Today's thoughts

Category: DIARY OF AN ADOPTEE (Page 17 of 18)

As an adopted child, my thoughts and research.

Diary of an Adoptee: Letter Update #404

I was about to fall asleep in my office chair, watching a History Channel Ancient Top Ten segment, when I typed in the tracking number of a certified letter that I sent 9 days ago. (See Post #393). Earlier today, I got my first indication of activity, since in prior attempts it continued to show no record of movement. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I thought that, like a package, it would at least give me information on its whereabouts along the route from Portland, Oregon to Seymour Indiana. I entered and double-checked the lengthy 701627100000555495947 number so many times over the past week that I nearly had it memorized, wondering if I was doing something wrong. Suddenly, this morning it indicated that delivery was expected by 8 p.m. today. I knew at least that the certification process was working, yet I still wasn’t sure if the address was correct or that anyone would be home to provide the required signature. I also thought for sure that the next message I would get was a “delivery attempted but no answer” and that they would then attempt a second delivery. Instead, it read DELIVERED at 5:13 p.m. WOW!

I had a direct hit, assured to at least know that the address and recipient actually matched. It took my breath away to think about the ramifications. I tried to put myself in his shoes, receiving a letter from a total stranger, claiming to be a half-brother. The ball was now in his court, and the responsibility of finding him was out of my hands. My secret was now out of the bag, documented in full through birth certificates, census information, and court records. As he signed for the letter, he must have noticed the “classic car” return address label I had purposely used to attract his attention. I found on his recent Facebook posts numerous photos of a similar model that I assumed was his pride and joy. I’m only guessing that as he added his signature to the delivery person’s computer pad that his first thought was a fellow car enthusiast, maybe a potential buyer or seller. Surprise!

It sends chills up my spine that I may be one step closer to connecting with my birth mother. The next step is up to him, as to how or if he approaches her with this life-changing information?  In one sense, I’m embarrassed to have put him in this difficult situation, but it was the only address I had. I don’t know what I would have done, if the address had been wrong or if delivery had not been completed? It makes me think that a bit of destiny has come into play here. My adopted parents both passed away over three years ago, and both of their 97th birthdays would have been next week.  The timing is such that I don’t have to deal with any guilt associated with having to share my feelings with two mothers. This was always a major obstacle in pursing the roots of my adoption. Also, my birth mother’s 85th birthday will be in April, if she’s still living, as the recent Facebook posts seem to confirm. As my adopted sister recently mentioned, “knowing that you are alive and well may very well be the best gift you could ever give her.” There was a picture of her, holding a sign from her son reading, “I Love my Mom.” She could be my mom, too, or at least the woman that gave birth to me.

I enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope in my package that was just delivered. I also included a phone number, but I don’t expect a call. I would hope that in the next few weeks that I will get some kind of a response. I would like the opportunity to send a personal letter, and maybe follow-up with a phone call. Maybe, a month from now when we’re back in Indiana, I can at least go to her original home town of Shelbyville and look at some other “family” photos in the high school yearbooks. She had seven brothers and sisters, so there should have been some Banisters that roamed the same halls as Hoosier, I.U., Celtics, and Globetrotters basketball legend Bill Garrett. If it is indeed the same woman, she had just finished her Junior year there when she gave birth to me. Maybe I’ll eventually get a chance to meet her and/or learn more about the father?

 

 

 

Diary of an Adoptee: Questions #398

As I fantasize about a possible conversation with my birth mother, there are a million questions, but only a few are significant regarding the first few months of my life. When my sister initially made contact with her birth mother, there were letters exchanged, phone calls, and finally a meeting. She did tell me that after the first few minutes of their phone conversation, there was an instantaneous connection that she simply couldn’t describe.  I’m sure this varies with the individual, but I already feel guilty about wanting to know all the answers without knowing anything about her. I’m not sure whether she will be healthy or even living by the time my letter arrives? I’m also not sure that the information that I enclosed will ever get to her. The address could be wrong and there’s still the chance that she is not the right woman. At this stage of life, I just feel lucky that there’s still a chance to reunite, but there’s no way of knowing the odds. I do feel a sense of excitement, but this is not just about me. There’s probably a good reason why she never contacted the Suemma Coleman Agency. If she had, then she would have known my willingness to get together. Instead, I’m the one who has to take the first step, and it may be a bit awkward for her to respond. The problem is that we likely don’t have a lot of time, since her 85th birthday is approaching.

My research tells me that she has only one son that is currently alive, and that most if not all of her seven older brothers and sisters have passed.  It’s also confusing in the 1940 Census, since at the age of 8 years old it appears that she was living with Banister relatives that were born in the early 1900’s and listed as head of household and wife. Although born about the same time as her parents, as listed on my birth mother’s birth certificate, I don’t see how they fit into the family tree? They may have played a role in the adoption process, and could have been responsible for saving my life. If I could play “20 Questions,” this is what I would like to know:

Who was the father?

How did you meet?

Did he know you were pregnant?

What was he like?

What ended your relationship?

Did you ever sing or hum the Marine’s Hymn?

Did you ever stay in touch with him?

How difficult was it to tell your family that you were pregnant?

