I asked Santa for a DNA kit for Christmas but after 70 hundred thousand dollars worth of dental work…I got dental work and perfume for Christmas. Seriously. I went in for an annual teeth cleaning and walked out wondering where the nearest plasma donation center was located. For someone who has CTBS, Chronic Teeth Brushing Syndrome, I somehow have the teeth of a homeless woman who lives on skittles, milk duds and generic cola.
I wholeheartedly dread the dentist. Give me all the monkey gas and wake me when it’s over…
So why do I want this DNA kit so bad…? Because I’m adopted. I know my birth mom so I’m not completely oblivious to my bloodline. However, I know NOTHING about my sperm donor. Thank you for your service by the way…I’m happy to be here.
When you go to the doctor, an unadopted and informed individual can most likely answer the questions when asked about family history of diseases. When I get asked I play the adoption card and say I don’t know because it’s quicker than an explanation.
Do you have a family history of….
Is quicker than this…
Well…you see…I know my biological mother but not the air-quote-father…and my daddy is biologically my great uncle which means when I go to family reunions I am adopted but still related to everyone? Does that make sense?…You see my grandmother…who is actually my great grandmother…lived to be just a couple days shy of her 100th! I swear that woman could touch her toes like a seasoned yoga instructor up until she passed! Now…she was blind as a bat and had cataracts…Do you think I need to get checked for cataracts? Oh…and her oldest daughter, my dad’s sister and my aunt is actually my grandmother. She died an early death. I believe in her 50’s? Cancer. Sad. I don’t really remember her. I was young… My maternal-biological-grandfather is barking at 100 and just got baptized! My paternal grandfather, who is technically my maternal great grandfather passed away in the kitchen one morning! He was eating his breakfast just like any other normal day and the angels came and took him…he was in his 70’s. Older I get that is just too young to be finished. Did you get all that?
If you are not adopted you may not understand fully what it’s like to feel this mystery…and it’s so much more than just being able to answer your health care professional with a hint of confidence…It’s more about the wonder of what he looks like, if he’s nice, if he loves Jesus…do I have any half siblings running around this planet with my features and quirks? Has he ever wondered about me? Did he ever, at any point care if I was alive or dead? It’s deep…and I would be lying if I said it hasn’t stung a little.
And any interest in my paternal roots is NOT because I need a daddy. I have a WONDERFUL daddy. I get real defensive when someone asks me if I want to find my “real dad” or if I know my “real mom”.
This is my personal truth and one I can guess is felt by other girls wondering about the dads that got away…We want you to see us and openly, to our faces accept or reject us so we can move on. We do. And here’s why…
A father is the first male a girl ever feels acceptance or rejection from…and I’ve spent my life feeling a sense of rejection and abandonment. And when I was younger I often wondered if he saw me…if he physically laid eyes on me if he could walk away or if perhaps there was something about me worth knowing.
Don’t you agree that we all just want to be worth knowing?
So until I get my DNA kit I am Romanian.
How do I know…
I went in for a wax.
A painful waxing.
There I was in all my glory and she says…
What nationality are you?
Considering the shot or two of vodka I have to take before this delicate procedure I could have given her all the details. I tipsy talk. But I didn’t. I gracefully replied…
I don’t know exactly…I am adopted.
And then…without hesitation…as I was exposed as exposed could be, she solved the long felt mystery of my life in one statement…
You are Romanian.
I am what?
I am? How do you know?
I’ve been doing this for a long time and I can tell by the way hair grows along with skin tone and eye color.
Well then…you are the professional so I guess I am.
I had no idea walking in that day that my technician was also a genealogist…but she was.
So until further notice…
I am Romanian.