Less than a month ago I sent away for a twin zygosity test from a company that specializes in analyzing DNA for twins and triplets. I sent away for a bit of science to tell me if my twin and I were fraternal or identical
For a variety of reasons, straight answers are hard to come by in adoption stories, and I have spent the better part of five years trying to track them down in my own story. The appeal of the zygosity test is that it isn’t loyal to anything or anyone. It isn’t affected by time and emotion. It has no intent, no desire, other than to be accurate.
The adoption counselors at Lutheran Child & Family Services told my parents that we were fraternal twins. Two sacs. Those are the words in the notes my mother took during a conversation with one of the counselors. Two sacs = fraternal, she wrote. Our birth mother was told that, too. Definitely fraternal, she confirmed when I asked shortly after meeting her.
In fact, even today, with all the leaps in scientific understanding, some medical professionals still confuse the presence of two amniotic sacs as evidence of fraternal twins. That’s not always the case, though. One-third of all identical twins are born with two separate sacs, indicating that a single fertilized egg split into two before the fifth day following conception, at which point the sac forms, one around each twin. For the other two-thirds of identical twins, that splitting occurs between the fifth and ninth day, after the formation of the sac; in that case, the twins share a single sac.
One summer, during college, I took a biology class at our local community college with one of my high school science teachers. In high school science classes, I could barely get through the units on genetics. As somebody who was adopted, I felt alienated, and depressed, by the discussion. But in the college class, Mr. Thistlethwaite, who knew my sister and me, reminded me that I had something to go on when it came to questions of heredity and genetics. I had my sister. And so I dove into the unit and emerged convinced that my sister and I were identical, despite what we had been told, despite all of the differences people saw in us because, well, because we were fraternal. I went home from class one day and broke the news to my mom. “That’s not what we were told, honey,” she said kindly.
Two weeks ago, I handed my sister a test tube and six cotton swabs and told her to swab. I did the same. Three swabs on the inside of each cheek, once before dinner and once again the next day before breakfast. There was no fanfare to the procedure. We were racing to do it before one of the six boys between us interrupted us with the crisis of the hour. I put the tubes in an envelope, and we mailed it from a box in front of the post office in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
When I opened the e-mail today with the DNA results, I was secretly hoping that science would confirm what my heart said. If that weren’t the case, I still had irrefutable proof about something related to my birth, something that hadn’t been incinerated or amended or lost or forgotten.
Test Results #20556-150715 were based on an analysis of 15 standard DNA markers used in human identity. That analysis indicated that there is a “greater than a 99.9% probability that the twins are monozygotic.”
In other words, my sister and I are identical twins.
Immediately I called my twin to tell her the news.
“I feel like I’ve been born all over again,” I teased.
I could hear her shrug through the phone. “It only confirmed what I knew all along.”
But in the silence that followed, neither of us could stop smiling.
Last week the New York Times Magazine ran an engrossing article titled “The Mixed-Up Brothers of Bogotá” about four brothers who, due to an accidental swap at a hospital when the boys were newborns, were raised with the wrong twin.
What strikes me most about the story of the Bogotá twins is how fiercely they continue to hold on to one another, even after discovering that they each have an identical twin and share absolutely no genetic connection with the brother raised alongside them. In other words, there’s no wrong twin; there’s only the twin each of them loves and the twin each of them lost to the mix-up. After learning about one another and eventually meeting, one of the twins tells the brother with whom he grew up, “You’re my brother, and you’ll be my brother until the day I die.” Another twin, sensing how unmoored his brother is by the discovery of their identical twins, has a portrait of his brother tattooed upon his chest.
My sister and I are not identical, at least not according to what my birth mother was told by people who didn’t always tell her the truth. There’s no reason to doubt what my birth mother was told, but there’s no proof, either. Several years ago, the head of Medical Records at Illinois Masonic Medical Center confirmed that our records had been destroyed, leaving no trace of our birth in the medical system.
