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by Eric Smith

  Anyway, my dad overheard me and my mom talking, and he freaked the fuck out. We all had a talk as a family about me wanting to search, and even though he didn’t say much at the time, I thought he was cool with it. Now he’s acting like an ass, like I’m trying to punish him. It’s like he thought I was joking around when I said I wanted to know who my mom was. I don’t care if he reads this either. I was always raised to speak my mind and I’m not stopping now. One day I want to be a full-fledged reporter, so he needs to get used to me writing about real things. Well, I actually want to be a photojournalist and go to war-torn countries and expose their bullshit. Ours here at home, too.

  Back to my dad. Now, when I asked about my natural parents, my mom was the cool one. She said she expected that I would ask someday. My goal is to find my parents before I graduate from high school. Being that I love investigative work, I treated it like a journalism class assignment. I did my interviews (my mom and dad), got them to give up some sources (information about the adoption agency), reviewed my research notes, and went to work. Initially, sometime after contacting the adoption agency, I was told that the office building they used to work in burned down in a bad fire and my records were misplaced. When I told my parents, my mom looked sad for me, but my dad looked relieved. It hurt my feelings, but I guess he just doesn’t want to deal with it. I don’t know why he’s so concerned. I’m the one who has to deal with everything anyway. My dad comes from a close family. My granddad still falls all over him when we see him. “My son, the doctor,” he says, all loud when we’re out in public so everyone can hear him. He doesn’t know how it feels to always wonder why you weren’t wanted.

  My mom’s family is mad dry. They are cordial and semi-friendly, but very aristocratic. Everything is a show. My grandma Ruth always has to list my educational achievements and any applicable awards first before she ever introduces me as her granddaughter to anyone. She probably thinks she is being complimentary, but I always wondered if I were white if she would bother. Probably not. People expect white kids to be smart.

  Yup, I keep it real around here, folks, so please don’t get in your feelings.

  In a world of lies, I need to tell my truth at all times.

  My mom gets along with her mother, but at times they act more like friendly socialites than like mother and daughter. Sorry Mom, but you know it’s true, if you’re reading this. That’s why I think she is okay with me searching. She is a good mom. I can talk to her about a lot of stuff, but there are times that she is lost when it comes to my blackness. But she does try her best. Even though I’m annoyed with him right now, I have to admit that my dad puts in a decent effort at times too. One day I came home and my mom was making dinner (a rare thing), and she had some Kendrick Lamar playing! Granted, it was turned down as low as humanly possible. I asked her how she knew about Kendrick’s music, and she said she didn’t, she just knew I liked hip-hop and found a SiriusXM station that played it. My dad smirked a little before greeting me and giving me a hug that day.

  My dad can be a sweetheart, so that’s why it was so hard to take him being mean to me yesterday. I had received a call from the court intermediary, the person who worked with the local court to help me find my parents, and she told me that my adoption records had been found and that she was a step closer to finding my natural parents. When he heard me telling my mom, he interrupted us and asked if my mother had forgotten about a work dinner they were invited to. When my mom said she was discussing something with me and that she’d get ready afterward, he huffed. When I tried to include him in the conversation, he said he didn’t want to hear it and that I should leave my mother alone so she could get dressed. He raised his voice and everything! I don’t usually cry easily, but I bawled before going to sleep last night. I think I was sad and upset and scared. Sad and upset about my dad being foul to me and scared of what the rest of the search process would bring. Things were already changing. We had a nice family. Everything wasn’t perfect, but I was loved and content. Why did I go looking anyway? Shouldn’t my parents have come looking for me instead? Enough about me and my woes. I’m not running through the 6. I’m just trying to get through my days in the 212.

