Category: DIARY OF AN ADOPTEE (Page 9 of 18)

I got another clue today as part of a personal quest to verify the connection to a woman that I believe to be my birth mother. She’s still alive and recently celebrated her 86th birthday, but is not receptive to admitting any relationship with me. However, DNA clues continue to point in her direction. Today, I found another close relative match (First Cousin) on 23andMe with the daughter of one of her sisters, Joyce Gourley. Several months ago, I also had a strong match on Ancestry with this woman’s sister, Susan Smith. Both of their maiden names were Barker. I sent Joyce a note identifying myself, after Susan failed to respond to my efforts. Maybe I’ll give the two of them something to talk about?

Their mother, Helen, was one of eight children of Ivan Otis and Ruby Mae Banister. The other siblings were Wilma, Evelyn, Elmer, Eva Joyce, and Edna Faye, plus the twins Charles & Rex. Adoption records indicate that Edna Faye gave birth to me on August 27, 1951 while under the care of the Suemma Coleman Agency in Indianapolis, Indiana. I’m sure that as an 18-year old, it was a very difficult time of her life, and maybe worth suppressing from her memory.

As I explore these DNA matches, I have to proceed with caution out of respect for my suspected birth mother’s reputation. She is obviously embarrassed about that year of her life when she found both love and scandal. I’m the skeleton in her closet, and with each new “relative” contact that I make, I expose this secret that she’s hidden. I carefully track each match on my Jerry Banister Family Tree and try to learn a little about their lives by going to their Facebook page. It feels a bit like stalking, but I’m really just trying to make sure that I have the right person. They are often just a name or initials on these matching sites, and the last name can be deceptive depending on their marital status. When I looked up Joyce Gourley, it indicated that she lived in Cicero, Indiana, just as her sister Susan hails from nearby Crawfordsville. These are key clues in identifying any relationship.

The entire discovery process that I’ve experienced in making these new family acquaintances have “fate” written all over them. It’s been one coincidence after another, starting from when I learned that my office window looked out over the now empty lot where my birth mother would have spent the weeks leading up to my birth. My career had somehow led me back to my first neighborhood. Years later, I took the 23andMe DNA test that led me to a genealogist who showed me the paperwork identifying my birth mother’s hometown as Shelbyville, Indiana. One clue has led to another, and the pieces of my adoption puzzle are coming together.

Over the course of the last two years, I’ve met some wonderful “relatives” that have been very supportive of my quest. They have given me information about the family and have tried their best to connect me with Edna Faye. A “Third Cousin,” who I now consider a friend, has suggested that I read, “The Girls Who Went Away” by Ann Fessler. A copy of the book arrived while we were out of town, so I’ll be anxious to dig into it. Hopefully, it will provide some additional insight on what it was like to be young, pregnant and scared back in the early 1950’s. It’s the “hidden history of women who surrendered children for adoption in the decades before Roe vs. Wade.” I will write more about the woman who gave me the gift of life, but is maybe justifiably ashamed to admit it.

As an adoptee, I’m always a little envious on “National Siblings Day.” I see all these wonderful pictures of happy families bearing strong resemblance on Facebook. First of all, I’m not at all unhappy being an adopted child because of the wonderful family that raised me. I also have an adopted sister who is four years younger. I don’t see her that often, but I do call every Monday to let her know I’m thinking of her. It does not take a special day, but it is a special relationship – having a brother or sister. However, I can’t help but think “What If?” What if I had siblings and parents that I actually looked like? Would that make a difference?

I don’t look at all like my sister, but they often say that people who live together can begin to take on certain physical and behavioral similarities. There are also a number of natural siblings out there that wonder just how they could possibly be related. I didn’t always think of these things while I was growing up with my sister. In fact, it was kind of a family joke when someone would say I resembled my sister, mom, or dad. My folks were small in stature while I was much taller. I also had curly, dark hair compared to my sister’s lighter red tint. She had blue eyes and mine were brown. She was fond of playing outside while I preferred air conditioning once it became commonplace. Not all of these factors are obviously dictated by genetics.

