PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

 Family is one thing you can’t define both politely and with honestly in the same lifetime ,thus anyone who loves theirs well, must also ,learn how to make an esoteric the fondest of friends.

“Step on a crack, break your Mother’s....”  It’s the rhyme that recently stalls on my tongue that reminds me. I have an understudy of that role, whose existence I  push to the back of my mind’s lineup among the other castoffs of  the unused - like the autopilot of a bad habit with the side effects being at least, having left me with an unflatteringly masculine Roman nose and at most seeing me turned  into a living marionette. I suppose second thoughts are homeless propositions in youth. That one aspect not inherited, given  my maturity,  seems to have blossomed  in the warm vastness of the late summer air granted that even as I tried follow her trail to the doorstep at which I would seemingly get all my questions answered: “Did you hate the idea of me that much even in theory? “ *veer left* “Anything to share concerning the other half of my chromosomes?” *nudge forward* These eyes of mine stayed unfailing fixed to the pavement, obsessively plotting the swerves that might spare her back. 

From the moment any kid hears those three words “you don’t belong” signaling their egg came from a foreign nest of origin, it is akin  to every vestige of balanced self knowledge sent splintering off into the dissecting personalities all implanted with the same curious and secret longing based on instinct. Smiling at strangers who’d comment on the similarities between my father and I without an admission to the truth began increasingly to feel like getting away with something, a dastardly deed, the escape from which had only gained a devilish sweetness in time. As I grew, every difference from my tribe in height or opinion would send the inner detective parsing for clues, as such never has such import been given to the love of eating orange rind for its own sake. Distinct memory: Crawling like an embattled soldier, carpet burning overworked knee caps, to riffle behind our VCR where a copy of “Beauty and the Beast” had been hidden as an artful bribe among many that served as smoke screens. It was the only way I’d submit to any exercise routine without protest. It all had a double edge that day. Sitting there nestled cross- legged among a bunch of pillows, I fancied that I could be some lost daughter  of a princess, watching the last petal fall because of an unfortunately hairy man who’d  by nefarious means been my father. A history over-dramatized, I knew, even ignoring the altogether thick smell of the troupe: Every girl that can’t dot her respective i’s of census thinks she could be of the bluest blood.  Well, whatever the case I needed a back story. Thus, unbeknownst to my nine year conscience, a quest had found me out of necessity.

The truth had come out the year before. My parents hadn’t known how to frame it, so didn’t, hoping that time would ease the task’s pain. The actual blow was dealt in a considerably more ill designed tact by my aunt (who to be fair thought I already knew) and seemed to take an honest amount of umbrage with the secrecy involved, so the opening was taken like an awkward pounce. My dad’s younger sister Vesekla, aka Violet, more infamous in the inner circle, equal parts for a hyper-religious/superstitiously gullible nature and a bad pageboy haircut (both of which may have contributed to the end of her marriage in some degree) never did have too strong a hold on the concept of subtlety on a good day, so the fact that she was dealing with a kid had little effect on her approach either way. 

In a cliché of family dysfunction, my Teta had come by for Thanksgiving of all things, but as I recall, she had missed the actual holiday by a few days and had my uncle silently trailing at her heels as was usual fare. Strange how I have no idea how my cousin Goran managed to skip out on the festivities, but it does stand out that he was missing as his presence would have squashed any uncomfortable conversation with a simple look. As it was, I was enjoying a bout of drawing in my room. This had been a common position for visitors to find me in as both books and pencils had taken on the role of appendages from the point that I was able to hold my head up straight. Looking back, that should have been my tipoff that things were different. Even before I glanced up, I could feel her smiling at my charcoal stained fingers from my doorway. 

 “What are you drawing Mikki? It would always annoy me to no end when adults would force conversation given their body language showed boredom or discomfort. But in this case I was just surprised and grateful that a grown up cared about my art, particularly her. I was the kind of kid who’d take a single olive if I couldn’t get a whole branch, so I offered one back in the form of a crayon. “Kid, why do you always have the TV on, even when you’re not paying attention to the thing? I was working on a house, even though it was the general agreement that faces were my thing. That said, I had gotten the hint that there were only so many random portraits even a proud parent could hang on the fridge before questions were asked. You could say I wanted to expand my range and the TV was helping me. “It’s my background music, too quiet in here... come help.”  

