This story was written and copyrighted by Ginni D Snodgrass, 1995. All rights Reserved. Tualatin OR 97062-9046
This story is fully protected by United States Copyright laws. You may print yourself a copy for personal use, but it may not be printed and distributed in any form, nor may any portion of it be changed in any way.
October 17, 1985
Though it was early, the house was still. I had turned the television down low; my daughter and husband went to bed early. They instinctively knew I needed to be alone, and the magnitude of what I was about to do. I could feel my heart beating; my chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. It was all I could feel, besides apprehension, and relief that no one was with me to witness what would be my ultimate humiliation.
I got my cigarettes and a cup of coffee, then sank into my big easy chair with the phone. It was in my hand; it could bring me what I had wanted since my earliest childhood memory. I was going to violate the taboo, and do the impossible. My mind was racing with uncertainty, "What would I say? Would she know who I am? What if she won't talk to me?" I steeled myself for the worst.
Finally, I dialed the phone number on the scrap of paper in my hand. The phone rang just a few times, and a woman answered. "Hello," she had a deep curt voice.
"Is this Millie?" I asked. She said it was. I said, "This is Virginia Diane Glaspey." That was my name growing up.
She said, "Yes." Then there was silence.
I asked, "Do you know who I am?" She said she did, and silence again.
I panicked, and my mind began to spin. "Oh no, she won't want to talk to me. She wants to forget the past; she wants to forget about me. Now what do I do?" I decided I should end the conversation gracefully. I did not want to upset her, and make her mad. I told myself, "Be careful, maybe she will change her mind, and talk to you another time." I then began to worry about her. Her husband must be listening, and does not know about me.
Deep down I had always known I would be rejected. The phone would be slammed down with a thunderous bang. I began to apologize for disturbing her. I told her I didn't want to cause trouble. I just needed information about who I was. I nearly hung-up when she interrupted me, and told me it was okay. She said I surprised her, and she did not know what to say. Of course I surprised her; she too had given up hope after so many years.
At age thirty-five I was talking to my birthmother for the first time in my life. We went on to talk for two hours and thirteen minutes. Much of our conversation was silence. It was as if I was afraid to break the connection I had finally made.
Life with its many complexities can make it difficult to get through each day, or even the next hour. Living under a shroud of lies and secrets can cause us pain we can only feel, and not understand. It hurts us in ways we do not see. The truth is what allows us to reconcile with the past. We cannot live in the past, but we must know the truth of it to get to the future.
September 2, 1950
Virginia Diana Goddard was born in Eugene, Oregon. Three days later I left the hospital to become someone else. It had been arranged months earlier, directly between my birthmother and adoptive parents. An attorney, Gordon Ramstead, did the necessary paperwork to make it legal, and final. Once Judge Skipworth signed the Decree, as far as my adoptive mother was concerned, my birthmother never existed. She was to vanish from the face of the earth. Millie's name was never to be spoken again, though both my families knew each other well.
Through out my childhood I had begged, badgered, and threatened my adoptive mother to tell me who. I asked and asked, "Who is my mother?" She always said, "I don't know. I never met the woman. It was handled by Gordon." That is all she would say; she would say no more. The reply never changed. I sneaked through the house looking every where for clues. One day I did find a paper, in the bottom of my adoptive parent's closet, that gave me my father's name. When I told my adoptive mother what I found, the paper disappeared, and its existence is denied today.
As a young child I dreamt of my birthmother coming to get me. I knew she would. Yet, in the most vivid of my dreams I never got beyond seeing her from afar. She would always be with her father. I could not see her face, but she was pretty, dressed up with a purse on her arm, and gloves held in her hand. Her father would look oh so distinguished in a suit.
When I was grown, I thought of phoning her, if only I knew who she was. Forgotten was the name I found as a child. I had no idea what I would say, or how I would introduce myself. I had all but given up hope of meeting her. Just to see what she looked like. To know "who" she was.
When I awoke the morning after the phone call, I felt a heavy burden had been lifted from me, a burden I was not even consciously aware of carrying. For days I felt as though I were walking on air. I felt at peace with myself, a peace I had never known before. I was always loved. I was always wanted. I wasn't sold or given away. I wasn't a dirty little secret hidden from the world.
Millie thought I did not want to know her, because I never called. She did not know my adoptive parents kept her identity hidden from me, that my adoptive mother would lie to me. She knew where I was every day of my life. As she moved around the world her family in Eugene kept her informed. The same way they kept my adoptive father informed her whereabouts. She waited patiently for me to call.
That one phone call affected me in ways I could not have imagined. It was only the beginning. We built on the bond that was created before I was born. No one can ever separate us again. I stopped looking for a place to belong. No longer was I restless. To finally be like other people. To walk, talk, act, think like other people, was a way of going home.
I will never be completely free of the past. The wound is there, embedded deep in my soul. There are times when the wound is ripped open, again. Then the pain is overwhelming, and the energy is drained right out of me. The will to go on is lost. I get by an hour at a time, knowing that it will pass, but at times it seems life has too much pain. Each time it is a little harder for me to recover.
Then I remember where I have been, and where I want to be. The secrets are no more. The lies are exposed. I know the truth of who I am. I changed how I look me. At last, I have roots; I have a history.
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