Being adopted has never been a big deal for me. I was adopted at birth, and I’ve always known about it, so I guess I just integrated that fact into my worldview and kept on trucking (as they said in my youth).
But for some reason, right now I’m really keen on learning more about my social and medical background. Maybe it’s my impending birthday–I mean, if my father’s side of the family has a history of fatal heart attacks in their mid-30s, I wanna know about it.
I’m not interested in meeting my birth parents, though. I’ve had enough experience with Mississippians to know I’m not a good fit for the Hospitality State. It took me a quarter-century just to find some common ground with my adopted family, so I hate jumping to conclusions and all, but my guess is that after the first five minutes, a “reunion” with my birth parents would sound a bit like one hand clapping. Why prove myself right?
Oh, and those people on Sally-Jesse-Mother-Love-Springer who get all weepy and obsessive about “the father I never knew”? I don’t get it. Sure, they’ve got a right to want to know their birth parents, but how can you get that worked up about two people you’ve never met and whose only tie to you is a simple fact of biology? Frankly, I think those folks have watched too many smarmy after-school specials and have built up a reserve of hackneyed emotional turmoil. But maybe that’s just me being bitter and jaded and misanthropic.
Nah.
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