Were you overwhelmed and frightened?

Was abortion considered?

Was raising me not possible?

When were you sent to the Suemma Coleman adoption facility?

Was that your first time away from home?

Was your family supportive?

Did you have friends that were supportive?

Did you spend any time with me once I was born, or were we immediately separated?

Why the name Jerry Lee, that you also named your next son?

What did you do once you left Suemma Coleman?

Did you have many second thoughts?

Did you remember my birth date?

Did you ever try to find me?

Only my birth mother can answer these questions, so I’m hopeful that she’s willing and able. I will also be prepared to answer hers. In the meantime, I can only contemplate what my life would have been like to have been raised by a high school Junior and her Marine husband, or to have been brought into a very large family, with there youngest daughter suddenly a single mother, as part of a small Southern Indiana town. I would have to think that I was much better off to be adopted and live the privileged life that I experienced. I would probably not be comfortably retired and living in Oregon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of an Adoptee: The Letter #393

After much deliberation, I have decided to contact my probable birth mother through her son. I believe to have found his current address, and will mail a certified letter tomorrow. I will also include the background information provided to me by the adoption agency through the Indiana State Department of Health, the home placement agreement from the adoption agency, the adoption paperwork from the Marion County Courts, listing me as Jerry Lee Bannister (once again with two n’s), and a photograph. I also provided a self-addressed stamped envelope for a reply, should they decide to acknowledge the connection. I feel that I should be contacting the birth mother directly, but I don’t have her current address, and I don’t know her level of health. I just know that given her age, I need to act quickly if there’s any chance of eventually getting together.  Here’s the slightly edited content of the letter:

Dear Jerry,

My name is Mike Johnston and I live in Portland, Oregon. You are probably wondering why I am writing? I have enclosed some sensitive information that I believe confirms that I might be related to you through your mother, Edna Faye Banister. I decided to contact you first and let you go through these documents.

I will tell you that I have known of this relationship for over 30 years, but it was only this last week that I found her birth certificate and a 1940 Census, confirming her location, the identification of her seven siblings (including the twins), and your relationship as her son.

As you look over this information, I understand that you could likely be skeptical and protective. My initial interest was to simply find a picture and avoid any direct contact, but my wife has encouraged me to at least contact you, to at least give Edna the choice. Also, she’s approaching 85 and only you would know if she’s in good enough health to handle this information. Another person close to me admitted that they were in a similar situation, and that it’s common for the kids to know nothing about it, so I’m sure that this may generate some initial shock on your part. I apologize for putting you in this position, and for possibly disrupting your family, but there’s a chance that Edna may want to at least know that I am happily married, healthy, comfortably retired, and have a 43 year-old son, who is about to give me a third grandchild. At this time, I want nothing more than to write her a note, should both of you be agreeable, and then decide if other steps should be taken.

I’ve included a self-addressed stamped envelope should you want to write me back, and my phone number is XXXXXXXXXX. I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Best Regards, Mike

 

I will continue to update you on any progress, as I nervously await any reply.

 

 

Diary of an Adoptees: Family Tree #392

After recently discovering the birth record and census information on the woman I believe to be my birth mother, I’ve been working in Ancestry.com to build the Banister Family Tree. It’s invigorating to now have a family tree that extends beyond myself, my son, and his children, as has been the case for some time. A 66 year mystery is beginning to unfold, and I’m hoping to resolve some of the questions that have haunted me through the years. Honestly, I do not know what to do next. I currently do not have a specific address for my birth mother, only her 61 year old son through her first marriage. I have put in a friend request through Facebook, using my Jerry Lee Banister alias. I have also contacted two cousins through Ancestry.com and Geni, but there has been little feedback.

I’m assuming I am, after all, the “dirty family secret,” that will be greeted with extreme caution. Back in 1951, when I was born, most adoptions were handled under strict legal cover, and young, unmarried, pregnant women were often shunned by friends and family, and then sent away to give birth. According to the adoption agency’s “social and medical background information,” she was 18 years old and had completed her junior year in high school. This was probably Shelbyville High School in Indiana, with the “home for unwed mothers” in Indianapolis, only about 30 miles away. As I’ve written on several occasions, it was shocking for me to once discover that the home where I was cared for following birth and that housed my birth mother in anticipation of delivery was directly across the street from where I worked in Indianapolis. In fact, the view from my office window was a parking lot where this facility once stood. I’m guessing, my adoptive parents picked me up from that location two months after I was born and moved me to their home in Elkhart, Indiana, 150 miles north. Like a homing pigeon, 35 years later my career took me back to Indianapolis and that neighboring office to where I originally lived. I was actually interviewing for that job, when my media friend gave me the name and address of my birth mother, Edna Faye Bannister (actually Banister). It struck me prior to the interview, that it was destiny for me to work in that neighborhood and not surprising when I got the job. Several years later I moved into the office that reminded me every day of my roots.

