The Embrace

In the early 1960’s my Grandparents on my mother’s side immigrated to the United States after leaving Greece. The couple was joined by their small daughter, and the three of them settled in a small town in Maine. Why they chose that location is beyond me. For all I know they had some connections or hidden insight? But I was too young at the time to make their acquaintances before being placed in foster care.

My biological father had been a resident of Baltimore City. Joining the Army to do a 4-year stint in the infantry before returning to the area. But this time he settled in the Washington D.C. area after returning. Which was a 45-minute trek from his original stomping grounds.

After graduating high school my birth mother left the state of Maine. Heading to Washington D.C. to attend college where she received a bachelor’s degree in business administration. Upon wrapping up her studies, she decided to remain in the nation’s capital. Landing a job as an office clerk in the downtown section of town. Which opened the door for her and my father to meet, setting up my existence.

You’re probably wondering how I came about this information. Which is a fair question indeed. Especially since I have no recollection of either one of my parents. Well, in my late 20’s I was coaxed into petitioning the D.C. courts to open my adoption records. At the behest of friends and family who appeared more interested in knowing than I was. Up until that point I hadn’t really cared about my biological family. My take being that one can’t miss what they haven’t known!

After filing a court petition of inquiry followed by months of waiting. The presiding judge assigned to my case finally sent me a response with an addendum apology. Informing me that in my day D.C. adoption records were sealed after the transaction. Therefore, under D.C. law the parents and extended family members had the right to remain anonymous. Which I viewed as a bit unfair! But the law was the law. So, I had to settle for a brief overview of my case file. Which contained the measle bit of information I cling to until this day.      

Apparently, my parents began a brief romantic relationship in the early 1970’s. Blessing me with a birthday in the summer of 1972. But the bliss was short lived as my mother was subsequently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Which ultimately proved to be the catalyst for their demise as a couple and my journey into foster care.

Personally, I don’t remember much from that time period. Accepting what the court records state took place. Which state that I was initially taken in by a D.C. judge and his wife. Who fostered a handful of other children awaiting adoption. Apparently, this judge had seen D.C.’s foster care system up close and personal. Prompting him and his wife to act as a stable transition location for kids awaiting adoption.

My day would come just prior to 1975. When I was adopted by a very prominent college professor who already had one other adoptee.  A little girl who was 3 years my senior and biracial as well. But her biological mother was black, and her father was Caucasian. Whereas my parents were the opposite. With my mother being Caucasian, and my father being black. Either way you sliced it, we were both anomalies to this country at the time. To add another wrinkle to the equation. The lady who adopted us was white with a noticeable British accent. And while we were far too young to notice these realities. We must have been a sight, trapsing around the Washington D.C. area. As in those days the city was still very segregated. And our newly adopted mother lived in a very upscale part of northwest Washington D.C... Therefore, it was a rarity for us to come across any other brown or dark-skinned individuals.

When the school year began, we attended an institution which consisted of grades 1 through 9. Boasting only 20 students per grade. With less than 2% being that of color. Which meant, the physical differences I displayed from my school mates were brought to light every day. Making me secretly want to look like the other kids more and more each day.

One of the truisms about being adopted by a white mother. Was that you always found yourself explaining your predicament to outside eyes. Which grew extremely tiresome after a while. As the black kids wouldn’t fully accept you based on your mannerisms. And the white kids wouldn’t embrace you based on your tainted skin. My only saving grace was that I was a stellar athlete. Who could outperform most of the kids even much older than myself. Therefore, I escaped physical bullying from peers which could have posed a huge issue.  

I remember one incident when my mother took us out to eat at a restaurant. I was drooling over the delicious looking pictures on the menu. Only to be snatched out of my seat as my mother flew into an unrecognizable rage. Not understanding what the heck had just happened or why we were leaving so abruptly. Years later I would learn that derogatory statements had been made in reference to our family dynamics. Though my mother wouldn’t elaborate on what was exactly said, just that it happened.

Now being a parent myself. I can only imagine what my mother went through during those years. Marveling at her resiliency for stepping up and taking on this journey all alone. Now a days there are a plethora of services and groups to aid parents with adoption. But back then you were very much on your own.  

While my sister and I didn’t pick up on the racism as we were too young. There was a constant barrage of confusing comments made by parents and teachers alike. Which left us feeling like show ponies and stray cats. “Your mother is such a special lady for adopting you two. You must be so thankful”! Or “What does it feel like to be taken out of foster care by such a special lady”? Of course, these people were oblivious to how their words were affecting us.

One morning I went to school feeling like a ball of pent-up frustration. Slowly taking my jacket off to hang it up on a hook in the back of the classroom. Mrs. McClusky, the homeroom teacher, approached me from behind sensing my energy. And as I turned around to go to my desk, we locked eyes. Which felt like a gaze that was penetrating my soul. She immediately asked in a very concerned voice, “Michael what’s wrong”? Those words pierced my heart, and I couldn’t contain myself. Bursting into tears as if on cue. Mrs. McClusky instantly grabbed me with the warmest and gentlest of arms. Bringing me in close while slowly rocking from side to side. Not a word was spoken. As we both felt my tiny little body tremble from the emotion. I had never felt that level of love or compassion up until that point. Rendering me immobile as I sobbed and sobbed. We swayed in the back of the classroom for what seemed like an eternity. As the rest of the class looked on in bewilderment trying to understand what was happening.

It’s been almost 40 years since that fateful day. But not a month goes by that I don’t think about that hug. Because it was on that day that I began to understand the power of human touch. And how it is a life requirement from birth to death.