In the Name of the Father

The social worker returned with a thick folder in her hands and leaned across the desk to hand my driver's license back to me. She settled into her chair, silently opened the thick folder, held it in her lap, and read the contents. She gazed upon a particular page for a few minutes. Then she closed the folder and looked across the desk at me. Smiling, she asked, "What are you looking for?" It was such a small question.

"I want to know about where I came from... I have some information, but there's one thing that's really important that I don't know. See, I've been searching in the microfiche marriage licenses records for LA County. I know their last name, and I have an idea of the time period when they got married. I think I can figure out who they are. Anyway, bride and groom's last names are listed separately on marriage licenses. When I was born, I was Baby Girl Ruxton. I need to know if Ruxton was her maiden name or her married name."

The social worker kept smiling and folded her hands across the folder. "Have you ever broken up with a boyfriend?"

"Sure," I answered.

"Would you want him coming back to bother you?

"No."

Not her, too, I thought. "Isn't that what you're doing?" she asked. "Your birth mother has her own life now, and you could cause her a lot of trouble by showing up. She put you up for adoption because she didn't want you in her life."

With an effort to keep my voice steady, I replied, "I just want answers. I don't have to be in her life. I want to know where I came from."

The social worker exhaled and sat back in her chair.

I continued, "I know you can't give me identifying information, but can I leave my own information in case she comes here? I'm old enough." My eyes shifted for a second to the wallet containing the driver's license that she had just returned. I had turned 18 a couple of weeks ago.

"You can do that. It will go into your file. If she contacts us, then we can release that information," she answered. She handed me a piece of paper and a pen. I carefully printed my name and telephone number on the paper.

"Do birth mothers ever contact this place to ask about that? Do you ever talk with them?" I asked.

"Not often," she answered.

"Have they...I mean, do they ever say that they think of the child on birthdays and stuff like that?"

"Actually, most birth mothers block out the birth date of the child they gave up for adoption. It's too painful for them to remember something like that. They even forget the name of this agency," the social worker explained.

"I know that you can't give me the information in the folder. But there are a lot of names to go through in the marriage licenses. I don't even know if they got married in Los Angeles County. Is there any way that you could let me know if Ruxton was her maiden name or her married name? It would make a huge difference-it would save hours of searching in the wrong direction."

The social worker sat without speaking. Then she leaned forward on her desk and looked directly in my eyes. "I can't give you any identifying information." She paused. "But, what I can tell you is that a woman in your birth mother's
situation-getting divorced and putting a child up for adoption-would probably not use her married name." She raised her eyebrows and asked, "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes!" I answered. "I understand. Thank you!" My heart leapt! I had renewed hope and new information. My one chance to get information from the agency that had arranged my adoption had not been fruitless. I got up to leave and thanked the social worker for seeing me.

"By the way, did you know that you have a sibling who's 2 years older?" the social worker asked. "I can't say anymore than that."

With that, I left the offices of the agency and returned to my search. For the next eleven years, I schlepped to downtown Los Angeles to sit in the records room. Every chance I got, I spent hours trudging through the procedural flotsam required to get on the other side of the varnished wooden door that guarded the enormous alphabetized books. I combed through those tomes, reading the names of thousands of brides and grooms.

On my 29th birthday, I took the opportunity to use my day off to work on my search. I had found my usual place in back corner, next to the microfiche machines, sheltered by the tall steel shelves. A familiar face appeared amongst the stacks; he was a clerk whom I had seen there before. He greeted me and went on with his business. A couple of hours later, he approached me and said, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." I answered.

"I see you here a lot. What are you doing?"

I briefly-and guardedly-explained my search. By this point, I had learned my search for my birth family could often elicit strong feelings in others. Reactions were unpredictable. To my relief, he was pleasant and chatted a little longer. I told him about my strategy to look for my mother's maiden name.

He asked for my birth date. Explaining that he had to get back to work, he turned away and headed towards a locked back room. He returned a couple of minutes later and handed me a scrap of folded paper.

"Happy birthday," he whispered and then left.

I opened my hand and looked at the paper. On that piece of paper were my date of birth and the names of my birth parents, including my mother's maiden name. It was not Ruxton. The social worker had lied. This lie had sent me off in the wrong direction for 11 years. This lie meant that I reconnected too late to know my Grammy and my younger brother. This lie reinforced a lifetime of a repeated message: be grateful for being adopted and forget about the part of you locked in your DNA, because that part of you doesn't count.

That was many years ago. Since that time, I know all of my birth family-maternal and paternal. I have my birth mother in my life, and I am in hers. ("She put you up for adoption because she didn't want you in her life.") I met my birth father before he passed away. I know my older sister ("By the way, did you know that you have a sibling who's 2 years older?"). I also have younger sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, and grandparents. They are real. Now I am a part of a river; I am no longer an isolated puddle.

My adoptive family and birth family know each other. My adoptive parents were supportive of my search from the beginning and have continued to be consistently supportive in my reunification.

When I think about the social worker who decided to play God that warm Los Angeles afternoon and take away the choice from my family and me, it almost seems surreal. It's challenging to fathom evil when you are face-to-face with it. But, all evil is balanced by goodness, and God places angels everywhere. Thank God for the angel who worked in the county records office.

~~~
I'm a Clinically Trained Adoption psychotherapist and I work exclusively with families of adoption.

Share your story and read more stories.