Running to my Roots, Part Two

Tags

adoptee, adoption, birthfather, cultural heritage, family, healing, Italy, reunion

As an adult adoptee looking back, one of my regrets was not growing up with my Italian heritage. In my recent memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I lamented this “deprivation.” However, I DID meet my Italian-American birthfather. I was able to travel with him to Abruzzo, where he was born. It was to be the last time I saw him, as he passed away shortly after our return. This is the second part of my essay about our trip to Italy…

My relatives in Abruzzo welcomed me, their American cousin

I ran every morning of our two-week stay in San Martino Sulla Marrucina. The miles melted away. Propelled by fascinating sights, smells, sounds and sensations, I was hardly aware of moving. I glided by the town’s gothic style cathedral, the tobacco shop, the nursery school, multistoried buildings with flower-laden balconies, graceful patios, tiny cats peeking from doorways, sheep, chickens, olive trees and grapevines. The town’s dogs barked and lunged as I ran by. Lucky for me, they were chained or fenced in. By the third day, I thought I’d run every cobblestone street and traversed every steep, narrow alleyway.
But I was wrong. One of my rewarding outings came about as a result of a funeral. A village dignitary had died, and I was invited by my cousins to join a procession to the “camposanto.” Thus on this morning, I walked rather than ran. The entire population of San Martino had joined in the solemn on-foot parade to the final laying-to-rest of the deceased. After interment, my cousin Carlo pointed out many tombs that contained his (and my own) late kinsfolk. All the while, I made mental notes of possible new running sites. I discovered a narrow path, just beyond the village proper, that descended to a lovely valley and forest.
After the funeral and from then on, this path was my favorite running destination. I went from my aunt’s house to the “camposanto” to pay respects to anyone who might have been related, however distantly, to me. That accomplished, I explored the paths beyond. In the marvelous way that running has of leading us to we don’t know where, I powered my way up small roads through cultivated fields and olive groves. During several forays, I rambled through dense forests, each time discovering something new.
One day, I spotted a garden plot of red chile peppers that looked just like those of my native New Mexico. Another time, I spotted a prickly ball along the road, a small animal something like a round porcupine. Was it dead or just hibernating? When I returned, cousin Carlo told me, “These animals are very useful. They kill garden pests and are also good to eat.” When they feel threatened, he added, they curl themselves up into balls.
A week before the end of my Italian sojourn, the weather turned colder. Until now, it had been summer. The sky became moody and the moist air promised rain and the coming winter. On one of my final runs in Italy, I took along a bag and collected fallen autumn leaves to press and take back to America.
On my next-to-last day in San Martino, I ran through town, passing my favorite little lady and her three cats, the post office,the tobacco shop. Just as I was heading back to my aunt’s house, Carlo and his wife Bianca drove up beside me, stopped their car and invited me to go shopping with them. When we reached the town of Guardiagrelee, it became obvious that their mission was to buy presents for me — handmade lace, a brass oil lamp, pottery, a cookbook written in English and Italian.
The day of my departure, I took a predawn farewell run, and then it was time to return to Rome and the United States. My wish to meet with the dad I’d never known had been granted, at least partially. So much time had passed, “water under the bridge” my father called it, that we might never become closely bonded father and daughter. However, sharing San Martino with my father was precious beyond words. Miles of running through his village enriched my memory bank forever.

Discovering my birth father’s homeland expanded my horizons!

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Running to my Roots-Part One

Tags

adoption, birthfather, cultural heritage, finding family, Italian heritage, Italy, recovery, running

In Italy, I traveled through miles of my birth family’s history…

As an adult adoptee looking back, one of my regrets was not growing up with my Italian heritage. In my memoir The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries, I lamented this “deprivation.” However, I DID at last meet my Italian-American birthfather just a few years before he passed away. I was able to travel with him to Abruzzo, where he was born.
When organizing my office last week, I came across this account, written in 2007 but never before published. As you, my readers, will see, I was heavily into running at the time. In retrospect, I realize how special that father-daughter journey it was, what a privilege that I got this glimpse of my heritage. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed re-living the experience…