Edna is now within reach, but I’m not sure how to approach her? Would it embarrass her to reveal this secret to her family, or do they already know? The more important question is whether or not my birth was a result of a love affair with an unknown Marine (as per the adoption paperwork) or of a rape? I mention this because there have been numerous cases where the birth mother has not been receptive to a reunion, and rape was one of several traumatic situations encountered. I’m just trying to be sensitive to her privacy, but I will never know unless I ask. I’m hoping that because she named both me and her legitimate son Jerry Lee that she felt a bond of fondness with me at birth. She’s currently approaching 85 years old and looks healthy in recent pictures, but I also don’t know if that is still the case. In addition, there’s a sense of urgency because of her age to act quickly.

My research has uncovered that she has been married at least twice, and has lost both of her sons from the second marriage, so she’s had her share of tragedy with regard to children. I would like to tell her “thank you” from the standpoint of my parents, who were able to have a child when they couldn’t conceive. However, that may also be an insult to her if it was her parents who forced her to give me up for adoption. I’m just fortunate that they didn’t choose abortion. I will continue to contemplate this situation that is by no means anything but positive for me. In the meantime, I will continue to build my new Family Tree currently dating back to Laborn Banister born in 1801. All those green leaves will surely keep me busy in retirement, as I continue to search for family connections.

Diary of an Adoptee: Adoption #391

I always have viewed a trip to the mailbox like a treasure hunt. You never know what you’re going to find there – good or bad, including an unexpected check, a package you ordered, a surprise bill, a letter from the I.R.S., a note from an old friend, and three pieces of junk mail for every keeper. My first stop after the mailbox is usually the recycling bin. Yesterday I found one of the biggest surprises ever in my mailbox, but let me give you some background first and express my feelings through a poem. The rest of the story follows.

I was adopted as a baby (See Post #104) by the couple that I will always fondly remember as my parents. In the back of my mind, however, was admittedly some curiosity about the couple that gave me life. Who were they and why did we never become a family? I’ve always felt strongly that my birth mother made the right choice in giving me up for adoption, and that I was fortunate to end up in a loving home. In fact, I wrote this poem many years ago to thank her:

Thank You 

Some women aren’t ready,
To serve Mother’s role.
Raising a child,
Is not yet their goal.
.
A selfish moment,
Of love and lust.
But nothing like this,
Was ever discussed.
.
Two at the time,
Now left up to one.
He may have not known,
Or decided to run.
.
There’s feelings of shame,
Maybe left all alone.
But worst of all,
Your future unknown.
.
Financial hardship,
Not quite mature.
Is it fair to the child?
If the parent’s not sure.
.
If you’re not prepared,
There is an option.
If you’re not able,
Consider adoption.
.
If you’re not excited
About motherhood.
If you’re not happy,
Someone else would.
.
There are loving couples,
Who can’t conceive.
It’s the right thing to do,
You have to believe.
.
Can’t give up a baby,
So helpless and small?
It’s time to consider,
What’s best for all.

.

There may be guilt,
Or thoughts of regret.
But you can’t match,
The love they will get.
.
Please don’t abort,
A gift so great.
A life’s in your hands,
Don’t hesitate.
.
If you’re undecided,
Just ask me.
If not for someone like you,
I simply wouldn’t be.
.
If you need forgiveness,
For letting me go.
You did me a favor,
I want you to know.
.
Among the many things,
That I’m grateful for.
It wasn’t just my life,
I’ve added three more.
.
Not that I wouldn’t have,
Had a great life with you.
You wanted more for me,
And I know that’s true.

.

Thank you for me,
Sorry for the pain.
Though difficult to say,
Your loss was my gain.

.

Copyright November 2011

johnstonwrites.com

 

I had done a DNA test through 23andMe a year ago, hoping to simply get some general background information on my ethnicity. In the process of discovering my Northern European roots, I was put in touch with a total stranger that shares .96% of my DNA analysis.  He lives only about 4 hours away and has been researching his family tree for several years, having only recently discovered that the man that raised him was actually not his biological father, and began a search for his identity. In the process, he found a connection to me, since we are genetically related within three generations, that he suspects is on his mother’s side. Her name was Alta Constance Carpenter and she was born February 26, 1920 and died in April of 1995. She lived in Pendleton, Oregon, coincidentally only about three hours away from where I currently live. The song, “If I Were a Carpenter,” by Tim Harden immediately comes to mind. He performed it at Woodstock at 1969, and it was covered by Johnny Cash/June Carter, Bobby Darin, Joan Baez, The Four Tops, and Bob Seger, as I predictably drift away from the emotional subject at hand to take a humorous diversion.

As has been the case throughout my life, other people have done the searching for me, as I remained true to the only parents that I know. My allegiance was always with the couple that adopted me, and that somehow looking for my birth parents was a betrayal that I rarely pursued. When I mentioned to others that I was adopted, they always seemed to be more curious than I was. As a result, they did the work for me. A media friend in Indianapolis, for example, did an illegal search of sealed adoption records and gave me the name and address of my birth mother.  The address turned out to be the home for unwed mothers were I was cared for after birth, but the location of Edna Faye Bannister has always eluded me. After that initial shove, I reluctantly took a few “baby steps” and contacted the adoption agency. They provided me with general background information on the mother and her family, but nothing specific that I could pursue.  I did get a copy of my original hospital records and birth certificate that listed me only as “Infant Bannister,” confirming the Bannister name connection. The adoption paperwork also mentioned that my birth mother named me “Jerry Lee.”  This was six years before Jerry Lee Lewis made the name famous by recording his 1957 hit “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.”

