My sister Stephanie and I traveled to Arkansas to explore my birth father Steve’s old stomping grounds and meet family.
Beautiful, green, quiet, peaceful and rural – those words came to mind as I took in the scenery on the drive from the Clinton National Airport to Logan County, a small county in western Arkansas. I looked out the windows and saw acres of flat farmland, grazing cows, bales of hay, stands of tall trees and hilly curving ribbons of two-lane roads. That landscape repeated itself many times. Car horns, alarms and the rumble of vehicles don’t seem to exist in this serene place. Continue reading “Adoptee Learns About Birth Father, Meets Cousins”
My adoption file provided answers to some of the questions I had about my adoption.(Image by Tawny van Breda from Pixabay)
Remember how thrilled I was to learn that my adoption file existed in Cook County, Illinois? From the contents of that circa 1960s paper file came a report with new details about my hidden adoption.
The report sat in my inbox. Feeling excited, not knowing what I would learn, I clicked open a PDF from the Cook County, Illinois Department of Adoption and Family Supportive Services.
For $100, Cook County provided a two-page, double-spaced summary prepared by the county’s adoption specialist who pulled the information from my adoption file.
The name at the top of the page jumped out at me. Baby Girl W. Cook County identified me as Baby Girl W. after I was born but before I was adopted. (The report identified me by the complete last name of my birth mother’s husband but I’m using just the first letter of the name here.)
It’s hard to find words for how I felt seeing that name, my temporary name, on an official document. All my life, I’ve been known as Lynne Miller, Miller being my adoptive father’s name. It was surreal to see myself referred to by this other name. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the name – it appears on my original birth certificate – but it still jolted me .
The report consisted of three parts. Part A focused on my birth mother, Part B focused on my birth father and Part C was about me. The information came from my birth mother, Lillian, who was interviewed by a social worker four days after my birth.
The interviewer described Lillian as being 5 foot 3 inches tall, weighing 110 pounds, having a small physical build, with brown eyes, brown hair and an olive complexion. While I’ve seen plenty of old photos of Lillian, I’d never seen a written description of her appearance. I didn’t know she had an olive complexion.
Adoption File Reveals Details That Led to Adoption
In explaining why she chose to place me for adoption, Lillian said I was conceived while she was separated from her husband. After a four-month separation, Lillian and her husband reconciled and Lillian discovered she was pregnant. They knew the unborn baby wasn’t his. Lillian, mother of four children who ranged in age from 3 to 7, said she thought adoption would be best for Baby Girl W’s welfare. She was six months pregnant when she decided to give me up for adoption.
Lillian’s attorney, who made the placement arrangements, provided Lillian information about Claire and Bob, my adoptive parents and Lillian was satisfied with the information.
My birth mother stated her parents, George and Susan, were deceased but didn’t offer any details on when or how they had died. George had worked as a factory worker and Susan had been a nurse, Lillian said.
Asked by the social worker about her health, Lillian said she was in good health then, but 10 years earlier she had suffered a nervous breakdown that caused her to be hospitalized for three weeks.
Three weeks in a hospital! That stunned me. Lillian would have been 17. I hate to think how she was treated for a mental breakdown. This would have been 1953 in southern Indiana. I pictured men in white coats scrutinizing Lillian, nurses jabbing her with needles, wheeling her from one room to another, my birth mother crying or screaming or maybe unconscious, knocked out by powerful drugs.
Did the breakdown mark the onset of bipolar disorder, which Lillian had struggled with as an adult?
Adoption File Describes Birth Father
Lillian had known who my biological father was. What a relief! My sister had led me to believe Lillian was a carouser who wouldn’t have known who the father was and that troubled me. I didn’t want my birth mother to be that type of woman.
My birth mother’s description of my biological father Steve matched my understanding of him. Lillian said my father was a 35-year-old married auto mechanic. He stood 5 foot 9 inches tall, weighed around 160 pounds and had blue eyes, blond hair and a fair complexion. My biological father graduated from high school, then attended trade school where he learned how to repair cars. At some point, he served in the Navy.
What remains unclear to me is the nature of the relationship between my birth parents. Was I conceived during a one-night stand or did my biological parents have a longer, deeper thing? Lillian didn’t provide any details about the relationship to the social worker. Perhaps she would have been forthcoming if her husband and their lawyer hadn’t been in the room.
My Biological Father Didn’t Know About Me
Lillian told the social worker my biological father didn’t know about me. My bio dad apparently went back to his other life without knowing he had fathered a baby girl, his third daughter.
