We were born.
Birth is the one life event that you can’t escape. If you are here, you were born. Presidents were born, murderers were born, astronauts were born, beggers were born, movie stars were born, garbage men were born. It is something that we all have in common. We all may die different deaths, but we are all brought into the world in the same way; Naked, screaming, covered in goo. Even Jesus himself made his grand debut in the same exact fashion as me and as you.
Birth, however, is where our similarities end. You are nothing like me. Did your parents ever tell you how you were conceived? Where you were conceived? Was it in the backseat of a Chevy Nova? Was it on the first night of the fanciest honey moon money could buy? Was it in the grass on a humid summer night under the stars? Was it in the same bed that you crawled into when the monsters under your bed kept you awake? More than likely you have a story. Even if you haven’t asked them, you could ask now and know. This is one piece of my identity that I don’t have-- don’t get me wrong, I am not losing sleep over not knowing where my parents got busy or anything. I just can’t help but look at little things like that, the unfair advantage that normal people have. I don’t even know who my parents are.
Your story may begin on a romantic candle lit night with two people who were so in love that they made love, but my story begins in a hospital when I was handed over to perfect strangers. My story begins when a cheap black ink pen glided over an official form, signing my life away. I always imagined that my parents stood in front of a whole line up of babies. Different shapes, different sizes, different colors, different sexes. They probably had a list of things they were looking for, and eventually the used baby salesman narrowed it down to me. A baby boy fresh off the lot.
You may be the happiest person in the world, but me? I’m bitter. I’m cynical. I’m pissed off at the world. I was adopted into a loving home eager for a baby, I was raised as their own, I was given birthday parties every year, I had nice clothes, I even had a shiny red bike-- but even with all those things I am mad. I’m greedy I guess, but I want to know what happened before the moment that papers were signed. You know that funny story that you have about the furnace going out during a snow storm and your parents making babies to keep warm? I don’t have that. No matter how hard I try, or what I do, I’ll always be missing that.
You may already find yourself hating me, and I understand. I have made it a point to be unlikable. It isn’t as easy as you think. I spent my teen years trying to make my parents want to send me back, and came pretty darn close with my Dad, but no matter how hard I tried they tried harder to make me feel accepted and loved. I had wild parties, broke precious souvineers, picked on my sister relentlessly, and even started a small house fire, but none of those things were enough to make them send me back. It occurred to me one day, not that long ago, that even if I did drive them to the point of not wanting me, that I would never find that simple little story that I seek. It wasn’t like I could just press rewind and try again with my real Mom. After thinking long and hard about it, I decided that the only way to complete my story was to find my parents. You know, the people who didn’t want me. The people who I inherited my stunning good looks from. The people who handed me over to complete strangers. Those were the people I wanted to meet. Those are the people I want to meet. Maybe finding them will help me understand myself, but more than likely it won’t. I am a highly misunderstood person-- even I am willing to admit that.
