Looking Back

What if everything you were told was a lie?

All of my life I have been held hostage to the notion that I was all alone. My parents signed emancipation papers for me when I was 16 years old. Even my blood sister I grew up with seemed like a stranger to me and remains so to this day. 

What if everything you believed was a lie? My parents never liked to talk about my adoption. When my blood sister and I found out that we were adopted, naturally we had our own questions.

"Who am I? Who are our parents?"

These were some of those first questions that came up. They were ones my sister asked. She is 21 months older than me and at the time those questions were not anything I ever thought about. When she asked them my parents froze and they immediately set up a wall. From that time forward any questions that were asked were like much guarded secrets. The subject was taboo.

At the time I was too busy growing up and being a kid. I was in the back yard climbing a ladder so that I could jump off the roof into the deep end of the swimming pool. I was busy climbing our 40 foot flag pole to see if I could touch the top. And all I got from that was a blistered butt when my dad got home. He took punishment pretty seriously.

My sisters questions drove her crazy. So crazy that she ran away from home when she 12 and ended up in a group home. We would drive over and see her on the weekends and she would always refer to our parents by their last name. It was all kind of sad really, watching a child disown her family.

"Who am I?" I could hear my sister asking this in my head.

What kind of question was that? You are the same person you were before you found out that you were adopted. Nothings changed.

Later I had my own questions. All I ever wanted to know was who were my natural parents, what were they like and whether or not they loved me.

My mom could never talk to me about my adopted parents, at least not until we met later in life when I was in my 30's. And even then it was a sketchy story. She said that my mom had given my sister and I up for adoption at a very young age. We went into foster care and were passed from home to home for a couple of years because nobody wanted us. She said that all she knew was that we had it very bad according to the case worker. But there was always an indication that maybe my mom knew something she didn't want to share. Her voice would always change when she spoke to me. She would physically shudder as she spoke about it. This from a woman who endured life in Nazi Germany and had horrible memories and scars from there. As much as I wanted to know about my adoption, I could never bring myself to push her too hard. And besides that, she had a firm line she would stand on and if you tried to cross it you would lose. She could be a lot more stubborn than me sometimes.

So I am talking to my sister on the phone a month or so ago and she is almost screaming, "That adoption was not supposed to happen. Those names on the court records are made up names. They weren't going to let it happen. Dad had to fight to get it to happen."

And you really have to know my sister to get the whole effect, "Sweety," She says, "Dad told me what happened. He had to get some Senator in Arizona to push the thing through. Barry something or another. The whole thing was a whitewash!"

"Wait a minute," I say, "Are you talking about Senator Barry Goldwater?"

"Yes!" She screams, "Barry Goldwater."

 Now she's talking to her husband in the background.

Sister: "Honey. It was Senator Barry Goldwater wasn't it?"

Sister's husband: "Yes, I believe it was."

 I am hearing a story that I have never heard before and I am suddenly having an out of body experience. I hand the phone to Lois and we pull off in a parking lot because we are driving and I say, "You have got to hear this."

 Twenty minutes later.

 "That is insane!" Lois says.

 "Is it?" I say.

 "Well what do you think?" She asks.

 "Dude, I don't know what to think anymore."

 One month later.

 My wife calls to tell me that we have finally got my original birth certificate.

"You are not going to believe this. This is unbelievable!"

 "What?" I ask.

 "This birth certificate shows two different names than what are on the court records."

My whole life I always believed my natural mom was a minor and that because she was too young to take care of us so she gave my sister and I up for adoption. I believed this because this is what I had been told.

My birth certificate showed that my moms name was entirely different than what was on my adoption records. It also showed that she was 29 years of age at the time of my birth; instead of a minor. It revealed that I had other siblings. And that my birth fathers first name was also different than the adoption records said.

After we received the adoption records and I did the math while considering my mom was a minor when she had me, I figured she would be in her mid-sixties right now. But this new age of 29 would bring her to around 77-79 depending on birthdays.

I don't know if we will ever find her but I still hold out on hope. Today I miss her. Today I wonder what happened back there. Today - like so many others - I still don't have my answers.

~September, 2009

Back in the Game

After months of anguish involving our insurance and a drug called Prograf, getting my adoption records opened and trying to register with my Native American Indian tribe, we have finally found some relief. It looks like we will be able to get our Prograf.
Our family started a journey a few months ago that has been both painful and heart-wrenching. We have gone down roads that I never expected I would ever have to travel on. Searching for my adoptive parents was one of them. This was something that I was not eager to do.
As most of you know, our insurance coverage changed when the economy went all crazy, and as a result the anti-rejection drug Prograf came off the table when the new plan went into effect. This backed us into a corner trying to figure out how we were going to be able to come up with the thousands of dollars a month to pay for this one drug alone that I will have to take for the rest of my life. We were told by the transplant center that there would be no transplant if we couldn't get aftercare drugs -- something our insurance plan originally covered.
This past week we were notified that our insurance will offer an option that will cover Prograf. The insurance will be expensive, but nothing compared to the cost of the drug without insurance. We were overwhelmed, to say the least. Over these past months we have been blessed to have so many people step forward to help out in whatever way they could. Some offered advice, some legal counsel, and some offered friendship. There were many prayers and many thoughtful wishes. Lois and the girls and I are thankful to everyone who has helped us along this journey.
While all of this has been going on, it has also opened up some questions about my adoption records. We have court records showing that I have two sets of names for my parents. How does that happen? Well, we aren't sure, so we are still going to try to figure out all that. It also suspends any hope of trying to get registered with the Indian tribe. We were asked by a representative of the tribe to get the original birth certificate so they could run it against their membership. We did that, but that individual never responded when we tried to contact her to let her know. Most of that problem can be attributed to just one person who doesn't seem to care about our request. Maybe we will have to talk to someone higher up in the tribal council or make a run to Arizona. One step at a time.
Again I have no words. We thank you all.
And YEA, Prograf!