Now I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that I’ve lost sleep over not knowing how much I weighed when I was born but it’s one of those little details that people who aren’t adopted learn from their mothers. Many adoptees don’t have this information.
In the last paragraph, I found the answer.
“Medical information regarding the child (Baby Girl W) at birth shows that the child was born full term at 40 weeks with a normal delivery without complications,” the report said. “The child weighed 7 lbs., 6 oz. at birth.”
Via email, I asked the adoption specialist a few follow-up questions. She told me the hospital discharged my birth mother when I was three days old. When I was five days old, my adoptive parents arrived at the hospital, court order in hand, and the hospital released me to their care.
The adoption was not a done deal. A case worker visited Claire and Bob’s home as part of a mandatory home study process. The report didn’t provide any information about the case worker’s observation. Once the case worker completed the home study, a judge finalized the adoption six months after my birth.
A couple of things in the non-identifying report are inconsistent. Blood relatives have told me Lillian came from Irish and Scottish ancestry yet Lillian told the social worker she was of German descent. Lillian said her father had died but my records show he was alive. Perhaps he was dead to her in spirit.
If you were adopted in Cook County, email Melissa Reyes at Melissa.Reyes@cookcountyil.gov or call 312-603-0552 to request the non-identifying information in your adoption file. It’s well worth the hundred bucks.
I’d love to hear what other adoptees discovered from non-identifying information. Feel free to leave comments.
Somewhere in Cook County, Illinois, there’s an adoption file containing more truths about my hidden adoption.
To find out what’s in my file, I contacted Melissa, an adoption and family support specialist who tracks down adoption files for adoptees who were born in Cook County.
First we needed to make sure my file existed. On the phone, Melissa asked questions about my biological mother, Lillian, and other details about my adoption. She put me on hold for a couple minutes, then informed me she found a card on my adoption. In other words, my adoption file should be available.
Adoption File Exists
Woohoo! I felt thrilled and oddly comforted. A caseworker, lawyer, social worker and judge presumably crossed the “t’s,” dotted the “i’s” and followed protocol. I’m an adoptee with a proper paper trail, a legitimate bastard if there can be such a person.
I hoped the file would provide answers to some lingering questions.
Adoption files can provide answers for adoptees searching for information about their biological families. (Image by Monika Robak from Pixabay)
Other than knowing my birth mother had delivered me at a hospital in Skokie, I knew very little about the details of my birth. I wanted to find out whether Lillian knew who my biological father was or whether Steve, my biological father, knew about me. How much time did Lillian and I spend together after my birth ? How old was I when Claire and Bob, my adoptive parents, took me home to the Southwest Side of Chicago? Assuming a social worker interviewed my birth mother, I wanted to know what Lillian told her.
With regard to the adoption file, Melissa tried to manage my expectations, saying “if we find it” and “if it is at our warehouse.”
Adoption files sometimes go missing. My file could be in the wrong drawer, cabinet or closet, wherever these records are kept in Cook County’s warehouse. I pictured a vast, cheerless building with thousands of adoption stories tucked in a sea of beige or gray file cabinets. My file molders along with those of my fellow adoptees who were born in and around Chicago in the 1960s.
If Melissa finds the file, she will prepare a report for me containing non-identifying information in exchange for $100.
My Unofficial Adoption File
At home in Brooklyn, my unofficial adoption file includes my original birth certificate signed by Lillian, and the legal amended birth certificate with Claire and Bob listed as my parents. In a red box, I’ve stashed pages and pages of handwritten notes taken from interviews with family members who knew my biological parents. I’ve accumulated knowledge and photos of my biological relatives and ancestors. Last year, I even got to meet a bunch of cousins at a family reunion in southern Indiana.
But I still want more information. Had my parents told me about my adoption, I doubt I would have all this curiosity.
Melissa said she would go to the warehouse on Friday to look for my file and promised to call me that day to let me know if she found it. When the phone rang Friday afternoon, I ran downstairs to grab it from Tom. It was Melissa.
Chicago was in a deep freeze. The heat in the warehouse was out of order so Melissa wasn’t able to search for my file. She apologized. I felt disappointed. We agreed to stay in touch.
Chicago remained frozen for days. The temperature was 9 degrees below zero when I emailed Melissa the following Wednesday. Melissa had no news for me. She and her co-workers had been told not to travel outside of the office until the weather warmed up. Apologizing again for the delay, Melissa said she’d get back to me by the end of the week with any updates.
