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Posts Tagged ‘birth father’

“I’ve got my clipboard, text books
Lead me to the station
Yeah, I’m off to the civil war
I’ve got my kit bag, my heavy boots
I’m runnin’ in the rain
Gonna run till my feet are raw…

Slip kid, slip kid, second generation
And I’m a soldier at thirteen
Slip kid, slip kid, realization
There’s no easy way to be free
No easy way to be free

It’s a hard, hard world

I left my doctor’s prescription bungalow behind me
I left the door ajar
I left my vacuum flask
Full of hot tea and sugar
Left the keys right in my car

Slip kid, slip kid, second generation
Only half way up the tree
Slip kid, slip kid, I’m a relation
I’m a soldier at sixty-three
No easy way to be free

Slip kid, slip kid

Keep away old man, you won’t fool me
You and your history won’t rule me
You might have been a fighter, but admit you failed
I’m not affected by your blackmail
You won’t blackmail me

I’ve got my clipboard, text books
Lead me to the station
Yeah, I’m off to the civil war
I’ve got my kit bag, my heavy boots
I’m runnin’ in the rain
Gonna run till my feet are raw

Slip kid, slip kid, slip out of trouble
Slip over here and set me free
Slip kid, slip kid, second generation
You’re slid’ down the hill like me

No easy way to be free…”

~ Slip Kid by the Who

I have purchased a home DNA kit and I have spit into the spit kit as instructed and returned it via US Post Office to Californ-I-AY.  In two to three weeks I will know how much I am of each piece of what I am.  I will know genetic markers for predispositions to disease, and I will be able to provide Boo’s doctors with important genealogical information they all say they wish they had.  It also will be able identify blood relationships if they are 1st cousin or closer.

I’m thinking who do they have DNA on?  Then I realized:  Famous dead people and criminals, and the handful of people like me who have done this DNA test.  I seriously doubt Laura Ingalls Wilder and me, born 102 years apart, are first cousins.  But I could, sadly, be Jeffrey Dahmer’s cousin.   Or Snooki’s, which is almost as bad.

Pandora’s Box, I know.  I know.

Going to see Boo this morning at my mom’s house; Andy is driving him up.  My mom’s next door neighbor said we could use their pool so it should be awesome.  Beautiful day.  I’m drinking coffee and playing records on my new little turntable M bought me the other day as a surprise.

I listened to Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2  (I always liked the “Rach 3” better, but #2 was Gina’s favorite and so I listen to it a lot).  I can be with her when I listen to it.  It’s been almost ten years since she killed herself and I have yet to find anyone who looks so forward to the Philadelphia Orchestra coming to SPAC as me.  Maybe my friend Dimma is close.

Under the stars with wine and cheese on a soft lawn with quiet folks and a gentle breeze to the warmed-up evening.  A half-circle half-outdoor amphitheater.  Inside is great too.  Gina and I once finagled front row seats to an Itzhak Perlman (the famous Israeli violinist)  performance.  He has polio and must sit for his performances, which brought him even closer to us.  My God I tell you it was like being wrapped up in something so wonderful we could hardly breathe.

Oh Gina.  Maybe I’m related to YOU!  Do they have your DNA?  Do they take some when you die?   I tried to watch a layman’s cartoon lesson on DNA strands and chromosomes etc. but I don’t even have the foundation of basic knowledge on which to build any understanding of it all.  Obviously I skipped chemistry and physics in favor of a creative writing class.

10 HOURS WENT BY

…and it is late evening.  Oh how Boo loved swimming in the pool today!  He was a happy, playful, lovey boy and we had a wonderful visit.  I will leave you with some pictures:

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I like to pretend I can speak Spanish, though truth be told I can speak German better, and I can’t speak that either.  So I’ll bet the title is butchered.   I do have the Rosetta Stone Spanish learning system, the whole kit and kaboodle, and so learning Spanish is on my list of stuff to do, though it seems like a terribly difficult investment of time and brain-tax.

And so, in my gringo Spanish…the day of the fathers…

There are many in my life.  M.  My dad.  Andy.  Father Noone.  My Godfather, Poppy, who was also my grandfather; he passed away before I was even engaged.  I could say a great many things about each of them, and perhaps I will, but I’m distracted today by one I almost never even think about at all…my birth father.  (My birth mother was a married woman with four children, one of whom had already died when I was conceived outside of her marriage).

They give you a bit of non-identifying information  in New York State, if you are at least 18 and you request it.  The paperwork euphemistically states my birth mother was “separated” from her husband, during which time she became pregnant with me.  There is some information on my birth mother.  A little bit.  She was in her early thirties when she gave birth to me.  She was a “collector” (at a bank).  She enjoyed watercolors.  Her father had a heart attack and died when he was 45.  Genetically, from her side I am English, Dutch, German, and Indian.  I have always wondered what kind of “Indian” they meant.

From his side, though, there is nothing.  No information.

No paternity established.  Mystery Sperm Donor.

I guess I am half John Doe along with the English, Dutch, German, and Indian.  So that makes me a Heinz 57, and Jonah — well, he must have a bit of every nationality ever known to mankind.

Jonah Boo is the only person I am related to, that I know of.  I might want to know more of you related-to-me-people.  Maybe.  Why don’t I have right to know who you people are, and talk to you — just once?  It would come in handy with a lot of Boo’s medical issues, too.  The doctors say they wish they had genealogical information on my side, and I feel I’m entitled to at least that.

I wasn’t adopted until I was 6 months old.  Foster parents had me because there was some issue with my feet (which they either did not fix or over-fixed, for I’m a pigeon-toed thing to this day).  I wonder sometimes if the foster parents maybe wanted to keep me.  Wasn’t I just a little freaked out to be whisked away to a new home with new, forever parents?  Those forever parents tell me no; I settled right in.

“You were fine,” my mom and dad both insist.

I think that means I was one weird little baby.  If someone took Jonah away from me when he was 6 months old, I don’t think he’d have been fine.  To tell the truth, I kind of wouldn’t want him to be fine.  He was my baby boo.  Mine.  Maybe when you are fostering a baby, somehow the baby knows s(he)’s not your baby.  Maybe, somehow, these little new-humans understand more than we know or can remember.

I forgot about yet another father – one I’ve never thought about at all until today.  My foster father, who raised me so briefly, from birth to 6 months.  Unless I only had a foster mother.  I’m not sure, but I’ll bet it was a couple.  My dad tells me when he and my mom drove to get me at the Department of Social Services or wherever, the “transfer the baby” lady told them there were more than a few tears when they came to my foster parents’ house to take me away.

I wonder how many other babies they’d fostered, and if they adopted any of them, or had any kids biologically.  Didn’t I miss them at first, just a little?  Their smells, their touch?  Or was it bad there and so I was happy to get the hell out?

I think about my foster/birth people on three days of the year, mostly.  My birthday, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day.  That’s if I think of them at all.  I wonder if and when they think about me.

I was talking to M earlier about how my dad and I used to watch cartoons together when I was 6 or 7, and how much better the cartoons were than the crappy ones they slap together today with computer animation bullshit.  My dad and I watched the Bugs Bunny and Road Runner Show every Saturday at 11am.  We’d lay across the couch with our hound dog, Flower, and laugh at Foghorn Leghorn or Daffy Duck, circa mid seventies.  He even watched things like Little House on the Prairie with me, God bless him.

Today we went to church and then out to breakfast, and it was really good.  I thank God I have a forever father, and that my son does too.  Gracias, mi padres.

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