Those Pesky DNA Surprises

In this age of inexpensive DNA testing and matching – it happens. In The Guardian’s advice column by Annalisa Barbieri, a woman notes and then asks LINK>”I just found out who my real father is. What do I do now?” To which the columnist offers some reasonable advice – “DNA tests can reveal some huge hidden secrets. Take time to process your own feelings before coming to terms with your new family tree.”

The woman writes – I’m happily married with adult children, and grandchildren. One of my children bought me a DNA testing kit and when I received the results I was taken aback to discover that the man I thought was my father was not actually my biological parent.

She further adds these details – My parents were married for some years before I arrived and I have no siblings. My mother was a loving, kind person and growing up I was surrounded by a loving maternal extended family. My father was a “difficult” character, emotionally abusive and distant. He never told me he loved me and I know he made my mother’s life hell at times.

Adding some more details, she continues – I’ve discovered that my biological father was a work colleague of my mother’s. At the time of my conception he was also married with a 10-year-old daughter. We lived in a rural community and I met him and his wife on many occasions. He seemed to be a kind, intelligent man. Both he and my mother died a few years ago.

My mind’s in turmoil; I have so many questions that I know can’t be answered. I’m frustrated that I will never know the truth of the situation. Did other people in the family know when I didn’t?

I’ve told my husband but I’ve decided to not tell my children – I don’t want to upset their memories of a loving grandmother but I don’t know if this is the correct thing to do.

The other issue is his daughter, my half-sister. I’m sad that I’ve never had the chance to have a sibling relationship with her and never will because I will not tell her of my discovery.

I would appreciate your thoughts.

Annalisa Barbieri begins her response compassionately – “What a shock for you. I hope you are taking time to absorb it because this is seismic news. And it’s becoming more common now that DNA testing is so readily available. Lots of secrets that were once thought buried are being exposed. It makes it even harder when the people involved are dead and you can’t ask questions.”

A family psychotherapist, Reenee Singh, acknowledged – “it’s so de-stabilizing to realize the reality you grew up with isn’t what you thought.”

Both the advice columnist and the family psychotherapist agreed – she really should tell her children. The rationale was “Your children are adults and there’s a natural ‘in’ there as your daughter bought you a DNA test. what you don’t want is your children or grandchildren discovering this one day when they may take a DNA test.”

It’s always a good idea to process your own initial feelings first. You may wish to avail yourself of therapy. When you tell your children, you want to be neutral and factual. After you tell your own children, leave it to them to tell your grandchildren.

It was not clear whether this woman already had contact with her half-sibling. So, it was suggested that after she’s told her own children, to post the results on the genealogy site that processed her DNA. The half-sibling might then find that result and make contact in the future.

They emphasized that coming to terms with an unexpected surprise is a process. The advice columnist notes that “there’s a lot for you to work through, not only a new father figure but a whole new family story.” The psychotherapist wondered if this news doesn’t provide a sense of relief, as the father the woman knew as such was a complicated relationship for her. Going forward, in order to resolve her feelings towards her deceased mother, she should try to understand the situation that her mother lived through. This revelation certainly doesn’t mean that she still doesn’t love her mother.

Foster Experience Truth

Totally short on time yet again but this is not the first time I have seen this kind of experience shared by a person who spent time in foster care.

I really need to get something off my chest tonight. I’m trauma dumping in a weird way. This trauma still bothers me to this day and I just can’t fully get past it… maybe because I don’t fully understand. I’m going to share some information that may be “foggish”, but I’m about about to be extremely vulnerable.

I had ONE amazing foster home out of the 50+ (yes you read that right) that I was in over the course of 6 years (because no one wanted pre teens and teens where I lived, so there was a ton of short term placements), and ironically this was also my last foster home. For many it doesn’t matter, but I was the only white child up in her home. You’d think it’d be odd (this was the south in the 90s), but God yall this woman her husband, and her kids never treated me any differently, provided me the same opportunities they did their own biological kids, and did more for me in my time with her than anyone ever did. She fostered dozens of teens, mamas and babies, and everything in between… She was our champion in dark times and our biggest cheerleader in the good.

