I guess it’s an appropriate day to share this little anecdote:
After twenty-eight years, I am back in contact with my Bio Dad.
I found my half-brother on Facebook and thought, why not.
So I sent a friend request.
And an avalanche of Mexicans descended on me. Half-brother called Bio D, Bio D got in touch, Step-mother wrote, friend requests came in from family I only met a few times, or not at all.
Turns out, not only did Bio D search for me for years, only to lose me again every time I moved, but Bio D is thrilled I made contact.
This has all happened within the last three weeks. I’ve been writing back and forth to one half-brother, to one Bio D, to one step-mother, and one paternal grandmother has even written on my FB wall. Others with the same last name or blood line ring the periphery with contact looming. Pictures and stories have been exchanged.
Given the vast enormity of the situation (nearly thirty years is a lot to catch up on–where does one start? Stop?) you can imagine the emotional kyack I’m paddling through poignant waters. But what was the one thing I was most concerned about initially?
Coming out. To a parent (and family) I haven’t seen since I was nine years old. (I turn 36 next week. I came out in general at 17. The math part is yours).
I didn’t make it a big thing. I explained that I moved to the UK with my partner (the word partner in the states generally refers to just us LGBT folks, not to both hetero and homo like it does here), and mentioned what she does for work. And I left it at that.
Even the butterflies held their breath in my stomach.
But Bio D seems far more interested in the years he missed out on. Step mother says S sounds great and she cant wait to meet her. Half brother, whom I questioned directly regarding his feeling on it, said, “who gives a shit? Sorry, but what does it matter?” I haven’t heard from the youngest half-brother yet, but I’m hoping he feels the same way.
So that’s that. One lesbian parent and one parent who is far more interested in seeing pictures of the fat, zitty me in middle school than caring about sexuality. And a Lesbian Dad who, evidently, still keeps up on reading my blog and asks about me whenever she calls my lesbian parent.
I am one lucky woman.
Song: Heavy in Your Arms by Florence and the Machines
Book: Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand
Blog: Lesbian Dad (in honor of the day)