It stuck out that I was so busy noting her discomfort as she leaned to sit at eye-level with me that I totally ignored the blots being left on my turquoise overalls. Everything slowed to account for a growing tension, but my mind hadn’t caught up yet. “I can’t really draw” tiny scratches covered her edge of paper. “Try a tree. Those are so easy even Mommy can do em.” It’s funny that I can draw I mean ....my fingers don’t work.  “Sorry, but you’re awful.”  Her tree was more paralyzed than I could ever dream to be with its undersized mangled limbs. She was good- natured enough to join in when I laughed. “Oops, okay you’re right. Must not be a family thing.”  She must not have seen Dad’s attempts. “Well Pop is pretty good at correcting me, so it definitely comes from your side.” She giggled from her belly leaving me thinking that she might just be easily amused. “You’re funny. It’s good you have a good attitude about it.” ”About what?” I said confused, with a look of bewilderment that reminded her. “Oh right, my stupid brother never told you. He can’t pass anything on to you - money and love maybe -- you’re mother couldn’t.... Oh hell. You’re not their daughter. What I mean is, you’re adopted. You know what that is right? Some girls, I don’t know. But there it is.”

And there it certainly was. I don’t remember crying or anything of that sort. I was far too gobsmacked by the prospect of something that went beyond consideration before the words were spoken. In spite of this, I wish I’d learned this earlier. Nothing can be stripped from you that you won’t allow. If you ever forget that nature will find ways to remind you -- just take note of your luck. The reactions of the supposed grownups were far less measured, and this to me was honestly one of the most unpleasant aspects of the revelation as a whole. My father was extremely indignant in his rage, which I didn’t understand in the least because what right did he have to be peeved given I was the one being kept in the dark. “What the hell did you do Ves?” was much the refrain of the day.  Needless to say that my mom’s turkey went cold and uneaten after she entered her only child’s room to have me ask who I belonged to. 

 In the moment I was torn between wondering why it had never before dawned on me to question why my folks seemed a good decade older than the parents of any of my schoolmates and feeling guilty for the wave of relief that flooded me at not being a blood relation to the kooks on my daddy’s side (not accounting for a burgeoning pattern of mental illness.)  There was an unspoken knowledge that my aunt should steer clear for the foreseeable future, the embargo lasted the seemingly paltry sentence of about three months. Over time I began to grasp that if I wanted to collect value information concerning traces of my background, my mom would be the all-too anthropomorphic well, what with her affinity for noting gossipy details and love of unsolved mysteries. The best way to brooch achieving this goal was teasing tidbits in small but effectively planned bursts.  As it was, it was as I prepared to enter hormone driven kingdom of the teenagers when I got a true sense of the story: 

My mythos in a matter of speaking is a less thinly veiled version of the Little Red Riding-hood allegory, no exaggeration meant. By all accounts I am the product of a youthful indiscretion. An army brat by association, my mother is one Dijana Kuć, the Herzegovinian-born daughter of an officer in a regiment linked to the former Yugoslavia. She was sent on a late summer sea holiday to her grandmother, and came back towing some very special extra cargo courtesy of a yet-unknown donor she had recently met. I find it ironic that when I was a child people had a strange tendency to mispronounce my name as “Marisa” Latin meaning “of the sea,” as rumor has it that is exactly where I was spawned. After returning home she hid signs of the ensuing pregnancy for several months by any means necessary, and not all of them healthy - belts, cords, body suits. It was an entire operation of dunce.  As noted by one of the nurses, maintaining the pretense of social standing seem paramount to the family. Dijana herself was overheard saying “The family has a reputation to protect.  The longer she survives, the bigger of a blight she’ll become.” Thus it can be seen how when at the point of no return she may have been persuaded to take drastic steps to maintain that veneer.

 Fits of what must have been blinding panic at possibly tarnishing her future and carefully orchestrated image, she tried to perform a self-helmed abortion. Reports vary as to what method was used: some say pills, while a more widely spread telling states that she came into the emergency room after having literally attempted to cut me out. Whatever the case may be, I lived,  coming into the world two and half months before my time at midnight of March twenty sixth.. One pound and three ounces of screaming uncertainty met the medical team who predicted a whole buffet of impairments ranging from blindness and hearing loss to complete mental retardation,  to the extent that my adoption ability was flagged damaged goods. Eastern Europeans pull no punches. It was well known that my grandfather’s internal connections are the sole reason Miss Kuć escaped an assault charge on her record at the very least. Culturally we weren’t usually known for taking kindly to “loose morals” in women , so really her punishment would have been for a different kind of crime altogether. And age was no longer the buffer of bad behavior ... unless.

