July 1, 2018




(Note: this text was taken from a video recorded April 22, 2018)


When people find out that I’m adopted, the second question is usually:

     “Have you ever wanted to find your real parents?”

     “I have my real parents and no, I have zero interest.”

     “Why not?”


I’ve always found the latter to be super invasive and rude because it’s incredibly personal.

My family is far more than people that share a name. We are a unit, a squad. The unbreakable bond we have is stronger than any blood people think we need to be linked to one another-- to be a “real” family.

So, my response to why not has generally been a brusque “Why.”


To say that I haven’t thought about the what if’s about my biological-ness would be a big fat lie. Of course I have. In late 1995 when I heard about this world wide web and what you could do with it, I thought hmmm… So I found and posted/registered on adoption search sites, telling myself to be placid if I got a hit via my brand new Yahoo email account.

Once every few years I’d get a random notice and the pit in my stomach screamed holy shit… maybe… but there was never anything. I’ve wondered who do I look like? Where did my bunions come from? Who’s responsible for my jacked up uterus and sheesh- where did

I get this nose that, at 16, I started to save money to get fixed. But even more, when those sporadic notices came up, to see that nothing was the result, my heart would sink and I’m back to: Don’t wanna know, don’t care.


My family and the few friends I have shared this DNA thing with say go for it, but it’s not that simple. In the course of my life I have seen and heard about reunions of birth parents/families and the amazing, life changing experiences. Awesome. On the other side of the spectrum there’s reunions filled with disappointment, heartache and drama. No thank you. So what is it with me? I’ve been looking at this unopened box for two weeks. Do I spit into the tube, take the risk or give Junior his money back and forget it? Is this a decision for which I can really be culpable for? What is it that I need to know? What do I really want to find? Am I ready?


Today, I still don’t know.


**** This photo has "Baby girl, April 23, 1968" written on the back of it. For 6 weeks I was in foster care and not allowed to be called by the name my parents gave me until the adoption agency tracked down my biological father to sign the birth certificate. ****