Not a Weed, But a Flower by JoAnne Bennett “You know, our father is not yours,” my older birth brother stated, as if it was a fact written in stone. I wanted him to take back his insensitive words, but instead I just had to swallow my pride. My conscious kept talking to me, “If only my birth mother had been still alive, I wouldn’t have to disrupt innocent lives to beg for answers.” I already felt like an outsider. As adults, my biological siblings and I were meeting for the first time. I prayed that they would have room in their hearts for me. Having been the one left behind, I looked at this reunion as a chance to become a part of my birth family. However, my two older sisters and brother didn’t seem particularly overjoyed at their long-lost sister’s homecoming. Our mother placed me for adoption as a newborn and I was raised far from their home. I was sure that my three siblings shared a deep, strong connection that I had missed out on while growing up. As I held on dearly to my only birth certificate that clearly stated their father was also mine, I had to accept the painful truth. I was crushed to learn that regardless of what my birth certificate said, we did not share the same father. An expensive blood test proved I was the child born from an affair. How could I expect flesh and blood strangers to understand all the raw emotions that I was feeling? It was as though I was standing again in silence at my birth mother’s grave. My biological sister looked over at me helplessly, with tears streaming down my face; I couldn’t find the words to express the void in my life. For once, I wanted to belong to a family, not by adoption, not by being one more person’s step or someone else’s half, but as a whole biological relative. I started to believe I was responsible in someway for my birth mother’s choices. Not only did I defend this woman who gave me life, but I became accountable for her actions from so long ago. Having been conceived during a time when adultery still brought shame to a family’s name, I struggled with God’s purpose for my being. Were others now looking at me differently because I had a birth father with no name? Part of me really did think so. Naive and sheltered in my soft-cushy world while growing up, the truth was a far cry from the acceptable little picture that had been painted for me. “I was one too many” my adoptive mother alluded as the only piece of information she was willing to share with me as the reason for my adoption. I was raised in a family that looked down on my birth mother for getting herself in this unspeakable predicament. My conception was tainted through my adoptive parent’s eyes. I know I was seen as the less-than-perfect child. Now, when I hear stories that sensationalize a mother’s plight to know who fathered her child, reality hits much closer and more personal to me. I used to be able to shake my head and say, “What’s this world coming to?” But I wonder if, we as a society are trying to fool ourselves into believing that times have really changed so much? I am living proof that it will still hurt as much in generations to come to be the child born from reckless, short-lived relationships. It was important for me to show my birth siblings that I was the good that came from our mother’s mistake. I desperately wanted a fairytale ending to my adoption story. However, it just wasn’t going to happen that way. Unfortunately, my welcoming party fizzled out before it barely got started. I never meant for my biological relatives to be hurt by my abrupt intrusion in their lives. I blamed myself for being the hidden secret revealed that opened up wounds from their past. Many times over the years, I have pleaded with God to stop the pain I feel whenever I’ve endured another rejection in my life. Although, feeling sorry for myself and asking, “Why me Lord?” does not portray my view of the world’s injustices. As if others are looking over my shoulder, my journey has been a testimony of courage, strength and undying faith in the struggles I’ve been dealt. Undoubtedly, some of us are given more losses and challenges than our neighbors. But I can’t very well complain, “God, this is not the hand I want.” I believe that how we choose to live the life we are blessed with is what’s most important. It wasn’t until I stopped blaming myself for all the “baggage” that I have been able to start accepting hardship as the pathway to peace. I realized that the scars I carry from my past are not something that I can change. Yet I have grown tremendously as a person from the pain. Despite the not-so-pretty circumstances surrounding my birth, I do know that when I was born, God surely wasn’t looking at me as a weed, but rather as His precious flower.