Fraternal twins, like my sister and me, have no more of a genetic link than any siblings do, no more than, say, my sister and I have with our biological brother whom we learned about when we met our birth parents. As the article points out, the formation of fraternal twins is “mundane.” But wait–it’s more complicated than that. As the article also points out, genetic research has shown that biological influences and environmental influences play an equal part in shaping who we are. Moreover, when you throw in the complex nature of our “genetic circuitry,” the way our genes respond to and are even transformed by our environmental experiences, all bets are off. Science aside, science included, what makes a twin a twin is really hard to say.
So much of my own identity is connected to my being a twin. Even though my twin and I unhitched ourselves from one another at age 18, attending different undergraduate and graduate schools and setting off on different career paths, being a twin has influenced so much of who I am and what I have done.
Our adoption is tangled up in there somewhere, too. My own ferocious loyalty to my sister has a lot to do with the fact that she is my twin but also to do with the fact that, growing up, she was my biological other; she was my only biological other. And yet, when it comes to the rest of our family, I don’t give a hill of beans about biology. They will be my family until the day I die.
My birth brother once asked me once about this contradiction. I had no answer then. I have no answer now. As with the Bogotá twins, sometimes love, and family, passes human understanding. It is both bewildering, and miraculous, and all you can do is hang on for the ride.
Still, l wonder: Are my sister and I identical? Are we fraternal? Unlike so many unanswerable and forgotten parts of our story, this is one that the present can satisfy more accurately than the past.
As a birthday gift to us this year, I sent off for a Twin DNA Zygosity Test that will answer this question with 99.9 percent accuracy. Monozygotic or dizygotic. We should know in about six weeks.
And whatever we find out, it won’t matter at all. We already have what does.
A story titled “A Father’s Struggle to Stop His Daughter’s Adoption” appeared earlier this week on The Atlantic Monthly’s web site. It’s a riveting read about a birth father’s quest to gain custody of the daughter he loved from the beginning and whom he intended to raise. Unbeknownst to the father, and without his consent, the birth mother gave the baby up for adoption. The father, Christopher Emanual, got the child back nearly three months later, but with laws and cultural attitudes stacked against single fathers, and in this case, a father of color and a child of mixed race, you get the feeling that he could just have easily not gotten the baby back.
The very title of the article speaks volumes. It’s not called “A Father’s Struggle to Gain Custody of His Daughter.” It’s called “A Father’s Struggle to Stop His Daughter’s Adoption.” Wait, what? Stop adoption? As a journalism professor, I’m well versed in the short attention span of readers and the power of provocative headlines, so I understand the magazine’s choice of wording on that level. On another, though, it pokes at a narrative about adoption that continues to hold firm in American culture. It’s a headline designed to compel the reader to dive into the extraordinary madness of a stopped adoption. I mean, who in the world stops adoption? And why?
When I was younger, this article would have stirred a familiar panic, however irrational, that somebody out there was going to take back my twin and me, was going to yank us from our family, our life, our identity. Then, our birth family did not have names or faces. They were flat, undeveloped characters in a story shaped by partial truths and deceptions and, mostly, by my own imagination. The only one who inspired any kind of sympathy was my birth mother, and even then, I was sympathetic toward a stock character, toward an ideal. Back then, I understood adoption in these simple terms: It was a process by which those who could not care for their children gave to those who could, and everyone was better off for it. End of story.
My twin and I were better off for it, but adoption is never the end of the story. That’s what I’ve come to realize most keenly in the last few years as both my reunion with my birth family and my broader understanding of adoption have chipped away at my naiveté. People go on living in various stages of heartbreak and recovery for the rest of their lives. And the child who was adopted and becomes the adult who was adopted isn’t the only one plagued by what if’s and if only’s, by the different versions of life left on the cutting room floor.
Our birth father has long maintained he would have raised us if he had known about us. In 1970, that would have been difficult. Men did not have rights to children they conceived outside of marriage. He would have been pushing against a cultural mountain that privileged my married adoptive parents over him and my birth mother, despite the fact that my birth parents eventually reconnected and wed 10 months to the day after my sister and I were born. And the awful, selfish truth of the matter is, in my desire to keep all that is good and dear to me, I’m almost grateful I was born in a time where my birth father never stood a chance. On the flip side, when my birth father went on to adopt three of the four children he raised, he was the good guy again, the guy with rights, the guy everyone would have rallied behind, including me.