  Blog Entry 31: August 8, 2015

  Pictured: Marilyn and Jenna (James) Dean. It was hard not to notice Jenna. Her mom still calls her by her given name, but she said that she prefers to go by Jenna, which is a name she chose for herself. I ask why and she says, “I am the modern-day rebel without a cause.” She is growing into her pretty, but I can still see the boy in her. She is sixteen years old, tall, lean, and muscular, and her long hair is curly and black and shaved on the sides with pink highlights. It’s a Mohawk that Nicki Minaj would love. Her makeup is flawless—bright pink lips against ivory skin and perfectly drawn-on eyebrows that frame soul orbs that are lined for the Gods. Her mom, Miss Marilyn, probably won a lot of beauty pageants and has a sweet face, but she looks like she doesn’t play and that she’s still coming to terms with the fact that her son identifies as a girl.

  Interview Audio: Miss Marilyn shifted to one leg and held her shopping bags in front of her and shared this about Jenna: “What can I say? When someone feels differently than they look, you have to support them. I love my child. Period. I’m still trying to understand it all, but I want my kid happy and if this is what makes (she pauses) her happy then I’m all for it. Jenna looks at her mom like this is the first time she’s hearing her say this and gives her a hug. Photo finish.

  Acceptance, admiration, and love are definitely dope, aren’t they? Speaking of, this boy is my whole heart. Well, when he’s not working my nerves. He’s a nerd who tries to be street. He’s sitting right under me as I write this. I ain’t scared. He knows my pen is savage. This is one of the few places I can totally be me, and I never allow a word unthought-of to be unwritten if I think it works. People better be glad this isn’t a vlog. Okay, he’s gone now so I can really talk about him. We’re meeting up later to go to the movies, but I needed my fix before then. Thankfully my mom and dad like him, which is kind of rare. They usually don’t like my boyfriends, but Eric knows how to talk to them and highlight all of his scholarly ambitions rather than his hood dreams. I still don’t know why he tries so hard when his parents are just as rich and privileged as mine. He kind of looks like Evan Ross—he’s just a tad darker. He has tats, but he keeps them hidden whenever he visits me. I met him at Central Park. Lame, right? I was sitting on a park bench when he came up to me and sat down. I was annoyed at first, but his smile wiped the side-eye off my face. Then when we started talking, I was actually enjoying it. He was funny and chill and that’s what I like. If I want serious situations, I don’t have to look that far for them in my own life. Having someone to make you laugh takes the pressure off sometimes.

  When he first met my folks, he gave me a look, but he didn’t freak out. That made it easier to share stuff about my adoption. He knows that I’m waiting on news about my natural parents, and he’s been mad cool about it. He asks me how I’m feeling, but he doesn’t press too much. He gives me space to think. It’s that perfect mix of concern without being obnoxious or acting like he doesn’t care at all. Yeah, he’s cool. I’m keeping him.

  Now, my girl Jayla is another story altogether. We’ve been best friends since grade school, but she likes to act like my adoption doesn’t exist. After so many conversations about it, I thought she would be more supportive. It hurts my feelings, but I keep it to myself. If I complained, she’d just say I was being butt-hurt, so why bother? Just like that time when I tearfully confided in her that when I asked to get my hair twisted, we had to have a family meeting. I had to sit between my two white parents and discuss whether wearing the hair that grows naturally out of my head would cause me issues at school. I was angry that I couldn’t just go and get my hair done like other black girls. Being the brown daughter in an affluent white family was always so damn political. Jayla thought I was being a spoiled brat and said she wis
hed her parents cared enough to question her choices. She didn’t get it. I’m very sensitive when it comes to people who feel misunderstood so that’s why when I saw this mother and daughter a while back when I was hanging out, I knew I had to get a picture and hear their story.

  Blog Entry 45: September 4, 2015

  Pictured: Donna and Evangeline. I never thought I’d get my own mom to appear on this blog or take a selfie with me, but today she did both. Normally she has what some call RBF, but in this photo she’s radiating something warm in her eyes even though she’s still not smiling. I’m not smiling either, but I like how our heads are almost touching. Most people will see my brownness and her whiteness, and that is what I used to see too in our pics, but here and now, I just see my mom.