Growing up adopted, relived through diary entires

I was an adopted child, five years old when my new parents took over. I met my biological father many years later. Together we visited the town in Italy where he was born, and there I spent an unforgettable week getting to know cousins and doing a lot of running. Giovanni Cecchini began life in the tiny village of San Martino Sulla Maruccina. It’s on the east side of the Italian boot, 17 miles from the Adriatic Sea. Even though I had been adopted by a loving mom and dad and my young life improved dramatically, I longed for many years to find out more about my heritage. Shortly before Giovanni’s death, that wish came true.
Giovanni left the old country at age two. He’d returned to his home village every year since World War II. I spent most of my life without knowing him. Our reunion did not bring the communication I’d hoped for. My father, in ill health, was taciturn and grouchy. Despite this disappointment, I was able to get in touch with my roots. And I discovered the joys of running in Italy.
Being with long-lost Italian cousins, hiking through the fields, hills and olive groves that had belonged to my ancestors, enjoying the scenic beauty of San Martino, with snowcapped mountains to the west and the sea to the east were magical. Best of all, however, was running in my newly-discovered native homeland.
Nikes on my feet, I explored the streets and pathways of tiny San Martino (population 800) as well as nearby countryside. No doubt I was an odd sight. I like to think of myself as the first American to have jogged through the village for the sake of simply running. If the citizens of San Martino were running, it would be to catch a stray sheep, goat or child.
For one thing, the villagers are elderly. The young leave for Pescara or Chieti or Guardiagrele to attend school or take jobs. Furthermore, why would people need to run? The San Martino way of life incorporates vigorous outdoor activities: harvesting olives, gathering firewood, tending animals, plowing fields. My spoken Italian was not versatile enough to know what the natives thought of my running through their streets every day.
But run for the sport of it I did, and for the sheer beauty of the landscape. Running was not only a way to enjoy the incredibly beautiful countryside but also to work off the delicious pasta consumed during three-hour lunches.
San Martino-ans are not into lycra and singlets, so early each morning I donned pedal pushers and an oversized t-shirt borrowed from my teenage sons. I decided it was better to look like a nerd than a shameless exhibitionist. Shortly after the roosters’ last crowing, I left my Aunt Guisipina’s house and jogged up a narrow cobblestone road to the main street of San Martino. Sweeping their porches, small elderly ladies in black stared at me, first in disbelief, then with amusement. After a day or so, they began greeting me with a friendly “Buon Giorno.”

**************************************

Looking at the world through adoption-colored glasses.

November is National Adoption Month, so I’m publishing another adoption-themed post from the past. The trip to Italy was life-changing, life affirming, and inspirational. Join me, Elaine Pinkerton, on alternate Mondays for adoptee perspectives.

Feedback is invited. Click at the top right to leave your comments.

The Dad I Scarcely Knew

Tags

adoptee, adoption, Italy, reunion, separation

Note: Adopted people have two fathers: the original and the adoptive. On Father’s Day I thought about Giovanni Cecchini, the original, all day. Lately, as I massively declutter, I’ve come across albums with photos of my original father and me the few times we met. I’ve come to realize that Giovanni, my original father, did the best he could.

The stated mission of my memoir The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries is to “let the past be the past.” In my concluding essays, I suggested that “bygones should be bygones.” Since the publication of The Goodbye Baby, I’ve had second thoughts about those “bygones.” In the case of understanding ones adoption, the “bygones” adage may not be entirely true. History has been coming back to me, and I’m seeing things differently.
During this season of Father’s Day and the upcoming Summer Solstice, I’m thinking a lot about Giovanni Cecchini, my birth father. These are not comfortable thoughts, but rather regrets and self-recriminations. My birth father and I were never really together, as WWII was raging when I was a toddler. He was always out at sea, and the ill-fated marriage between Giovanni and my birth mother Velma was unraveling even as it was just beginning.

