Ruth asked a question about my interest or lack thereof in contacting my birth parents and that question has stirred up a bit of discussion. I want to add two poems I wrote recently about my experience with being adopted which may shed some light on my answer. THey also seem to be part of the original answer and I wish I had sent the then.
Child of impulse, begun
during redbud time on campus
result of unchecked life force
unexpected baby, natural product
when passion overrode caution.
Until my wedding night,
Mama stayed terrified
I'd repeat the pattern,
Chided me to remember
I was conceived in a ditch,
more probably in the backseat
of a parked car or on a daybed
in a garage apartment
I like to imagine moonlight,
to hope they believed
they would love forever.
My heartbeat is their product
Their love did keep.
I was welcomed in excitement
on a cold night in December
carefully over-wrapped in blankets
Chosen child, ten years coming
Perceived miracle, named for a queen
Until dementia swallowed her
Mama was terrified she'd lose me.
She tried hard, cherished each moment
back porch summers, baking kolaches
offered every opportunity, perfect dresses
fitted and detailed, just for me, just right
Mama hugged hard, loved hard, held on tight
Chided me to remember she'd die if I failed her.
With every privilege comes a responsibility
I keep the pact. My life ethic is her product
Chosen child still works to make love keep.