Déjà vu

Remember that time I had my adoption records opened? Chirping birds flew in my window and they started singing that Tra-la-la-la-la La-la-la-la-la song. Outside the heavens opened up and bright sun beams shined down all over the planet. I remained composed of course, because I was somewhat busy being shell-shocked by an event that took some 43 years to transpire. But I took some comfort in it all because my waiting on this information was also consequential to the fact that my very life depended on it. I was hoping -- praying -- that I would be able to use this information to help me enroll in my Indian tribe. Because, you see, that's what it was all about to begin with -- getting enrolled.
That first week while Lois and the girls and I took time to process this all, we realized that we still didn't have my original birth certificate and so we set about to take care of this. I should actually say that Lois did, and through much effort, frustrating phone calls and a lot of determination, the bridge was hurdled. On Monday last, Lois Fed Exed the certified court order the judge issued and they sent us a copy of my original birth certificate back by the end of the week.
On Friday morning Lois called me at work and said, "I got it!" For the second time within a couple of months the heavens parted and the birds sang. I held my breath as Lois spoke to me. The first thing she said was that there was something weird about it all.
"What's that mean?" I thought to myself.
And before I could ask her she said, "The name's on your birth certificate don't match the names on your adoption records."
"What names?" I asked.
"All of them!" she said. "They're all different except for yours. Your name is the only one that is the same."

(insert Perry Mason music here) "WTH?"

After another month of waiting for a name that would tie me to the tribe, everything changed. The names of both of my birth parents in my adoption records didn't match my parents' name on my birth certificate. The only name that was the same was my father's last name; but not his first. And my mom's name was entirely different, though slightly similar. She wasn't a minor as was reported in the adoption records. She was almost 30.
I cannot imagine how any of this is possible. What happened all those years ago? As I try to wrap my head around the thought that this could be a clerical error, all I see is stars; blinding flashes of light that make me blind. How could any of this have happened? The only thing that makes any sense to me is the fact that my mom signed her name on the birth certificate.
So why doesn't her name match on the adoption records?

(to be continued)

I know my name, but who am I?

I grew up in the likes of a Buddhist ashram chanting Hari Chrisna. It is perhaps my most memorable memory from childhood. I was raised by a group of burned out hippies who knew and followed Timothy Leary through the '60s. I was reading books like the 'Bhagavad Gita' and 'Be Here Now', the former written from ancient text, while the latter had barely come out in print. Those books meant nothing to me then, but I would read them again a dozen years later so as to understand them. Here I would learn about Arjuna's journey towards battle and his talks with Krishna, and follow the antics of the good doctors tales. I spent my mornings watering flower gardens, tending a gold fish pond and grooming foot trails that led from one building to another. There were round adobe-like yurts and small buildings spread out across a few acres of land on a thousand acre ranch in the Arizona desert. My hair was down to my butt and I had the nickname Snake. I was also a ward of the State.
When I was 11 years old I ran away from home and I ended up living in a group home in the Sonoran Desert near the base of the Rincon Mountains. I lived there with dozens of people. We were men and women, and boys and girls. And we were all there for different reasons. Some of us were sent there, while others just came. We were lost souls and runaways. We were bullies and thieves. And we were disheartened victims of abuse. In 1973 I was a runaway. For almost two and a half years I lived this life, and then one day I walked away. Everything I learned; everything I believed, it all happened here.
Early on as children we are marked by scars and injuries both mental and physical that we carry into the future. They are the wounds that link our past to present; uniting infancy with age. They bear witness to the people we become and are a testament to the lives we lead. It is rare to go through life without them.
At night we would gather in the dining hall. Wood carved tables and chairs filled the room. The walls were made of stone and cement at least one foot thick. A large round open-faced fireplace was in the center of the room for those cold winter nights. I still remember the smell of mesquite wood burning. They built that place two years before I came. In the summer the students and teachers united, and months of work followed. Boulders of river rock had to be moved into place. Eight foot sections of railroad ties were stood upright and were the supporting structure for the walls. Layers of cement and river rock were poured in between them. Inside giant timbers ran across the ceiling locking out the light of day. I do not know how long it took them, but I can imagine the months of pain. I can almost feel their blisters and certainly there is blood inside those walls. These people left other things as well. Small relics as reminders. On one wall you will see a handful of marbles embedded in the cement in an intricate design. There are names in the cement floor and you will see a peace sign next to an Anhk. There are green and purple glass insulators protruding out of the walls here and there for coat hangers. Burned into the wood you will see symbols such as the Yin and Yang, more peace signs and the Hindu Om sign of Absolute.
Inside there was a corner library. Bookshelves lined the walls. Over the next two years I would read most of them: Carlos Castaneda, William Goldman, Kurt Vonnegut and Wilson Rawls. There are titles I can’t even remember and titles I can: The Catcher and the Rye; Mister God, this is Anna; and Gibran’s Prophet. Sitting there at night I would read line after line and verse after verse. I was particularily enamored with Castaneda's story 'The Yaqui Way of Knowledge' because I am a Yaqui Indian. This story was unique to me because in its own way it tied me to a heritage I knew nothing about. I eventually outgrew my fascination with Castaneda. Don Juan was a little too colorful of a character for me and so I stuck a little closer to home.
My parents and I never spent much time living together, sometimes I think it was act of preservation. But the fact is they were my parents, and the only parents I ever knew. When my mom died a few years ago I remember that feeling of loneliness. I remember thinking that I was all alone and that I was an orphan. I have felt that way from time to time ever since her passing. And I have always felt like I was the last of my line save for my children. All of that changed today. Today we finally received my adoption records. I don't think I've ever felt this way before. Today I have a name for both of my birth parents. I think I'm going to have to let that sink in for a while.