At that point, a had a dual identity (See Post #104), but search “angels” sent me on a wild goose chase to an Edna Bannister in the Rome, Georgia area. It was information in yesterday’s mail, sent to me by my 23andMe connection, that proved that theory wrong. Almost 30 years after I had been given the name, Edna Faye Bannister, I had a copy of her birth certificate and a 1940 Census that matches all her seven siblings to the general age information from the adoption agency report. I had found her, simply by opening the mail. Further investigation yesterday has led me to her son’s Facebook page with what I believe to be pictures of her along with my potential step brother.

I knew there was a reason that I’ve always been a fan of the movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.” In fact, I made a reference to it in my last post. One of my favorite scenes is at the rental car agency, with the “gobble, gooble” lady behind the counter. He real name is Edie McClurg, but also known as Mrs. Poole from the TV show “Valerie.” My birth mother’s married name is now Mrs. Poole, and she has a son three years younger than me named Jerry Lee (she must have really liked that name).  I’m in the process of determining what my next step will be, but given all the information I’ve gathered, I feel very strongly that my birth mother is alive and soon to be 85 years old. She may be in for the next mailbox surprise. I will keep you all “posted.”

,

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of an Adoptee: Veteran’s Day #333

I want to send out a salute to all our war veteran’s today. My birth father, who I’ve never met, was a Marine at the time of the Korean War. I don’t know what role he served or if he ever fought for our country, but he gave me life.

My adopted father was a WWII medic, but never discussed with me any of his experiences. After my adoption, he was supposedly also called to duty in Korea, but never had to report. His father, my grandfather, was a WWI vet, along with my mother’s father. All three of these great men were an important part of my upbringing, taking me into their family as if I was one of their own.

High school classmates of mine served and died in Vietnam. Sons and daughters of my friends fought in Afghanistan, and distant relatives of my mother date back to the Revolutionary War, the foundation of our country’s freedom. This past year I’ve visited the dead at Normandy, walked on the D-Day beaches, read numerous books on Revolutionary and Civil War history, and watched countless hours of documentaries on the heroes who fought for me and you.

For everyone who served our country, there were wives, mothers, spouses, children, and partners who were left behind, worrying about their safe return. So many made personal sacrifices to the cause, and worked hard to keep our homeland secure.  My son, who was also spared from life as a soldier, is spending his day serving free meals to veteran’s at his restaurant.

I was fortunate to have lived in times when wars were fought in distant lands. I was either too young or too old to matter, but have always tried to imagine how life would have been in times of war, or as part of the battlefield. I guess I’ll never know how I would have reacted to the fear, uncertainty, and horror of bombs, gunfire, and casualties. Sincere thanks to those who sacrificed relationships, incurred injuries, and even gave their lives, so that I can enjoy a comfortable life of retirement.

Thank You for Your Service.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Civil War #318

I just finished watching “Civil War,” another great documentary by Ken Burns.  “Baseball” and “The Vietnam War” are the other two that I’ve completed, and have started “Prohibition.”  Each has been an educational experience, but the Vietnam film is definitely the most impactful.  I’ve had a long time interest in baseball and we studied the Civil War in history classes, but Vietnam was hardly ever discussed at home or in school.  I can’t say that all of the television I’ve watched in this first year of retirement has been educational, but I feel that a lot of my time is spent constructively on learning.  That’s my story and I’m sticking with it!

I have also done some reading on Abraham Lincoln, the Revolutionary War, and World War II, in addition to some books on baseball.  As an adoptee, none of my family tree is blood related, but I’ve still tried to find some connections with history, particularly associated with war.  This all started with a trip to Normandy earlier this year.  My adopted Mother’s family lineage dates back to pre-Revolutionary War times (See Post #292).  Hiram Perry Hancher was born in 1808 and would have been 53 years old when the war started.  His son of the same name was only nine, so both of them were probably not of fighting age and their farm in Greenfield, Indiana was not in a direct battle zone.  Hoosier Poet, James Whitcomb Riley, is Greenfield’s most prominent citizen, but he too was only 12 years old when the Civil War started, although his father organized and was Captain of the first battle company out of this area.  My adopted Grandfather was Hiram Jr.’s only son, born in 1895 and went on to serve in World War I.

My mother’s married name, Johnston, was very prominent in the Civil War.  Joseph E. Johnston and Albert Sidney Johnston were both high-ranking Confederate generals, but were not directly related to my adopted father or to each other, as far as I could determine.  “Joe” was the commander at the First Battle of Bull Run; defended Richmond, Virginia; and was eventually replaced by Robert E. Lee.  After the war, he served in the House of Representatives and was commissioner of railroads under Grover Cleveland.  Albert Sydney Johnston was considered by Jefferson Davis to be the finest general officer in the Confederacy prior to the emergence of Lee. If my birth mother was indeed from Rome, Georgia as I suspect, then I might have come from Rebel stock, but thankfully was adopted into the Northern branch of the Johnston family and never associated with waving a Confederate flag.