All I could do was wait for the North Pole-like conditions to blow over.
Two days later, Melissa emailed me. “Great news, I located your file at the warehouse today!” she wrote.
COMING SOON: I’ll share the new details that I discovered about my adoption.
When I set out to discover the families I was related to by blood, more than anything I wanted to learn my family history. As an adult adoptee, I needed to find my roots. I wanted to meet my birth parents and other blood relatives if they were open to it.
But I didn’t yearn for new parents. After all, it wasn’t as though I grew up without a mother and father. Claire and Bob, my adoptive parents, raised me from infancy. They showed up and did the things parents are supposed to do. Dad chased down Maureen Murphy after she jumped me on the stairs outside of our elementary school. My father taught me how to drive. When I was about 17, Mom and Dad lined up an entry-level job for me at Talman Home, a savings and loan in our neighborhood.
My parents lost sleep when I ran around on Friday and Saturday nights with friends. (This was before young people used cell phones to ignore text messages from their parents.) Mom, Dad and I argued over my running around, smoking, friends, boyfriends and spending habits.
Bob and Claire never wanted their young single daughters to move out but I flew the coop when I was in my early 20s. Once they calmed down, my parents helped me settle into my single girl apartments. Our relationship improved.
My Adoptive Parents, Warts and All
Like all parents, my mother and father were flawed. They fought constantly. At least that’s how it seemed. Their bickering sounded like nails against chalkboard, an unpleasant, unrelenting racket that filled our home with ugliness. If only their fights had been a TV show, I would have switched channels after the first 30 seconds.
Living with old-fashioned parents, I felt oppressed. Traveling with friends to Cancun for spring break, going away to college, working as the editor of the college newspaper, my parents put the kibosh on everything I wanted to do.
More importantly, though, I wish my adoptive parents had been honest with me. I grew up unaware that I was not related by blood to any members of my immediate or extended families. Everyone in my mother’s extended family knew I was adopted except for Melissa and me. I’ll bet the neighbors, my teachers, even the mailman probably knew. When I found out, I felt like a fool. It’s taken me years to process and come to terms with the big lie upon which my childhood was built.
My adoptive parents, Claire and Bob, and me on my wedding day
My Birth Parents — the Mom and Dad I Never Knew
While I never wanted new parents, I regret not getting to know Lillian and Steve, my birth parents. I will never know the sound of their voices, the things that made them laugh or how they sounded when they laughed.
In a different reality, I imagine the three of us sitting down and talking over coffee at a restaurant. I would have asked a million questions, taken notes, looked into their eyes, studied their faces and features, checked out their clothes, taken note of how they took their coffee. Maybe they didn’t drink coffee.
Lillian and Steve, their gestures, mannerisms, personalities, habits, opinions and interests, all buried along with them.
My birth mother, LillianMy biological father, Steve
Sometimes adoptees connect with their birth parents in ways that were never possible with their adoptive folks. Who knows what would have happened if I had gotten to know Lillian and Steve? Maybe we would have hit it off.
Even so, I cannot imagine thinking of my birth parents as Mom and Dad. Claire and Bob will always be Mom and Dad.
I’d love to hear from other adoptees who’ve gotten to know their bio parents. Feel free to share your stories in the comments.
It feels like a cruel joke. Finding out you are adopted late in life destroys part of your identity and turns your life upside down.
I found out I was adopted at age 38. My sister, Melissa, called me one evening and dropped the bombshell.
“You and I were both adopted,” Melissa said matter-of-factly.
I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d informed me that zombies had invaded her home in the south suburbs of Chicago. Stunned silence. Words were not available to me. I sat there holding the receiver, trying to make sense of this news.
MeIissa suspected we had been adopted. One phone call to Gina confirmed it. Gina is like our cousin. Her parents, Virg and Mitch, were close friends with my parents, Claire and Bob. Aunt Virg and Uncle Mitch, as I called them, and Gina came to our home for dinner and we visited them occasionally.
Gina told Melissa that she had known for some time about her adoption and our adoptions.
It took 38 years for the truth to show up like an uninvited guest for dinner, an unwelcome stranger who had no intention of leaving.
Emotional Impact of Finding Out You Are Adopted
I felt stunned. Claire and Bob never so much as hinted at the possibility that I was not their biological daughter. In hindsight, I realized how obvious it was that I was adopted. How stupid was I for not having put two and two together. After all, Claire who was in her 50s when Melissa and I were born. She was too old to have biological children. Well, duh!
