I got a note this morning that a friend of mine’s mother passed away over the weekend. I just looked up their address to send a sympathy card. It took me back four years ago when I lost my mother to pneumonia. Today is the anniversary of her death. It was totally unexpected, but she apparently wore herself out taking care of my father who was struggling with Alzheimer’s. He passed away two weeks later. I miss them both, especially knowing the great sacrifices they made to make us a family. 

Having been motherless for four years now, my thoughts today are focused on the woman who raised me. I was adopted by the two of them at 2 months old, the unwanted child of an 18-year old high school student from North Vernon, Indiana. I do not know any of the circumstances, but have done my share of fantasizing and speculating through the years. It was a seamless process that took me from the Suemma Coleman adoption home in Indianapolis to our home at 1001 Carolyn Avenue in Elkhart, Indiana. Letters indicate that they first called me Mickey instead of Mike. I’m glad they decided on the latter, especially because I had big ears like Mickey Mouse. It may have saved me some embarrassment.

Big ears and skinny legs were my nemesis growing up. I could always wear long pants, but they insisted on shaving my head as a kid. My choice in college was to grow it longer to hide my Mickey-like ears, just as my tattered, bell-bottom blue jeans covered my skinny legs. I’ve always been vain about my appearance, and that will never change. It’s also interesting how my skinny little legs have held up after all these years of running. As an adoptee, I certainly couldn’t blame these physical flaws on my parents, but I always wondered where these traits came from? By the way, I wouldn’t trade them for anything, despite all that personal criticism growing up.

My mom was a very patient woman, who devoted her days to the care of my adopted sister and I. She was always there for us, while I was often unappreciative. I treated her like my personal servant, as the spoiled brat that always got what he wanted. I had no idea how good I had it, but always wanted to be richer and more popular. I remember being embarrassed when dropped off at school in my grandfather’s hand-me-down cars. My room was a mess and I was never helpful at home. I would sleep all day if I could, and fought every wake-up call. I was argumentative, even hostile, as a teenager, and deeply regret my behavior. In retrospect, I was lucky to be their child, to live in their home, and to share their abundant love. My success in life is solely a result of the generous resources and support they provided. I’m proud to have called them “Mom” and “Dad.”

It was a great loss four years ago, as I reflect on my upbringing today. I have discovered the identity of my birth mother, but she apparently has no interest in getting to know anything about me. She denies any relationship, despite documentation and DNA evidence. I could never call her “Mom,” but I would like to show my appreciation for giving me life, and maybe even these big ears and skinny legs. Although I have strong suspicions, I would also like to have confirmation about the father, and to learn the circumstances of their relationship and my existence. The answers to these questions tug at my emotions daily, as I scour the branches of my Jerry Banister Family Tree for clues. However, today I just want to say, “Thanks Mom” and “I Miss You and Love You.”