  It’s been a few weeks since I received the news, but I needed some time to be alone with it. The court intermediary reported back like she said she would and told me that my natural mom and dad died in a house fire a few years ago. My mom and dad were in the room with me when I found out, and I’m glad I didn’t have to face the news alone. My dad gave me the longest hug in history, and my mom kept asking me over and over how I was doing that day. They usually are very controlled people so it was weird seeing them so helpless. I was hurt, but I didn’t want my parents to think I loved two people I hadn’t met before more than them, so I just held a lot of my feelings in. I didn’t even cry until I went to bed that night. Actually, I cried all night off and on. I fired up my computer and blasted Beyoncé the whole time so my parents wouldn’t hear me. I didn’t even recognize the sound of my cries. I sounded like a hurt animal. I have never known pain like this, and it’s confusing. Why am I so hurt even though I didn’t know them?

  The next day my parents asked me if I wanted to go do something special like go to the outlet malls or take a trip, and I told them that I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t say it in a mean way. I just wanted to get up and walk around when I wanted to, or if I wanted to get in my car and go for a drive I could. I didn’t want to be stuck in a car with anyone else or on anyone’s airplane. From minute to minute I felt different. I was either angry, weepy, or pissed off, or I felt nothing, and I needed room to move around while I was feeling all of these things. I loved them for wanting to make it better, but you can’t shop away the fact that your natural parents had died and you never got a chance to know them. I felt like a weird organism floating around. I had Donna and Gene and they were as good as parents could be because no one’s parents are perfect, but . . . I need to write this to get it out. I was not born to them. I don’t know how that feels and now I will never know and it’s ripping me up inside. Oh, and the guilt. Even just typing that makes me feel like shit. Of course Donna and Gene are mine, but not tied by blood like the moms and daughters I speak to for this blog.

  I also went back to a shrink. But a new one. He specializes in helping others who are dealing with adoption issues. I immediately felt more comfortable with him because he told me that he was adopted, too. I’ve never met anyone else who was. My mom told me that she’s not letting me get out of going this time around. She said she’ll even come with me, and my dad said he would, too, and for him that is huge because he doesn’t like sharing family business.

  I plan on doing my therapy and spending more quality time with my parents, Eric, and even Jayla. We haven’t spoken too much about what’s going on, but she texts me every day now, and she brought me some books and t-shirts the other day. I have a feeling I’m going to have a lot to write about after processing all of this, so stay tuned.

  Bonus Photo: Stacey Fullerton and William Payne Jr. These are separate photos I found online of my natural parents after I received more information from the court officer. I cropped them together so it looks like he’s holding her. I look a lot like my mom. She looks a little like Sanaa Lathan but edgier, and my dad resembles a football player that I can’t remember the name of. He’s huge, like a big teddy bear. They look to be in their early twenties in these images. When it comes to them, I will forever wonder how and why and what, although I may be getting some more information as I asked the court intermediary if she could help me connect with more family members. Maybe that can be my next blog project.

  Tameka Mullins is a writer, poet, blogger and author of 12 Hours of Daylight – A Jason Jules Novella (CreateSpace/BookBaby, 2017) who spent the first half of her life in Detroit and now resides in Brooklyn. Her work has been featured by NPR’s Tell Me More during National Poetry Month. A social media professional with over ten years of experience, she enjoys live tweeting shows like Empire, Scandal, and Game of Thrones. Join her at @tamstarz. She currently works as a digital marketing consultant during the day and pursues her creative passions as a hybrid author at night. You can learn more about her at tamekamullins.com.

  “Talking and writing about adoption will always be important to me because even though I reunited with my natural family, I still feel fragmented. Processing my broken past through discourse, essays, and stories helps to heal me and possibly may help others heal, too. I’ve accepted that this mind-, body-, and soul-mending is a lifelong dance, and writing is the music.”

  A Lesson in Biology

  by Sammy Nickalls

  Let me tell you something that may or may not make you think less of me. I mean, okay, I can’t imagine you’d actually think less of me. I hate something, but it’s not like I hate cute puppies or deep-dish pizza or world peace.