Of course I thought it was strange to have parents who were old enough to be my grandparents but I didn’t take that thought to its logical conclusion. It was odd that I had been born in Skokie, way north of Gage Park, but I never asked Bob and Claire why they had me at a hospital that was 26 miles away from home.
I wasn’t stupid, just trusting. Naïve. Without knowing it, I belonged to a secret club of secret adoptees, people born in the 1940s, ‘50s and ‘60s, during the era of closed adoptions. Surely other adopted kids attended classes with me at Tonti Elementary and Curie High schools in Chicago but we didn’t know we were adopted. Our adoptive parents upheld the unspoken, unwritten rule: “Whatever you do, don’t tell the kids they’re adopted.”
While 38 seemed embarrassingly old to learn I was adopted, other adoptees discovered their truth even later in life. Joanne Currao was 48 when she found out she was adopted. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Joanne’s brother, had known about their adoptions and never told her.
Finding out you are adopted late in life is unsettling. Author Mirah Riben contacted several late discovery adoptees who talked about the impact discovery had on their lives. Riben wrote an excellent article based on the comments from late discovery adoptees.
Being Adopted, an Uncomfortable Label for Me
Finding out you are adopted is weird. I didn’t want to dwell on what it meant to be adopted, to accept the reality that two other people were my parents. Claire and Bob were still my parents. I put my adoption in a box and shoved it aside.
Nothing changed in my life, the life that others could see. I took the subway to my editing job in Manhattan, arranged play dates for Jake, cooked meals for the three of us, walked the dog, cleaned the house and did all the other ordinary things that were part of my routine. Even if I had wanted to dwell on being adopted, my busy schedule would not have allowed it.
When I was a kid, I never felt like I had much in common with my parents. I loved Claire and Bob and they loved me but we didn’t think the same way. We didn’t share the same interests or talents. As far as personality, my mother and I could not have been more different. Claire thrived on drama. She often cried and bickered with Bob about stupid stuff. One time she poured dry cereal over Bob’s head, not to be funny, but to express her frustration. I wanted parents who were more like Mike and Carol Brady. Loud emotional displays made me uncomfortable. I retreated to my room.
Finding out I was adopted helped me make sense of the differences between us.
Adoptee Curiosity Builds
Years passed. On the outside, I looked like me, an older version, but inside, something had changed. Curiosity about my adoption grew. Questions about my biological parents and the circumstances surrounding my adoption sprang up but there was no one I could ask. Claire died in 1998, Bob passed away the following year. Gina knew nothing about my birth mother or father.
I called cousins on Claire’s side of the family. Of course they had known all along that I was adopted. My cousin Gloria could not believe that my parents had never told me. She and my cousin, Collette, had no idea who my natural parents were. Claire and Bob never revealed the details to their extended family.
After the state of Illinois unsealed birth certificates for adopted children, my husband, Tom, urged me to request a copy of my original birth certificate. Tom got the ball rolling. He handed me a check he had filled out for $15 to the Department of Public Health. Somewhat reluctantly, I mailed in the request. I felt apprehensive.
Discovering my Birth Parents’ Identities
My birth certificate revealed my birth mother was a 28-year-old married woman I didn’t know named Lillian, a Northbrook resident. My biological father’s name was missing. A search angel, Marilyn Waugh, helped me locate my half-sister, Michelle, my mother’s oldest daughter. Open and friendly, Michelle told me lots of stories about our family, including some horror stories. Unlike me, Michelle and her siblings grew up with a lot of freedom.
I wanted to know my biological father’s identity. Wanting to help me solve the mystery, Michelle tossed out the name of a guy with a common Irish surname, a man my mother had been friendly with. Michelle thought he could be the right guy but it was just a guess.
Determined to find out my biological father’s identity, I took two DNA tests. I found Stephanie, a woman who turned out to be my half-sister, my biological father’s oldest child. My natural parents, Lillian and Steve, were married but not to one another. They had an affair and created me. I’m sorry I never got to meet them before they passed away.
Adoptee Regrets, I’ve Had a Few
I regret not having learned the truth about my adoption sooner. Had I known before my parents had died, I could have approached Claire and Bob. I know my questions would have caused an epic shit storm, but I would have learned a few details about the first chapter of my life. Bob and Claire had their reasons for not disclosing my adoption. Perhaps they wanted to protect me from the stigma of adoption. Maybe they feared I would search for my bio parents. Perhaps the doctor who connected my parents to a newborn baby girl (me) at Skokie Valley Community Hospital advised them to keep mum about my adoption.
