Last evening, I was surfing on the internet. On a whim, I resumed my search for my birth parents, folks by the names of Thomas and Mary Ann S. You see, I was adopted by my adoptive parents at the age of one day old by Clyde and Lola Reum. I have known my birth parents' names since the age of 18.
The incredible blessing of adoption is the defining event of my life. The generosity shown me is almost beyond understanding. The path I would have walked if I hadn't been adopted would have been being placed in foster care, as my birth parents were in the midst on an acrimonious divorce. My second cousin, Marian Daley, who worked in a hospital as a nurse, and became friends with my birth mother, also a nurse, enabled Marian to help get me adopted.
Due to circumstances that could not be changed, life did not offer an easy method for my birth mother to raise me as a single parent. She had reenlisted in the U.S. Air Force, and was to be deployed to West Germany as soon as I was born. She had discussed driving to Mexico for an abortion, but was persuaded by my second cousin that a couple she was related to through my adoptive father's family would be very happy to adopt me.
I came into this world by Caesarean Section in the 32nd week of the pregnancy, due to my birth mother's strong desire to put her marriage and her life in New Mexico behind her. Given her age, which was 38, and my birth father's age of 47, it was probably inevitable that I would be adopted or placed into foster care.
At the age of 4, my sister Susan was adopted. Her blood line was 100% Indigenous. Our lives were close when growing up. When my sister came into our family, my parents told me they had adopted me. This was more understandable as my sister went through the process and entered our family permanently.
I became the first member of our family to hold my little sister, a memory I love and treasure.
As we grew up in New Mexico in a small town that was 90% Hispanic and Indigenous, we "hueros," a term used for non Indigenous and Hispanic people, were generally welcomed and well treated by our Red and Brown classmates. My dad's insistence on my learning to read and write Spanish helped ease the burden of being the minority in our little valley. I was used to being different, and often hiding my true feelings. In being Caucasian in an area where the term "white privilege" did not apply, I became somewhat aware of what being a minority meant.
Adoption was a riddle wrapped in ambiguity and surrounded by mystery. As I grew up, the questions I had about my birth family multiplied exponentially. As is the case with most people who are adopted, there is that latent yet aching ambiguity I felt that slowly grew like an itch that turns into a huge rash the older I became. Rather than cause pain for my adoptive parents, I held my tongue.
At 18, my parents told me what they knew about my birth parents, and gave me a folder that had everything that they knew.
Because of their efforts to answer the questions honestly as I asked them, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't start a thorough effort to find out what I could about my birth parents until my adoptive parents died. My adoptive parents died in 1985 and 2006. By 2006, the trail leading to my birth parents had gone cold. I knew their full names and that they were divorced around the time I was born from interviewing my second cousin who arranged my adoption, and who was present as a surgical nurse when the Caesarean Section was performed.
When the opportunity presented itself, I tried to find out something about my birth parents. They were my never ending mystery. In the late Nineties, with the support of my late second wife, we tried a few Mormon genealogy center
They did not have any answers for me.
My wife died in 2000. I was a bachelor for 7 years until I met the love of my life and remarried in 2008. The hustle and bustle of having 5 daughters and a son again pushed my search onto the back burner. After all the kids except my youngest daughter and only son left and I retired, the effort to learn more about my birth family could be resumed.
I did a DNA test, and found out that at least 2 second cousins from my birth family also had taken the DNA test. One of them, a kind and friendly teacher in California told me a little about an uncle of hers, named Thomas and pointed the direction to go to answer my questions. Using these methods, I found the grave of my birth father, and, to my surprise, the grave of my birth mother as well. I am investigating details of their lives.
In my dreams, I envisioned myself and both sets of parents sitting over a meal and filling in the questions I had, and that they had. My fond wish, perhaps somewhat egotistical, was that my birth parents, as time marched on perhaps felt that itch and sadness I had felt in never knowing them. As open adoptions have become more popular, my hopes for the next generation of children who were adopted was that they will not have the nagging feelings of rejection and sadness that I have felt. Perhaps they will have more of a feeling of having roots that I did not have. For my adoptive parents, the unconditional love and support they gave me is something for which I am eternally grateful.
