Category: DIARY OF AN ADOPTEE (Page 1 of 17)
As an adopted child, my thoughts and research.
I got up about a half-hour earlier this morning after yesterday’s bout with the Florida heat. I nearly collapsed on my run after the first couple miles with little shade or breeze and took the walk of shame the last half-mile back home. It was much more tolerable today with the sun not so high in the sky, and I easily jogged the distance. In the time change, I stole a little extra time under the covers and am now just starting to adjust to the change. It also gives me a little extra time to swim and write before my now 4-year old granddaughter soon arrives.
I spent some time in Ban(n)ister World yesterday, adding a few more names to the Jerry Bannister Family Tree on Ancestry. There was a whole nest of Texas/New Mexico descendants that I tried to sort out, including the author of the William Lawrence Banister 1833-1898 Facebook site. There are several personal DNA links on this side of the family. I was probably inspired by the Harlan Coben book, The Match, that uses some creative ways to search for missing relatives. Genealogical sites often try to protect identity by hiding the details of the living while focusing on obituaries. When you couple this with DNA donors that provide false information about themselves and their whereabouts, it adds to the many mysteries in building a family tree.
People die with their secrets, as will eventually be the case with my unsolved mystery of life. (See Post #2032). I continue to work with the DNA puzzle of the Ban(n)ister family, knowing that any answers probably won’t change my life. It’s simply a strong curiosity that drives me to search for answers. Perhaps, it’s my animal instincts that have given me a taste of my own blood, something that was missing from my years of living with an adopted family. Even our own dog Tally seems to be attracted to other dogs of the same schnauzer breed. Surely, this is what I’m searching for!
Thanksgiving 1950 was on November 23rd. Cecil Ralph Banister was 19 1/2 years old, while Edna Faye Banister was two years younger. They went to the same North Vernon, Indiana high school but Cecil had graduated the year before. He was working at Cummins Engine in Columbus where he would retire in 1985 after 35-years of service. Military leave took him to Camp Pendleton in San Diego, California and to Korea as a Marine. Cecil married Marilyn Jean Foist on October 8, 1951. Edna, on the other hand, never finished high school after giving birth to me on August 27, 1951. He most likely never knew.
Edna is still alive but unresponsive while, Cecil sadly passed eleven years ago on this day. DNA solidly connects me to him as the biological father and adoption records to her as the birth mother. She was recently acknowledged for her 89th birthday on Facebook by her daughter, but I must be blocked by the son because there are no recent posts. Up until now, it’s been the only source of photos of her, even though it often felt like stalking. I honestly don’t know if she’s still in good health or if dementia has taken away any memories of me. Nonetheless, I have no current information on her whereabouts or condition. She’s the only person left that could possibly tell me how the two of them got together. It’s an intriguing saga of the bastard child that is the frequent subject of Hollywood dramas.
I’m speculating that it was a family get together for Thanksgiving that resulted in my birth nine months later. It might have been just the two of them hooking up for a date during the holiday break from school and work? They were distant cousins in a small town with limited dating prospects, so the fact that they were related never really mattered when it came to the attraction. He was older and getting ready to go into the Marines so that was certainly part of the appeal. She was the youngest daughter of a railroad crossing guard who also did some farming. Edna also had seven older siblings so she also could have snuck away undetected for this fateful rendezvous with an older cousin. I probably will never know the true story but it’s fun to use my imagination. After all, without this night or more together, I would not exist. Rest in Peace – Cecil – you are gone but not forgotten!
I like to joke that I have “multiple mothers” as we celebrate Mother’s Day every year. After all, it took more than one woman to raise me, along with Mother Marriott to watch over me when I travel the world. I’m not a religious man, so Mother Marriott takes the place of Mother Superior. Silliness aside, I give all the credit to my adopted parents who rescued me from the Suemma Coleman agency. I also know the identity and whereabouts of my now 89-year old birth mother. Sadly, she does not acknowledge my existence even though she made it possible over seventy years ago.
Being a teenage mother is difficult in any era, especially in the early 1950s when unwed pregnancies were shunned. I can only imagine the shame that was imposed on my birth mother by her family, friends, and society, forced to give me up to strangers whether her decision or not. They undoubtedly tried to hide her condition and took her far from home to give birth. I would guess that there were times when she tried to figure out a way to keep me as part of her life, and moments when she hated me. Since abortion was not a safe option for her back then, I was probably better off raised by the loving couple that I’ve always proudly called “Mom and Dad.” I could never blame her for trying to erase all the memories from her mind.
Mother’s Day for me is a time for reflection and appreciation, as I try to make sense of my life. I no longer have a mother to honor on this day. I hate to call it indiscretion that gave me life. I prefer to think of her as being naïve and caught in a moment of passion. The birth father was about four years older and preparing to enter the service. I’m sure that neither of them thought about the consequences, but she had to live with the “mistake,” while he probably never knew that a child was on the way. She got little support and undoubtedly lots of criticism. I’m simple grateful that there was a special couple that wanted a baby when they couldn’t have one. As a result, I became a treasured part of their family when I could have been a burden to a teenage girl.