About two years ago I discovered that my birth mother had four other children. Six months ago I met my birth father’s family that is comprised of five sisters and a brother. Biologically, I have ten half-siblings, although three of them have unfortunately passed. Apparently, there is a strong resemblance in the eyes with the children on my birth father’s side. This we determined face-to-face, so it was the first time that I actually saw myself in others. It was this very bond that I feel that I missed in being part of an adopted family. However, nothing can make up for the bond that forms when people live together or at least know each other for years. This is something that I will never probably have with my newly found half-siblings. After all, I’ve yet to even meet three of them.

What If we had all been together as a family? It was formed through three different fathers and two different mothers, so it could only exist as a commune. If my birth parents had stayed together after my birth, none of these other half siblings would exist, replaced perhaps by other children that could join me in celebrating National Siblings Day. In order for this to have happened, I would have had to give up the wonderful adopted family that raised and loved me. What if?

It was a late night for me, being one of the oldest dudes at a Pink concert. She has an awesome voice, but the most captivating moments of her show are the circus-like aerial acts that she performs. We nearly did not get into the show, as the StubHub tickets that I bought were forged and our entry was denied. After a conversation with a box office supervisor, I was advised to call them and request replacement tickets. For some reason, I’ve somehow always expected that the piece of paper with a bar code that you now get instead of a ticket would eventually not work. There are too many scam artists out there, and fortunately companies like StubHub have ticket insurance. They were very apologetic about the circumstances and immediately provided better seats at a slightly lower cost. This is why you shouldn’t buy a paper ticket on the street.

With our very active nightlife and travel schedules these past few weeks, not much has been happening in Banister World, the story of my adoption. I’m writing today because it’s the 86th birthday of the woman who brought me into this world but chose not to keep me. Instead, I was raised by the Johnston family and certainly have no regrets. I’m lucky to be alive because in today’s modern era, I might have been a casualty of abortion. With this in mind, I remain grateful to this stranger who faced humiliation at the tender age of seventeen, and was sent away to the big city to endure the pain of childbirth. She apparently doesn’t remember and has rejected any opportunity to communicate.

There is a trail of paperwork that follows any adoption, including court records that have been sealed to protect identities. Years ago, a friend was able to circumvent this legal process and provide me with my birth mother’s name. Only recently, have these documents been released to the public. Although I doubt that there’s information that I don’t already have, I applied for copies. This was about four months ago and last I heard there was still a three month backlog. At some point, I’ll go to my mailbox and find a packet from the State of Indiana that will legally substantiate my relationship with this woman. In addition, I have a strong DNA connection to the daughter of her older sister. There is little doubt, regardless of her memory, that I am her first born child. I’m not really sure if I need anything more to prove this, and I certainly want nothing from her. I would just like to say Thank You and Happy Birthday.

Every day, I’ve been going to the mailbox like a little kid anticipating a package containing something like a Captain Midnight Decoder Ring. That should give you an indication of my age. I was born on August 27, 1951 at Wishard Memorial Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana and returned to my temporary home, The Suemma Coleman Home for Unwed Mothers. I’m not exactly sure when “for Unwed Mothers” disappeared from its bothersome identity? All the communications that came to my adoptive parents were on The Suemma Coleman Home letterhead. For some historical perspective, I did copy a couple of excerpts from the blog Coleman Moms and Babes ,with references to the book A Public Charity: Religion & Social Welfare in Indianapolis, 1929-2002 by Mary L, Mapes:

“In the 1940s and the 1950s, it was a quite different philosophy of thought. They considered single mothers a threat to the middle class ideal. So often you hear stories that these women either got spiritual training or psychological counseling to get them to see the error of their ways. We can all imagine what that was like. Suemma Coleman Home for Unwed Mothers was the protestant version of St. Elizabeth’s Home for Unwed Mothers. This was the time that worshiped the concept of the middle class family. They stopped encouraging women to keep their children.”

These next two paragraphs are particularly disturbing, describing the discriminating attitudes of that era:

“Interestingly enough they condemned the African American mother and forced her to raise her own child. They wanted her to take responsibility of her own child. With the white mother, it was the opposite. They wanted her to relinquish her child. Many of these social workers at these agencies thought this new pattern was a sign of the unwed mother having a personality disorder. They felt it was a unwed mother’s attempt to get back at her parents for the lack of love and attention. They felt that it was ultimately the unwed mother’s mother who was responsible for her daughter getting pregnant. They described this pregnancy as a form of rebellion. These homes changed their focus from lower class mothers to middle class mothers. They became very selective in the unwed mothers. Neither one of these homes for years would accept an African American mother in their maternity homes.”