  I hate trees.

  Okay, yes, I understand they are essential to life on Earth as we know it—not only for us, but for millions of cute little woodland creatures who make trees their home. Before you jump to any conclusions (ugh, like stupid Shelby Rigley did two years ago during our ninth-grade class field trip to the state park), let me clarify that I do not want said little woodland creatures to die a terrible death. Got that? Not a crazy genocidal maniac who specializes in exterminating chipmunks.

  Cool, moving on.

  Yes, I know that trees can live a ridiculously long life, which is great and all. In fact, I know very well that there’s a bristlecone pine in White Mountains, California, that is over 5,000 years old, meaning it’s one of the oldest living organisms in the entire world. Trees can stand the test of time. Many of them can weather even the worst of storms. They are majestic, strong, and beautiful.

  Yes, yes. I get all of this.

  But I still don’t like them.

  Stupid Shelby Rigley said (or rather, screamed obnoxiously, as she tends to do) that my hatred for trees automatically makes me some anti-environmentalist jerk, as if I’m some evil villain in a Pixar movie. But I’m not a monster or anything.

  I hate trees because it’s totally inconceivable to me that these majestic, practically ancient organisms don’t have the ability to move. From the moment they’re planted until the day they die, they’re lodged in the same place, rigid as my great-great aunt Mildred, who has had the same ugly living room furniture for the past seven decades. It’s all a putrid shade of chartreuse with a way-too-busy floral print. Like, why? Who in the hell thought that was a good idea?

  Yeah, sure, trees grow—upward, and maybe a little outward. Other than that, when a tree is planted, that’s where it stays. Forever. And there’s no changing it, unless you cut it down and make it into paper. Or houses. Or more of that horrible furniture that my aunt loves so much. So why do we glorify them? Seems a little overrated to me, because what’s the use of living for five thousand years if you’re not willing to change—to adapt?

  Now, as I sit in biology class studying the paper on my desk in front of me, I can’t help but be darkly amused by the sight of an illustration of a healthy, vibrant tree . . . printed on a sheet of dead tree.

  “For tomorrow,” Mr. Stohler tells the class, taking long, purposeful strides around the classroom as he passes out the rest of the papers, “you are to fill out this entire tree. Not its biological parts, because as you
know, we studied trees last semester. Rather, you are to fill it out with your family members of the past four generations, ending with you and any siblings or first cousins at the bottom.”

  What amusement I once felt instantly evaporates. I glower at my paper as Mr. Stohler continues.

  Okay. So maybe there’s another reason why I hate trees.

  They . . . remind me of things I don’t have.

  “I also want you to write down three genetic attributes for every blood-related family member you include: their eye color, whether they have a widow’s peak, and whether they are double-jointed,” he explains, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. “I understand this may be difficult for any family members who are no longer with us, but ask the relatives that are. Fill it out to the best of your ability. And if it’s not totally complete, that’s okay.”

  He glances over nervously at Ted Hitz, who everyone knows just lost his dad last month.

  Whatever, Ted. My tree is going to be a hell of a lot barer than yours.

  I consider my options. Obviously, I won’t raise my hand in class and announce to my classmates that I’m adopted. I mean, they probably already know it, judging by the fact that my parents are blond, blue-eyed, and as pale as can be, and I’m, you know, not. But still, I’d strongly prefer not to draw attention to myself. I may have been born in Guatemala, but I’d like to maintain the illusion that I belong in Albion, Indiana, even if I’m well aware that it’s a blatant lie.

  But I also don’t want to approach Mr. Stohler at the end of the class like some sad little puppy-eyed child. He’d just assign me something else, or—worse—excuse me from the assignment entirely. Knowing him, he’ll probably have us talk about our findings in a class discussion, and being excused due to extenuating circumstances is the social equivalent of standing on my desk and screaming, “EVERYONE FEEL BAD FOR ME BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHO MY REAL MOMMY AND DADDY ARE.” Yeah, not happening.