The only “Civil War” that I’ve ever personally experienced is the annual football rivalry between Oregon and Oregon State.  Oregon became a U.S. state just two years before the American Civil War.  At the outbreak, Army troops were withdrawn from their posts in Oregon and Washington and sent East.  Volunteers from California were sent north to keep the peace during the war.  I’m not so sure that the “Civil War” label for a football game would play well in states that were directly affected by the destruction and death associated with the real “Civil War,” although there were some Oregonian casualties for the cause.

 

 

Retirement is not without Hassles: Fathers #143

Today is Father’s Day, but like most days in retirement, just another glorious day.  I’m a father, step-father, grandfather, godfather, grand-godfather, father-in-law, father of the groom, pledge father, and fur father.  Hopefully, I’ve also been a father-figure to some and father-like to others.  I’ve had two fathers, one of which I never knew, two grandfathers, who I knew well, and two other grandfathers that may never have known that I ever existed.   My biological father was a putative father, and my adoptive father should have been awarded father of the year.  I’ve also had two fathers-in-law, but lost one in a divorce and the other to cancer.  I’ve been called both “father” and “dad,” but never “daddy,” “dada,” “pops,” or “papa,” like my friend-fathers are sometimes fondly addressed.

I’m pleased to admit that my son is a better father than I remember ever being.  I was far too absorbed in my career, as was my father.  I only knew the traditional male role, and accepted those narrow responsibilities.  Being only 22 years old, I was also never prepared to be a father, but have never regretted being one.  My son’s marriage made me both father of the groom and a father-in-law to his wife, giving me that second chance at fatherhood through grandchildren.  However, I’ve always lived too far away to take advantage.  Plus, I’m not always comfortable around children, and often find them annoying, especially on airplanes and at restaurants.  The older they get, the more I can relate, so I keep my distance and try to spoil them with Disney vacations and gifts.

For me, sports have always been the primary communication link between father and son.  It’s where most conversations started with my father, and continues to be the case with my son.  We go to sporting events together, and try to take the grand kids whenever possible.   I often show my love by writing checks; more learned behavior.   We are in the habit of saying “Love You” at the end of our conversations, something that only occurred in later years of my dad’s life.  At one point, I remember plotting a way to tell him how I felt, worried that he would go to the grave without hearing those words.

I got off to a bad start with my first father-in-law, concerned that he was not being truthful on an insurance payment due to my wife-to-be.   It was a misunderstanding that we eventually worked out.  The marriage didn’t!   When it came time to marry again, I properly asked her father’s permission for her hand.  It was a moment I will never forget, as pancreatic cancer took his life before I really got to share more time with him.   The second marriage was the first step in becoming a stepfather to two daughters.  I do feel that word “stepfather” has some negative connotations.  It’s not a very lovable word, so I try to avoid being one.

Tinker, Tally, and Frankie are my current furry children, although my fur-father responsibilities date back to just after college.  (see post #133). In college, while involved with the Sigma Chi Fraternity, I was a pledge father.  My “son” was blackballed from joining the house just after I transferred to another school.  He’s now the CEO of a major corporation, so I was glad to see he nicely rebounded from this Freshman set-back.  I was also honored to be the godfather to a college friend’s daughter, and I guess that makes me a grand-godfather after the birth of her son.  It only seemed logical that I should stuff cotton balls in my mouth and talk like Marlon Brando in this role.

For those into the Bible, Matthew 23:9 reads, “Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven.”  Father is a title of religious superiority, and the basis for the Catholic hierarchy.  Forgive me, Father, but who’s your daddy?  Who’s Father Time’s father?  He invented the clock, right?”  Consider this fine definition of a father by an author unknown:  “A father is neither an anchor to hold us back nor a sail to take us there, but a guiding light whose love shows us the way.”  Or, another uncredited favorite:  “A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow.”

I would not be writing this if it weren’t for my biological father.  I don’t know the circumstances of why he never took responsibility for me, or if he honestly ever knew about me, for that matter.  He was a Marine, but not much of a father.  I was adopted in the first few month of my life, and given everything I possibly wanted.  It takes a special man to raise someone else’s son, and I’m proud to call him Dad. (see post #104)

Happy Father’s Day!

Retirement is not without Hassles: What’s with that Name? Part 1 #136

A name is how we are known, addressed, or referred to in life.  I seem to have some unparalleled experience when it comes to names.  In fact, I was born with a different name than what I grew up with, have had my name changed, altered and misspelled, have been labeled with a nickname, and have given my name to others.  I’ve also named several businesses, animals, and children, and been called a few names in the process.  As a result, I tend to be very sensitive when it comes to the precious brand that each of us possesses through our name.

I was born Jerry Lee Bannister by a mother I never knew.  The adoption agency called me “Mickey,” maybe because of my big ears.  Correspondence to my prospective parents stated “your Mickey is quite a boy,”  but my parents fortunately put a stop to that.  My legal name for life then became Michael Lee Johnston, however my friends called me, “Smiley.”