Y’all. When I finally ended up at this woman’s home with her, her husband, and her children – I was completely broken. I had been abandoned as a preteen by my family. I was abused in foster homes both physically, mentally, emotionally, and sexually before her. I was “lost” by the system numerous times over disappearing for weeks and no one knew I was gone. I was sexually trafficked across several states while running away. I had just made front page news in Arkansas defending myself related to a 48 year old man at 16 years old, for what he and his friends (including a 911 dispatcher) did to me. The news back then published my full name, where I was from, that I was a runaway foster child from the city and state I ran from… and even more details. I was a vulnerable, broken, desperate and scared CHILD.

Looking back… I have to ask why NO ONE other than her cared enough to protect me before her. If it wasn’t for her and her husband sitting me down and talking with me days at a time (in the living room with chocolate and popcorn)… I’m not sure I’d even be alive anymore. Yes. I ultimately ran from her home too (because I had found out I was pregnant from the Texas rape and my caseworker had already warned me if I got pregnant they would force me to have an abortion and tie my tubes)… I have been given so many WHYS… but they could never answer my questions, no matter how hard they tried. Sadly, they said the system had failed me numerous times over. I know that one good home closed down not long after I left. So, maybe someone can answer these, so they’ll stop haunting me at night. The biggest one being why powerful men and women were able to successfully get away with this.

Why was my mother not criminally charged for taking me to Div of Family and Children’s Services with a duffle bag and dropping me off on the 3rd floor saying she didn’t know how to raise a teen?

Why did a foster home allow a 17 year old boy to room with a 13 year old girl in bunkbeds and when I started complaining of pain, ignored it telling me I needed to go on birth control instead of whining.

Why did a foster home allow her older foster girls to “take care of” younger foster kids including beating them (I started having seizures following one of those girls bashing my head into a wall because I told the school counselor she was hitting me and the foster mom told her to “take care of it” for her).

Why did a foster home get away with keeping a locked fridge with food/snacks for the family only, and locked cabinets with the same rules. Foster children were only allowed to eat at meals. Otherwise food was off limits.

Why was a foster dad allowed to stay in the room with me during a pap smear, even after I told the doctor I wasn’t ok with that?

Why did a foster home with a psychologist mom and a police officer dad allow and encourage me to date their 35 year old firefighter neighbor.

Why did a caseworker encourage me to run somewhere “fun”, for her to come and retrieve me from, and rewarded me with a mini shopping spree, when I called her from a pay phone in Vegas after my plane landed.

Why was a foster home allowed to have locks reversed on all the foster children’s bedrooms, essentially locking us in our rooms at night?

Why didn’t a foster home didn’t get in trouble for failing to report me as a runaway for nearly 2 months?

Why did foster homes do “round circles” where the teens were to hold “accountability meetings” and name calling, targeting weaknesses, etc – why was this encouraged ? I was called a sl*t, wh*re, my sexual activities shared with the other girls, my rapes talked about with them… and they were able to dissect them and tell me how it was all my fault – and the same done to others. Nothing was confidential.

Why did a foster mom have kids eat in shifts and if you didn’t get to the table in time before dinner was gone, you got nothing to eat (her table sat 6, she fostered six kids and had three of her own).

Why did my guardian ad litem tell me more than once that no one cared about me and when I ended up dead, it wouldn’t surprise anyone.

Why was a retired police officer and Texas state prison worker comfortable taking me, 15 years old at the time, into BDSM parties and sharing me with their friends. No one questioned my age, and the host of said party was a DHS caseworker in Texas.

Why did the police in Texas, when I called after being raped, tell me I deserved what happened to me, playing in a grown up’s world and placed me in juvenile detention, until my caseworker came and got me three weeks later.

Why when what happened in Arkansas made the news, the foster home encouraged me to speak with the media and their lawyers, and in turn these people were comfortable and allowed them to post all of my identifying information, allowed me to defend myself against a 48 year old man and his friends who abused me and used me for their gain.

Why did the judge call me an upcoming prostitute and a whore for older men “off the record” after court ended one day and tell me she could throw ME in jail because I was sexually active (sexually trafficked) with married men and adultery was illegal in our state.

Why after I ran from this lovely woman’s home and came out pregnant… the ER called from a different state (underage minor and all that) and my caseworker refused to return calls? Instead she faxed documentation that I was emancipated and not their problem.