At first I blamed myself for being dumb. But with the passage of time, I have stopped blaming myself. Claire and Bob should have told me the truth.
The truth about my adoption felt unwelcome when it landed at my door so many years ago. I kicked the truth aside, unwilling to explore it but it sat there and waited for me. Once I opened my adoption box, I learned the facts about my original parents and their families. The truth didn’t come gift wrapped with a pretty bow on top, but it’s all I’ve got. I feel better, having found the missing pieces of my life.
I’d love to hear from other adoptees who stumbled onto their adoptions. Tell me your stories!
Reading my birth mother Lillian’s letter is like looking inside a window to Lillian’s soul.
Eight months before she died in 1983, my birth mother wrote a six-page letter to her beloved sister, Donna. Lillian and Donna were not biological sisters but the absence of blood didn’t make their emotional connection anything less than strong.
Donna was one of the first people I called five or six years ago after I’d learned my birth mother’s identity. Donna spoke kindly of Lillian. After we talked, Donna sent me a big brown envelope containing photos of Lillian taken at different periods in her life.
Last month, Donna, her husband and I got together on my last night in Indiana, where I had traveled for a family reunion. As we sat and talked in the lobby of my hotel near the Indianapolis airport, Donna offered me Lillian’s original letter, which she had saved and photocopied. I took the copy, thinking Donna should keep the original since it was her letter and she had saved it all these years. I showed Donna photos of my biological father, Steve, thinking she might have met him on one of her visits to see Lillian in Northbrook. Donna didn’t recognize my biological father in the pictures.
We talked about Lillian’s difficult life in Indiana and unhappy years as a wife and mother in the suburbs of Chicago. I thanked Donna and her husband for meeting me and walked them to the door. We hugged. “I’ll call you next week,” I said, thinking I would have questions about Lillian’s letter.
Back in my hotel room, I read and re-read the letter. What the letter said and what it didn’t say intrigued me in equal parts.
Reading my Birth Mother’s letter
In neat handwriting that slanted to the right, Lillian gave Donna a glimpse into her world at the beginning of 1983.
She wrote about the horrible car accident that had left her youngest son, my brother, Fritz, with brain damage.
After being struck and dragged 75 feet by a car in July 1981, Fritz slipped into a coma that lasted for three weeks, Lillian wrote. When he came to, doctors discovered he had brain damage on the left side of his brain. Fritz spent five months in a hospital.
“He had to learn to walk, talk and eat again,” my birth mother wrote. “He’s doing pretty good now (but) his coordination on (his) left side (is) not too good. I’m trying to get him into a rehabilitation training center so he can learn to do things for himself. All in all it has been pretty rocky…”
Lillian wanted to visit Donna in Indiana but she felt like she couldn’t leave Fritz.
“I’d love to visit you all but I can’t leave Fritz alone and he has a tendency to get on people’s nerves, that aren’t used to him,” she wrote. “I was never too strong on patience but I’m sure learning all about it now.”
They had moved out of their longtime home on Alice Drive in Northbrook to escape “all the trouble,” Lillian wrote. The trouble included a fatal shooting in their old neighborhood followed by a robbery of the victim’s home. Lillian desperately wanted to get Fritz away from his old friends and drugs.
Back in the day when students learned penmanship…my birth mother had beautiful handwriting
My Birth Mother’s new home
Lillian and Fritz had moved to a home in a wooded area, with a big lake across the street. I think it was Slocum Lake in Island Lake, Illinois. Lillian, who grew up in rural Indiana, probably felt safer in a smaller town and maybe the lake appealed to her. After all, my birth mother fished occasionally.
Twice divorced, Lillian worried about money. She didn’t have a phone. While Fritz was hospitalized, she racked up a huge phone bill that took a while to pay off.
“I was doubtful I’d ever get the thing paid,” Lillian wrote. “I just got the last payment made on the house in Northbrook so that is done so now maybe I can get to other things that I couldn’t afford before such as a phone.”
Lillian offered newsy updates on Mike and Michelle, her other children, her granddaughter Chris, her friends and ex-husband, Howard. She asked about Donna’s family. My birth mother expressed awe that Donna’s daughter, Kim, was old enough to drive.
“She was a tiny little girl when last I saw her,” Lillian wrote.