When I got in the business world, I began to emphasize that my last name was “Johnston with a T,” since it was often mistaken as simply Johnson.  Fortunately, very few misspelled the name “Mike,” whereas “Michael” could get some vowels reversed on occasion.   For many years, I let these misspellings go unchallenged, but soon realized the importance of protecting my brand.  This became particularly significant in the age of e-mail, since misspelling meant non-delivery.  I am very specific with the “T,” and my wife has become equally emphatic.

Wives are typically quite familiar with name changes, since this hassle many times accompanies the marriage licensing process.  Some women maintain their maiden names, while others use hyphenated versions.  My wife, for example, changed her legal name to Johnston, but maintains her maiden name for business purposes.  It gets a bit confusing at times, but she established brand recognition for her maiden name in business long before she met me, although she also used a hyphenated version in her previous marriage.  Name changes through marriages are a sign of the times.

I suppose I could have been Mickey Bannister-Johnston, Jerry Lee Johnston, Michael Bannister, or Mike Johnston, instead the nickname “Smiley” eventually prevailed over all other options.  I did have a wide smile and a big mouth growing up, so it was probably an appropriate label to give me.  It started at a week-long camp that I attended in Junior High School.  I didn’t like the name, “Smiley,” and couldn’t wait for camp to end so I could get my identity back.  However, it caught on and spread through the school like wild fire.  I fought it all through high school.  It wasn’t that it was a bad name; it just wasn’t my name.

I definitely had an identity crisis throughout High School, and hated to use the phone where you always needed to identify yourself.  If I said it was “Mike” or “Michael,” they didn’t know who was calling, and I refused to call myself “Smiley.”  This was particularly problematic when it came time for a prom date.  We would all gather at a classmate’s house and try to muster confidence to make that critical call, with the guidance and support of close friends.  I hid in the corners, or pretended to make calls, and would finally have to make the “ask” face-to-face at school.  I honestly think this aversion to the phone eventually affected my ability to make cold-calls in business, and my reluctance to participate in group call-outs.  I learned to hate the phone!  With today’s technology, we finally have Caller ID, so I no longer have to fumble through an explanation on who is calling.

“Smiley” no longer exists, and “Jerry Bannister” is my second Facebook identity.  I used my birth name in an attempt to make connections with the Bannister family name.  This came about as part of my efforts to learn the identity and whereabouts of my birth mother.  I had to rely on the help of a few close friends to get me started with this page, but now I have hundreds of Bannister, Banister, Bannistor,  and even Bannester friends on Facebook.  Unfortunately, I have not been able to find a connection with my birthmother, Edna Faye Bannister, presumably of Rome, Georgia. (See post #104:  Dual Identity).  I do, however, wish Jerry Bannister a happy birthday every year on Facebook.  I hardly ever forget since it’s the same day as mine!

Giving another a name is a privilege and happens only rarely in life.  It usually starts with a pet.  For example, I was able to name my dog “Smiley,” hoping that it would become his brand rather than mine.  I also helped in the naming of Tinker and Tally, our two schnauzers.  (See post #133:  Puppy Love).  I have yet to name a cat, and the names I came up with for a white mouse, a chameleon, some fish, and a few turtles have escaped me.  I’m sure they were clever!  I also helped name my son, Adam.  He was named after the actor Pernell Roberts, who played Adam Cartwright in the T.V. series, Bonanza.  I also gave my son Adam his middle-name of Michael.  This happened, as I recall, on the way to the hospital.  We had pretty much decided on the name Lee, since it also was the middle name of both my father and I.  Apparently, ego got in the way, so he’s Adam Michael Johnston, my favorite namesake.

I still find it touching to go to the veterinarian, with the dogs and our cat, and see the name Johnston come up for each of them – Tinker, Tally, and Frankie Johnston.  Since my family tree starts with my adoption into the Johnston family, my pets, my son, my wife, and my granddaughter are the only living Johnston ornaments on the tree.  Roxie, a schnauzer that we lost to a speeding motorist, was also a member of our exclusive Johnston household, and is buried in our hearts.  All the other Johnston cousins out there have their own tree that includes my adopted parents and grandparents that gave me the privilege of the name.

Long ago, I had the opportunity to name a business, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was a plant shop that grew to five locations with the slogan, “bringing the outdoors in.”  I had a radio jingle prepared, a logo, and hired an advertising agency.  I didn’t have much to do with the actual business, but I did some occasional “Plant Parties.”  This involved taking a truckload of house plants to a private home, and hopefully returning with only few remaining.  It was similar to  a Tupperware party in those days, where the host invited guests and received bonus plants for helping to sell them to their friends and family.

I made a common marketing mistake on the name, “Hall of Ivy.”  It was originally just a hallway of plants in a mini-mall, but “grew” well beyond that.  The business eventually also evolved into selling fresh flowers and arrangements, so the name no longer represented what was sold or it’s size.  I didn’t have that foresight when selecting the original name.  Several big companies have also made similar marketing mistakes.  One of my favorite examples is the insurance giant, “Massachusetts Mutual.”  Their original sales territory was strictly the state boundary of Massachusetts, but when legislation eventually allowed them to expand nationwide, their name would no longer represent their customer base.  “Nationwide Insurance” has a similar challenge in the international marketplace.  In what I consider to be an ingenious marketing move, “Massachusetts Mutual” simply shortened their name to “Mass Mutual,” representing the masses rather than just the state.  It was an easy fix to a short-sighted decision on the original name.

