Some back ground:

Anyone who knows me even a little knows that I'm a crazy knitter lady. It is the closest thing to an obsession I've ever had and a very large portion of every day is taken up either thinking about, reading about, or dreaming about if not actually knitting. It's something I got started on kinda late in life actually -- I was 21 when I learned how to do the basics, and I was about 23 when I got really crazy about it and started churning out things that were technically advanced. I started really getting obsessed with crafting when I started college, but I can trace the moment it exploded to a pretty exact moment in time -- the winter of 2007, just after Barb passed away. It was something I could carry around with me and whip out at any moment to chase away thoughts I didn't want to think. There have been more times than I can count, when if it wasn't for the needles and yarn in my hands, I would have no clue what to do with them at all. That little ball of string has kept me tethered to the earth when it threatened to fall out from under me. In other words... knitting means ALOT to me.

So why the hell am I telling you this?

About a week ago, I had a really nice, long conversation with my cousin Amy. She is one of the three children Barb helped raise (her nephew and two neices) when their parents got divorced. They spent a lot of time with Barb and have a lot of fond memories of her that they are nice enough to share with me. We were gabbing away about hobbies Barb had, and the conversation went something like this:

Amy: ....and Barb would go crazy with knitting, too, I swear to God she could knit while she was driving.... and she would get hung up on a book and wouldn't put it down for days...

Dallas:................

Amy: ....and she loved to sit in on room and read that book......

Dallas:....Amy, did you say Barb was a knitter? Did I hear you say she knew how to knit?

Amy: Oh yeah! She was completely obsessed with it and always made us a bunch of stuff for Christmas. She was a perfectionist about it too and would rip it all out if it had the smallest mistake or she didn't like the colors...

Dallas *sound of head exploding*

A week later, I am still absolutely shocked and completely blown away by this news. How. Insane. Is That??? How did I not know? How did this never come up? Of course, I wasn't quite a full blown card carrying knit-aholic yet, but I know I was knitting on a regular basis when Barb was still alive.

I can't help but go back to the whole nature/nurture thing again. I apparently had a genentic inclination to do this activity, and if it wasn't for an aunt that lives half the country away who happened to show me how one day, I would have never learned to knit at all. It feels so...destined, doesn't it?

I think my biggest regret is that I was never able to talk with her about it. I'd love to hear what knitting means to her. Trust me, if you've ever met a person who's a knitter, there is something about it that is really crack-ass addictive and gets deep down into your DNA. I want so badly to see something that she made, just to turn it in my hands and know that she produced it, just like she produced me. It's hard to explain to a non-knitter, but when you make something with your hands, a little bit of your soul is transported into that object. If you've ever spent a night snuggled under a quilt that a loved one made for you, you know the feeling I'm talking about. If you are ever lucky enough to receive a gift that someone has handmade for you, please cherish it. Even if it doesn't match your lampshades, or whatever, please try to understand the love and time and personal energy that went into that object, and all of it was for you.

I am continually amazed at the new doors that continue to open during this journey. It answers questions, only to raise brand news ones. I continue to post here every so often with the hope that I can not only keep my thoughts straight, but also to maybe help some one along their own journey one day. I posted a little snippet of this story on Ravelry, an online knitting community, and a woman responded who is having some thoughts about adopting a child. I really hope somehow these words might help.

The Gipson branch gets a little bigger...

Tonight, my husband came upstairs and told me that Dad had called and I needed to check my email right away and call him back. He'd sent me something I would get a kick out of. In my inbox was a forward of a conversation that Dad had been having with a woman - a woman who just happens to be his long lost half sister.

I should explain.

My dad wasn't raised by his natural parents. His mother, Darlene, and his father, Otis Frank lived together pretty much just long enough to have him, and then split up. Dad was raised by his maternal grandparents, Mac and Ruth in Arkansas, where most of his family (on both sides)is from. He remembers a couple of childhood visits to see his paternal grandparents (Frank, and he doesn't remember gma's name) and his Aunt Opal. On one of these visits he remembers meeting some other children that he was pretty sure were his father's kids from a 2nd marriage. He was maybe 6 or 7 years old, and the details weren't all that important at the time. But, he's always kinda known that he's got some siblings floating around out there somewhere.