“Ruth Henderson, the Suemma Coleman Home for Unwed Mothers director, described how these girls coming to the home would want to keep their children. These girls were strongly discouraged from that train of thought. Her words, I swear. The maternity homes had to make sure that these young girls followed through with relinquishment. Most of these girls were told that since they got pregnant that they would NOT be good mothers. These homes told these women that they could not be mothers without a husband. A husband is what made them mothers. Ms. Henderson happily reported that most of these mothers willingly changed their minds once they understood this. “

Ruth Henderson signed most of the paperwork that my parents received, so I was familiar with her name when I read this. They left me most of the original paperwork in their safe deposit box that I opened after they passed a few years ago. I could find no record of Ruth’s death. My 18-year old birth mother probably had discussions with both her and her staff as she prepared to give birth to me and pass the responsibility of my care on to others.

Apparently all of the documents related to my adoption were legally sealed from public inspection until just recently. You can imagine the flood of inquiries that the Indiana State Department of Health has had to accommodate. Over 30 years ago, a close friend of mine in the media business somehow got access to these files, and gave me the name Edna Faye Banister as my birth mother. I’ve often wondered what other information in my files have been protected all these years? This poor woman is now 85 years old and will probably never accept any connection to me, even despite genetic evidence. However, I’m still curious about these documents. As a result, I submitted my request over 5 months ago (in October), and have been waiting impatiently on a package in the mail ever since.

The Indiana State Department of Health initially indicated that it would be 16 weeks to respond. Over twenty weeks had passed a few days ago, so I sent a follow -up email. Here’s their response: “Your request is in line for processing. We do not have a turnaround time frame due to the high volume of requests for the adoption matching registry. We are currently working on July’s requests at this time.”

It looks like I have at least 3 more months to wait for this information that may or may not be useful. At least, there’s no longer any need to wait by the mailbox for the adult version of a Secret Decoder Ring.

I’m getting used to doing nothing. At least, doing nothing is something. I had one of those glorious days yesterday, with no commitments, plans, or appointments to worry about. There wasn’t even a travel schedule to adhere to, a meal to cook, or another episode on TV to watch. Yet, the hours went by quickly, even without a nap. I must have gotten lost in “Banister World,” searching for more clues about the family I never had. It’s not as if I really missed out on anything. My life undoubtedly turned out better being adopted. However, it’s fascinating to imagine the alternative. Would I have even gotten the opportunity to retire and enjoy a “do nothing” day?

There are video games where the choices you make can be reviewed and changed. Life is not like that! Once you take the fork in the road, you can’t go back. There are decisions that you regret and can’t change, but you always have to feel like you made the right choice. Adoption was not a choice for me, but it was for others. The couple that took me into their home gave me everything I needed to be successful. I tried hard to blow that! The other family that struggled with my destiny had a pregnant daughter and few alternatives.

It wasn’t until I was graduating from college that abortion on demand was no longer a crime. Gambling and alcohol were also crimes at one time, but that didn’t stop them from happening. I suppose there were crooked doctors that could help a young girl get rid of a problem, or worse yet just plain crooks. The family probably had little money and limited insurance, so the costs of a big city birthing home and hospitalization were major sacrifices. However, they somehow found the means to do the right thing.

It’s different now, since the Indiana laws have changed. I read a recent article in the Indianapolis Star about the current situation: “abortions are only allowed to be performed by a doctor during the first trimester or three months of pregnancy based on the recommendation of a pregnant woman’s doctor. After that, an abortion must be performed in a hospital or licensed surgical center — but before a fetus is viable, or capable of living under normal conditions, outside the fetus. After viability, an abortion is only allowed in Indiana to protect the health of the mother and must be performed in a hospital with a premature birth unit, if available, and in the presence of a second physician.”

It costs $400-$500 to take a life today in the first trimester, much more than a 5-day hospital stay to give birth 67 years ago. Any way you look at it, the expense, associated shame, and isolated experience of being sent away from home would haunt any woman for a lifetime. This is why I don’t blame my birth mother for wanting to take her secret to the grave. The attitude about unwed mothers in that era was disturbing, as described below. I can’t repeat enough times how grateful I am that she endured this humiliation so that I could raise a family of my own and enjoy a comfortable retirement.