Recently, my birth father wrote to me, “You will always be a daughter that I didn’t have the opportunity to raise and enjoy. I’m sad about that….” I’m sad for him, too. Somehow, I can manage to feel both his devastation over what he lost and a fierce, self-preserving rejection of it. Because to be the daughter he raised and enjoyed, I could not also be my own father’s daughter. I couldn’t belong to both.
Isn’t that the crux of these recent stories of contested adoptions that make headlines? Too many people–birth fathers, too–want the baby for their own. It’s a modern take on King Solomon’s Dilemma. In this case, though, nobody is willing to cut the baby in two–though the various sides might make a go of it rhetorically. You also can’t, as Solomon did, so simply root out the wrong parent or the wrong life even if the law eventually favors one side or the other.
So in the absence of a clearly horrible choice, and without the evidence of a future life reviewed in hindsight, King Society and King Law, mired in their own socio-political moments, must decide between two decent possibilities, between two potentially happy lives. And whatever King Society and King Law decide, that is the life, and the father, the child is handed; that is the person she becomes.
And so here we are, ordered, adjudged, and decreed.
I’ve been saving letters and postcards since I was a child. In a tiny closet in my attic study are hat boxes filled with these relics. Most of them are from my twin, my mother, and my grandmothers, but I have decent-sized stacks from others, including my best friend Emily, who still writes to me several times a year, and my husband, who was living in a different city when I met him. Most of these letters were written during years when I was away from home and from people I loved, college and graduate school years in which long-distance phone calls were 25 cents a minute on the MCI Friends & Family plan and my e-mail address was firstname.lastname@example.org. The popular world of text messaging was still 10 years off. Back then, too, I had plenty of time to write, and to wait.
There’s one letter, though, that I’ve never been able to find despite a dogged search through all of the boxes and bins of memorabilia that I’ve lugged into my present. It’s a letter that I wrote to my birthmother when I was around 12, the age my oldest son is. He writes e-mails to me like: “Dear Mom, November 26 is Mrs. Spinelli Day. I need to bring in a $1 by next week. Love, A.” The first letter I ever wrote to my birth mother begins, “Dear Lady,” and launches into a long explanation of my difficulty in knowing how to address a nameless person. For the longest time, that letter was sealed in an envelope and tucked between the mattresses of my childhood bed. It was one of those letters that needed to be written, even if I knew it would never be read, because somehow by writing it, by putting words into the universe, I was convinced my birthmother might hear them. It worked for my sister and me–this talking to one another without speaking–and so I hoped it might worked for “Dear Lady,” too. In that sense, it was more prayer than letter, promising that I had turned out well, that I was loved and happy, that I harbored no ill will.
By the time I was a sophomore in college, my letter to my birthmother was angrier. It’s less of a prayer and more of a late adolescent howl. It’s a letter missing the context of a full life, though no less real for its moment. Several years ago my birthmother asked me if I had found the “Dear Lady” letter I had told her about. The angry college letter is all I turned up. I quoted her a few innocent lines from the letter, but I didn’t tell her what it really said. By the time I finally knew who she was, I was somewhere other than the emotions of that letter. And she had a name.
There is a hatbox now for my birth family although it’s nearly empty. Most of our correspondence has been by e-mail. In fact, our first words to one another came packaged in e-mails that began tentatively, wondrously. She called me Jenny. I called her Mrs. D. We didn’t talk on the phone for four more months. I’ve saved over 1,000 e-mail messages in the last five years, mostly from my birthparents and their son, my biological brother. I communicate now most regularly with my birthparents’ daughter, but that occurs in the ephemeral space of instant message and text.
