Tag Archives: Not The Biologicals

On Being Adopted

Ponderings,

This has come up several times in the last few days for me, so I take that as a sign to write about it.

I was adopted as an infant.

My parents thought they could not have children and after several years of trying with nothing to show for it, they opted to adopt.

All I know of my life before adoption is this:
– I was called “Baby Ambrose” by the sisters and nurses where I was kept;
– My first birth certificate lists no mother and no father;
– I was adopted through a Catholic Social Services center;
– The adoption records are sealed.

I was not told about my adoption by my parents. I found out about it on accident. As a preteen I was looking for my Social Security card and in the lock box with it was a copy of the adoption record. Let’s just say that discussion went “well” with my parents (the start of many…). I’m sure they had their reasons for not telling me, and at this point I don’t remember what they were or if they were even discussed. I haven’t asked again about it since then.

I once started down the road to find my biologicals. After discovering where the records where stored, I found out that both biologicals have to agree to have the record unsealed before I can be told anything. I would have to pay a large sum of money to start this process, with no guarantee or refund if neither biological wanted to remain anonymous. They also required a few months of counseling sessions before being told as well.

At that point I changed my mind. I’ve thought about it a few times—okay, more than a few—but just haven’t gone down that road again.

Sure I would like to know the answer to “Why?”, but is it really any of my business?

At this point in my life I am more interested in my medical history. What can I expect as far as genetic diseases and hereditary conditions? Hell, even how well do they age? Am I going to hit 40 my body just go “blah”? Is there a history of any kind of cancer I should be screening for now? All seemingly random questions that I think a lot of people take for granted.

And I’m curious about siblings—do I have a continuing blood-line out there or am I the last stop in my genetic lineage? Or a twin? There’s some speculation to that as well.

There are a few people who speculate that one of my biologicals is known to me already. Maybe time will tell.

Until next time...
Erik

I stand accused…?

Ponderings, , , ,

Dilemma?

Wednesday night while working on a client at the tattoo shop, I received a telephone call from a family member. I only took the call because I thought it was an emergency due to the recent events with my father. This family member harshly accused me of something. Precisely—they accused me of stealing a large sum of money. This family member—being the wonderful “Christian” they are—apparently is of the “guilty until proven innocent” mentality. Is it any wonder I moved all the way from Florida to Arkansas?

I did not take this money, not that the family member seems to believe this. I would never steal (at least not intentionally) and more so I would never steal from my own family. However, I have no way to prove that I didn’t do this stealing of which I am being accused. I had opportunity—to which I was unaware—and as for motive? I have no “moral” character since I am both gay and have tattoos. Two strikes against me?

I see people being suspicious and thinking less of people who have ink that is visible to the public. I deal with it every day as both a tattoo artist and as a person with ink. I don’t really understand it at all. I know the history of tattooing. I know how different cultures see tattoos. I know where the American stereotypes come from. I think it is a stereotype that will take at least another generation to dissipate. I have tattooed what I consider the full spectrum of people: from people barely scraping by, to those who make more in a day than I will in my lifetime; individuals fresh out of jail having served their mandated time, to doctors and attorneys who probably should be in jail for doing things that would keep me up at night.

We are all human. Why do we lose sight of that?

Then there’s the whole being gay “issue”. It’s a little different of a “stereotype” to me because I believe people today have a choice to be tattooed. (Yes, there are probably people who choose to be gay, but I don’t think that is the norm at all. Just as there are people who have not chosen to get tattooed but where done so by force.) People fear and shun what they don’t understand or what they see in themselves that they don’t want to publicly admit to the world. Enough people have discoursed on that over time I will leave it alone for now.

Why as humans do we have to “isolate” what’s different: people of a different color; people of a different weight; people who have decided to decorate the outside of the “temples” they reside in. Why don’t we stereotype people who’s earlobes are attached to their face versus people have dangling earlobes?

As for my “two strikes” that my family sees—I don’t think that will ever change. Their brains are now trained and hard-wired to think the way they do. I went down to Florida to see my father when he had his heart attack for what could have been the last time. It now might just be.

Until next time...
Erik

Is being a “pack-rat” genetic or learned?

Ponderings,

After visiting my parent’s house, I was re-reminded that my mom has become her mother. I tend to forget the condition of their house not being “local” anymore.

Parent's family room
A view of the parent’s family room

My grandmother was a pack-rat. When she died at the end of 2004, it took my mom and her sisters almost FIVE MONTHS to go through all the stuff in my grandmother’s house. Every weekday for FIVE MONTHS! By “stuff” I mean many of the common household and personal items as would be expected. And then there is the obscure: collections of old, green foam meat trays; old photos of people no one in the family knows who they are; old newspapers from decades ago; old crucifii (would that be the plural of crucifix?) and other catholic paraphernalia.

Fast-forward to the present. My parent’s house. To start with, there is dust everywhere–dust covering mounds of papers and “stuff”. Stuff just like my grandmother’s “stuff”. Piles of old newspapers, old magazines, stuff from us as kids, some of the stuff from my grandparents, etc.

My dad is a little eccentric. He is a “collector”. He collects expensive things at least, but the condition is the same. There are hundreds of old soda trays and signs, old enameled signs, old wooden tools, carbide lamps, oriental rugs, etc. These items are displayed throughout the house, but also with a light coating of dust. Then there is every automobile ever owned sitting somewhere out on the property.

It has been pointed out by my “better” half that I am becoming like my parents–I tend to not let things go once I have “collected” it: a stack of old computer stuff that I should just recycle; old books that I will never read a second time; my first car. I have become more conscious about it in the last few years, and have endeavored to get rid of things I have collected. But how to break the actual collecting “cycle”?

How do these things happen? What causes this?

Until next time...
Erik