To my fathers, Clyde and Thomas, and my mothers, Lola and Mary Ann, I love all of you, and all of you are alive in me...Thank you.
The incredible blessing of adoption is the defining event of my life. The generosity shown me is almost beyond understanding. The path I would have walked if I hadn't been adopted would have been being placed in foster care, as my birth parents were in the midst on an acrimonious divorce. My second cousin, Marian Daley, who worked in a hospital as a nurse, and became friends with my birth mother, also a nurse, enabled Marian to help get me adopted.
Due to circumstances that could not be changed, life did not offer an easy method for my birth mother to raise me as a single parent. She had reenlisted in the U.S. Air Force, and was to be deployed to West Germany as soon as I was born. She had discussed driving to Mexico for an abortion, but was persuaded by my second cousin that a couple she was related to through my adoptive father's family would be very happy to adopt me.
I came into this world by Caesarean Section in the 32nd week of the pregnancy, due to my birth mother's strong desire to put her marriage and her life in New Mexico behind her. Given her age, which was 38, and my birth father's age of 47, it was probably inevitable that I would be adopted or placed into foster care.
At the age of 4, my sister Susan was adopted. Her blood line was 100% Indigenous. Our lives were close when growing up. When my sister came into our family, my parents told me they had adopted me. This was more understandable as my sister went through the process and entered our family permanently.
I became the first member of our family to hold my little sister, a memory I love and treasure.
As we grew up in New Mexico in a small town that was 90% Hispanic and Indigenous, we "hueros," a term used for non Indigenous and Hispanic people, were generally welcomed and well treated by our Red and Brown classmates. My dad's insistence on my learning to read and write Spanish helped ease the burden of being the minority in our little valley. I was used to being different, and often hiding my true feelings. In being Caucasian in an area where the term "white privilege" did not apply, I became somewhat aware of what being a minority meant.
Adoption was a riddle wrapped in ambiguity and surrounded by mystery. As I grew up, the questions I had about my birth family multiplied exponentially. As is the case with most people who are adopted, there is that latent yet aching ambiguity I felt that slowly grew like an itch that turns into a huge rash the older I became. Rather than cause pain for my adoptive parents, I held my tongue.
At 18, my parents told me what they knew about my birth parents, and gave me a folder that had everything that they knew.
Because of their efforts to answer the questions honestly as I asked them, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't start a thorough effort to find out what I could about my birth parents until my adoptive parents died. My adoptive parents died in 1985 and 2006. By 2006, the trail leading to my birth parents had gone cold. I knew their full names and that they were divorced around the time I was born from interviewing my second cousin who arranged my adoption, and who was present as a surgical nurse when the Caesarean Section was performed.
When the opportunity presented itself, I tried to find out something about my birth parents. They were my never ending mystery. In the late Nineties, with the support of my late second wife, we tried a few Mormon genealogy center
They did not have any answers for me.
My wife died in 2000. I was a bachelor for 7 years until I met the love of my life and remarried in 2008. The hustle and bustle of having 5 daughters and a son again pushed my search onto the back burner. After all the kids except my youngest daughter and only son left and I retired, the effort to learn more about my birth family could be resumed.
I did a DNA test, and found out that at least 2 second cousins from my birth family also had taken the DNA test. One of them, a kind and friendly teacher in California told me a little about an uncle of hers, named Thomas and pointed the direction to go to answer my questions. Using these methods, I found the grave of my birth father, and, to my surprise, the grave of my birth mother as well. I am investigating details of their lives.
In my dreams, I envisioned myself and both sets of parents sitting over a meal and filling in the questions I had, and that they had. My fond wish, perhaps somewhat egotistical, was that my birth parents, as time marched on perhaps felt that itch and sadness I had felt in never knowing them. As open adoptions have become more popular, my hopes for the next generation of children who were adopted was that they will not have the nagging feelings of rejection and sadness that I have felt. Perhaps they will have more of a feeling of having roots that I did not have. For my adoptive parents, the unconditional love and support they gave me is something for which I am eternally grateful.
To my fathers, Clyde and Thomas, and my mothers, Lola and Mary Ann, I love all of you, and all of you are alive in me...Thank you.
