I’m probably never going to meet any of the people who were in my life before I met my parents, before I came to the US. Oh, I might be able to track them down — unlike some of my friends, I was one of the lucky ones. I have the names and cities of my birth parents. And part of me really wants to find them, part of me really wants to meet people who are actually biologically related to me. Part of me wants to know whether I look like them, whether I inherited any of their traits or skills. Part of me wants to know — know for sure, know for certain — whether they loved me. Did they give me up because they didn’t want me, or because they wanted a better life for me?
One of the things that’s most holding me back from delving into that unknown is that I don’t think they could handle who I now am. And I know I can’t currently handle bringing who I am to them. How would you tell a woman that her baby girl, the baby she gave up those many years ago, isn’t a girl? With the language barriers, the cultural differences, could it even be possible to explain who I am in terms that they would understand? Continue reading