My Birth Mother, the Indiana farm girl
As girls, Lillian and Donna lived together on a farm near Odon, Indiana. Lillian was a foster child. In the 1930s and ‘40s, Lillian’s struggling parents were too poor to take care of their big brood – around 12 children. Authorities placed Lillian and her siblings in the homes of foster parents in southern Indiana.
During her teen years, the late ‘40s and early ‘50s, Lillian lived with Donna’s family. Donna’s stern mother, Ruth, made it clear she expected Lillian to do housework and look after Donna, who was 13 or 14 years younger than Lillian. Ruth had her hands full with two other children and relied on Lillian to help out. My birthmother stepped up to the plate. Lillian took care of Donna like a mother and they formed a deep bond. After Lillian moved to Northbrook, she and Donna visited one another, usually with their families along.
My birth mother, Lillian, looked young and beautiful in this undated photo
Lillian confided in Donna when she learned she had breast cancer. The cancer was in an advanced state when Lillian was diagnosed a couple of years or so before she died. A surgeon removed a large tumor in my birth mother’s right breast along with lymph nodes in her arm. After surgery, my birth mother was unable to use her right arm normally.
Metastatic breast cancer had been eating away at my birth mother, causing discomfort, fatigue, depression and who knows what other symptoms. Lillian never mentioned her health in the letter. Maybe Lillian had accepted the prospect of dying with stoicism and was steeling herself for death and didn’t want to talk about it in the letter.
“I have thought of all of you so often and do love you all (but) just hate to write when there are problems and I usually have a one-track mind when there’s trouble,” she wrote. I “can’t think of anything else until I get that solved and don’t like to lay it on anyone else.”
Feeling connected to my Birth Mother
I knew my birth mother’s childhood had been difficult. Now in Lillian’s own words, in her own handwriting, I saw how difficult the end of her life had been. In 1983, I didn’t know I had another mother. My adoptive parents kept the truth about my adoption and my biological family hidden from me. I never had a chance to meet or get to know my birth mother. That’s why I find every detail about her life so fascinating. I feel connected to my birth mother.
Reading the letter, I felt sympathy for my birth mother’s situation. Sitting alone at my desk with the letter in front of me, I blinked my eyes and tears rolled down my cheeks. Several days later as I wrote this piece at my desk, I had to stop writing to take a walk across the hallway. Tears flowed.
My birth mother, Lillian, in an undated photo
Perhaps my birth mother would have told Donna more if they had talked on the phone. I think my birth mother wanted to talk. Lillian gave Donna an unlisted phone number for her friend, Nancy, in case Donna needed to reach her.
“I expect to get a phone in the next month but if for any reason before you would want to reach me, call Nancy,” she wrote.
My birth mother had given me up for adoption almost 20 years earlier. I don’t know if she ever thought about me over the years or in the final months of her life. She never mentioned me in the letter.
Donna wrote back to Lillian but the letter was returned. My birth mother was just 48 when she died at Lutheran General Hospital in November 1983. Fritz passed away in a nursing home in January 1985. He was 23.
Adoption search journeys are not for the faint of heart. Recently, I traveled to southern Indiana for a big family reunion of cousins on my birth mother’s side. Though the cousins are my blood relatives, they were strangers to me.
I’d never been this far south in the Hoosier state. Daviess County, Indiana looked and sounded nothing like the concrete jungles where I’ve lived most of my life. Cornfields, critters, big open skies, winding roads and Amish buggies – that’s what you find in Daviess County. Sirens, car alarms, honking horns, endless construction and millions of vehicles and people rushing around – that’s what I’m used to in Brooklyn.
My birth mother, Lillian, would have felt right at home in this little farm town, just seven miles east of her birthplace.
Far from feeling at home, I felt anxious as I parked the rental car at the Amish hotel in the town of Montgomery. In a few minutes, I would meet blood relatives on Lillian’s side.
I didn’t know what to expect at this family reunion. Growing up with my adoptive parents and sister, Melissa (also adopted), I saw my extended family at weddings, showers, wakes or funerals in the suburbs of Chicago. I loved spending time with my cousins and aunts and craved more time with them. Most of my childhood unfolded at a painfully slow and boring pace – or so it felt – in our bungalow in Gage Park, just Mom, Dad, Melissa and me. I felt isolated and different from my parents.
A Chance to Learn About Family History
As an adoptee wanting to learn about my roots, I was intrigued by the prospect of meeting new blood relatives. I knew the Arvin-Armstrong reunion would be different from anything I’d ever experienced. (In case you’re wondering, the Arvins and Armstrongs are linked by marriage. Somewhere back in time, two Arvin siblings married two Armstrong siblings, blending the families and creating double first cousins along the way. I’m related by blood to the Arvins.)