Why did the state, after my baby was born, feel comfortable threatening me saying emancipation wasn’t a real thing and telling me I could go to jail, keeping my daughter, and me never seeing her again, etc because I was a rape victim, until I signed private adoption papers… and the day after it was cleared, they suddenly recognized and admitted the emancipation was valid and never contacted me again….

I’m hoping that someone can help me… because therapy sure as heck isn’t cutting it.

The Adopted Trilogy

Meggan Larson’s 3rd book is anticipated but not yet available.

Meggan’s story about Olivia Jackson is somewhat her own story – adopted by loving white parents as a baby, the half-Black teen thrives but yearns to belong. I know this from a blog on Meggan’s website – LINK>Half & Half But Never Whole.

In her blog, she writes – When I was ten years old I attended a summer camp at a new school. The very first day I became friends with a few girls; most of them were white and another was black. I was thrilled to make new friends on my first day and I remember going back the next day full of excitement. 

I ran up to my group of friends and failed to notice the changed vibe. The leader of the group turned to me and said: “We’ve decided that we can only have one black girl in our group.” 

I stood there confused because I didn’t understand. I was half black and I lived with a white family. Surely she wasn’t talking about me? She went on… “We chose her.” 

She pointed to the other black girl who was looking down at the ground and then they all turned their backs to me and kept talking amongst themselves. I walked away slowly, shrugged my shoulders as though it didn’t bother me, and swallowed it down because at the time the only way to process that kind of pain was simply not to. I didn’t make other friends at that camp and frankly I struggled to make any friends at all from that point on.

The memory of that experience came up recently during a powerful session and I sobbed for that little girl whose heart was shattered. My daughter is the same age I was then and that fact broke me even more because I couldn’t imagine her going through something so awful simply because of the color of her skin. 

You can read the rest of that blog at the link above. So, now on to her 2 books of the 3 she plans for her trilogy. Some details from Amazon’s page – LINK>The Adopted Trilogy (because I own a Kindle, the site comes up there, therefore my link, but there are hardcover and paperback editions of her books available at Amazon).

There’s a piece missing from her life. Will a teenager’s road trip in search of her biological mother bring her the healing she craves? Book #1 Adopted is the emotional first book in the Adopted YA coming-of-age trilogy. If you like relatable heroines, shocking revelations, and learning to trust, then you’ll love Meggan Larson’s courageous drive to enlightenment.

Book #2 Fractured picks up after Oliva meets her biological mother. That meeting had left her with more questions. Desperate to find a place she belongs, in book two, she sets out to find her birth father. She is convinced that she will be the one to save him from a life in and out of prison. When tragedy strikes, Olivia must decide what’s worth fighting for, and what – or who (her boyfriend, Lucas?), will be left behind.

(blogger’s note – that is NOT a spoiler, just my guess about the “who”, since I haven’t read her books yet.)

Meggan Larson is an award winning author (best selling on Amazon), course creator, wife, mom, and adoptee. She currently lives in Ottawa Canada with her husband and three children. She helps women tell their beautiful, powerful, and authentic stories. Connect with her over at her website, LINK>meggan LARSON – “Come Fly With Me”.

Secrets No Longer

You won’t be able to access this story by LINK>Mindy Stern if you are not some level of “member” at Medium. I no longer have a paid membership but they allow me a few stories per month and I am careful not to use them all. You can still read what Mindy writes about adoption at her website linked above. I will simply excerpt some of the LINK>Medium – story “I Found My Father On The Internet” here.

It begins with her revealing – Two days earlier, I found my biological father and two half-sisters on the internet: pictures, addresses, phone numbers, Facebook profiles. My cell phone vibrated. Holy shit. It was the number I called two days earlier.

“Oh my god, its him,” I said to my daughter relaxing on my bed. “Pick it up!” I picked up my phone and my daughter picked up hers and opened her camera to video, aimed it at me and hit record. I found some words to say out loud.

“Hi yes, thanks so much for calling me back. So, you knew my mother, Gloria Gerwin?”

“Yes, of course I remember Gloria,” said this stranger on the other end. I covered my mouth and fell to my knees.

It’s him. I know it’s him.

Two weeks later in Madrid, she notes –  let me tell you, until you have spent 26 fucking years searching for your father and he says, “I would have raised you if I knew,” you do not know your capacity to be moved.