These days, other than the communication that is hard to hold onto, I am confined to notes of last resort, to the scribbles I leave my boys in the final moments before I head off on a trip. In our daily leave-taking, my last words are spoken. “Be kind!” I say as they head out to the door to school, uttering my daily mantra. They’re smart boys. Most days, they’re good boys. So I trust that everything else will fall into place if only they remember to be kind.
But when I’m about to leave them for an academic conference or for a research trip or, as I did last December, for travels across the world to meet my nephew in an orphanage in Morocco, my compulsion is fueled by an inexplicable panic. What if something happens to me? What if they never see me again? I think of them as I imagine my birthmother thinking of me all those years, with hope and yearning from an insurmountable distance. What I have to say must be written down. After all, I reason, if something happens to the Mother of Flesh, then the Mother of Words can take over.
“Dear boys, Leaving you on Christmas is hard! Please be good for Dad and to each other. Be kind! It’s the most important gift you can give to the world on this day of gifts. I love you. Mommy will keep you close to her heart. You do the same.”
And so I become that child of adoption once again, leaving my boys epistles to tack onto their bulletin board, leaving my boys with all that I have: my heart and a name. Love. Mommy.
I recently came across a Huffington Post feature titled “30 Perfectly Imperfect Holiday Card Outtakes” that immediately reminded me of my own decade of perfectly imperfect holiday card outtakes that I have been collecting since, well, since I began taking holiday card photos of my perfectly imperfect children. In fact, I have so many of these perfectly imperfect holiday card outtakes that I’m surprised that the Huffington Post editors didn’t contact me directly for material rather than bother with crowd-sourcing from their Facebook readers. While many of the HuffPo contributions made me laugh aloud, I knew, oh, yes, I knew, I could compete. You want outtakes? I’ll show you outtakes.
Every year, come Christmas card photo taking time, I swear I’m just going to haul the cherubs over to Picture People and let somebody else deal with them. This holiday chore, which I once truly enjoyed, has grown exponentially difficult the more (closed) eyes and (troublesome) temperaments we’ve added to our family. But then I’d have to purchase the photos from Picture People. Why buy marginally better photos when you can get marginally worse ones yourself–for free? Besides, I’m the sort of person who does not like to be defeated, especially by her own children.
Now, when I suggest that I can get my own photos for free, I am simply referring to the cost of my trusty Canon 7D, long paid for, and to my labor. I’m not referring to the price tag of the emotional toil of this endeavor, nor to the therapy my kids may one day need for enduring it. There’s also the cost of couples therapy for the years that I mistakenly involve my husband in the outing. My spouse is the right man for so many situations, but Christmas card photo taking is not one of them. He’s got too much couth, and too little patience, for the roles I assign him: clanging spoons over my head to get the baby to LOOK. AT. THE. @%#$. CAMERA; jumping up and down while holding Jingle Bells so the toddler will SMILE. FOR. THE. @%#$.. CAMERA; remaining Christmas-cheery-cheerful as the whole lot of them breaks down and the five-year-old comes charging at THE. @%#$. CAMERA. That means I am often the one simultaneously hopping up and down, making deals through gritted teeth–if I get a good one, you can watch TV for the rest of the day/week/year/your life—and trying to snap a decent photo.
While at Valley Forge National Historical Park earlier this fall with my oldest son’s robotics team, I got the hair-brained idea that a Revolutionary War battlefield would be the ideal backdrop for a Christmas card photo. After all, nothing invokes the misery of the 1777-1778 winter encampment like four boys between the ages of one and twelve trying to cooperate for a single perfect photograph. Indeed, what better metaphor for the Christmas card photo shoot than the dogged determination and perseverance of the continental soldiers at Valley Forge?
To make a long story short, I lost the battle. Friedrich Wilhelm Rudolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben himself could not have saved us from ourselves. When I showed the boys the photos I had taken, they cried and begged me not to use them. I admit, I momentarily considered accepting bribes. How much is it worth to you to keep these photos off of Shutterfly? Instead, I settled for the more ethically responsible and mature, “I told you so.”
