I’ve grown up believing I never had a father. I mean, I recognized that it took two humans to create another human but I’ve never thought I actually had a male someone who (along with my mother) created me. The narrative I told myself sounded something like; “I know that there must another person who got my mother pregnant but I don’t care about them… I’m only thinking about her… he is inconsequential”

Yesterday, on the spur of the moment I called my adoptive mother to ask her about my adoption. It’s been years since I brought this subject up to her. In the past, when I have asked, she’s been emotional, violent, unstable etc. So, I’ve more or less learned not to bring it up suddenly or to take whatever information she gives me and not really question her.  However, since I am on this spiritual journey I followed spirit yesterday and just asked her.

Since we don’t have a very good relationship there wasn’t a lot of small talk before I said, “I’m doing some research and wanted to ask you about my adoption” (I braced myself)

“Sure. What do you want to know?” (phew)

“What do you know about my mother?”, she’s told me before but each time it’s different, so I sorta’ asked to see if there’d been any changes.

“Oh.  She was a domestic worker. Young,  really pretty, really light, in fact, you couldn’t really tell she was Guatemalan, so light. She lived on a farm,  the man had “relations” with her and she got pregnant. Oh… what was his name?  The finca owner… Marquez” (WHAT?!? there is a man.. and he has a name?!?! and his name is Marquez and he got my mom pregnant and that means… there is a man who made me… there is a man… who is my father… a man who’s familial blood I have streaming through my body and his name is Marquez)

She went on to say a lot of other things, most of which were just hard to hear her say, like how I must have “good” stuff because my daughter was/is so light and stuff about the adoption that I had heard before but the hardest and newest thing was about my father. MY father….like… I have a father… and whether or not he wants to know about me, I (now) want to know about him.

In fact, I want to know about ALL of it. For the first time in my life, I want to go home. I want to go home so so so bad that it all hurts.  Being here, being a worker and being a mother in another country, not MY country, hurts.  I want to know everything about where I come from. I want to know about my mestiza blood and I want to know about my Mayan heritage. I want to feel the earth that comes from MY country underneath my feet. I want to understand my story and I want my KIDS to have this history. To have this story. To know more… because I know I’ve taught them SO SO SO much about who they are but this tremendous emptiness stands here until the story is full.

I am not in a place today to forgive my white adoptive mother for “ordering” a baby, special delivered to her missionary home, an “order” she “forgot” about even (more on that later) but I also don’t want to be in a bad place with her forever, so I am trying to sit in my feelings around this and just allow them to be.

And I AM angry. And HURT. And know that I may never find my people. But I have to acknowledge that I need to share this story, share this journey, because it is part of my healing process, it is part of my truth and I believe that telling our truths IS a healing agent.

This is my first blog about this. There will be more to come. In fact, I hope that this will become a larger document. I thank you for reading this and would love to hear your story too.

All praises to our higher spirits for finding us and showing us the way.


(Thank you to a dear friend for sending me this:))

How Do We Forgive Our Fathers?

Dick Lourie*

How do we forgive our Fathers?

Maybe in a dream

Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever?

When we were little?

Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage

Or making us nervous

Because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.

Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?

For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?

And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?

Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning

for shutting doors

for speaking through walls

or never speaking

or never being silent?

Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs

or their deaths

saying it to them or not saying it?

If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

* This poem was read during the closing credits of the incredible film “Smoke Signals”. It was originally published in a longer version titled “Forgiving Our Fathers” in a book of poems titled Ghost Radio.


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