I had no idea what the vibe would feel like or whether I’d hit it off with my cousins. I wondered if I would feel like an outsider in someone else’s family. Throughout my childhood, I felt like an outsider, which is common for adoptees.
My cousins probably would be curious about me, the adoptee who didn’t find out I was adopted until age 38. People find my story interesting even though they cannot relate to it.
After six years of learning about my biological family and getting acquainted with a few relatives, you’d think I would be an old hand at first meetings with new blood relatives. In 2015, I met my half-sister, Michelle, and her daughter, Chrissy, in Galveston, Texas. In 2017, I bonded with another new half-sister, Stephanie, and niece Rachel, on my home turf in Brooklyn. Earlier this year, I spent a week hanging out with Stephanie in our home state of Illinois. All of those experiences were rewarding (and none of us ran out of things to talk about!)
But unlike a family reunion, those first meetings were small in size. The Arvin-Armstrong family reunion brings dozens of siblings and first cousins together for three days of conversation and meals. The siblings and first cousins have a lifetime of shared history and memories that makes the reunion easy and comfortable. As the newcomer, I would not be so comfortable.
My cousin, Shannon, who invited me to the reunion, put me in contact with Helen, my cousin Jim’s wife. Helen assured me the relatives are friendly and that I’d learn a lot more about my bio family if I made the trip. I could hang out with her and Jim. Ok, that did it. I booked a trip to Indiana.
At the hotel, I spotted a group of people talking outside of the hotel entrance. Are those people my cousins, I wondered as I wheeled my carry-on to the inn’s front door. Helen saw me approach.
Meeting My Blood Relatives, Learning About Ancestors
“Lynne, you made it,” she said, smiling broadly as she reached out to shake my hand. Helen introduced me to Jim, Rod and Lynn and their spouses. Jim, Rod and Lynn are first cousins to one another and second cousins to me. Like me, they traveled from other states for this reunion.
That was the beginning of many more introductions I’d make over three days. The Arvins and Armstrongs welcomed me with warmth and kindness and regaled me with tidbits and stories about our ancestors.
My cousin, Afra, who I met at one of the dinners, knew I wanted to learn more about my maternal family history. An avid genealogist, Afra brought heavy binders containing photos, obituaries and other historical documents. She offered to make copies of any photos I wanted.
Flipping through the pages of a binder, I felt a thrill when we reached the George Arvin section. For years, I’d wondered what my grandfather looked like and now, for the first time, I gazed at photos of George, taken when he was a young man
My maternal grandfather, George Arvin, with his daughter Mary
In the 1920s and ‘30s, George and his wife, Susan Melissa, were a young married couple with lots of kids, a dozen or more. Raising a big family during the Depression must have been difficult for many people. George struggled to hold down a job. Though he made a little money doing various jobs, even raising raccoons for their pelts, George was not a good provider. I’ve heard that he got arrested for stealing a loaf of bread just likeJean Valjean in “Les Miserables.”
My Grandfather: A Black Sheep?
George wasn’t around much. He deserted the family a couple of times, eventually settling in Minnesota where he died. His family in Indiana struggled. Social workers found foster homes for the children. George and Susan divorced.
In the photos, George has a long face and serious expression. In one photo, an adorable baby is perched on a table next to her daddy, George, who wore suspenders and a brimmed hat that covered most of his hair. The little girl was Mary Arvin, who was only 11 when she died.
Afra’s binders contained a slew of photos I’d never seen before. Pictures of my grandmother, Susan, George and Susan’s sons and daughters, George’s siblings, Susan’s sisters, George’s parents, Susan’s parents, all preserved for posterity. These are my ancestors, I thought as I studied the black-and-white images of mostly unsmiling men, women and children.
My maternal grandmother, Susan Melissa, was only 19 when she got married.
I felt like I had just hit a genealogical jackpot.
From talking to my cousins, I learned a lot about more distant ancestors. One of my late cousins, Charles, better known by his middle name, Bob, spent three years as a Japanese prisoner of war during World War II. Another cousin named Bob ran unsuccessfully for Indiana Attorney General in 1980. One ancestor sired 19 children with two wives. Some Arvins were Catholic, some were Protestant.
Listening to all the stories and connecting the names with the faces made my head spin. I felt stimulated by the openness.