A week later, I tried a new tactic. I told the five-year-old, who was largely responsible for the ruined shoot at Valley Forge, that he was in charge. I said we would do whatever he wanted, and I gave him everything he asked for, except the camera. So, on a cloudy Sunday morning, before the sun rose overhead and ruined everything with its bright, chipper light, I ordered my husband to stay put while the rest of us trudged out into the frosty backyard. The five-year-old wanted all of the brothers to pose like reindeer, wearing reindeer ears, on the roof of their log cabin playhouse. He wanted a Santa hat on the chimney. He wanted a singing, dancing stuffed Rudolph in the picture. He didn’t want nice clothes or matching clothes. Frankly, he probably would have preferred no clothes at all. To keep the peace (a.k.a. giving in to prevent tantrums), we went along with it–although I allowed the twelve-year-old to ditch the reindeer ears in honor of his pre-teen dignity. (The five-year-old threw a mini fit over this insult but eventually recovered.) And, to cut to the chase, I got the photo. It’s not worth showing here because, well, it’s too good to be true.
I’m keeping the outtakes from Valley Forge to add to my ever-growing collection. Other than to honor the historical record, and perhaps to trot them out at a graduation or wedding some day, why hang onto them? Because they say more about us than one good photo that, by some Christmas miracle, turns out just right and makes its way to the mailboxes of our friends and family each year. Because, one day, when the wounds have healed and all Wii privileges have been restored, I hope we can sit back and appreciate these snapshots of our perfectly imperfect family enjoying (surviving) this wonderful life.
Callie-the-cat isn’t coming back. It’s been two months since she disappeared. I finally packed up the litter box last weekend and found a home for the enormous cat condo taking up space in our sun room.
In my journalism class yesterday, we discussed a poignant story about a University of Montana student who vanished in 2013 while on a month-long Colorado River adventure with classmates. The student’s body was eventually found, offering a grim ending, even if the details of how she came to drown in the river may never be known.
With that story, and others like it, as backdrop to the grand scheme of everything and everyone who can go missing in our lives, I fully understand: She’s (just) a cat.
But the missing cat has catapulted me back into childhood, to an earlier loss, when our pet dog Tippy bolted out our front door and never returned. I was a small child, but in the blur of memory, I still see Tippy’s black-and-white haunches high-tailing it down our street, running as if her life (or getting away from it) depended upon it. In contrast, my siblings and I stood with toes on our property’s edge, as far as we were allowed to go, screaming after the dog: “Come back! Come back!” At the end of the street, Tippy turned the corner, and that’s the last we ever saw of her.
In my child’s understanding of the world, running away was an act of desperation. For years after, I wondered what made her take off like that. Was she that bored? That miserable? If we had loved her more, would she have stayed?
As I grew, the disappearance of Tippy became conflated with the disappearance of my birth mother. For years, I scanned the world for both of them, wondering what had become of the missing dog, and the missing mother. I knew what Tippy looked like, but my birth mother was a mystery. In part because I had a twin who looked like me and in part because our younger brother, not adopted, was a dead ringer for our dad, I assumed that our birth mother was an older replica of my sister and me. So it was a version of myself that I continually sought in faces of strangers, in crowds and on family vacations, in Chicago especially, where we were born. But our paths never crossed, Tippy never came back, and decades later, when we did meet our birth mother, I realized I would have passed right by her and never known who she was. I also realized that reunions can be non-endings; they aren’t guarantees of details, closures, or peace.
When I was in my twenties, a neighbor confessed to my mom that her husband saw Tippy hit by a car all those years ago. The dog turned the corner at the end of our street, darted into a busy road, and was killed. The neighbor said it had been on her mind all those years, how they knew the dog had died but hadn’t said anything.
While I forgave the neighbor’s desire to avoid devastating us with news of our pet’s death, I wondered how she could think that knowing was worse than not. As somebody who was adopted, I well understood that not knowing is a far greater burden, that not knowing plays games with your mind, that you can’t shake not knowing; it crawls after you, wherever you go, pestering, poking. There is absolutely no closure to not knowing. You may learn to live with it. But it never goes away.
