No Photographs Please

Thanksgiving.

My husband and I had Thanksgiving dinner(or as we like to call it, the day of Mom's martyrdom) at my a-Moms house this year. Things started off as they usually do.

Mom whining that nobody likes her turkey and why did she bother to even make. Actually this is true, she cooks it in a plastic bag and it still comes out dry and flavorless.

My brother-in-law, Captain Comb-over, complaining about one citizen of our small burg or another. For someone that told us how he and my sister are the most popular couple in town, he sure doesn't seem to be enjoying his popularity very much.

My other a-sister cycling between praying and complaining that "the gays" are taking over the country.

My a-Dad fast asleep, ignoring it all. Sleep is his defense mechanism.

The football game blasting on the TV.

I tried to stay out of all of it. I attempted to amuse myself by looking at the family pictures on the room long mantle. There were pictures from all stages of life, baby pictures, school pictures, graduation pictures, wedding pictures etc.

I braced myself for finding my prom picture, early 80's you know, Gunny Sax dress, hair in a French braid, date wearing a tux with blue satin lapels. My wedding picture, basically imagine Jimmy Page marries Bernadette Peters, in another Gunny Sax dress. I really didn't want to see that again.

There were at least fifty 8x10 photos on that mantle. There were pictures of my parents, my sisters, their children, my grand-parents, even family friends, but not a single one of me.

Well, it saved me the embarrassment of my mis-spent youth anyway.

Seeing That It's Thanksgiving

"This song is called "Alice's Restaurant." It's about Alice, and the restaurant, but "Alice's Restaurant" is not the name of the restaurant, that's just the name of the song. That's why I call the song "Alice's Restaurant."

Some of you recognize this song already. it plays at my house just before we have a Thanksgiving dinner that just can't be beat. The thing is the song isn't even really about Alice or the restaurant. It's about something else entirely. Something timely.

"But that's not what I came here to tell you about."

I came here to talk about adoption.

For some reason this passage comes to mind...

"It was about four or five hours later that Alice--(remember Alice? There's a song about Alice.)--Alice came by and, with a few nasty words to Obie on the side, bailed us out of jail, and we went back to the church, had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat, and didn't get up until the next morning, when we all had to go to court. We walked in, sat down, Obie came in with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, sat down.

Man came in, said, "All rise!" We all stood up, and Obie stood up with the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures, and the judge walked in, sat down, with a seein' eye dog and he sat down. We sat down.

Obie looked at the seein' eye dog . . . then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one . . . and looked at the seein' eye dog . . . and then at the twenty-seven 8 x 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each on and began to cry.

Because Obie came to the realization that it was a typical case of American blind justice, and there wasn't nothin' he could do about it, and the judge wasn't gonna look at the twenty-seven 8 by 10 colored glossy pictures with the circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explainin' what each one was, to be used as evidence against us.

And we was fined fifty dollars and had to pick up the garbage... in the snow."

Take from it what you will, and listen to the whole song, it's not about adoption, nor was Arlo adopted, but somehow he's still making sense.

About a lot of things.

How Was Your Childhood?

Just as soon as anybody hears I was adopted they ask, "How was your childhood?".

What are you supposed to say?

Why is it any of their business?

I can't imagine someone asking a non-adoptee how their childhood was upon learning they grew up in Akron, or Los Angeles, or Bugtussle. It would seem impolite. I would never dream of asking someone I had just met about their childhood. What gives people the right to ask me?

Still they seem to think they have the right to do it.

I wasn't abused, I got fed and clothed, I had everything I needed, and my parents loved me, so I suppose it was okay. That's what I tell them.

I'm never sure if they want an affirmation of how wonderful adoption is, or want to satisfy some morbid curiosity.

The thing is if I gave them a real answer, it would satisfy neither need and they, more than likely, would walk away very confused.

Can we just change the subject, please?

Hold My Hair While I Puke

"Some of my best friends are adopted"

Yeah, just not ones like me. I don't think I'm affirming enough to hang with that gang.

I can just see it, me and five or six adoptive Mom's all throwing back shots at a bar. Talking about how wonderful our lives are. How they happily made so many sacrifices and went through such trails just to bring children like me a better life.

I'd buy a round and gush about how grateful I was. We'd tell adoption jokes and comment how the comic Family Circus is just exactly how it was when I was growing up.