Despite what anyone had told me over the years about an infant’s inability to form memories prior to the first year, I’m convinced that being born through a filter of trauma allowed for a few vivid snippets to remain. There are flashes of celery-colored walls and a plastered ceiling with  its constellations as my incubator is wheeled in her room. Nurses still wore white boat-shaped hats with the matching dresses at that point. In the corner young Dijana sat casually Indian style on the bed surrounded by books and magazines. Her hair was a messy tangle.  As the strands fell into deep set eyes much like mine, she grabbed at a particularly annoying curl and started twisting and uncoiling it along the length of her pointer finger as is my habit when nervousness or boredom set in. At the core the single physical difference between me and my biological mother could of course be pinned down to age and her more pointed chin. My self doubt entrenched her as being the prettier one, likely is the deep seated cause of why I’ve had a hard time giving my own looks a break. The mental kind are among the immovable scars.

She barely acknowledged my presence even as her parents walked in to inspect the new arrival: me. I’ve always had what can be termed as an uncanny knack for dropping in on people, upsetting the conventions you might say. My grandmother must have had a softer heart about my coming than expected, as I was told she held me for a bit. I have this impression of a robust woman with auburn wavy hair, who was smartly dressed in a mauve pantsuit. The grandsire’s most impressive feature was his imposing stature and wiry frame. A wide forehead and a bushy salt and pepper brow seemed to further offset the crows-feet around his eyes. He peered down at me.  Then, looking over to his own child extended his finger to me so that I could tug.  Despite keeping a stern expression he was affected enough to turn on his heels walking away in a huff of internal conflict. Who knows what words were exchanged regarding me behind closed doors, but part of me dares to hope it was their influence out of conscience that made Dijana list a phone number in the case that I did pass on from my injuries. I was deprived of air for an unknown stretch.  The mere sight of blood awakens my gag reflex, leading to the suspicion that I had been put in the position  to choke on  my own.

Often it is an assumption that I am an easily offended pro-life supporter who will brand  people evil on sight if they so much as indicate that they support a woman’s right to choose. In this scenario my debut is noted as possible reason for my aversion regardless of whether I actually voiced an opinion.   As the record should state, I have no issues with taking control of the body that you are blessed with. Where things become way more than slightly uncomfortable is when a prophylactic is used in aftermath, as seems to be a common sentiment of millennial so called independent woman. Not wanting a child is understandable, but making them pay for an oversight on your part over the long run is another story entirely. If abortion does end up seeming like a viable option, do it in a timely matter that doesn’t wait for the human to be nearly done baking. We didn’t ask to be here and as a result you don’t get to decide when we inconvenience those around us - it is much easier to leave a mess when the cleanup falls to the unknown.

So as it stood legally, people were not permitted to sign over their rights to a child while leaving that child nameless. Thus came the one forced gift I got out of this raw deal. I’m the runt that was sent to a state run institution for the workers to poke and prod until I chose to give in to death or manifested horns of some kind.  I was handed to my new home at three months on the thirteenth, the number many fear, I’m blessed by and no one should be surprised I am linked with. 

To be honest, Nevenka Todorović should definitely win a Nobel prize for child rearing if there were one. She brought out a lion’s spirit in the way she refused to give up on me through doctors appointments aplenty and insults to my intelligence. Thank you for forcing tone into my muscles by kneading me like a piece of uncooked dough and for not listening to that chain-smoking staff member with her blunt suggestion that she trade me in for a non-idiot. She clearly molded me from very little, at a point where I might have landed as another throwaway. My deepest regret is that I can’t save her in return. This is the thing I’ll continue to try for, because she never gave it a second thought, knowing the  personal toll it would take. I am in awe of the length and breadth of love when the heart opens to the unknown.  My father let her take the reins when it came to deciding what treatments to try -- the worst of which was Cortisone shots into my knee caps hoping to make me more mobile. They spent thousands of dollars going from Romanian specialty hospitals to biofeedback sections and visiting an Indian witch doctor who predicted I’d be famous in an artist field (ultimately a running family joke).  At times the best thing to do with dreams is destroy them while building new ones from what’s left. It took me a while to understand that maybe I was lucky.  The fact I was these people’s single shot at parenthood gave me a better life, slightly sadly beautiful. For every battle I lost, another was undertaken and won.  Case in point, I may have been slow about dropping the pacifier but I got the physics behind reading at about two and a half, no skipping pages around me. Overalls, pigtails and messing with my older cousins by letting them try and make me walk in exchange for candy; it didn’t matter who created the fight in me. I was trained to staying as normal as possible knowing the traditional path was gone.                                             

