I always thought that Gepetto loved Pinocchio just as he was. I believe that the ending of the story, where Pinocchio becomes real, is more of a metaphor than anything else. I think Pinocchio became a real boy not because of the fairy but because he finally believed that he really was Gepetto's son. I stick to this version because if the ending really means that belief isn't what creates reality then the story invalidates my self-perception.
Bastard Moments have been very few in my life. My family never shied away from the topic, but even though being an adoptee had enormous impact on me emotionally, but it wasn't something we needed to constantly discuss. As my Dad often remarks, our family has a wrong kind of humor. We have been known to mess around with people who didn't realize my brother and I weren't our parents' biological spawn. We'd go to some event or family thing, some new person would remark on how much I looked like my parents and we'd start laughing like wild hyenas. Fun times.
Never have I felt like I was anything less than my parents' child. My brother and I were - are - loved just as deeply as any child has ever been.
I remember as clearly as if it were yesterday the sense of indignation and burning shame I felt when I realized that even though we weren't somehow less real in the eyes of our parents, we were decidedly so in the eyes of others. Mom had a copy of the Bardwell family genealogy book - a big hardbound monster of a thing - that listed all the Bardwell descendants, living or deceased. Right there in print next to my name and my brother's name: ADOPTED. I couldn't understand - then or now - why such a distinction even needed to be made. Whenever I read an obituary that pointedly refers to the deceased's surviving child as adopted I immediately assume the obituary's author is an asshole.
Not once did I ever think that any of my close relatives thought of us as less real than biological progeny, even if some nameless, faceless genealogy junkie did.
It wasn't until my uncle passed away that we learned otherwise.
Of all of the relatives I knew growing up, this aunt and uncle were the closest to us both in proximity and in heart. They were my godparents, and I was my aunt's namesake. When my uncle passed away I had not seen them in almost ten years, having just moved back from the other side of the country. I had just started my new job that week and the dinner would be a midweek affair over on the other side of the mountains. I could not go, but my brother and parents could. When my mother requested that the gathering be held on a night my brother wasn't working, my oldest cousin's wife balked. "Why should it matter if Ken or Mary can come? Its not like they're actually related or anything."
I think I could smell my mother's hair burning from half a state away.
That was - oh, gosh - more than seven years ago. In the time that has since passed, I assumed maybe things had softened, settled. Maybe it had just been a careless remark - the kind you say but don't really mean. We've all done that a time or two, right? I have. And we've had at least one family reunion and had a wonderful time.
And then - the wedding. My cousin's youngest daughter. We'd been hearing and talking about it for months and since my Dad's health precluded my parents' attendance, I planned to attend. It would be wonderful to see all of my cousins and my aunts.
And of all of the relatives on this coast and elsewhere, guess which cousin was the only one not invited?
My parents got an invitation. Since I'm nearly 50 I think I can safely assume that the invitation addressed only to them did not include their children. I waited for my invitation to arrive. And waited. After more than a week I had to admit that it wasn't ever going to be in my mailbox. It had never been sent and never would.
I will be the first to admit that my hurt and dismay are likely exacerbated by my current health issues. I know I'm a miserable person these days. But that ... being left out like that ... was more than a slight. It was more than an insult.
When other relatives started posting pictures last weekend of the fabulous reception and talking about how much fun they were having hanging out with their family I felt almost sick to my stomach.
In one of those typically dramatic reactions I tend to have I deactivated my Facebook account. I'm sure that showed them! Almost as much as being taken off my Christmas card list will SHOW THEM!
I reactivated Facebook yesterday, but I really mean what I said about the Christmas cards.
I know that "feeling" like I'm the real daughter of my parents doesn't change the reality of our biological disconnect. But I will go toe to toe - and I'd probably have to get in line behind Mom and Dad - with anyone who thinks that my parents and I are anything other than family.
My Dad loves his family and he loves me. I always thought they were my family too. Does it require their belief that I am also theirs to make me real?
