perhaps there was some sort of coincidental meeting “up North” when Margaret claims to have gone to San Francisco for a short time and Jackson was living and working up in Big Sur (hibernating up in the mountains to detox).

Perhaps my aunt was right about there being some sort of traumatic experience that led to Margaret’s pregnancy. Rape? Yikes. I don’t even want to consider that. I don’t know Jackson very well (hardly at all, actually), but it just doesn’t add up. Of course, Margaret was most likely involved with more than one man (who was she talking about when she described my biological father to the social worker?). Perhaps there was a traumatic incident of some sort and Margaret thought I could possibly be the product of it, and she made up a good portion of the information to hide the awfulness?

I suppose that’s enough conjecture. Do you have any ideas?

The self is not something one finds, it is something one creates. ~Thomas Szasz, “Personal Conduct,” The Second Sin, 1973

Next up: Something interesting about Margaret.

The Lies That Bind . . . and Other Truths

Posted on January 14, 2014 by Laureen

“People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim. What I’ve learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one’s reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one’s master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person’s view requires to be faked…The man who lies to the world, is the world’s slave from then on…There are no white lies, there is only the blackest of destruction, and a white lie is the blackest of all.”
― Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

My story so far, provided to me by the great Mr. Witt, San Bernardino County Social Services, was my truth. I clung to it. It was mine. I believed that it was all true. Margaret, a beatnik wanna-be hippie, started experimenting with drugs at age 17 or 18. She had a boyfriend, a couple of years older than her, who also dabbled in drugs. It was the 60’s, after all. Hell, it was her own mother who introduced Margaret to smoking pot. But the party didn’t last long. She was arrested, along with her boyfriend, on felony drug charges. And this was an interesting tidbit: it was Margaret’s stepfather who “turned them in.” Margaret’s mother had been married to Joe since Margaret was very young. She respected Joe and considered him to be a fine father figure. According to my truth.

Now I have a new truth. The truth as told to me by Jackson Summer, my biological father. The DNA evidence can’t lie–he’s definitely my father. Unless he has a twin that shares his DNA, which he doesn’t. Of course, with that DNA match, he could be my son. He’s 70 years old–he’s my father.

But here is the troubling part: I’ve been in contact with Jackson for months now via e-mail. We’ve been taking things slowly. He admits that he’s an “old hippie” and dabbled in drugs back in the 60’s (some pretty powerful drugs, at that). Yes, he lived in the same town as Margaret and her family (just a few blocks away). Yes, he’s the right age, exactly. But the description of my biological father and the information provided to me in my “non-identifying information did not describe Jackson (according to Jackson) at all.

In high school, your birth father was the editor of a literary magazine. He was also on the debate team and participated in political groups. He and your birth mother enjoyed talking about literature, intellectual subjects and and attended classes together at the city college in their community. . . Your birth father was also working at a pet hospital . . . and had access to narcotic drugs. . . . Both of your parents were arrested on drug-related charges. . . . We have no record of your birth father after his arrest.

That’s the birth father I knew from my non-identifying information. Consider, however, that all of this information was taken directly from the social services file on Margaret. All of the descriptive information about what happened and who was involved is based on what Margaret told the social worker(s). Remember, Margaret told no one in her family she was pregnant, plus, she was in prison at the time, so no one spoke to social workers or prison personnel about Margaret except Margaret. Margaret could have said anything. She was 18, ashamed, up against a wall (4 prison walls, actually), and being questioned and pressured for information, and also to make a life-changing decision about the baby growing inside of her. She didn’t name my birth father. She said he “didn’t know [I] was pregnant, for sure.” The information indicated that Margaret “signed sole custody relinquishments on December 20, 1963.” Sole custody. My birth father did not know.

Or . . . perhaps Margaret didn’t know the identity of my biological father. Maybe it could have been one of several? Or maybe she didn’t remember the encounter. Or maybe she knew, but she decided to describe something different in order to throw off the authorities. The fact is . . . the information provided to me in the non-identifying information did not describe Jackson Summer. And not just by my comparison. By his own.