Very few of us grow up to be known by just one name.  Beyoncé, Sting. Adele, Prince, Elvis, Cher, God, Santa, and Madonna are the primary examples, not necessarily in that order.  “Smiley” might have grown to that level if I had not fought it!  Most of us have at least a first and last name, that were initially the decision of a parent.  Some of those parents were also a bit short-sighted when they named their children.  For example, the Baals should not have named their son, Harry.  Also, a name like Candy Kane, was maybe cute for young girl, but what about as an adult woman?  I struggled with finding a name for our son that kids couldn’t “make fun of.”  For example, naming a child who has big ears, “Mickey” – who would do that?  I thought I was safe with the name Adam, but the kids ended up saying Ad-dumb.  Sometimes you just can’t win!

Ask any numerologist “What’s in a name?” and they will give you some additional food for thought.  The baby books will tell you which are the most popular, but many of us are driven to find something unique.  There’s a reason why Adolph is no longer popular.  There’s also a list of the 100 most unfortunate names in human history, if you need help?  Just remember, even a “creative” twist in the spelling of a popular name, just to be different, can lead to years of frustration in communication – miss-spelled e-mails, driver’s license errors, graduation diplomas, business awards, etc.  Poor Meaghan, for example, is plagued with constantly correcting everyone’s spelling.  What’s with that name, anyway!

If you are given the honor of coming up with a name, please put some thought into it.  What’s in a Name? Everything.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diary of an Adoptee: Dual Identity #104

If I were writing my autobiography, this would be Chapter number 1.  I’m fortunate to have an outlet to document this, and maybe a few readers that might care.  It’s therapy for me!  I’m getting the words out of my head, clearing the way for new knowledge.  It’s a cleansing process that I feel is important in retirement, and wish I had something to read like this about my adopted parents.  I only have one page of information on my birth mother and her family with a simple paragraph dedicated to the assumed father.  I have so many questions at this point of life that somehow weren’t important back then.

I’m technically retiring for two, since I have a dual identity that dates back to birth.  I was born Jerry Lee Bannister on August 27, 1951 to Edna Faye Bannister.  I do not know the name of my “alleged” father, only that he was 20 years old and a Marine, probably did his service in Korea in 1951.  I was immediately put up for adoption after birth, and there was a two-month string of legal documents before I was eventually placed.  I may never know the reason that I was put up for adoption.  I do know that I was fortunate to end up in the home of Burton and Catherine Johnston in Elkhart, Indiana.

I alluded to my adoption in Post #80: Happy Endings because my story truly does have a happy ending, when so many other adoption stories don’t.  Mine does not have a dramatic conclusion like the movie “Lion,” one of the most touching adoption stories that I have ever watched.  I also briefly mentioned adoption in Post #48: Black Rock, but discussed very little about my adopted mother and birth mother.  I also have an adopted younger sister, who did find her birth mother and maintains a close relationship.

This all reads like a mystery novel, with the following clues outlined in a Social and Medical Background Information report that I received from the Suemma Coleman Agency in Indianapolis, Indiana.  I also have an Adoptive Home Placement Agreement, court petitions, birth certificate, correspondence, and medical records at birth.  I would probably have had none of this information if it weren’t for the curiosity and clearance credentials of a friend in the newspaper business.  I was not interested in pursuing the identity of my birth parents, if for no other reason the loyalty I felt for my adopted parents.  For some reason, I perceived that it might betray my allegiance to them, and remember being quite upset at my sister for openly exercising her curiosity.   She had some medical issues and wanted genetic background.  My friend, whether I wanted it or not, gave me the name of my Birth mother and an address from sealed adoption files that she accessed via her media credentials.   It still amazes me that she could access my adoption history, but I could not.  I’m glad she did though!

My first interest was to find a photo of my birth mother.  I did not want to make contact with her, but simply wanted to see if there was a resemblance.  I logically went to the hospital nearest to the address I was given and collected my medical records.  In addition, I wrote the Suemma Coleman Agency requesting background paperwork.  I received a one-page summary:

“Your alleged father was a Marine.  He was 20 years old, 6’2 1/2 ” tall, and weighed 195 pounds.  He had wavy, black hair, dark brown eyes, and a medium complexion.  He was described as gregarious, easy-going, generous, a good worker, and good looking.  He was a high school graduate.  He played football, baseball, and basketball in high school, and liked boxing, swimming, bowling, and dancing.  His ancestry was Irish.  He was also a Baptist.”

“Your birth mother was 18 years old, 5’2″ tall and 102 pounds.  She had light brown eyes, brown hair, and a straight nose.  She had completed her junior year in high school.  She was described as quiet, thoughtful, and cooperative.”