Cindy Gipson recently learned that she has a half brother named Otis Ray. She had no idea that her father had been married before and that she had any other siblings. She decided to google his name just to see what she would find. Dad is a supervisor for the Dept of Transportation, so his email address is accessible through the Missouri State Employee Telephone Directory, leading to the email he received this afternoon politely wondering if he was in fact her brother.

After a few emails back and forth about other relatives, it was confirmed (thanks to Aunt Opal). I am so excited for Dad. As I reminded him tonight, the phrase "blood is thicker than water" doesn't really do it justice. Blood is like a steel logging chain that ties you together with your relations. There are so many inexplicable ties that exist regardless of you having ever been in the same room with them. Family is family.

My Dad's dad is not a frequent topic at their house. He was something of a deadbeat dad, if you could even call him that. He moved away after Dad was born, and lost touch completely when Dad moved in with his grandparents. He recounted a story for me tonight that really highlights what Otis Frank must have been like.

When Dad was 16, his father showed up on his doorstep for the first time in almost 16 years, and wanted to spend some quality time with his son. Dad was really happy about this and was excited about finally getting to start a relationship with his father. Frank suggested that they go coon hunting together, so Dad borrowed a buddy's dog and off they went. He said they had a great time and spent the later part of the evening just talking. He even brought my Mom, who was his "steady" at the time over to meet his Dad. It eventually came up that Dad was saving up to buy a car, and Frank enthusiastically offered to help him buy a car, as kind of a pennance for not being there for him growing up. He told him that if he could find a car for less than $1000, he would buy it for him. A couple weeks went by, and Dad found a car for $600. Excited, he called Frank. Big surprise what his reaction was -- he didn't remember making any such promise and didn't have any money anyhow. Dad was disappointed, but certainly never expected the gift anyway, and could understand that money was tight. Frank said he was coming back through town in two weeks and would be back to see him then.

That was the last time he saw or spoke to Frank. He didn't show up in two weeks, not even in two years. He wouldn't answer phone calls, and soon Dad had no idea where he lived or how to get in touch with him. Not that he wanted to. In a move wiser and more mature than his 16 years, Dad decided to forget about Frank and not worry about him ever again. He certainly wasn't lacking in affection from his grandparents and his aunt and uncle that lived in Kansas City that he got to visit often.

I am very excited for my dad. I am trying not to, but it's impossible not to inject my own experiences into this situation. Meeting my biological family has been profoundly healing for all of us. It's like a validation to a life that otherwise left alot of pain and destruction in it's wake. I feel like this is a chance for Dad to overcome his father's ambivalence to his existence and resolve some old pains. I think that Frank is still alive and should be about 79 years old. I am anxious to see if this will resolve in Dad getting to see his father again. I wonder if that's even a good idea. One thing is for certain - there is no rule book for these situations, and the steps have to be made up as you are taking them. However, I know for sure this has to be a positive thing and will definitely lead to positive outcomes. Besides Cindy, Dad apparently has another half sister and two half brothers to get to know as well! I so look forward to what's to come.

dying to know

Before I started this whole journey, I used to get asked alot whether or not I wanted to find my biological mother. The answer was always and emphatic YES. YES I DO. But aren't you afraid of what you might find?, they would ask. No, No I'm not.

I knew the day Mom told me I was adopted that I wanted to know who had given birth to me. It had nothing to do with a sense of loss, betrayal, or abandonment. It was just simple curiosity. Well, maybe complex curiosity.

I've already went into the whole "divided personality" perspective. That was part of my inspiration to know, but it went deeper than just wondering why I liked to read books all the time. There is something so fundamental about knowing who you are biologically.

As a child, I occasionally had wild fantasies about who my mother might be. Was she wealthy? Beautiful? Was I the sole heir to an island in Greece? Mostly, though, I just wanted to know her story. Why was I given up? I also wanted her to know my story. I wanted her to see just how happy I was and what I good life I had, and that I was really really grateful to her for the hard decision she made. I used to write her letters. Long letters full of the purple prose that only 10 and 11 year old girls are capable of. These letters detailed my life, my angst and curiosity towards her, how brave and strong I thought she must be. I wrote them over and over and over again, and they all went in the trash. Occasionally I would do something creepy and ceremonial with them, like placing them in the burn pile, or ripping them up into tiny pieces and letting the wind blow them out into road. It was my note in a bottle.

