When I was in America, attending my dad’s funeral, my mother gave me some personal documents. One of those documents was my birth certificate, which contained the name of my recently-deceased father and mother, even though they adopted me when I was but 12 days old. My mother gave me another document that should have been sealed before my adoption. On it was the name of the lady who gave birth to me.
I grew up always knowing that I was adopted, even though my parents treated me no differently than their other three children. I’m glad that they didn’t keep it a secret from me. I think that parents who do have done a disservice to their children. We should always be as honest as possible with our children. About the specifics of my adoption, I had no idea until recently. A few years ago, my mother told me that the story she was told was that my birth mother was married to a guy, divorced him, and then got pregnant by another guy. After that, she returned to her husband. He didn’t want to raise a child that wasn’t naturally his, so I was put up for adoption.
That night, after my mother had given me the document containing my birth-mother’s name, I spent a few hours googling for information. I discovered that she is 67 years old and still lives near Van Nuys, where I was born. Records indicated that she never actually got a divorce from her husband, who had been married before her and had three boys with him. The youngest boy is three years older than me and might be an actor. I’m not sure of that last part, though. His name matches that of an actor who appeared in some movies and lives in that area, but that could be a coincidence. I wrote down the lady’s phone number and address and went to bed.
Over the next several weeks, I mulled over the notion of contacting my birth-mother. Because of my estranged situation with my first son, Cameron, I thought that the lady might have been wondering all these years about my whereabouts and if I was okay. I felt a phone call wouldn’t be sufficient enough, so I decided on writing a letter to her. In the letter, which I wrote by hand in cursive, I told her that my purpose of writing the letter was twofold. First, I wanted to thank her for giving me life. Without her, I wouldn’t be here today. And, despite all my life’s hardships, many of which are ongoing, I’m glad I’m alive. As long as I’m alive, I have the chance to progress. I might not be doing it at the pace that I should be, but at least I have the opportunity. I don’t know what her options were at the time, but I’m grateful that she chose to give me life. Also, I wanted to write to her to let her know that I have had a good life. I grew up with a good family, a somewhat dysfunctional family, but a good one nonetheless. My parents brought me up to respect and be kind to others and taught me the value of hard work. I know that my one brother and two sisters love me and would do the world for me, as I would for them. I am blessed to have been brought up in a family as good as The Iversons. I think my birth-mother needed to know this, and I hope my letter helped her feel good about what she’d done.
I ended the letter by writing down my email address, inviting her or any of the members of her family to contact me if they felt the desire. I’m not looking for anything from them, but wouldn’t mind hearing from her or what are essentially my birth-half-brothers. I have no expectations, other than to hope that my birth-mother is pleased with my letter of gratitude to her. I think that just about this time she should be receiving it.
Whether she contacts me or not, I’m glad I got the chance to write to her. It’s somewhat like the message I wrote to my son Cameron’s girlfriend (Ashley?) through MySpace. I wrote to her that I wanted her to know that I care about Cam and hope that they have nothing but happiness and success in their relationship. I also promised her that I’d never write again if she didn’t request it. She hasn’t, and I’ve never written her again.