At age five, I was adopted by new parents. My adoptive father Richard, until his death a decade ago, was a major influence throughout my life. A professor of guidance and counseling at the University of Virginia, he was my advocate and hero. I deeply admired him. Giovanni was a shadowy background player, someone I saw just a few times in my life

The occasions I saw that original Dad, I was so full of hurt and resentment that I blew it. After we’d made contact (I was 40; he was 75), I accompanied Giovanni to his birthplace, San Martino Sulla Marruccina, Abruzzo, Italy. We stayed with my aunt and third cousins, my own flesh and blood. I was thrilled to be in Italy, in the land of my father’s birth, and I was hoping that we could get to know each other. I expected him to be the father I’d always been missing. It became obvious that he was hoping to see the four-year-old little girl he’d left behind.

We were sitting one morning at the tiny kitchen table of Cousin Josephina and I asked, “What are your memories of my mother, of Velma?” Giovanni replied, “Well, to tell the truth, you kind of remind me of her.” Retreating into a curmudgeonly silence, he did not elaborate.

I took the remark as a slap in the face. I was hurt beyond words. Father/daughter interactions went downhill from there. The Italian cousins were delightful. It was wonderful meeting them, but the father I’d hoped to bond with eluded me. He put it this way. “Too much water under the bridge.” I did not see him after our trip to the old country and he passed away a few years later.

In retrospect, I would change that moment at the kitchen table in Abruzzi. I might have changed the subject, been more open and loving, transcended my “poor little me” attitude. And if only I had. In the case of these fragile reunions with birth parents, there may not be second chances. A saving grace is the relationship I have with Giovanni’s second wife Margaret. Family members, no matter how distant or difficult, are to be cherished.

(This post was originally issued in 2013.)

Your feedback in invited. Please comment, and join Elaine on alternate Mondays for reflections on life as seen through adoption-colored glasses.

A Reunion too Late, or… the Gift of Relatives

Tags

adoptee, Adoptee Recovery, birthfather, family, Italy, Personal history, Searching

Note: Just back from a river cruise on the Elbe River, through the Czech Republic, Saxony and Germany. My apologies for publishing a so-called “Monday Blog” on Wednesday. It is the first time in two years of blogging that I’ve missed a deadline. Traveling in Europe without a computer was not conducive to being punctual, but I’m hoping this belated post will provide food for thought, especially for adoptees who’ve either had or are hoping to have reunions with their parents of origin.
************************************************************************************************

Jane, adopted at ten months, met her birthparents as an adult. Decades later, she and her original mom had a reunion. It was a great success. Predictably, one of the best aspects of the reunion was learning about her German roots. She greatly enjoyed getting to know her mother, a first generation immigrant. As she told me about the event, my spirits drooped. A success, I thought, as I enviously listened.

To be honest, reunions with both my birthparents, who divorced shortly after I was Note: I am just back from a river cruise on the Elbe River, through the Czech Republic, Saxony and Germany. My apologies for publishing a so-called “Monday Blog” on Wednesday. It is the first time in two years of blogging that I’ve missed a deadline. Traveling in Europe without a computer was not conducive to being punctual, but I’m hoping this belated post will provide food for thought, especially for adoptees who’ve either had or are hoping to have reunions with their parents of origin.
************************************************************************************************

Jane, adopted at ten months, met her birthparents as an adult. Decades later, she and her original mom had a reunion. It was a great success. Predictably, one of the best aspects of the reunion was learning about her German roots. She greatly enjoyed getting to know her mother, a first generation immigrant. As she told me about the event, my spirits drooped. A success, I thought, as I enviously listened.

To be honest, reunions with both my birthparents, who divorced shortly after I was born, were less than victorious. In the case of Giovanni Cecchini, my Italian birthfather, expectations were great. The year was 1987, and Giovanni was planning to visit his birthplace, San Martino Sulla Marrucina in Abruzzo, Italy. I had seen him once in my life, during my teen years, and I had a positive relationship with his new wife Margaret.

Because Giovanni was in frail health, Margaret and I decided that it would be a good

Abruzzi, Italy is the birthplace of my original dad. Many relatives still live there.

idea for me to accompany him to Europe. Not only did I want to meet my Italian relatives, I hoped for a deeper relationship with my father. This trip might provide a chance to learn more about Velma, my birthmother, and the circumstances of my adoption.