As I got older, I started to realize how difficult the journey was likely to be emotionally. I always said I would start the search when I turned 18. However, when I turned 18 I was in the middle of planning to go to college in Florida (which never happened) and my life was too emotionally stressful to take on anything else. So I started college and just forgot about it for a while. The next year I met my husband in a political science class. Two years later, I was planning a wedding. Suddenly, I was an adult embarking on a great big future. I didn't feel like I could properly face that future without first having a grip on the past.

If you were adopted through Catholic Charities, you can pay them legal fees of about $375, get both your adoptive parents notarized signatures, and they will do a 3rd party search. Even though I was a flat broke college student, the money was the easy part. Even though they had always known about my desire to find my Biological Mother, and even though they had always been very supportive, I was terrified of asking my parents for those signatures. The form sat in my bedroom for over a month. What if it hurt their feelings? Worse, what if they said no? What if they felt like I didn't love them or they weren't good enough for me? Hurting them was my worst night mare. Somehow in September of 2005, I got up the courage to ask. Mom and Dad didn't even flinch. They signed the form, I signed the check, and proceeding to wait.

Catholic Charities has one lady that does the 3rd party search and her name is Laura. She would email me with updates every so often, that there was no news yet and that it often takes several months to track people down.

One day in November, I went to the library with the rest of Dr. Browning's religion class to start research on a paper. The first thing I do when I sit in front of a computer is check my email, and that day was no different. I noticed an update from Laura, so I opened it. This, however, was not like the others -- they had found her. The email said we've found her, she lives in Columbia and you have a half brother. In front of 30 people in a crowded computer lab, I began to cry hysterically. I still remember the look on Dr Browning's face when I grabbed him by the arm and blubbered "I really have to go, I don't have a good excuse, but I really need to leave right now." He walked out into the hallway with me and I quickly explained - I'm adopted, they've been search for a couple of months, I just got the notice that they found my birth mother. I remember telling him that there were alot of phone calls I needed to make and some thoughts I needed to commit to paper immediately.

I remember walking to my car. I was parked on the street between Drury and Central High School out behind Burnham Hall and the first person I called was Ryan, then my Dad, then my Mom. I don't remember much other than saying over and over -- "They found her! They found her!" After nearly 20 years of wondering, I had found her. She didn't have a name yet, but she was real for the first time in my life.

nature, nurture, and everything in between

I have, obviously, always been fascinated by the nature vs nurture argument. In college, I was always first in the class to suggest that it isn't really a 'versus' relationship at all. No one aspect of your personality, appearance, or even voice inflection is determined by just one or the other. That is something I have given alot of thought to lately. I mean there are some things that are obviously nature:

That's my Grandma Frances (biological mother's mom). We look alike. That's pretty obvious. If the photo was closer up, you could see exactly where I get the crazy freckles.

Then there is obviously nurture:




I know this picture is borderline inappropriate, but I really love it and it represents my relationship with my mom quite well. We are just really uninhibited. If you've ever spent time around the two of us, we act quite a bit alike. I worked at the same restaurant as Mom for 6 years, and I was known as Glenda Jr.

But mostly, there is alot of gray area. When I was growing up, there were alot of aspects of my personality my parents didn't get. For one thing, I was incredibly shy when I was small, and got my feelings hurt easily. I also loved playing hooky and looked for excuses to stay home from school, even though school was never a source of stress for me. My parents are farm people, and if you cut off your hand, you put a glove on it and go back to work. I am so bookish! From the moment I learned how to read, I had a book in my hand. How many parents have to tell their child to STOP reading because they are possibly doing it too much? They weren't like that. There weren't a whole lot of books in our house. My parents are hands on people, they were busy from sun up to sun down and didn't spend alot of it sitting still. As I was growing up, I'm sure they found some of my interests very mysterious.

