Afterword

It's been just over a year since the results of a DNA test came back and revealed that I have a first cousin that lives just minutes away from me, a revelation that changed my life. In addition to being a new cousin, I found out that I am an uncle, great-uncle, and half-brother for the second time. And most incredibly of all, I found my biological father. He'll celebrate Father's Day next week for the first time in his life at the age of 86. More about that later.

The DNA juggernaut seems to have slowed for now, although I do still get a surge of adrenaline every month when 23andMe says I "have new 20 relatives" and I wonder if there is some fresh, new shock awaiting me. We've all settled in nicely, and my half-sister, nieces and nephews will be visiting us next week, their first trip to California together.

So it seems as good a time as any to take a step back and share the ways that this whole journey has surprised me, saddened me and thrilled me, and try to summarize the things I've learned about myself and this whole journey.

FACES - When I was a kid raised as an only child by my single adoptive mother, my friends would say to me, "you and your mom look so much alike." But I knew, of course, that any resemblance was purely coincidental. We were both tall with brown hair, and I suppose there were other things. But nothing that I ever latched on to.

It was probably the one thing I most yearned for as an adopted child - I wanted to look like someone. As a child I remember feeling like I was an alien, dropped into this world from some other planet, My "what if" thoughts would often go to "what if I'm the only human on the planet that has no relatives?" The fact that I have no children only heightened that feeling.

So when I first saw the picture of my birth mother, a photo from a wedding sometime in the 80's, I truly was taken aback. I could see it: the brow, the eyes,... it was all there. 

I was even more shocked when I saw a picture of her as a young girl. Compared side by side with a picture of me at about the same age, the resemblance is uncanny. Then I met my half-sister Beth, and there it was again. Then I saw the photo of my maternal grandfather, and there it was again. A lineage. 

When the sleuthing about the identity of my father began, my cousin Mary sent me photos of my father and his two siblings, although at the time we didn't know which of the three it might be, if any. The resemblance with one of the three (who ended up being my uncle) was again, uncanny. And although it is not as strong as my uncle, I see the resemblance with my father in powerful ways. When we first visited Maryland to meet Tom, Lynda walked behind us at one point and was gobsmacked by what she saw - we walked the same way. (She also says we have near-identical ears.) 

Recently Tom sent me a photo of him as a child and an enlarged photo of my paternal grandmothers family when she was somewhere near ten years old, and there it was again, uncanny.

There are no words to describe this feeling, especially to someone who has known blood relatives their whole life. Suffice it to say, I know now that I am not an alien. I belong, and I am connected.

ANCESTRY AND THE LIES OF ADOPTION - One of the mysteries regarding my birth father was whether any of the information that the adoption agency had given my parents was true. The scant info said that my birth father was of Polish descent. My original birth certificate even gave him a name: Paul Tovik. I had suspicions that this may not have been true. And of course now that I've found him I know that to be the case. My mother did not remember or know who my father was, he is named Tom Hartnett, and he is very English and Irish. In fact, between my parents I am of about 95% English and Irish descent.

So why lie? What was the point of flat out making up a name and fake biography about my birth father, especially on a birth certificate that would go into a vault in Denver, that they had no reason to assume I would ever see? The birth certificate I had growing up, still have, is the one that shows my parents as Betty Joan & Jack DeWitt. Why Polish? Why Tovik?

I have no idea, but my only hunch is that the stigma in 1963 for an unwed mother with no husband or idea who the father is was too much. It was too much to even leave a line blank on a birth certificate that no one would likely ever see. Much has changed about adoption in the years since, for the better. But I wonder if we really have learned much about the way women navigate the misogyny of our society? Given the current news throughout the land, I fear that we have not, and that the lies will continue.

VOICES - I had a startling revelation after getting the photo of my grandmother and her family when she was a young girl. We were watching "Peggy Sue Got Married", where Kathleen Turner plays Peggy Sue, a woman who goes back in time to her high school years. At one point her grandmother calls and she is so moved to tears by hearing her grandmother's voice again (she had died in the intervening years) that she cannot speak.