However, it was a miss. Too much time had apparently loosened any potential bonds. Giovanni was moody, out of sorts, and taciturn. He was far warmer toward his two little nieces, ages nine and ten, than to me, his own flesh and blood. That part was a tremendous let-down.

There we were in Italy, the “old country,” surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins. Everyone lived in close proximity. It was November and mornings were very cold.

We’re sitting in front of a blazing fireplace and I asked my father to tell me what my mother was like when he first met her.

“To tell the truth,” he grumpily responded, “You remind me of her.” Nothing else, just that. I could tell that it wasn’t a compliment. I waited for clarification, elaboration, a modifying remark…anything. Nothing but silence.

After the visit to Italy, Giovanni and I were interviewed by a newspaper about our reunion and journey to Italy. He told the reporter that in his opinion, there had been “too much water under the bridge.”

On the bright side, my Italian relatives—who’d known nothing about me—surrounded me with love. They seemed thrilled to know about their newfound American cousin. So, while I envied Jane and her successful birth family reunion, I treasured the fact that I got to know my extended Italian family. I cherish the memories more as years go by. born, were less than victorious. In the case of Giovanni Cecchini, my Italian birthfather, expectations were great. The year was 1987, and Giovanni was planning to visit his birthplace, San Martino Sulla Marrucina in Abruzzo, Italy. I had seen him once in my life, during my teen years, and I had a positive relationship with his new wife Margaret.

Because Giovanni was in frail health, Margaret and I decided that it would be a good idea for me to accompany him to Europe. Not only did I want to meet my Italian relatives, I hoped for a deeper relationship with my father. This trip might provide a chance to learn more about Velma, my birthmother, and the circumstances of my adoption.

However, it was a miss. Too much time had apparently loosened any potential bonds. Giovanni was moody, out of sorts, and taciturn. He was far warmer toward his two little nieces, ages nine and ten, than to me, his own flesh and blood. That part was a tremendous let-down.

There we were in Italy, the “old country,” surrounded by aunts, uncles and cousins. Everyone lived in close proximity. It was November and mornings were very cold.

We’re sitting in front of a blazing fireplace and I asked my father to tell me what my mother was like when he first met her.

“To tell the truth,” he grumpily responded, “You remind me of her.” Nothing else, just that. I could tell that it wasn’t a compliment. I waited for clarification, elaboration, a modifying remark…anything. Nothing but silence.

After the visit to Italy, Giovanni and I were interviewed by a newspaper about our reunion and journey to Italy. He told the reporter that in his opinion, there had been “too much water under the bridge.”

On the bright side, my Italian relatives—who’d known nothing about me—surrounded me with love. They seemed thrilled to know about their newfound American cousin. So, while I envied Jane and her successful birth family reunion, I treasured the fact that I got to know my extended Italian family. I cherish the memories more as years go by.

Join Elaine every other Monday for reflections on adoption and life.

Running to my Roots, Part Two

Tags

adoptee, adoption, birthfather, cultural heritage, family, healing, Italy, reunion

As an adult adoptee looking back, one of my regrets was not growing up with my Italian heritage. In my recent memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I lamented this “deprivation.” However, I DID meet my Italian-American birthfather. I was able to travel with him to Abruzzo, where he was born. It was to be the last time I saw him, as he passed away shortly after our return. This is the second part of my essay about our trip to Italy…