Callie-the-cat’s sister is buried in our side yard. We have her body, hit by a car, euthanized by the vet. The kids held a funeral, we put a small stone on her grave. End of story.
But I’ll never stop looking for Callie. I know this about myself. Decades from now, when I am an old woman in this house where I have raised my four children, I will still be searching for that cat. When I pull into the driveway, I’ll scan the daisy patch where she used to hang out. When I’m raking leaves from under the raspberry bushes, I’ll pull the rake slowly away, as if she is still hiding there. I’ll look for her in the kitchen window where she used to try to catch our eye when she tired of the outdoors and wanted to come in.
We’ll have more pets. Maybe more cats. Probably a pup next for the eight-year-old who has been begging for a dog since he was a toddler.
But it’s the cat who went missing who won’t let me finish the story. For the rest of my life, I will write and re-write her ending, unable to let go the absence of what I will never know.
Adoption, for me, has long been an act of psychological resistance. The fact that I was adopted is most certainly a part of who I am, but what I resist are narratives that attempt to wrangle me into a shape that fit a particular explanation or agenda. I am adopted; therefore, I am __________. Nothing stops me short like someone–expert or activist or amateur know-it-all–filing in those blanks for me with his own theories and assumptions. Even my kids, in their innocence, sometimes do this to me. The other day, my five-year-old remarked out-of-the-blue, “It must be very sad for you to be adopted.”
Adoption is rife with grand narratives: birth mothers who always loved their babies; clueless white people who adopt kids from other countries; adopted kids who are incomplete puzzles that only roots, and reunions, will fill. These narratives are populated by heroes and villains, saints and sinners, or at least binaries and foils, and the roles are often interchangeable, depending on the story, on who’s telling it, when, and why.
Several years ago I picked up a copy of Nancy Verrier’s The Primal Wound. For many people connected to adoption, Verrier’s book is a game changer, revolutionary in its attempts to validate the feelings of adoptees who suffer, suffered, and continue to suffer from a traumatic separation from and abandonment by their birth mothers. I read the whole book shaking my head “no.” I didn’t feel validated; I felt repelled by a theory that didn’t fit my own feelings and experiences. In the last few years I’ve met many adoptees whose narratives do support Verrier’s assessment of the impact of adoption, including a dear high school friend who is a big fan of Verrier. That they claim a primal wound and I don’t doesn’t make them broken and me whole. It doesn’t make them realists and me a denier. None of us is more real, more true than the other; we’re just different, and resisting grand narratives in that difference.
If anything, the more people I meet in the world of adoption, the less adoption feels the same. The more of us there are, the more stories there are. It’s not that there aren’t universals in adoption, aren’t strains of sameness that compel us to seek out each other, and our stories. It’s just hard to tease those universals from the vast experiences that make us who we are.
Adoption is incredibly complex. It’s easy to understand how we are drawn to certain narratives as a way to corral those complexities, and perhaps to make us feel better or validated or vindicated, depending on what we’re searching for. If there are good guys, we want bad guys. If there is abandonment, we want salvation and hope. My story has all of those things. My story has none of those things.
If all goes well, my twin will return shortly to Morocco to adopt a second child. I plan to be there, at the moment her child is placed into her arms, the moment his story takes a turn. That my twin, who was adopted, is now an adoptive mother herself, is now a mother, has added a new layer of complexity to the unfolding narrative of our lives, much as it must have done for our birth mother who went on to give birth again, and to adopt three times. It’s not requisite empathy for an adoptive parent to have played another role in the adoption triad, but it certainly must help. There’s a danger of hindrance as well, though. My twin and I guard against reading her children through the lens of our own feelings and experiences and then writing their story as if it were our own. What we wanted and needed as children who were adopted may be very different from what her sons want and need.
The key is listening, to all the voices, to the clamors and the whispers all writing their stories as they live them. Somewhere in the tangle of these voices and stories is what adoption really is. If you press your ear against the ravel, you’ll hear it.