I immediately thought of my adoptive grandparents, all four of whom I can picture clearly - and I can still hear their voices. And I realized that I don't have that luxury with my birth grandparents. Their voices are a mystery to me. We often talk about hearing people's voices "down through the generations." I often thought of that as a merely metaphorical phrase.

I don't anymore.

THE ONES WHO DIDN'T SEE THIS - My mother, Aunt Jean, Frank - the three people who shaped me more than anyone ever could have. My grandparents and my Dad who died too young when I was just 21, and more: I have wondered often how they would have all processed this and taken it in. I think my mother would have been alternatively thrilled and remorseful, overjoyed and jealous. I know without a doubt that my Aunt would be thrilled. She and Frank lived long enough to see my find my mother and Beth. But to miss out on meeting Tom? That is tragic. The conversations that the two of them would have had with Tom would have been epic, delightful.

On that first trip To Maryland, I was struck by the fact that the conversations with Tom reminded me so much of my conversations with Frank. That realization helped me understand why Frank was such a powerful father figure for me. As for the others, I honestly have no idea how they would have received all of this news. I suppose happy for me, maybe a little bittersweet. They'd be certainly as grateful though to have me in their lives as I am for them in mine.

THE EMPATHY GENE - My mother and her husband John are bright blue spots in the deep red state of Wyoming. My half-sister, Sarah, and nieces and nephews likewise are thoughtful, progressive, caring souls in that state. My father leans that way, and my cousins on his side are almost all cut from that same cloth. What are the odds?

It leads me to one possible conclusion, and maybe the DNA revolution can help us unravel it. I wonder if there is an empathy gene in our genetic make-up that leads to be more understanding and caring of the people around us? I often think that the difference between the liberal and conservative mindsets is a focus on 'other' vs. 'self.' In its most elemental sense, our political and social beliefs are largely shaped by how we view our interactions with the people around us, shaped by our notions of trust, belonging and the environmental and social forces that make us who we are. I have no idea if there is such a thing as an 'empathy gene.' But I am willing to offer up my story and my family as a case study.

HOME - My story was simple before. Born and adopted in Denver, moved to Orange County, California at six months: Anaheim, then Buena Park, then Fullerton; stay there until moving to Long Beach for college in 1982, then stay for good. Fullerton was my childhood home; Long Beach is my adult home.

But now? My mother's family was in Michigan until her father divorced her mother with a Dear Jane letter from France near the end of WWII. She and her mother moved to Wyoming. Meanwhile my father's family is centered in Lincoln, Nebraska. His travels in early adulthood lead him to Denver for a brief meeting with my mother, and then eventually to Maryland where he stayed. The Lincoln clan largely scatters to the wind, landing in places like Seattle, Tucson, Denver, Marin, Placerville, Los Angeles and Long Beach.

Where is home now? It still feels like Long Beach, but revisiting the idea that I was an alien dropped onto the planet deserves a bit more inspection perhaps. What is home? It's a question that is much more complicated and harder to answer for me now. But, I am OK with that. Maybe the idea of home doesn't mean as much to me now as it did before. My 'home' is everywhere.

I started this blog when my mother died in 2008, thinking it would be primarily a place to ruminate on music and happiness, a place to hone my writing skills which I was trying to develop. While this blog has done those things, I had no idea at the time that her death would unlock a portal in my soul which led me to finding my birth mother the next year, and to the explosion of my discoveries in 2021. It has become, for better or worse, a blog about my journey through adoption and whatever this new thing is... discovery? redemption? self?

I've learned more about myself these past 14 years than I ever would have predicted possible. And I am proud of what I've found and who I've become. Who I've become has enabled me to stay open-minded and open-hearted in this process, which in turn has helped my newly-discovered family welcome Lynda and I with open arms and hearts. It's been beautiful.

So I end now with a bookend. Since I started this blog by saying farewell to one of my mothers, it's only fitting that I end it by saying this:

Happy Father's Day, Tom. This is my gift to you.