Each instance where you avoid an aspect yourself, though it may be with the best and healthiest intention is ensuring it will make itself known at a point to teach you a lesson. This is a notion I was confronted with at the close of a particularly dark and incredibly painful chapter in my life, the aftershocks of which I likely will feel till the day I leave this earth. Without going into specifics, because I’m really out of my depth, it’s not just my story to tell and hardly a morally simple one. I will say that grief can change the stakes of who you are. And the people who hurt us, at the very least  deserve the consideration for empathy.  Faith in the good of those we let that close tells us they feel  the pain of those mistakes a thousand times worse. Anger, to me doesn’t kill love, but serves to either confuse or affirm it.  The pattern is made bolder when held up in review of familial bonds in their very complication. It’s then that looking for an escape hatch which affords a self righteous comparison of your own behavior and degree of agency can seem pretty damn good. A bit of the old “ I have to come from something better than this.” and “This can’t be my life “ Many  would argue that the fact of these statements being open possibilities for me to explore make me simultaneously very fortunate coupled with divisively ungrateful for my upbringing....  I know. Regardless, losing my mom in every way that counts while fate having given me no appealing adult choices, sent me searching backward. To forgive, like the phrase says, start with yourself, but considering the mistrust I still have for the inner Mirela I thought best find the source. Thank you social media.

I had tried to type my biological mother’s name into Google once before with much less fanfare, a few porn ads and dead links were my reward, virtually slapping my wrist as a warning to stay away. What worried me about those ancestry registries is most make you charge your card to see the full results. I wasn’t about to trek through that over grown forest with the likelihood of it yielding anything of use being slim to none. The confirmed information I did have came from when my mom cleverly took advantage of my file being left fast and loose on the director’s desk during a lapse in their outgoing custody interview. The woman was kind and had developed a rapport, so this may have been a purposeful oversight on her part. In the midst of carefully dipping my toe into these waters, I thought about dad. He never seemed to care much about where I was from until he became the main parent “Why don’t you ever look for your family; don’t you care?” It began to feel as if he was forcing the issue in a misguided attempt to try to help me fill a few voids, so when started my inquiries I didn’t let him in on the plan. This was mine. I need space to do this on my own, come what may.

Facebook had also presented very little the first go around. Then the  shock came. One night during the distraction of the eleven o'clock news that blue search-bar called to me, offering  me a single profile matching down to still living in Banja Luka. She may have been blonde, was ostentatiously dressed and age been unexpectedly kind to that face, but it was my face I saw staring back from the profile. I quickly shut it down, ignoring her instead calling back the time in elementary school that my pal Andrew K. came up with a plan to circumvent the whole different parent problem: filter all the blood running through my veins out, then replace that with blended pints of my new parents contributions. I wished it were that simple.  

I let a week pass before logging onto the page again, because I needed to get ahold of myself and form some realistic expectations. It might not be her. The distinctive wide yet rounded shape of our nostrils would seem to be a shared family hallmark. If I did in fact have the correct woman, my two possible siblings have a similar feature. Thinking I might not actually be an only child didn’t strike me as odd. I’ve always sensed as much and an added grapevine said that Dijana got pregnant again six months after my birth, keeping that child and marrying the father. The girl pictured in many of these posts looked to be the right age, a strong, tall brunette with deep set  kind brown eyes, also having an M starting name which stung slightly. Total coincidence would have it that this would-be sister was online friends with a girl in dad’s village. But then places are merely a half hour apart by car so I could have been reaching. This all seems unlikely in that it fit my facts.  A part of me needed it, that said I wasn’t stupid. I did not believe it was difficult when glimpsing the moonfaced tweenie boy, byond a resemblance. My insides knew him.