My relatives in Abruzzo welcomed me, their American cousin

I ran every morning of our two-week stay in San Martino Sulla Marrucina. The miles melted away. Propelled by fascinating sights, smells, sounds and sensations, I was hardly aware of moving. I glided by the town’s gothic style cathedral, the tobacco shop, the nursery school, multistoried buildings with flower-laden balconies, graceful patios, tiny cats peeking from doorways, sheep, chickens, olive trees and grapevines. The town’s dogs barked and lunged as I ran by. Lucky for me, they were chained or fenced in. By the third day, I thought I’d run every cobblestone street and traversed every steep, narrow alleyway.
But I was wrong. One of my rewarding outings came about as a result of a funeral. A village dignitary had died, and I was invited by my cousins to join a procession to the “camposanto.” Thus on this morning, I walked rather than ran. The entire population of San Martino had joined in the solemn on-foot parade to the final laying-to-rest of the deceased. After interment, my cousin Carlo pointed out many tombs that contained his (and my own) late kinsfolk. All the while, I made mental notes of possible new running sites. I discovered a narrow path, just beyond the village proper, that descended to a lovely valley and forest.
After the funeral and from then on, this path was my favorite running destination. I went from my aunt’s house to the “camposanto” to pay respects to anyone who might have been related, however distantly, to me. That accomplished, I explored the paths beyond. In the marvelous way that running has of leading us to we don’t know where, I powered my way up small roads through cultivated fields and olive groves. During several forays, I rambled through dense forests, each time discovering something new.
One day, I spotted a garden plot of red chile peppers that looked just like those of my native New Mexico. Another time, I spotted a prickly ball along the road, a small animal something like a round porcupine. Was it dead or just hibernating? When I returned, cousin Carlo told me, “These animals are very useful. They kill garden pests and are also good to eat.” When they feel threatened, he added, they curl themselves up into balls.
A week before the end of my Italian sojourn, the weather turned colder. Until now, it had been summer. The sky became moody and the moist air promised rain and the coming winter. On one of my final runs in Italy, I took along a bag and collected fallen autumn leaves to press and take back to America.
On my next-to-last day in San Martino, I ran through town, passing my favorite little lady and her three cats, the post office,the tobacco shop. Just as I was heading back to my aunt’s house, Carlo and his wife Bianca drove up beside me, stopped their car and invited me to go shopping with them. When we reached the town of Guardiagrelee, it became obvious that their mission was to buy presents for me — handmade lace, a brass oil lamp, pottery, a cookbook written in English and Italian.
The day of my departure, I took a predawn farewell run, and then it was time to return to Rome and the United States. My wish to meet with the dad I’d never known had been granted, at least partially. So much time had passed, “water under the bridge” my father called it, that we might never become closely bonded father and daughter. However, sharing San Martino with my father was precious beyond words. Miles of running through his village enriched my memory bank forever.

Discovering my birth father’s homeland expanded my horizons!

Running to my Roots, Part One

Tags

birthfather, cultural heritage, finding family, Italy, recovery, running

In Italy, I traveled through miles of my birth family’s history…

As an adult adoptee looking back, one of my regrets was not growing up with my Italian heritage. In my recent memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I lamented this “deprivation.” However, I DID meet my Italian-American birthfather just a few years before he passed away. I was able to travel with him to Abruzzo, where he was born.
When organizing my office last week, I came across this account, written in 2007 but never before published. As you, my readers, will see, I was heavily into running at the time. In retrospect, I realize what a special journey it was, what a privilege that I got this glimpse of my heritage. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed re-living the experience…

Growing up adopted, remembered in diaries

I was an adopted child, five years old when my new parents took over. I met my biological father many years later. Together we visited the town in Italy where he was born, and there I spent an unforgettable week getting to know cousins and doing a lot of running. Giovanni Cecchini began life in the tiny village of San Martino Sulla Maruccina. It’s on the east side of the Italian boot, 17 miles from the Adriatic Sea. Even though I had been adopted by a loving mom and dad and my young life improved dramatically, I longed for many years to find out more about my heritage. Shortly before Giovanni’s death, that wish came true.
Giovanni left the old country at age two. He’d returned to his home village every year since World War II. I spent most of my life without knowing him. Our reunion did not bring the communication I’d hoped for. My father, in ill health, was taciturn and grouchy. Despite this disappointment, I was able to get in touch with my roots. And I discovered the joys of running in Italy.
Being with long-lost Italian cousins, hiking through the fields, hills and olive groves that had belonged to my ancestors, enjoying the scenic beauty of San Martino, with snowcapped mountains to the west and the sea to the east were magical. Best of all, however, was running in my newly-discovered native homeland.
Nikes on my feet, I explored the streets and pathways of tiny San Martino (population 800) as well as nearby countryside. No doubt I was an odd sight. I like to think of myself as the first American to have jogged through the village for the sake of simply running. If the citizens of San Martino were running, it would be to catch a stray sheep, goat or child.
For one thing, the villagers are elderly. The young leave for Pescara or Chieti or Guardiagrele to attend school or take jobs. Furthermore, why would people need to run? The San Martino way of life incorporates vigorous outdoor activities: harvesting olives, gathering firewood, tending animals, plowing fields. My spoken Italian was not versatile enough to know what the natives thought of my running through their streets every day.
But run for the sport of it I did, and for the sheer beauty of the landscape. Running was not only a way to enjoy the incredibly beautiful countryside but also to work off the delicious pasta consumed during three-hour lunches.
San Martino-ans are not into lycra and singlets, so early each morning I donned pedal pushers and an oversized t-shirt borrowed from my teenage sons. I decided it was better to look like a nerd than a shameless exhibitionist. Shortly after the roosters’ last crowing, I left my Aunt Guisipina’s house and jogged up a narrow cobblestone road to the main street of San Martino. Sweeping their porches, small elderly ladies in black stared at me, first in disbelief, then with amusement. After a day or so, they began greeting me with a friendly “Buon Giorno.”

