Category: DIARY OF AN ADOPTEE (Page 2 of 17)
As an adopted child, my thoughts and research.
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.
Copyright 2022 johnstonwrites.com
The year 1943 was all about war. My dad was twenty-two years old and serving our country. This week would have marked his 101st birthday, with my mom technically just 13 hours behind. I would be adopted into their family nearly eight years later, carrying on the family name of Johnston. My son is the last of that surname, with his son taking on the last name of Jordon alongside two Johnston sisters. They all live about 15 minutes away from my new Florida home.
My youngest grandchild, Nora, age three, gave me a hug before dinner last night and said, “I know you’re glad to see me!” It was so cute! We all got together as a family for the first time this year, following exposure to Covid, although I have done some babysitting on my own. Nora’s older sister Maddux will soon be thirteen, and not nearly as excited to see me. She grew up thousands of miles from me, so Nora is my first chance to be a true grandfather – part of her life on a consistent basis. The oldest grandchild is Gavyn, having just turned fifteen. He was sending back pictures from Indiana of his first romp in the snow. It was his birthday present from my ex-wife that included an airplane trip on his own. They are all growing up so fast.
We dined at Olive Garden last night after first agreeing to celebrate Gavyn’s birthday at Dave & Buster’s. However, with his detour to Fort Wayne, we decided to go without him, deciding on Pincher’s. Then, my son’s work schedule changed, so we picked The Twisted Fork, closer to his workplace. Upon arrival, we discovered that there was a long wait due to traffic from a nearby carnival and we all rerouted to Carrabba’s. We initially agreed to wait an hour for our table but grew quickly impatient and switched finally to the less busy Olive Garden. It’s always complicated when the seven of us try to get together.
My son agreed to help us hang some overhead lights and fans next week since we haven’t heard back from the electrician we called. My wife wants to get them installed because her sister and husband arrive soon for a visit. Our neighbor is also expecting my son to help connect some TVs she just purchased from him, so he’s highly in demand. Nora will likely be his assistant, knowing that once again I’ll be glad to see her!
I’ll start my writing this morning, as has been the current tradition, with a historical tidbit from the year corresponding with the number of this post, “Democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt defeated Republican Pres. Herbert Hoover. The 1932 election was the first held during the Great Depression, and it represented a dramatic shift in the political alignment of the country.” In another 20 posts from now, I will have been born and soon these tidbits will be personal memories. I’m feeling a bit melancholy today with cool temperatures, gray skies, and the chance of rain. A post by one of my high school classmates yesterday is the real reason. Nearly two hundred names of deceased members of the Class of 1969 were listed. For most people, my wife included, this alarming number is much greater than the size of her entire graduating class. I added Grant Balkema and Bob Grove to the list, as other losses of life were added as the day went on. One-fifth of my fellow high school students are gone, some of which I never knew other than a picture in the annual.
It made me think of life as a lottery, some of us luckier than others. I was fortunate in several related lotteries including adoption and the Viet Nam War. Some of these classmates lost their lives fighting for our country, while I could have ended up at any any other high school if it weren’t for the loving people that made me part of their family and raised me in Elkhart, Indiana. I might not have had a life at all if abortion had been an option. I’m certainly thankful for all I have today.
While I was contemplating life and death, the sweet smell of baked goods led me to the kitchen. My wife’s new neighborhood friend was teaching her how to make Nazook. It’s often spelled nazuk or nazouk, Armenian Նազուկ, Persian نازوک), an Armenian pastry made from flour, butter, sugar, sour cream, yeast, vanilla extract and eggs, with a filling often made with nuts, and especially walnuts. Nazook is sometimes referred to as gata. After a few bites, my depression went away, even though my waistline was probably starting to swell. How sweet it is!
It’s a small world when your neighbor five houses down turns out to be related. His last name is Foust, who in the early 1900s married a Bannister. Sam (James Samuel) Foust and Emma Lulu Bannister tied the knot and had two sons near the turn of the century in Madison County, Indiana. My birth parents were both named Bannister, also from Indiana. The two families had something in common, as we trace their genealogical heritage. Each kept changing the spelling of their last name. Fousts were also Fausts, while Banisters sometimes added an extra “n”. I’m not sure why the additional “n” made a difference, but after the World Wars, the Faust clan apparently changed vowels to disguise their German Heritage on American soil.
This older generation of Ban(n)isters and Fausts experienced a similar challenge as we do these days. In January of 1918, a pandemic known as the “Spanish flu” (influenza) is first observed in Haskell County, Kansas. It spread across the states much as Covid has in current times, leaving death in its path. Fortunately, Sam lived to be 91 and Lulu 82 – great longevity in that era. Sam’s father, Joshua, also sired Jesse, who in turn fathered Everett, who engendered Gregory, my new neighbor. Lulu’s father, Lee Bannister had a brother, David, spawned Henry, who was my birthmother’s (Edna Faye Banister) grandfather and Charles who was my birthfather’s (Cecil Ralph Banister) grandfather. I am, therefore, the bastard offspring of two Banister brothers’ children and a first cousin of James Samuel Faust (Foust) family 3x removed, if I’m understanding the lineage properly? Greg Foust would be the great-grandnephew of husband of first cousin 3x removed – I’ll just call him neighbor.