Later one adoptive Mom would throw her arms around me and say "I don't know if I've told you this before, but I love you so much." Then another would come up and join the hug, before long we'd all be in a giant group hug.

About that time, that last Jager shot would get to me and we'd stumble to the bathroom. As I knelled on a dirty floor there would be a fight over who gets to hold my hair while I puked. One would say,

"I saved her from a terrible childhood."

Another would say,

"I protected her from herself."

Yet another,

"I made sure she felt whole and had no connection to her first family."

By this time, I'd be done, there would be puke in my hair, on my clothes, and in mu handbag.

None of the adoptive mothers would notice.

Zilla! Zilla!

I didn't create Godzilla, I just pointed her out. I bet you didn't know Godzilla was a girl, well she is, and I didn't have a thing to do with her existence.

She was always there, she just didn't know her true nature. Sure, she came bubbling up from the ocean like a very disturbing re-enactment of the birth of Venus, wreaked havoc over a peaceful city and instead of being destroyed she walked back into the foam from where she came, only to return.

But she had failed to recognize what she was. Everybody else did too. They called her silly, mean, cruel, sick, and angry. She was all of these things, but so much more.

Godzilla wasn't a natural being. She was created by an experiment. An experiment that set out to do good and improve lives. Godzilla was a by-product of these experiments. A factor that no one foresaw. Isn't this how these things always happen?

I just pointed up and named what I saw.



This is Godzilla's first reaction when I told her who she was.


Did you know that there are more Godzillas out there? Maybe someday we'll swim up out of the ocean together.

Oh no, there goes Tokyo.

Guilt

Great, now I have something else to feel guilty about, ignoring my blog. Just another thing to add to a long list.

Let's see what do I fell guilty about right now at this very moment?

My house. I'm not working on it. All that woodwork needs to be re-finished and I'm just sitting here

My birth sister. She emailed me three days ago. I haven't responded. It's not that I don't want to, I just don't have anything to say. Am I supposed to tell her that the woodwork isn't done, or what?

My job. I really should be doing something more productive with my time, like cleaning up that produce case. It really needs to be done.

My weaving. I've had the same piece on my loom for almost a year now. It's not a large or complicated piece. I just haven't got around to working on it. It was to be the first of a series, I don't even know where the drawings and draw down charts are now. Good thing nobody is holding their breathe for that one.

My writing. I started an interview with an e-friend weeks ago. All I need to do is give it a quick edit, then submit it. I've been e-hiding out from her. I'm sure she's anxious to see it, her novel has just been published, she loves to talk about it. I do feel bad about this.

My dog, my cats and my mother aren't getting enough attention either. They're used to it.

But you, dear reader, have my deep and undivided attention. Aren't you special?

Some of you already know me, maybe by a different name, but you know me. But you probably don't know everything about me. This will be an attempt to bring all these things together.

I'm Addie, slippingirl, NoMoDem, and Mel.

Those of you who know me as Addie, know that I'm an adoptee in reunion. You've heard about my insecurities and trails. Some of you have been through the same thing, others have experienced adoption from a different view. So when I start whining about adoption issues and rights, you've heard it before.

Those of you who know me as slippingirl, know that I'm a heavy metal fan. You've heard my opinions on every band that released anything in the 80's. So when I start in on just exactly how silly everybody looked at that time, you've heard it before.

Those that know me as NoMoDem, know that I'm a progressive Democrat. You've heard my railings against the GOP, my local government, and Dems in sheep's clothing. So when I carry on endlessly about Governor Blunt, you've heard it before.

Those that know me as Mel, probably know a bit more about me and probably have had their suspicions that there is more to me.


That's what this is about, bringing it all together.

I'm on the verge of finishing up the biggest project of my life, to this point, a home restoration. It has been an all consuming thing that took me away from every other aspect of my life. I want to get back to that life, and all the things that I loved in it.

Did you know that I'm a weaver, I have my own studio. It has sat without project for almost two years now, but it awaits me. It's my favorite place in the world.

It's the place I want to go back to today. I miss the drudgery of the creative process. I want to be consumed by something besides this house renovation. I just simply do not have time.

I want to see friends and family, I want to read a book, I want to go places for the heck of it, but I cannot.

I want me back.