I sent Jackson copies of the photos I have of Margaret. I also sent him copies of the letters we exchanged some 20 years ago (which were really no help at all, since Margaret said nothing at all about the time surrounding her pregnancy, except that it was a handicap that needed to be fixed). He contacted several of his long-time friends, including Marian Michaels, and told them about my contact and the “odd coincidences” (as he called them) of my story. No one recalled a Margaret Michaels.

Jackson did not back away; rather, he opened up considerably and told me everything he could remember. I believe what he told me. He has absolutely no reason to hide anything. If he had a secret to hide, why would he continue to tell me his story? The odd part was that Margaret Michaels was not a part of his story. He was also never arrested, as claimed by Margaret. He was not interested in literature or politics and he did not attend any classes at the jr. college. Jackson and Margaret didn’t even attend the same high school! Margaret had claimed that my birth father was the editor of a literary magazine in high school. Nope.

Jackson’s Art . . .

Jackson was known for his art. He was a jewelry maker and metal worker. He used to sell his art and jewelry at the beach every weekend. He had a small studio/shop on the corner near the beach and hung out with other artists and “creative minds,” as he called them. He told me stories about how his community was a great artist mecca back in the 1960’s and there were even some artists who traded their art for real estate and other valuable items. He never worked at a pet hospital. That’s not where he got his drugs.

Jackson has been very open with me about the drugs. He admitted that from about age 15 to 23 he went through a period of rebellion against his mother (his mother raised him alone; his father had died when he was very young), exploration, and searching for the “truth,” or meaning of life. He told me stories of experimentation with mescaline and LSD, inspired by his reading of Alex Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. He was, and still is, great friends with Dale Pendell, a contemporary poet, author and expert on pharmacology, ethnobotany and neuroscience.

The 1960’s. What a decade, right? The pharmaceutical industry exploded with research into new drugs. Drugs were legally developed for every ailment. Thanks to the industry’s aggressive media campaigns, every medicine cabinet filled up with drugs for every sort of ailment. The phrase “better living through chemistry” actually came from a legit DuPont advertisement. Drugs were portrayed as wonders of modern technology. In the early 60’s, drugs were not seen as evil. So, of course, young people, as young people are want to do, experimented. Jackson wrote to me about his drug use and experimentation with mescaline and LSD. For him (luckily), it was all a positive experience. Except for one thing: he believed his drug use was the reason he lost the love of his life: Marian Michaels.

He and Marian went to the same private high school (not the same high school as Margaret). They met when she was 14 and he was 16. She was 1 grade below him in school. They fell in love as teenagers–Jackson tells a sweet story of their young love. Jackson’s drug use continued into his late teens (and escalated) and this is where the problem started between Jackson and Marian. I believe that Jackson was being completely honest with me when he wrote:

The sad part to all this was that because of my drug use I broke the trust which I had built between Marian and I. I was no longer the person she had grown to love.

Jackson explained to me that at that point he “went into the mountains” and stayed there for several months until he was “no longer addicted.” But when he returned home it was too late. Marian had moved on. She eventually married and had 2 children. Jackson also eventually married and had a daughter.

Later communication with Jackson revealed what “into the mountains” may have meant:

You were born when I was 20 and looking back at that time I was in Big Sur living and working at Deetchen’s Big Sur Inn. I think I had started working there sometime in 1962…… at least I have a few photos of me there which are dated 62.

My math indicates that I was conceived in April 1963 (born mid-December, one month premature), so perhaps it was a fleeting encounter (possibly drug-fueled) with Margaret in the Big Sur area. My “non-identifying” information indicates that Margaret “moved to San Francisco for awhile, and then returned to her parents home to finish high school.” There is no further detail about her move or visit to “San Francisco,” but remember, the information in that report was put together from the interviews the social worker(s) had with Margaret while she was incarcerated. She could have said anything, true or not.

Jackson and I are still communicating, although it has slowed down a bit. He had indicated a desire to submit DNA to another company (or resubmit to 23andMe under another name) and to ask his daughter (who is 37 years old) to also submit a sample to see what kind of a match is revealed between the 3 of us. I understand his trepidation. But DNA doesn’t lie. I believe he is my biological father. He’s not so sure.

Laureen . . . I want you to know that I would be proud to have you as my daughter… I have no negative feelings but I am very confused about all of this. It seems so unlikely that our DNA would be so close and then the connection to the community where I grew up . . .
What I would really like to do is talk to Margaret . . . That would settle things . . .