The first day I met Barb, alot of these things made sense. As I meet more and more of my biological family, these things REALLY make sense. This family is full of bookish folks with tons of PhDs. They love to talk about books and philosophy and academic stuff. However, I am the only one among them that really likes to garden and spend alot of time outside. I really feel like a blend of both worlds. And isn't that what we all are? For most people, you never have the chance to see it separated out for you that clearly. I have always felt a little conflicted inside, as if alot of what I wanted out of life was contradictory. I have always harbored crazy desired to run off to a big city and do something impressive with my life, but at the same time, I love the farm and part of me would love 20 acres and some goats. I feel the pull both ways and I always have. My mother has lived in Weaubleau her entire life. Her grandmother lived in Weaubleau her entire life. They find a place they love, and they stay put. The Rothwells are everywhere. They really seem to be people that set out in the world to seek their fortunes and never look back. I have both in me, equally strong. I haven't figured out how to resolve these conflicts, and maybe I never will, but I am glad to be able to identify the source.

Finding out

I remember so well the day my Mom told me I was adopted. It was the summer of 1989 and I was about to start Kindergarten. I was 5. This was around the same time she dropped the bomb of "today we'll be going to the Dr for 50 shots" so I was a little concerned when she said she had something to tell me. We lived in a little house in town at that point, and Mom and Dad's bedroom was on the far East side of the house. It must have been in the morning, because I remember it was very sunny in there and it hurt my eyes a little bit. Mom came in with a present for me and she told me to open it. It was the cutest Cabbage Patch doll ever made -- She has blonde pigtails, a gray sweatsuit with a little kitty embroidered on the shirt, and white tennis shoes with pink stripes. Mom gave me my new dolly and explained that she was very special. This wasn't just any doll -- she came with a birth certificate. If I filled out the certificate with my name and address, and gave the doll a name, I could send the certificate off and she would be all mine forever.

I thought that was pretty cool. She went on to say that I was alot like that little doll. I remember her asking me if I remembered where babies came from -- their mommies' tummies. She explained that another lady had kept me in her tummy and that Mom and Dad had selected me to be their baby because she couldn't keep me, although she loved me very much. She said that, just like that doll, she and Daddy had gone to a place to pick me up and had to fill out some papers to make me officially theirs. I remember being worried that someone would take me away from them. She assured me that no, I couldn't go anywhere no matter what. I don't remember it, but Mom says I cried. She asked me if I wanted to talk about it, or if I wanted to be alone -- I chose to take some time to myself to think about it. I still remember being 5 years old and being in that room by myself for a while. I remember singing a song to myself (that's how alot of 5 year olds deal, apparently) and really thinking over everything she said. My understanding of the birds and bees was sophisticated enough at that point that I understood what had happened. Most of all I just couldn't believe they weren't really my biological parents. They had to have had me, because they loved me so much. And I loved them so much. And our family was so good and I was so happy -- they had to be my parents. And at that moment, I decided that they were always meant to be my parents no matter who had given birth to me. That's an opinion I've kept into adult hood.

I don't remember all the details of that day, but I do vividly remember giving my Mom a hug and realizing that our family was very special. From Day 1 I realized that my being adopted made me special and that it had to be the best thing that had ever happened. The most prominent feeling I've ever had about it is -- Thank GOD I got my parents out of all the people on that list. I won the lottery.
Some people respond to that story with disbelief that my Mother could spring that on me so early in life -- they think I was too young. That is a decision that is going to be unique to every situation and every child. In this situation, my Mom had remarkable judgment to do this when she did. She recalls that she was completely terrified. There is certainly no rule book on how to do this kind of thing, and this was the 80s -- she didn't even have the internet or self help books to turn to. I was getting ready to start Kindergarten in a very small town (I graduated HS with 23 people, most of whom had grandparents who went to school with my grandparents). Remember, my Dad ran the MFA and in a small farm town, that is practically celebrity. Everyone knew I was adopted, and if she didn't tell me, some little kid at school would. Can you imagine being on the playground and hearing "My Mommy says you were adopted! What's that mean?" That would not have been cool. I have always admired her courage for telling me so young. Not once (that I remember) did it ever scare or frighten me. It just made me feel really good that I had landed in such a safe, nurturing place. It made me thankful, and it made me feel so much more appreciative of my parents. I was definitely one of the lucky ones.