Daviess and Martin counties are full of graveyards. With my cousin Jim and Helen, I visited Oak Grove Cemetery in Washington, the town where Lillian was born. It was exciting to find Susan Melissa Arvin’s headstone in section D.
My grandmother Susan Melissa Arvin is buried at Oak Grove Cemetery in Daviess County, Indiana.
In Loogootee, we visited Truelove Cemetery, the final resting place for many of my ancestors including my aunt, Mary C. Arvin, who died at age 11.
Making Memories with My Blood Relatives
The fun started at my cousin Jason’s place near Loogootee. He lives on a big parcel of farmland with persimmon trees, horses, cows and at least one friendly dog. Jason and his family live in the same modest home where his mother, Frannie, and her four siblings grew up. They maintain an equestrian center where local kids come for riding lessons. Jason keep bees and makes and decorates fancy cakes. His two younger children have amassed a huge collection of 4-H trophies, which are on display In the house.
Jason drove us around the property on a golf cart. Riding on the open seat in back, I tightened my grip after we hit a couple of spots hard on the way to see the steers. What if I tumble off this golf cart, I thought, not wanting to make a fool out of myself or mess up my clothes.
Helen sensed my anxiety. “Jim, let Lynne sit in the front with Jason,” Helen told her husband. We switched seats. In the front seat, I could see what was coming along the path.
Some of my cousins traveled from Florida, California, Illinois and Michigan for this reunion, which has been an annual event since the 1960s. On each of the three days, there had to be 35 to 40 or more people who gathered for meals and conversations about family, houses, jobs, pets, genealogy and travel. Politics never came up.
Abby and Frannie, my second cousins on my birth mother Lillian’s side of the familyHere I am with my second cousin, Jim, and his wife, HelenMy cousins Jason, Frannie, Autumn and Rod (in the black shirt)
Several times I found myself repeating the story of learning that I was adopted as an adult and searching for my biological parents. My cousins seemed to sympathize and understand my need to uncover the family history that had been hidden from me for most of my life.
I liked the friendly, relaxed vibe. On the last day of the reunion, I hugged and shook hands with my cousins at Whitfield Hall, where we gathered for salads, fried chicken and lots of desserts. Whitfield is in Martin County, next to the St. Martin Catholic Cemetery, where more than 100 Arvins are buried.
I felt satisfied as I traveled back to New York with copies of family photos and historical records packed in my carry-on.
This must be how you make family history, I thought, when you find your blood relatives later in life. I felt closer to my biological roots.
The next time I go to the reunion, I’ll leave the anxiety at home.
As I drove south on Interstate 69, the green rectangular sign for Daviess County on the right gave me a jolt. Up until now, Daviess County was an unfamiliar location listed on the digital records I had found for my birth mother Lillian, not a real place that I could see up close.
A child of the Great Depression, Lillian spent her childhood and adolescence in Daviess County. She lived briefly with her large, impoverished family before she was sent away to live with strangers who took her in as a foster child.
I was about to see the places where my birth mother and her family had lived, places I’d never been to before. It felt exciting to be near Lillian’s roots in rural southern Indiana.
My search is over. A DNA test has confirmed the identity of my biological father.
I was beyond thrilled when I got the email from a woman I suspected was a close relative based on countless hours of detective work. She had taken a DNA test at my request.
“Tom, I found my biological father,” I told my husband, who was under the covers at 6 a.m. “Congratulations,” he murmured.
If you are not adopted, you take your birth certificate for granted. It’s a piece of paper you’ve had forever, with facts about your parents and your birth that you’ve known about all your life.
But if you’re adopted, the original birth certificate is like a piece of gold. I just got mine two years ago and feel lucky to have it. Without it, I would be completely in the dark about my birth mother Lillian’s identity, which is part of my identity, too.
That’s my original birth certificate
Many adopted adults can’t get their original birth certificates because of old-fashioned state laws that keep those records sealed. That’s not fair. I think other adoptees should be able to learn about their origins without having to jump through a million hoops or spend gobs of money.
I signed Sandy Musser’s petition, which would restore original birth certificates to adult adoptees. Sandy, an adoption reform activist, wants to take her petition straight to the White House. She hopes to convince President Obama to enact an executive order, which would restore the OBCs to every adult adoptee in America “in one fell swoop because it is a civil and constitutional right.” I’m with you, Sandy.
If you’re reading this, take a moment to add your name to Sandy’s petition. The more signatures, the more likely this drive will make a difference.
