Roots
I always feel a little odd when I think about my “roots.” Same with blood and blood lines and “family ties.” It is because I am adopted and I simply don’t know how to “hold” these words in my soul.
I simply haven’t ever been able to make a decision about how to think about these concepts. I have always known it would be easier if I had some… conviction about it. It is the indecision that comes with having to choose which family to identify with as my connection to the past, my ancestors. It leaves me feeling a bit lost.
My Wall of “Ancestors”
I know I could decide to call either my biological family my “roots” or my adopted family my “family ties.” But neither quite feels true to me. I have always been comforted by the stories in both families that I am a tiny bit Cherokee. Somehow by having the same lineage in both families, it is true. I feel connection to the possessions of those I loved and those of their ancestors that they loved. I feel less connected to family reunions, family trees, and the concept of “ancestors.” When I was 21 years old my birth mother searched for me. I met her and much of her family. They were nice people and I enjoyed visiting with them. I was in a relationship with them for a while and then for a variety of reasons backed away for a number of years. I reconnected with my birth mother a few years ago. It is a fairly casual relationship now–we talk by phone a few times a year.
I have liked the concept of genealogy and tracing roots since I first heard of it. I love the idea of being a detective, tracing people through genealogical lines and learning their stories. But I always stop before I engage because I wouldn’t know which family to trace. Neither feels right. My biological family because it is lacking the love—I don’t really care how I am related to these strangers; and my adopted family, my real family, because ancestry seems less important if I am not genetically related to my ancestors.
My family has some interesting biological non-connections. I am adopted and my brother is the biological child of my parents—I used to make my mother scream by saying “I am adopted and my brother is “real””. It wasn’t how she thought of us and I was really just playing when I said it. I was a beloved adopted child and very much the beloved grandchild in my family. That love was real.
I have a biological daughter and twin boys who we birthed using IVF and my partners eggs. I carried them. My brother has one adopted daughter. So, my parents are not biologically related to any of their 4 grandchildren.
There are few corners of my mind that have as many cobwebs as this idea of “roots.” My roots are having the power to pick and choose what grounds me. Perhaps, in place of a family tree, I have choices about what I embrace as my own history. When I chose Mel and had kids, I became an ancestor and I rather like that thought. I have made them my family, as we all do with our offspring. I hope I can give my children the gift of teaching them to choose what stories they want to carry with them about the idea of ancestors. Their stories are even more complex than mine with adoptions, fertility treatment, and grafted family trees.
If you think of a tree rooted into the ground, there forever, then we have roots that have been dug up, altered and changed. I have to decide which roots will keep me grounded, connected, feed me, and form my foundation. How do I keep my balance so I don’t get blown away?