Post the first

Well, it's post number one, and I don't know where to begin. I decided to begin documenting this journey smack dab in the middle. It is hard to figure out how to tell this story, but it is something I have to put into a permanent forum. I tried writing it out the old fashioned way, but my mind moves faster than my hands can write. I decided to start this blog because the nature of the whole thing seems very fluid and easily rearranged, in ways that my brain is not. I have not spent alot of time with blogs, so I have no idea what I'm doing.

I think I'll begin in the middle --

Yesterday, I sat in a room full of people I am blood related to. That is the second time in my life that this has happened. I will get to the back story eventually, so stay with me. Yesterday was the culmination of a very long journey. A journey that has been confusing, interesting, terrifying, and wonderful all at the same time. My only regret is that I didn't start writing things down sooner. I was welcomed with open arms by a family who was very estranged from Barb, my biological mother. Several times people had tears in their eyes, telling me that I represented the good part of their sister that gets to live on. Apparently, I was a catalyst for the first ever family reunion this bunch has ever had.

Now, because I am an extremely linear sequential type of person (which apparently runs in the family) I must back up and start at the beginning.

I was born in Columbia Mo on Aug 25 1983. For a very long time, that is pretty much all I knew. I had a single piece of type-written paper that was supposed to fill in some gaps. It said that my birth mother was 28, a nurse, and had 4 brothers. There were some other details, like height and weight, and the fact that she liked camping, but it might as well not have been there at all. For the next 3 weeks, I lived with the nuns at a foster home run by Catholic Charities of KC-St Joseph. Then, I got to go home.

Ray and Glenda got married in 1969 in a very small town in Mo. They were fresh out of high school, had no money, but they loved each other and knew how to work. Because of the lack of financial security, they waited longer than most of their friends to start having children. They began hoping for pregnancy in the late 1970s. Months came and went and nothing happened. After a few months of fertility treatments they couldn't afford, they made the decision to put in for adoption.

Glenda was born to be a mother. She is the most self sacrificing and giving person on the planet. Whether that is why she wanted a set of twins or not, I'm not sure, but that's what she wanted, and so that's what they told Catholic Charities when they filed papers to become parents. They signed up for twins (to name Dallas and Houston -- I know, child abuse) and they waited.

1983 rolled around and the twins they were slated to get were about to be born. It was only a matter of time. However, at the last minute the mother of the twins decided that the children needed to go to a Catholic family -- Ray and Glenda were baptist, so no twins. But Catholic Charities called to explain and mentioned that although there were no other sets of twins available, there was a little girl about to be born who was not spoken for. They said that was fine, and went back to waiting.

On August 25, 1983 Ray walked in to the MFA, where he was a manager, and told Mildred, the secretary, that his baby girl was born that day. He hadn't gotten a call, but the night before he'd had a dream. Mildred, probably thinking he was full of it, supposedly ignored him and kept on working. Later that day, someone from Catholic Charities called. Mildren answered the phone. A few hours later there were cigars out and a banner across the MFA: It's a Girl!

Mom and Dad came to visit me very soon after I was born. I have seen the home movies they took that day and if you didn't know any better, you wouldn't know that she hadn't given birth to me. We were instantly a family. I didn't get to go home with them that day, the legal proceedings weren't complete yet, but I became their daughter that day. Mom describes the time period when they were waiting for all the legal papers to be completed as the most devastatingly nerve wracking period she's ever experienced. The birth mother gets a grace period of a few weeks (at least at that time) where she could change her mind and get her baby back. I can only imagine what that must have been like for mom and dad. But a few weeks went by, and soon I was completely officially theirs and I went from Infant Girl #so-and-so to Dallas Ray (smart enough to keep last names off the internet)

And thus began one of the best childhoods that's ever existed. There was no fighting, never any screaming or harsh words. There was no critical eye or judgmental tone at my house. I was loved, spoiled, cared for, doted upon, and surrounded by loving family and friends, and rarely wanted for anything. It was exactly what adoption was designed to do - take a baby out of a bad situation with a mother that was not able to provide, and place that baby with a family who wanted a child more than anything on the Earth. And that's exactly what happened.