Searching for Mums and Dads
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I'm sitting at my desk yesterday afternoon, trying to clear up some painstaking minutiae involved in an artist residency I'm coordinating later this month, and the phone rings. My caller ID shows a 601 area code: Mississippi... It's not my father, it's not my mother, it's probably not any of my brothers... I pick up and hear a five-syllable "hello," and instantly I know I'm on the phone with Jodie, the agent at the Children's Home Society who's coordinating the meeting with my birth mother. From the sound of her voice, I can tell she's got good news: the letter from my counselor arrived, it was approved (even though, I think to myself, it wasn't anything like what she'd requested), and it's been delivered to Callie. A corresponding letter is on its way to me, complete with photos and such.
I'm excited, but not in the way you'd think. Yeah, sure, meeting my birth mother's going to be interesting and all, but more than that, the anal side of me is thrilled that one more facet of my life can be wrapped up, checked off, and neatly filed away:
_x_ Gay? Yup, I've got the boyfriend to prove it.
_x_ College degree? Yes indeed, and there are numerous sheets of paper in the attic to prove it.
_x_ Adopted? Affirmative: here's a pic of mom and dad.
Just another victory for empirical knowledge.