Dijana seemed to have kept her maiden name either that or she married young and my conception was part of an unsanctioned Rumshpringa before her real life began. I felt sick. No wonder I was dispatched. I refused to assume or spy any more.  Besides, the kids didn't know. The right wasn't  mine to out her, uprooting their world in the process of questing for what? That was the argument.  I countered to my dad and Andjelka, my cousin’s wife, when they freaked out insisting that I meet her this last trip after I finally let them on my long held secret.  They didn’t seem to be thinking of anything other than “She looks so much like you.” and I wished they would just be quiet. This was exactly what I did not want, but that fell on deaf ears. 

My reservations came down to not wanting to hurt anyone.  Much of my time the last few year has been spent trying to avoid this outcome, to the point of forgetting that this sometimes happens no matter what. Investigating the profile we establish that she worked at a high-end clothing shop located behind Banja Luka’s Petar Kočić park. Some photos had her modeling their outfits, which set me to wondering if she’d she design any of them.  I did that all the time as a kid and that would sort of explain the art ability. The group wanted to go to the store and quite frankly that was the extent of the plan.  My mind kept repeating that it’s not like in the movies. I didn’t want to hug this lady, aside from that I’d cried over other more important things recently. I wasn’t angry at Dijana in the same way I had been as a kid and teen and I didn’t even know it until right that minute. I didn’t need to hurt her in return.  That probably meant I was ready. 

I agreed to shut my family up as much as anything else. Andjelka and her two girls I would let tag along on our little mission as well. I was really grateful, as they distracted me from the fact that when taking everything out of the situation, what we were trying to do was pretty creepy. Ana the tough talking thirteen and half year old was marching across the park like we were back in the Bosnia of the nineties.  I meanwhile was searching for an ice cream cart the way that an alcoholic says he goes to a bar  just to test his  courage. I had none and hoped to find it at the bottom of a cone. Before we crossed the street to the storefront, we saw that a big flight of stairs was the sole way of getting in. My reprieve; sweet joy I had never felt you till now. According to dad I wasn’t getting off  that easily.  We’d come this far, he was going in. “Bull, it’s my china shop. What are you going to say? Stop please.” “It’ll be what I have to.”  Knowing him, he meant to create a verbal tornado prior to leaving. Before I could think to grab his arm he had sauntered off. After about a minute Andjelka saw a leggy bottled blonde heading in from the parking-lot. I froze. It wasn’t her of course, but at seeing my gulping anxiety waiting to run without a fence it was decided that I should stay  with the girls and my cousin-in-law would follow  to leash “Oh Captain, my captain “ (to quote Walt Whitman) so as to make sure he didn’t verbally vomit.  There by the curb, I stood  each of my hand’s holding a child on either side, my body not knowing which of the nervous trifecta it wanted to win:   cry, puke or faint.

After what seem like forever in purgatory, the adults return smiling and dad tossed a card into my shaking lap. As it was, we got brave on Dijana’s day off. In order to save face, he lied to her two coworkers, posing as a typical aged foreigner in need of a suit. He wanted me to have contact in case I ever did have anything to say. When we go home I did one last thing asked of me and sent a friend request, the accompanying letter came of my own accord :

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈ * *≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Hello,

I know how strange this sounds, but I think I may be your daughter. If you are the Dijana Kuć who gave up a child in 1987, I just wish you to know I’m alive and safe, as far as anything else I don’t need. I would however like you to answer a few questions after this conversation. Any further contact will be in your hands because the last thing I’d ever want is cause harm by disturbing innocent lives. I only to know who and what I came from. It is within your power to help me this once and that is all I ask.

 Sincerely yours,

Mirela T,

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Though I can’t deny many things were taken away from me and I’m painfully aware of that.  But that can be  said by anyone to some degree. Bur most of all I am grateful. We don't have to be our parents.  I’m still learning how not to get drowned in the  idea of paying for the mistakes of  others.  Dijana hasn’t replied as of around  six months ago when I sent the note, in essence confirming  her identify through silence. I wasn't expecting her to, being well prepared for such. It was the finest of long shots.  I was born to keep taking them.