MY JOURNEY AS AN ADOPTED CHILD

 

When I was about 4 or 5 years old, a little girl two years older than I and her father visited my parents home.  The little girl’s name was Penny, and we had great fun that afternoon, playing in an old washtub in the yard.  Later, I stood on the man’s lap and combed his dark, wavy hair.  Years later, I remembered that day and wondered who the man was.  You see, I knew by looking at old family photos that my father had begun balding before I was born so it couldn’t have been him.  There was the time I sat in a big leather chair in a formal office, and a man asked my mother if they wanted to change my first name also.  And there was the porch that I remembered, but I didn’t know why I kept moving my hand up and down when I thought of that porch.  Eventually, I realized that there must have been a porch railing.  As a small child, I was looking between slats (thus the vertical movement of my hand whenever the memory returned).

And then there was the time during an argument with one of the neighborhood children, that I was asked, “What do you know?  You’re just adopted.”  Well, I didn’t want to be adopted, so I briskly retorted, “I am not” and went running home.  On the spot I stuffed that knowledge deep inside.  Other such strange things occurred occasionally, but each time a memory surfaced, I stuffed it deeper, so much so that I honestly didn’t remember being adopted until many years later.

To be continued at a later date.