It has been a year. And I am disappointed.
I write my blog primarily to support individuals who aren’t ready to ask for support or who can’t afford it. It is written mainly for the larger part of my business, which includes individuals who are neurodivergent or have a child who is neurodivergent. This blog is a departure from that. It may be relatable for the smaller part of my business, those who are adopted.
It is personal, and I feel compelled to share this small part of my journey.
I have been on a journey, but one that I am not sharing with most people in my life. It isn’t relatable to most people, but that isn’t why I am not sharing. There are many reasons, but the predominant one is that I want to have space to process at my own pace. With each obstacle, I say prayers and ask for guidance.
A year ago, I attended a court hearing. I filed a motion to unseal my original birth certificate. The story starts further back. I know some of what is on it. I have learn that my birth mother would have needed to name me. I want to know what that name is and what it may have meant to her. It is a small clue into who she was. I feel like I have had to fight for every small clue.
For months before I filed the motion, I had tried and failed repeatedly to file it online. The system almost seemed like it was set up so that it couldn’t be filed.
It took four months to find the proper procedure. I only succeeded in filing it because I went to the courthouse in the county where my adoption took place. This courthouse was across the county from where I was living at the time. I spoke to several people who sent me to one office after another, only to find that I was in the wrong location. After finding the right office, I couldn’t help but notice that the office was as hidden as closed adoptions attempt to make the participants.
I spoke to two people in that office before one of them, probably noticing how frustrated I was with the system, asked me to wait while she found someone else who was the right person to talk to. I waited for what seemed like a long time, but it was about 15 minutes. Let’s call her Mrs. Nora. She was an older, thin black woman with Southern kindness in her voice, a cane in one hand, and a piece of paper with the correct directions to the process I was trying to accomplish.
While Mrs. Nora was kind, I was disappointed and emotional. I tried my best to clarify the questions I had, thanked her for the information, and refrained from tearing up in the outer office where we were speaking. I had hoped to be able to fill out a form and submit my motion on the spot that day. That was far from the case; I had several more steps to take. I needed to write letters. One to the Department of Health and Human Services in the county I was born in, and another to my adoptive father (who I will now refer to as my dad because that is who he is). These letters needed to explain what I wanted and why I wanted to do it. This requirement struck me as weird, given that I am in my 50s. The letters also needed to be sent by certified mail, and when I received the green cards back to certify that they had been received, I needed to mail a copy of the letters and the green cards via snail mail to the courthouse, attention to the Adoption Department. To clarify, there is no department designated explicitly as the adoption department. I must have looked skeptical because Mrs. Nora told me to mail them to her and handed me her business card. Once she received them, a court date would be set. From the day I was there until the day of the hearing was three months.
Writing a letter to my dad was no incredible thrill either. He knew what I was doing, but there is a balancing act that many adopted people need to figure out. We are balancing what we need, what might happen with the biological family, and feeling like we need to protect adoptive parents from feeling like they didn’t do parenting right. It isn’t really about either set of parents. We are searching for our identity, which was taken and often hidden from us – that is a whole other blog (I am slowly working on a book, too).
So, a year ago today (or at least when I was writing this), my dad, who lives in another country, stayed up until 1 am to participate. It was a virtual courtroom. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him there. I wasn’t sure if it would work for and against me or make me overly emotional. It was wonderful. He was supportive and proud to be my dad. Mrs. Nora was there, a judge was there, and I was there. The judge asked my dad and me some questions. What I remember most is that after the judge granted my motion, she and Mrs. Nora both commented that they had never been part of a hearing like this. Now, the judge looked like she was in her late 30s so that I could believe that. But Mrs. Nora? She appears to have been working in that department for decades. Am I the only one who preserved?
A few weeks later, I received an envelope in the mail from Mrs. Nora. It was a copy of my court order and an application to fill out for DHHS. I filled it out, wrote my check, put it all in an envelope, and mailed it back the next day.
I was so excited when, about a month later, there was a thick envelope in the mail from DHHS. However, the luck I had been having persisted. Mrs. Nora had sent me the wrong form. And of course, a higher amount was required for searching for my original birth certificate. Did you catch that? The form said SEARCH. I thought, “What do you mean by search”? My original birth certificate should be exactly where someone left it 53 years ago when my adoption was finalized, and a new birth certificate was issued. It was labeled with an index number, which was probably “upgraded” to microfiche at some point, and should still be where it was left.
I mailed back the new form and my check. I received an email response that it was received. That email came a little over two months after the court date. The email informed me that they would look for three years; after that, it would be ‘sorry, you’re out of luck,’ but no refunds would be offered. And that it usually took 134-139 business days. That would have been this past April. The email included a phone number for a status check. A couple of months ago, I started calling occasionally when I have time to be on hold. The automated system had confirmed that they had received my request. If I would like to speak with someone, press one. So far, I haven’t had time to sit and wait for longer than an hour and a half. I have spoken to no one.
It is disappointing to come this far and have some nameless person fail at their end.
I believe I have always had the right to what is about me, and I must admit that I resent having to jump through hoops for something that is about me.
At this point, it affects only me. Both my birth parents are deceased. I have a court order. I have emailed Mrs. Nora to see if there is anything she can do, but I doubt there is. I am looking into other legal options.
I coach others through making the right decisions for them at various stages. Each adoption is different, and each person’s journey is personal. It is an honor to support others in their journey.