Adopting my Collateral Damage

Tags

adoptees, birthfathers, cultural heritage, healing, Italy, literature, Mexican roots, reunions, Searching

Wouldn’t it be grand if painful childhood and adolescent memories could be tucked

Book cover by Joe Cepeda, used by permission of Scholastic

away in a mental closet and never opened again? For me, and for other adult adoptees suffering from early “collateral damage”, I suspect that is not possible. I seem to be forever seeking clarity about the demons released when I was “transplanted.” My conclusion: dealing with the original wrenching—being separated from birthparents—is the work of a lifetime.

My grown son recently commented, “Mom, I don’t think we ever truly get over our childhood wounds.” He may be right. In my memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption, I documented my own growing up adopted. Writing my story was helpful, but that was just the beginning.

Another resource in my pilgrimage was the Internet. Cyberspace is rich with adoption websites. The sites comprise a vast network of adoptees, adoptive parents, birthparents, people searching, families seeking to adopt. Look, and you will find an entire tribe of men and women, young and older, communicating about how adoption personally affected them.

What does it mean to have a father who was never there for you, an “original” dad who disappeared from your life?

Answers can be found in literature, for “Adoption” as a theme abounds. I recently finished the wonderful young adult novel Becoming Naomi León by Pam Muñoz Ryan (Scholastic, 2004), a heartwarming story of a young girl who overcomes obstacles, finds her voice, and connects with those most important to her. In particular, the book shows how finding ones father and getting in touch with ones roots provides direction and clarity.

Naomi León Outlaw, the plucky heroine of Becoming Naomi León is being raised by her great-grandmother. She wears “clothes that matched her great-grandma’s polyester wardrobe” (Ryan, p. 58) and feels like a misfit at school. When her birthmother Skyla, definitely not parent material, decides to take her back, Gram, little brother Owen and Naomi escape in the “Beluga” van to Mexico. There, they locate birthfather Santiago León. Santiago, a fabulous carver, is competing in La Noche de Rábanos (Night of the Radishes). Naomi is also a skilled carver, not of radishes but soap. Though she meets her father for just a short time, the two form a bond. He advises her to be brave and assures her of his love. For Naomi, it is a turning point.

When Naomi, Gram and Owen return to the United States, a judge rules in favor of the children staying with Gram. Naomi is transformed by connecting with her father and embracing her Mexican roots. The school librarian, one of her best adult friends, says “Before you were a mouse, but now you have the countenance of a lion.”

I was lucky enough to have a brief reunion with my birthfather. A few years before he died (at 83), we met and I was invited to travel with him to his birthplace in Abruzzo, Italy. During our two weeks in Italy I met my cousins, shared in the extended family’s daily life, and hiked the hills and valleys around San Martino. Like Naomi, I was able to get in touch with my cultural background.

As I travel the journey to understanding adoption, I’ve found  enlightenment in wondrous places. Increasingly, light pours forth from novels.