Square One

Today we heard from the State of Arizona. My wife got the letter when she got home from work. When she opened it up the news was disheartening to say the least. There was no record of my adoption in Maricopa County in Phoenix. We did not expect this. The thought had never crossed our minds. The letter said that we should try another county. The end. I can't believe they can't take my reissued birth certificate, which has a unique number, and look behind it to see where my life changes took place. We don't have the resources to try endless counties.

All my life I was under the impression that my adoption had taken place in Phoenix because I was born there. It never occurred to me that it might have happened in a different county. I was born in Phoenix and raised in Tucson. Pima County. Tomorrow we are going to have to get another petition notarized and send it off to another courthouse. There is one more person left that might be able to help me find some answers. I have been thinking about my dad's best friend while growing up and how to contact him. We are crossing our fingers, but we are back at square one.

Where do we go from here ? ¿ ?

Normally I would post this on my other blog, but I've decided I could really use some extra eyes on this one so I'm posting it over here as well. Any help or thoughts would be appreciated.

It turns out that because I am an American Indian I may be entitled to help paying for drugs that I will need post-op. Drugs that I will need for the rest of my life. These anti-rejection drugs can be very expensive and cost many thousands of dollars a year. Our insurance won't pay for them.
When Lois and I got married we compared our work insurance benefits and discovered hers were definitely a lot better than mine. I have been on her plan ever since. When we discovered that I was going to need to have a transplant we were happy to find that her plan would actually cover the operation. We also learned that some of the drugs I would need for aftercare would also be covered, but not all of them. Some of them are going to end up costing us a lot.
The other day I got a phone call from the transplant center informing us about our insurance benefits and what they would cover. A drug called Prograf is the biggy. Prograf is designed to lower the body's immune system. While your immune system is there to fight infection, it will also fight against a new transplanted organ such as a kidney or liver because it thinks the body is being invaded. Prograf, along with other drugs, are used to help fight against organ transplant rejection. Apparently I need to find a way to pay for this immunosuppression drug before I can get a transplant. Or else ¿ ? ¿

The transplant center is doing its best and willing to do what it takes to help us out in exploring all our options. But now we have reached an impass. The idea to look into Indian benefits was actually the social worker's thought. A good one. Buuttt... I was adopted and I have no ties with my Indian tribe. I know that I am a Yaqui Indian because my parents said so. They adopted three of us -- two Yaquis and a Pima while they lived in Phoenix. But my case is no different than any other adoptee's. When the adoption is finalized, they reissue a birth certificate that shows the adoptive parents as the natural parents. There's nothing on it that says, adopted.
So I must first somehow prove that I was adopted and then find a way to have my adoption records opened so that I can prove it to the tribal council. And then I might be eligible for Indian funds.Years ago I did a little research on trying to find my natural parents. I wrote a letter to ALMA Society (Adoptee's Liberty Movement Association) and they responded by telling me there might be a loophole in finding my parents because I was Native American.

Adoptees who are of American Indian heritage can learn their original names and names of their birth parents by taking advantage of the Indian Child Welfare Act of 1977.

This law was made for a number of reasons, but the one that is of most importance to me is that my records can supposedly be opened due to genetic and medical reasons. It is a federal law. In my case I am not so much interested in finding my natural parents but rather looking for medical history and acknowledgement from the tribe so that I can apply for grant money so I can show that we can get the Prograf. Without that, there will be no transplant.
Anybody know any adoption law? We're stumped.