It’s the first one; A from the alphabet A-Z, the theme is adoption and I write from personal experience because I was adopted and there. If you know me and didn’t know, then you didn’t know me. This may be good, it may be bad. I may be harsh and I may be vulgar who knows, it’s all unplanned anyway; just like my life, and I hope everyone else’s, all unplanned. There is no script and so for me when I heard I was an adopted child, the world suddenly changed.
I have since learnt events were different, but for me, remember these are my memories, the day I found out I was adopted was at Christmas, on Christmas Day at about 6pm or possibly later. I had had my usual lovely Christmas morning opening fabulous presents from my folks, playing with them and my Dad, maybe it had snowed too, you know the type of quintessential English cliche Christmas that exists in the minds of children. My Granny had come over, my Grandpa had died a year or so previous and everyone had had a wonderful lunch cooked by my wonderful mother, with sprouts, we had no choice back then.
At around 6 my Uncle arrived with his wife and her son, I think he was called Edward. Wine flowed, drinking and driving was endemic back then as long as one had a coffee before attempting to turn the keys in the ignition, this, apparently, meant the police can’t fucking touch you. We’ve come on a tad since then I think we can all agree. Anyway, chat was happening, laughter and Gitanes, red wine and tight denim paired with freshly ironed white shirt unbuttoned far too low for a 50+ year old man. I really remember the smoke.
My Uncle somehow managed to produce a photocopied family tree from nowhere, it was of the type with the purple inked writing, the one that smelled delicious when it was hot off the press, but faded awfully over time, degrading the memory as time passed in case the brain still held onto some snippet of recall. The family tree, unremarkable in its form held one surprise for me, a surprise right at the bottom, at the end of the new developing buds, a surprise which read,
“My Name (adopted)”
In lower case and in brackets. And also remember this blog is meant to be anonymous, so no names will be used aside from one which will crop up later in the alphabet, possibly S, but I haven’t yet decided.
Well, readers, you may or may not be able to empathise, but let’s just say my life changed somehow at that point, sometime after 6pm on Christmas night when I was 8.
I cried, of course I did, and that years Christmas was ruined. I spent a long time in my bedroom as I recall, and didn’t come down until Boxing Day. Mum and Dad were ace, they are still ace if a little crumbly around the edges, but then we all get that way sooner or later, no amount of Botox is going to stop the mind creep. Funnily enough, a few years ago I realised that my folks had told me about my adoption well before then, but I have no recollection of this. The moral ethical rules of adoption kind of state your adoptive parents should tell their new bug where they came from, that way any confusion will be avoided further on down the line. I think I don’t remember because I can not remember a great deal from when I was 5, aside from Mummy crying on the green settee because it was late and Daddy hadn’t come home from the office just yet. He came home later than normal and everything was fine, maybe there was a traffic jam, we had no mobile phones. This was not related to the adoption story but is merely there for context to illustrate what I remembered when I was 5 has little or no consequence.