Even back then I doubt I would have been drawn to someone like that. All of the women that I had any relationships with (there were not many) I still know and we are still friends, including Marian.

I provided him with the address I have for Margaret. He told me not too long ago that he started to write several times, but started over. He wanted to say just the right thing. I know the feeling. I don’t think he has written to her yet. I don’t even know whether he still intends to.

Next: We’ll explore the crazy possibilities . . .

Hope Springs Eternal

Posted on December 23, 2013 by Laureen

Hope itself is a species of happiness, and, perhaps, the chief happiness which this world affords; but, like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain. -Samuel Johnson

So I had embraced the science–DNA genetic research and testing as a tool to reveal or predict health risks. Everybody was doing it. I jumped on the band wagon. Why not?

I had also embraced the technology side of things. The world-wide interweb was my friend. My silent partner. My lifeline, if you will.

I was sure Margaret was relieved not to have heard from me for more than 2 decades and I wasn’t about to try to reach out to her again, but I still had questions. What about my birth father? I was pretty sure that Margaret was the only person who knew who he was. But I knew Margaret wasn’t about to give up that information. I knew Margaret had no other children, but what if I had siblings on my father’s side? And what about Margaret’s siblings–my aunts and uncles–some of whom were closer to my age than Margaret’s?

Thanks to the internet–that wondrous gem of technology and my personal lifeline–I was able to keep track of Margaret’s whereabouts–not in a stalker kind of way–more like a “lets-see-what-she’s-up-to” once a year kind of way. I was keeping hope alive. The internet also made it easy to find Margaret’s siblings. She had 4 half-siblings–I knew this from the non-identifying information. Over the 2 decades since I had received the non-identifying puzzle pieces, I had been able to roughly put the pieces together. Facebook made it even easier to find them. I found them easily, but I was actually terrified to reach out. I knew how Margaret felt and that scared me. I wondered how they felt, or if they even knew about me. How much did they know? How close were they to Margaret? How would they react if I did reach out? Would they even believe such a story?

As I waited for the health results from 23andMe, I crafted a way to reach out to the siblings. It was also a rogue attempt to reach out to the world wide web to see if anyone would be able to help me find my birth father. A focused rogue attempt. I got the idea from the internet, of course. There was a growing trend of using social media to find people. People were “advertising” for all sorts of reasons: missing persons, locating people after natural disasters or after terror attacks, and there seemed to be a growing trend of adoptees and birth parents searching by posting pictures and pleas for assistance that pulled desperately on heartstrings.The power and reach of social media was undeniable. Like a cheesy 80’s shampoo commercial . . . I told two friends; and they told two friends, and so on, and so on . . . (okay, so I’m dating myself with that one).

As I said, my attempt was quite focused. I figured if anyone knew anything about my birth father, it would be Margaret. And perhaps her siblings. Margaret was not on Facebook, but most of her siblings were. With the mention of her name and circumstances of my birth right out there in Facebook, someone would have to connect. Maybe they had information–maybe they knew things about Margaret and even my birth father! Maybe the door would be opened so that Margaret and I could finally connect. I had no delusions about a relationship, but I still had hope for answers.

So, I prepared my social media plea, which included the photos that appear in my header for this blog, along with a simple plea requesting help in finding my birthfather. I disclosed my date of birth, location of birth (California Institute for Women in Chino), my birthmother’s name (that would get the attention of Margaret’s siblings, for sure) and some other incidentals that would pretty much leave no doubt in the siblings’ minds that I was legit. I posted it in July. I simultaneously sent friend requests to the siblings who were also on Facebook. That way, they were sure to see my post.

It worked. The siblings accepted my friend requests . . . and I started a meaningful conversation (via e-mail) with one of Margaret’s sisters. I was hopeful. They had known nothing about me (my post on Facebook was how they found out about me). And Margaret’s sister made it perfectly clear that Margaret was still not open to contact and really had no interest in discussing the “situation” (past or present) with them (or me!). I wasn’t surprised. But I was still hopeful.

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning. -Albert Einstein

Adoption: My Truth

A Fill-in-the-Blanks Life. 50 years in the making.

Tag Archives: birth mother