Other details in the report:

  • Birthmother’s Father – age 49 – a crossing guard on a railroad
  • Birthmother’s Mother – age 47 – factory worker with 8 children
  • 3 Sisters- ages 28, 27, and 25 all married and housewives
  • 1 Sister – age 20 – worked as a solderer
  • Brother – age 23 – also a crossing guard on a railroad
  • Twin Brothers – age 19 – production line employees
  • Irish and English descent and of the Baptist Faith
  • Grandfather still alive but retired, and Grandmother still employed

With her address, the name Edna Faye Bannister, and her seven siblings, I began to play detective.  My first stop was the High School in that neighborhood.  I left my office dressed in a suit and tie and went directly to the school librarian.  I figured that with all those kids named Bannister, I would be able to find them in the High School yearbooks.  The school happened to be closed that day, but the principal was working.  She apparently sympathized with my story and let me do my research.  I did not find anything and told her so as I exited the library. Maybe it was the way I dressed or the way I carried myself?  She asked me, as I was headed out the door, “Are you with the FBI?”

I was conducting an investigation, but hardly on the scale of the FBI.  After striking out at the school, I became more curious about the address I was given by my friend.  Since I wasn’t at that point looking for a person, only a photo, I had not checked out the home address.  It may have been because I was concerned about getting too close – a simple photo seemed so safe.  I had a job interview in that neighborhood, so I walked around the block to 2044 North Illinois Street, the home address accompanying the name, Edna Faye Bannister.  It was nothing but a parking lot.  That’s when it became apparent this was the address for a home for unwed mothers.  My guess is that the embarrassed family pulled her out of high school and sent her far away from home to give birth.  This was common in this era, and I did then discover that the Suemma Coleman Agency was once the Suemma Coleman Home.  It provided care for the expectant mother in the months prior to delivery and then made adoption arrangements.  This was why their were no Bannister children enrolled in the neighboring High School.

I did get the job, and as it turns out my new office windows overlooked the very lot where the Suemma Coleman Home once stood.  It was the ultimate Homing experience!  Over the course of 35 years, I had navigated my way from Elkhart, Indiana to Indianapolis, and returned to the very neighborhood where I spent the first few months of my life!  The only thing still missing was the mother that gave birth to me.  The Bannister family must have agreed in advance to put me up for adoption, and Edna Faye then returned to their home, wherever that was? Years later, when I finally decided to use an intermediary to find her, it was determined that Rome, Georgia was that location.  However, they could find no trace of her.

I took it upon myself to contact some Bannisters in that area, hoping to find a connection.  I even went so far as to establish a second Facebook page for my name at birth, Jerry Lee Bannister.   I have, in fact, befriended Bannisters all over the country, but have yet to find a photo, relatives, or any information on my birth mother.  I also may never know the story of the father, and what ended the relationship.  Did he even know that she was pregnant?  Was the mother protecting the true identity of the father by making up a story of the soldier?  Were they in love?  Or, did he die in Korea?

That’s the beauty of adoption and not knowing the answers.  Before the name Edna Faye Bannister became a reality to me, I always fantasized of having royal roots, or romanticized about the relationship that brought me into the world.  I felt different from everyone else, separated at birth.  Every time I visited a doctor’s office and had to fill out the forms related to family history – I had none.  All I had was a piece of paper that gave me some identity, but left me clueless as to my true identity.  Was I named after Jerry Lee Lewis, since he was so popular at that time?  Was my father’s name Jerry?

I never really had to sneak around my parents in identifying my past.  They were prepared to tell me everything they knew.  They were aware that my alleged birth father was a Marine.  That’s why they were probably haunted when “The Marines Hymn” was the only song I learned to play on the piano.  I would play it incessantly, as if maybe my birth mother used to hum it as she thought about her Marine lover in preparing to give birth to me.  I would just have to thank her for the decision that she made in putting me up for adoption.  It was the happy ending that shaped me into what I am today.  I wrote this poem a few years ago, as I thought about how difficult that decision must have been for everyone involved:

Thank You 

Some women aren’t ready,
To serve Mother’s role.
Raising a child,
Is not yet their goal.
.
A selfish moment,
Of love and lust.
But nothing like this,
Was ever discussed.
.
Two at the time,
Now left up to one.
He may have not known,
Or decided to run.
.
There’s feelings of shame,
Maybe left all alone.
But worst of all,
Your future unknown.
.
Financial hardship,
Not quite mature.
Is it fair to the child?
If the parent’s not sure.
.
If you’re not prepared,
There is an option.
If you’re not able,
Consider adoption.
.
If you’re not excited
About motherhood.
If you’re not happy,
Someone else would.
.
There are loving couples,
Who can’t conceive.
It’s the right thing to do,
You have to believe.
.
Can’t give up a baby,
So helpless and small?
It’s time to consider,
What’s best for all.

.

There may be guilt,
Or thoughts of regret.
But you can’t match,
The love they will get.
.
Please don’t abort,
A gift so great.
A life’s in your hands,
Don’t hesitate.
.
If you’re undecided,
Just ask me.
If not for someone like you,
I simply wouldn’t be.
.
If you need forgiveness,
For letting me go.
You did me a favor,
I want you to know.
.
Among the many things,
That I’m grateful for.
It wasn’t just my life,
I’ve added three more.
.
Not that I wouldn’t have,
Had a great life with you.
You wanted more for me,
And I know that’s true.

.

Thank you for me,
Sorry for the pain.
Though difficult to say,
Your loss was my gain.

.

Copyright November 2011

johnstonwrites.com

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