The Foust/Faust fame is in the development of the Gutenberg Press by moneylender Johann Faust. also known as Fust (another variation of the spelling), who provided some of the financing (800 guilders) through his banking connections. “There is also apparently a Faust Castle in upper Austria, a 15th century castle on the Danube which, legend says, was built in a single night for Dr. Faust by the devil. It has been owned by several noble families and has been a hotel since 1966.” I have been warned not to go there because back taxes are still apparently due that, as a descendent, I might be obligated to help pay or risk being imprisoned. Hotel Faust like the Hotel California – I can check in but I can never leave!
In 1910 war was declared on Germany and the U.S. entered World War 1. Both my grandfathers, William J. Johnston (1918 at age 22) and Ross A. Hancher (1917 at age 22), fought for our country. Thank you both for your service and for being great role models for me in life. We would come together as a family when Ross’ daughter, Catherine, married William’s son, Burton in 1946. I was then adopted five years later, along with my younger sister, added in 1955. I thankfully avoided military service.
I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon for my annual wellness exam. I’ve not been having any major health issues other than the self-imposed stiffness and soreness associated with running every day. My first acupuncture session earlier this week proved relatively ineffective. I have another attempt scheduled for next week, along with a chiropractor appointment. An eye exam is also planned for later this month. With all this attention to my health this month, I’m sure they will find something wrong. I give blood next week and have passed two Covid tests already, so I’ll certainly have my share of New Year poking and prodding. I’ve managed to stay away from alcohol as part of my January resolution, but sweets consumption has actually gotten worse.
We continue to watch Peaky Blinders on Netflix about British spies and gangs. As far as TV sports, IU won a big basketball game over Ohio State last night, bolstering my fading hopes for an elusive tournament bid come March. Football also signed a promising QB prospect, a transfer from Missouri, so things are looking up in Bloomington. Culturally, we spent yesterday afternoon, Tourist Thursday, at the Venice Art Center following lunch in their café. We also signed up for an Eagles cover band concert here in the community center – After Eagles. Florida is known to be the cover band capital of the world, probably since a majority of the aging population can’t see or hear clearly, so these copycat groups sound better to them than they actually are. We were not pleased with the Journey/Styx act that we saw here a few months ago, so maybe we aren’t as far “over the hill” as some of our Florida peers.
I added my 800th DNA match to the Jerry Ban(n)ister Family Tree yesterday. That’s 800 people that I was in NO way familiar with until just a few years ago. Now, at least I have something physical in common with my ancestors. I was reminded of this by my chiropractor who asked me just yesterday if my father had similar issues with muscle stiffness and arthritis as I do. I told him I didn’t really experience that because I was adopted and never around him. I do however know that he suffered from lymphoma that is usually identified early with a bump or lump under the skin.
This is the only tree that I’m working with this holiday season, with now over 37,000 ancestors spread out on it’s many branches. I’ve been experiencing what I call “Ban(n)ister Butt” that happens after hours of sitting at my desk connecting genetic clues that make up my genetic family. Just after Christmas there will be a surge in DNA test results that could mean more solutions to my many puzzles. Genealogy is the only way that dead people speak and are recognized for their important roles in the Tree of Life. Each generation is approximately 25 years long. The numbers grow exponentially as you figure two children, four grandchildren, eight great-grandchildren and so on. In just ten generations, the average person accumulates over 1,000 descendants. This is how we matter!
I have one son, with three kids that will hopefully remember me some day by exploring their genetic history. It is complicated by divorce, marriage, remarriage, child birth, and adoption, In the process loved ones are lost through death and often quickly forgotten with time. My son’s youngest daughter never met my parents or their parents let alone my birth parents and their offspring. However, these are all people that will have an influence on her life as she grows older and perhaps has kids of her own. It’s a lot to think about and there is importance in recording this family history.
Because I was adopted, I never really paid much attention to genetics and was never able to find physical resemblance to my family members. Now, through pictures, I can finally see this relationship that most people take for granted. I look much like the birth father that I never met and through his other children see this phenomenon. It’s a connection that brings families together. People always tried to find that likeness between myself and my birth parents. Fortunately, I picked up many worthy attributes from them as they raised me, but we did not have common features, despite what others thought they saw. I was taller, more muscular, and had darker complexion than the loving couple that raised me. My sister was also adopted so we shared little physically. We found our connection by living under the same roof. I wonder what that roof would have been like back in 1875.