An Autobiography of an Adoptee: I

I'm looking at a picture of my grandson at one year old right now and want to see my past with him in mind. It really wasn't such a dim past. I felt joy. Laughed. I practically never cried... well, that did bother me. When for instance my brother died I didn't cry, or when my mom or my dad died. No tears at all. But I loved them and I loved the blue sky, the slanting, ancient foothills of the front range, the red rocks, the prickly pear. I loved Chinese food with my dad. Granite and mica on the walks in Estes Park. Cocoa with my mom. The thunderstorm outside the window of the cabin, with black and strong shoulders: sound pounding and the river running.

I know love and joy. With Carlos Eire, I can quote, Charles Simic, "I spit on fools who fail to include breasts in their metaphysics / Star-gazers who have not enumerated them among the moons of the earth." Beauty was and is that which nursed by soul. My soul was nursed and fed deliciously. At times.

So, youth spent days wondering and other days watching the tube. Eating graham crackers with milk. Seldom doing homework. I loved running and walking outdoors. Fields, old orchards. Anthills. Dry summer grass. Swimming. As a boy I loved Doug and Jonathan in first grade and longed to be with all the time. Doug broke his leg and I wanted to break mine to be like him. There was Melanie, a dark haired girl in first grade. I walked her home once.

There were ghosts. The ghost man wasn't named, or liked. I ignored him, but he was there. The ghost woman, also nameless, the mom, she wore a red dress and was beautiful. She danced. These people lived in my home with my parents and me. Unseen by everyone except me.

These ghosts were my other parents, my first ones. I had always known that I was adopted. There was no mistaking it. I am Japanese and Cuban and I lived in a place where there were no others like me. It's been a long time to learn just how lonely it was.

These, dear grandson, are memories and thoughts of an adopted grandfather.