No Resemblance

You two are just so cute...So adorable...Are you twins? These were comments that I heard often, as I walked around with my one and only sibling, my sister Lisa, during our childhood. It was usually during the Summer that these comments would flourish; my mom loved dressing my sister and me like twins in cute little shorts with matching halter tops. I don’t think neither I nor Lisa minded the comments. If anything, we probably found some amusement from them. But for me, those comments also left me feeling a bit weird and uncomfortable. Not only was Lisa one year and four months older than me (so much for the twin theory) we also had two different mothers. The woman we both called “mom” was Lisa’s biological mother; my biological mother was unknown because I was adopted.

My being adopted wasn’t a family secret; as far as I knew, all my closest aunts, uncles, and cousins knew I was adopted. I can’t remember at what age that my (adopted) parents talked with me, but I do remember knowing before I entered 4th grade, maybe even earlier. Before I was adopted at the age of 5 ½ years old, I lived in various foster homes. There are two images I have in my mind as a child: one is of me sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of eggs on my plate and Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood playing on the TV (interestingly enough, I don’t like eggs of any kind to this day). The other image, as strange as it may be, is of me in a crib! A later memory is of me being in a large room with two or more adults on the other end of the room. I believe I was sitting on the floor playing with toys. I’m guessing I was in the adoption agency but I don’t know.

But let’s go back even further to talk about my biological parents. My biological mom was 16 or 17 when she gave birth to me. My biological father was a 40+-year-old married man. So, yes, my biological mom was having an affair with a married man. I don’t know the details of her pregnancy, only that she gave me my name, and that I was born in Brooklyn Hospital in New York.

The woman I would call mom gave birth to Lisa, but it was such a difficult pregnancy, she and her husband, my dad, were told not to have any more children to avoid any further risks. I do remember quite a few hospital visits with my sister in the middle of the night where Lisa would fill the hospital walls with bone-chilling screams as they administered shots. I don’t know when, but eventually, my mom and dad decided to adopt a child. I would learn as a young adult that the adoption agency I was with had been in the papers a lot due to missing children. Needless to say, my parents were eager to expedite the process.

Although I don’t remember the entire day, I do remember being dropped off at what would be my new home. My mom said that they had to use four adults to get me out of the car and bring me up the stairs because of all the commotion I was making (I don’t remember that). But I do remember that once the door to the house was closed, I started banging on the door, screaming, “Let me out!” Gosh...I haven’t thought about that day in years. I guess it should be no surprise that I would often sleepwalk and wet my bed.

Except for the regular occurrence of getting in trouble, primarily for lying about something, I had a good childhood. My parents bought a house in Suffolk County, Long Island a few years after Lisa was born. The house was split level with a huge backyard; years later, my parents had a pool and a screen house built, which became my sanctuary during the Summer. My parents made sure that we would go on yearly vacations, and Lisa and I went to Summer camp for years and were active in sports, horseback riding, swimming, canoeing...all of it!

Everything would be fine and dandy until someone would comment on the likeness between myself and my sister. Granted, as an adult, I have often seen unrelated people who had a few similar features. But no matter how many pictures I look at of me and Lisa, other than the height there was no resemblance. So, there Lisa and I would stand, with half-smiles on our faces because we didn’t know what to say. How do you politely tell an adult that they need to have their vision checked?

As a child, I didn’t have the words or even the right thinking to be able to express how I felt whenever someone made those comments. But it felt weird because there was no truth behind it. I didn’t look like Lisa in any way. It was as if someone would point to a blue ball and say it was red. I think we usually got those comments when we were with our mom. She would usually just chuckle, perhaps comment. But there was never any correction made. Blurting out that I was adopted would have been inappropriate and, I’m certain, would have inflicted me with a host of emotional issues. But why not just say, “Oh, no….Lisa is a full year older than Roni.”?

It’s strange, but looking back, it was almost as if my adoption was just wiped away. Like it didn’t happen. Perhaps that was the awkwardness that I felt. I don’t know when, but at some point, I started to ask myself: Who do I look like? As I entered junior high and high school, I grew a few inches taller than Lisa. With the added height came - to my horror - bigger feet! Fortunately, I didn’t have any awkward-looking body issues nor did I have to suffer from the dreaded acne. I developed my sense of style early on; I was not considered one of the cool kids, but I had acquaintances with a few of the cool kids, with one of them being my friend.

So, there was nothing about my appearance that was funny or weird. But I noticed a shift in comments from strangers. When I was younger, I was told I looked like Lisa. But when I got older, whenever I came to work with my mom, the comments moved to, “You look just like your mom.” I wanted to scream, “No! I don’t look like her! Stop lying!” My adopted parents became my mom and dad. Period. When I talked about them, I never referred to them as my adopted parents. They were just mom and dad. But I knew that I didn’t come from them. I knew that possibly, somewhere in this country, two people had created me.

Wherever I went, I would spot mothers and daughters together, and I immediately found myself looking at their similarities. It almost became second nature for me to have a sort of tally on how similar they looked. I became even more intrigued if that child was with both parents or a sibling. I wanted to know where I got my height from, my complexion, my eyes, the texture of my hair. To make matters worse, my parents had tons of pictures of Lisa from infancy. I had none. It was as if my existence started only after the age of 6 or 7. My infancy and toddler years were a void, blank. Why was Lisa able to see herself as a baby and I could not?

Like many teenagers, I was hooked on soap operas. While most of my peers watched General Hospital, I watched The Guiding Light, primarily because that was the one my mom had watched whenever she was home. Even though I was very aware that I was not watching the cool shows, I didn’t care. What caught my attention was that there was always someone who was searching for their long-lost brother, sister, mother, or father. Always. That’s when the seed was planted that I wanted to find my birth mom. Interestingly enough, I rarely thought about my biological dad. Perhaps because he had been in his mid 40’s when I was born, I may have reasoned that he would be too old for me to even bother with. I don’t know what I thought. But I do know I wanted to find her. There was always the question of “Why did you leave me?” on the soap operas. I really can’t say that was a question I wanted to ask. I just wanted to stand in front of her and see, once and for all, who I resembled.

I have been an adult for many years now. Whatever insecurities I had or have are mild. I’ve become comfortable in my skin and know that anything about my appearance that I don’t like - generally my extra weight - is something that I can change. Technology has made it so much easier these days to find people. Do I think about looking for my biological parents? Sure? Would I ever go through with it? Possibly. It’s most unlikely that I would ever attempt to find either of them at this stage. I have no idea if our meeting would be a source of joy or trauma. Wherever the consequences, I would have to live with it. So, the question remains, Who do I resemble? Quite simply, I would answer with one word: me.