Because of me, my birth mother’s life drastically changed. From what I’ve been able to uncover, she had to quit high school, get a factory job, and struggle with doubts of desirability and prospects for future relationships. She was a tainted woman, harboring a secret for the rest of her life. I made my best efforts to let her know how grateful I was for life and what I’ve done with that time on Earth. I’ve made serious misjudgments just as she has, and it’s sad that we never got to know each other. She might even be proud.
Abortion was never a legal option for her as Roe vs. Wade didn’t happen until 1973, Consequently, I can’t give her or her family credit for preserving my life in the womb and allowing for my adoption. They never had a choice, as women have today. Adoption is always the best option with a healthy child and mother, but it comes with emotional and physical hardship. Those that have gone through it, like my birth mother, are strong, selfless individuals who preserve lives and enable others to raise families. Depending on the circumstances, all women should have a choice when it comes to their bodies, so it’s hard to belief that the 45-year law is now being seriously reconsidered. I’m so thankful for life on this Mother’s Day, especially since it was such a hardship on my birth mother. I have life, but I’m not necessarily Pro-Life.
The year 2000 was special–even though it wasn’t the start of the 21st century–because it was a leap year. This according to Scientific American. “Julius Caesar devised the leap year to correct for the fact that the earth circles the sun in 352.24219 days. Because this is not a whole number, the months of the year would slowly fall out of sync with the seasons. A fairly precise correction to the Gregorian calendar debuted in 1582, and stated that a century year will only be a leap year if it is evenly divisible by 400–which is true for Y2K.” Mathematic or astronomical nonsense aside, “the official calendar millennium did not start until the year 2001. We, therefore, celebrated it twice, although my wife to be severely cut her fingers making dinner, so we spent New Year’s Eve 2000 in a hospital waiting room. In 2001, we were making plans for our wedding.
This morning I marked day 4,850 of “The Streak.” I’m now lucky to break a 15-minute mile, as I slowly chug along, far from “leaping,” on our neighborhood streets. Wind has been a factor these past few days, but it’s been fortunately at my back after the half-way point of my 5k daily journey. It’s also my birth mother’s 89th birthday, but she sadly doesn’t acknowledge my existence, although my wife insists that she hasn’t forgotten. I hope to see some Facebook posts to assure me that she’s all right. It’s been a year since I’ve seen any pictures usually posted by my two living half-siblings on her side, who also have not responded to my letters. Today always brings out the Jerry Lee Banister side of me, as was recorded on my birth certificate. The birth father’s family has been more than welcoming.
Tomorrow is National Siblings Day, so I have eleven people to remember. First, is my sister that I grew up with that was also adopted. In addition, there were six Banister children from my birth father, with five girls are still alive. The son died in an accident as a teenager, so I’m the only living male on that side of the family. I’ve met four of the now women, plus their mother, and frequently stay in touch with one. I will visit her again in July. My birth mother had four children after me. Two have passed, so technically I now have seven partial siblings still alive to honor on this annual occasion. I regularly maintain a Ban(n)ister Family Tree on Ancestry that ties together all the members of my adopted and DNA families, as I continue to search for genetic connections.
2024 is the next leap year, having seen five go by since the year 2000, and ran on three February 29ths since my streak started in 2009. In my mind, the only distinguishing factor is that extra day in February. Otherwise, there are 365 days every year, with one additional running day every four years. I just hope I can continue to Leap Forward for many years to come.
I spend a lot of time on Ancestry.com and other DNA sites hoping to find answerers about being a lovable bastard. I’ve built a family tree of nearly 40,000 ancestors, most of whom have unfortunately taken their earthly knowledge to the grave. My initial hope was to find physically-like relatives, thinking this would somehow satisfy my curiosity. I have found and spoken with several understanding half-sisters and now have photographs of my birth father that passed eleven years ago. I am happy to report that there is a common resemblance. The bio-mother and her family remain unresponsive after claims that all this scientific, hospital, and adoption agency evidence that I have is incorrect. Apparently, my birth never happened, so may childhood fantasies of being born to a Queen may still be true. In my poem that I wrote today, this too is an example of poetic license, along with another reference to heaven above:
Dozens of Cousins
We all have a mother,
But I have had two.
One that gave birth,
Another I well knew.
My family adopted,
Without D-N-A..
While others genetic,
Strangers to this day.
Aunts and Uncles,
There were dozens.
And my family tree,
Shows plenty of cousins.
All were related,
But some through genes.
No, not denim,
By scientific means.
I grew up not knowing,
The difference between.
And once fantasized,
I was born to a Queen.
I got plenty of love,
And everything I wanted.
But something was missing,
And so I hunted.
I needed to see,
Physical resemblance.
Thinking that life,
Would then make sense.
But the bio mom,
Now claims who?
And her lover,
Had no clue.
There are pictures,
And siblings, too.
But they won’t replace,
The relatives I knew.
Cousins I grew up with,
And parents full of love.
A sister that I lived with,
And grandparents now above.
Familiarity is everything,
Genes don’t mean a thing.
I’m grateful for my life,
But it started as a fling.
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