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Nancy's Story
Alex Haley said,
"In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our
heritage, to know where we have come from. Without this enriching
knowledge, there is a hollow yearning, no matter what our
attainments in life, there is a most disquieting
loneliness."
Written by Nancy Swartz
When I was told at 16 that my daddy was not my REAL father, and
persuaded to keep my parent's big secret, I not only did not tell
anyone, I also denied my disquieting loneliness.
The most shocking
revelation of my recent search is the discovery that I was so
adept by the time I was 16 at distracting myself from pain that I
completely denied being bothered by anything I was told that day.
I even joked about it years later. I did feel relieved that my
REAL father was not the guy with a room temperature IQ who use to
yank me into his car after he and mother had a fight, then drive
around like a maniac, laughing at my terror while I clung for
dear life to anything I could grab hold of. That was before seat
belts, and it
finally ended when he stopped so suddenly it resulted in a huge
gash across my chin.
I was also relieved to finally comprehend the meaning of the
terrible things mother yelled at me over the years, always
completely out of the blue: I HATE YOU, I WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN
BORN, YOU RUINED MY LIFE. Just two months ago I learned things
that explain most of the confusions of my childhood. I might have
been in psychotherapy for 50 years and never unearthed such
freeing information.
Early this year I
went on the internet, and happened upon an essay about the
experience of learning, as an adult, that one is adopted. I was
blithely reading along when I read something that broke through
to my pain and I began to weep. My mother once told me she beat
me with a wooden clothes hanger
till it broke because I would not cry when she thought I should
have. I do not recall that incident, but I know I had excellent
control of my emotions until the day I read that on line essay,
and recalled feeling that I WAS THE FOOL.
I joined an adoptees list, then two others, and learned that the
suffering I had never spoken of or acknowledged was common to so
many of us. I still find the level of my self deceit difficult to
believe. I was completely detached from my own desires.
Once exposed to the
stories of others, it did not take me very long, two months
perhaps, to realize I must search for the truth, which meant
learning who my REAL father was. Nothing could be worse than the
lies and the confusion which they generated.
Going back a little, to when I was 35 and I broke my word by
announced to my three half sisters, my parents daughters, that I
was not daddy's child. YOU'VE RUINED THE FAMILY, was my mother's
response. And they all agreed I should not have made an issue of
it, what did it matter. I should never mention it again, it was
not important. Obviously my REAL father was a bad person (or he
would be around), I was so lucky to have their daddy as my daddy,
how nice of them to share. That was the exact feeling emitted
from all
of them, and daddy gloated.
A few years later I asked my mother for the adoption papers,
which I'd seen when I was 16, she said she could not find them.
Instead, she gave me an address for my father which contained his
military number. I didn't ask her where the address came from,
she did not offer the information. By then to distrust anything
she told me. Fortunately, I kept the number which has been the
key to finding what I needed most. (Strangely, or maybe not, my
half sisters now have the adoption papers, and refuse to give me
even copy...)
Back tracking to age 16, when I was told about my REAL father. I
was also told, among other things, that my maternal grandmother
had wanted them to tell me from the star, that my REAL father did
not believe I was his, that mother was with him only three weeks
and they were both drunk and married on a lark. Of course, I was
told that I was so much better off with daddy, who was such a
good provider, and loved me so much more than my REAL father did.
A few years ago, just before she died, my aunt told me something
that
explained the address, she said my grandmother and my REAL father
corresponded until I was in my teens. What a shocker that was.
Even so, I could not feel my true emotions. I distracted myself,
for I could not by myself go to the depths of that pain, and as
far as I know there the psychotherapy community has had no direct
interest in the plight of adoptees. (The seminal work done in
Object Relations by Lawrence Hedges and others
does apply to our issues, and may eventually lead to a
recognition of the inherant psychological issues involved in
adoption.) Once I had the support of others who were on the same
journey and read of their pain, I dared to search for that
military number.
I found it and also
the guidance from others on the lists, which in no time led to
the truth I so needed to learn. And in this porcess, I was so
moved by the understanding of those who helped me, including my
daughter and friends, that I was able to experience the pain I'd
spent a life time distracting myself from, to weep uncontrollably
for myself and my REAL father, my grandmother who was caught in
the cross fires, and even for my mother's loss, just a little. I
can't feel too sorry for anyone who will sacrifice the birth
right of another for
their own comfort, not for a slave master, not for anyone who
will deny another their true identity so that their own false
identity can be secured. And that goes doubly for the government
which plays such a strong hand in making it possible for people
of little courage to live a lie.
Another element in all this is something when I was 17. I went to
the county courthouse to get a copy of my birth certificate so I
could apply for a Social Security card. I was given a huge book
and told to find the date and certificate and they would make me
a copy. What I found where mine should have been was a piece of
brown paper taped over what I assume was my Original Birth
Certificate. When I showed that to the clerk, she slammed the
book shut and pulled it away from me as if I were a criminal and
snarled, "You have to write to
Sacramento.
" I have learned is that I will never meet my REAL father.
He died in 1990, but I now know he was very much my REAL father,
who gave me the gifts which have made my life rich. Like me, he
had an artistic temperment, he painted, drew, was a musician, and
an avid letter writer, and reader. He adored his mother and she
worshiped him. As for his mother, sadly, she died in 1997, she
was 99, and she was hoping till the end that I, her only living
relative, would turn up. She had been placed in an orphanage at
age three, along with
one of her siblings. A few days ago I learned that my REAL father
was married to my mother for nearly two years, until I was eleven
months old, My mother was still married to my REAL father when
she became pregnant with my first half sister. I've known all
along that my REAL father was in the Navy when they married. I
may never know much more than I now know, though I hope to see
his art work and some of his letters, and perhaps his
military records. I have pieced enough together to understand
what happened. Especially important is his own family history,
which explains to me how painful what she did to him must have
been.
I feel such sadness for all the women and men who have had
children taken from them to be raised by others, and who suffer
feelings of shame. It seems that the only ones never shamed are
the ones glorified in the process, the ones who adopt the
children, the poor abandoned and unwanted children. If there was
any doubt that the adopted child was unwanted the whole adoption
business would fall apart. To create bigger than life and heroic
roles for the adopting parents it is necessry to forever
stigmatized the adopted child
as abandoned and unwanted. Oh so fortunate that someone loves
them and puts a roof over their heads. And that goes for
situations like mine, where there was a marriage and one person,
for whatever reason, prefers to cut the other out of the picture
entirely. We are the product of two parents, our genetic makeup,
our uniqueness comes from the combination of their genes. My
search has confirmed the importance of genetics. I suffered
for what my mother saw in me and tried to wipe out, giving me a
sense of shame for who I was... and what she tried to wipe out
was my most incredible potentials, things she felt threatened her
irrational need for security and material comforts. To her a
questioning mind was a dangerous thing.
Now I can own my talents, those which branded me with a scarlet
letter within my "family," for they threatened to
reveal to the world their lie. I feel now that I will
participate, somehow, in revealing the truth of our situation to
the world at large, to all those who are shocked when they learn
that in America some citizens are denied their birth certificates
and given falsified documents. Sounds like a Communist country
doesn't it? It is a secret that must be revealed. It is my hope
that this essay will encourage any
adoptee, who like myself, might be hiding from painful feelings
to take the risk. I can tell you a day of tears is nothing
compared to a lifetime of shame.
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