The Suemma Coleman Home for Unwed Mothers in Indianapolis was one of the only affordable options for prenatal care in the early 50’s, supported by the Protestant Church. Planned Parenthood was not formed until 1955. However, on the Coleman Moms and Babes website the director of the program, Ruth Henderson apparently described how these girls coming to the home would want to keep their children. These girls were strongly discouraged from that train of thought. Her words, I swear. The maternity homes had to make sure that these young girls followed through with relinquishment. Most of these girls were told that since they got pregnant that they would NOT be good mothers. These homes told these women that they could not be mothers without a husband. A husband is what made them mothers. Ms. Henderson happily reported that most of these mothers willingly changed their minds once they understood this. 

This is where my birth mother spent the end of the summer of her 18th year, when most of her high school classmates were reporting for their Senior year. Her slightly older “boyfriend” had gone off to the Marines, probably unaware of her dilemma. She eventually left Indianapolis with nothing but the scars of my arrival into the world, and returned to a family that may have wanted to disown her. I can only speculate what happened to her next? Two months later, I was under the loving care of my adopted family, who were thrilled to have what she helped make. All these years later, I’m still trying to piece together this missing chapter of my life story.

If circumstances were different, would I have worked on the Banister family farm? Would I have had the opportunity to attend college? What would I have done for a living, and would I still be working instead of enjoying another “Do Nothing” day? I’m glad there was really no legal abortion choice back in 1951, even though her angry father might have tried to find one. Ultimately, the safety of his daughter was paramount, and the decision was to “do nothing” to interfere with nature. Thankfully, “doing nothing” was for me…. Something!

It’s not like the Brady Bunch or even a stairway banister decorated with bunches of flowers. It’s a group of people sharing a last name, whether it’s spelled with one “n” or two. It’s not a family I grew up in, nor do I attend family reunions. I’ve only recently come to learn that I was apparently born of two Banisters, but I’m mostly known as a Johnston. It’s no wonder that I have a curiosity about the “Ban(n)ister Bunch,” and it’s why I’ve created the Jerry Banister Family Tree on Ancestry.com. My wife, who knows the whole story, kids me about my obsession with what she calls, “Ban(n)ister World.”

The Jerry Banister Family Tree is now officially Ban(n)ister World, since the name now exceeds all others on its branches. With over 11,500 total names, nearly 550 have the last name of Ban(n)ister or were born one. It now surpasses Legg, Hall, Greathouse, Foist, Taylor, and Emly, or their surname variations throughout the years. Each is now a member of the 100 Club, having at least a hundred leaves on the tree. It’s been a lot of work trying to find the connections to this “Ban(n)ister Bunch” that are mostly strangers.

I’m using my DNA test results to determine how I fit in. At this point, I’ve easily found over 100, but new ones pop-up every day. For example, debv8 showed up today on my Ancestry.com match list as #16 (2nd to 3rd cousin). She is a Banister that I’ve already met because we also tested through 23andMe. We share 209 Centimorgans over 9 segments. (See Posts #719 and Post #786), and both take an interest in Ban(n)ister family genealogy. I also sent her a note regarding a Burrel Banister that shows up on the constructed family trees of some of my other DNA matches. He’s shown as Laborn Banister’s father, who I originally thought was the “end” of the family branch. It could be wishful thinking on someone’s part in trying to extend the lineage, but there’s a curious DNA link to this theory.

Speculation like this is what makes genealogy interesting. You can add anything you want to your tree until someone proves you incorrect. As a result, there are many inaccuracies! I’m first to admit that my rookie efforts to determine family connections are often confused. However, it does inspire conversations with others that are interested in protecting the family interests. Plus, I know all about keeping family secrets and skeletons in the closet! Consequently, I always refer to those that have been doing this for many years, so they can show me the errs of my ways. In the meantime, the “Ban(n)ister Bunch” continues to flourish, as I continue to suffer from “Ban(n)ister Butt,” the result of sitting at the computer too long. It’s time to run some errands and walk the dogs.