She writes about viewing – The Garden Of Earthly Delights (in Madrid, which) tells the story of human’s struggle with morality. It admonishes the sin of lust and celebrates the joy of pleasure. It is fear and abandon; seeking and finding; risk and failure; creation and destruction. It is humanity in all its flawed magnificence and it is the story of life. In its complex beauty, I saw myself and my long, painful search for healing.

And back to how she found her father – I hadn’t checked my Ancestry account in months. My DNA had been there for a decade, and for a decade I got nothing more than distant cousins. No one who could help me find my father so I stopped checking it. But for some reason, that Sunday morning, I decided to check my account.

I had a 1st-to-2nd cousin match. Henry Minis. He had been there for six months. With trembling hands, I Googled his name, then searched his Facebook friends for someone who looked like me. I didn’t find that face or blue eyes or brown hair like mine, but I discovered everyone with the last name Minis lived in Savannah so I Googled “Minis family Savannah” and then, well.

The Minis family were the first settlers of Savannah, Jews like me, and the world wide web had a lot of information about them. Two hours after I began sleuthing, I found him. My first father. My God, I have younger sisters who look just like me.

I spent the day anxiously scouring the web, texting friends, asking what to do. Call? Write a letter? Reach out to my sisters first? My birthmother died before I found her, I didn’t have to contend with these questions or anxieties, didn’t have to strategize my introduction like it was the war plan of a conquering army. But now there were real live humans who might tell me to fuck off or might tell me hello, welcome to the family. So now, every choice felt like life or death, war or peace.

Late that afternoon — evening on his east coast — I impulsively called him. I left a duplicitous message on his voice mail. “Hi, this is Mindy Stern, my mother was Gloria Gerwin, she passed away, I found your name in her papers. I’m writing a book about her and wondering if you remember her, you might share your memories.”

The following day, I reached out to my sisters, messaged them on Facebook. I told them I believed their father was mine too, that I didn’t think he knew. My mother died not telling anyone about me, I wanted nothing more than health information and to know where and who I came from. I made all my social media public so they could see I was not a serial killer. I was a respectable human being any right-minded person would want to know.

Adoptees have to explain, qualify, reassure and beg for mercy from strangers we hope will understand our need and want and treat us with dignity.

That night, my sisters responded. They said they were shocked but thrilled, and open to a relationship. We corresponded for hours, exchanging family photos and life stories. Their kindness filled my soul like a prayer sung loud in a crowded church. We all agreed that Hal would never respond to the bananas message I left him.

And then he did. He denied having sex with my mother. Then, I said – DNA.

He remembered their nights together and said yes, I must be your father. He asked what I wanted. I assured him nothing more than information. He was so kind. I then told him I made contact with his daughters. He then said mean and angry words. He told me because I did that, I may never hear from him again.

My daughter stopped recording when she saw my face shift to despair. I hung up and sobbed. I then composed myself, got my shit together. I reminded myself I am an imperfect human and maybe I made a mistake. Or maybe I didn’t. But I was okay either way. I had a loving family and fulfilling life and fuck, I hated having to do this. This reaching out. This risking and falling.

Two hours later, as I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and blue skies shone through my windshield, my phone vibrated again and with it my body. I answered his call on the first ring and he said he was sorry. He told me he was just shocked. “If I knew, I would have raised you.” Three hours later we hung up.

My story is one of hope and perseverance. My story is also one of great grief, profound emptiness, and the struggle to reconcile with what could have been. Who would I be if I grew up knowing who I looked like or why I love writing or have fat toes and a genetic predisposition to psoriasis and anxiety? Who would I be if my life was defined by answers rather than questions? I don’t know — can’t know — all I know is this:

We are here, in this Garden of Earthly Delights, to find a way to embrace the contradiction, to embrace our contrasting parts, to accept our beauty and ugliness and the beauty and ugliness of humankind.

We are not here to compartmentalize, although we do that so well. We are here to overcome. To thrive, grow and flourish. To love and to mourn. To stick it out as best we can, having some fun and debauchery along the way.

blogger’s note – I share her story because I’ve had similar experiences hunting down my own genetic relations. It can be fearful and exciting – all at the same time.