Odd Girl Out

For most of my growing-up years, I felt like I was on the outside looking in, the odd man out, so to speak. For instance, I noticed when I was the only one in a chair while others lounged on a couch. Or maybe others were on the floor, and I was on the sofa. If I was on the right, the others were on the left. And so on. Ridiculous, I know. It makes me sound very over-sensitive, and I guess I was, on the inside. And I certainly wasn't one of the cool kids. I think I was often invisible, which is worse than being overlooked. My dad being in the Army, we moved a lot and changed schools. When I think about all that moving now, I realize it helped me learn to adapt and be flexible. But it didn't feel like that at the time. Sometimes it seemed like we were constantly the new kids. Most of my feeling left out was in my head and my heart. It wasn't accurate, but I perceived it to be real. And that made it so. We are what we think (paraphrased Proverbs 23:7). 

I never felt like I didn't belong with my family, but there were noticeable differences. I had a nose that was small and turned up ever so slightly on the end. My siblings had long noses that were either straight like my dad's or hooked under like my mom's. So whose nose did I have? Did I look like anyone? There weren't just physical differences between my sisters, brother, and me. My sibling's college studies were analytical (math and political science), and I studied recreation therapy. I was not like them, not in looks or interests. I loved them, and they loved me, but there were more differences than similarities. Most of the time, we didn't see the differences. At least, I'm pretty sure they didn't. Sometimes we even forgot I was adopted, like when my mother took me to the doctor when I had allergy problems. Mom said, "well, I guess she got those from me; I have lots of hay fever." And the doctor said, "Pat, wasn't Caroline adopted?" But when I did notice the ways I was different, they were magnified in my mind times one hundred.

My mother was musical - she sang and could play the piano. And she wanted all her children to be musical too. My brother sang and played the guitar. My sisters both sang and played the piano and the flute. And my youngest sister went on to play other instruments as well. They were all in musicals. I never auditioned but was always there to pass out the programs. I was excellent at handing out programs. They were on the inside, and I was looking in from the outside.

The guitar is the only instrument I wish I had kept playing. I could have gotten the hang of it after a few more decades. Next was the piano. I could play Chopsticks reasonably well. And Home on the Range was appropriate as we lived in Kansas while I was learning. I didn't practice as much as I could have, but I didn't not practice. Playing instruments can be a learned skill, but then there are the ones who have an aptitude for music. Music flows, it's not hard for them, and from the outside, it looks easy. Unfortunately, I didn't have the knack. I didn't want to play an instrument. I don't remember mom or dad asking me if I wanted to play. They only asked me which instrument I wanted to learn. And I wanted to please them. So I kept trying and kept picking a new one.

Last was the clarinet. I was almost decent. In 8th or 9th grade, our band had a competition, and all the players had to perform their parts individually for our band director. In my section, there were first, second and third chairs. I think I was probably seventh or eighth chair. There were only seven or eight clarinets. Well, I played my parts for the director. And after I finished, he let out a big sigh. Then he said, I want you to play the first two lines, and then from the third line on the first page to the middle of the fifth page (or something like that), I don't want you to play. You can restart on the last page until the end.

Not long after this competition, and I don't remember how we placed, my clarinet went missing from my school locker. A few days before, I was walking in the school hallway, and a boy my age ran into me on purpose; he almost knocked me down. I was carrying my clarinet in its case, and I hauled off and hit the boy with my case as hard as I could. I knocked him into the lockers and kept walking like I did this sort of thing all the time, and it was no big deal. However, my heart was racing inside, and I had reacted without thinking. I didn't put it together until years after that this kid was probably behind my clarinet going missing. I also didn't realize until years later that rage lived within me, and this incident was just a little steam escaping.

A few weeks later, the band director summoned me to his office. He was gleeful when he told me my instrument had surfaced, and "let's go get it, shall we? Of course, I wasn't nearly as thrilled as he was, but we retrieved it, and I don't remember playing it again after that incident.

Sometime later, my mother wanted all her girls to sing together. Since the instruments weren't working out for me, I think this was her last hope for me being musical. I was not looking forward to this endeavor. My youngest sister was taking classical voice training – that's a fancy way of saying she was learning to sing opera, in Italian and everything. At the first (and only time I attended) lesson, Mrs. Baker asked us to sing the scales together, which we did. Then, she looked at me puzzled and asked me to sing the scale on my own. My heart pounding, I knew I couldn't back out unless I flat out refused. But she didn't live near us, so I couldn't bolt out the door and run home. So I was stuck there in this humiliating experience. I've always known I can't sing. I like to sing, but it's sometimes a joyful noise, and I do it because I want to, not because I'm any good. But, anyway, I sang the scale, kind of laughed my way through it, because that's what I did. I used humor to cover emotions that scared me.

The teacher looked at me, sighed (many adults sighing in my presence), and asked, "Have you considered an instrument?"

I can tell this story now for laughs because it IS funny. At the time, though, it was another way I didn't fit in. My parents were doing what they thought was best. They didn't know to find other things that I might enjoy. In the 1970s, there weren't a plethora of afterschool activities for children. It wasn't until college that I tried all kinds of endeavors. Then my father proudly told everyone that I was blooming. And in a way, I was coming out of my shell. I simply started finding things I was good at and enjoyed. My confidence grew as I learned who I was and could be.

We did finally make our mother's dreams come true. My sisters and I, with our brother, sang at my father's Army retirement party. We sang Home on the Range and Elvira (Oak Ridge Boys). More than anything, it was entertaining and memorable. There were two encore performances of Elvira. The first was on our parent's 50^th wedding anniversary. And the last one was when my siblings and I, our parent's financial advisor, and two Ft Jackson, SC Cemetery workers interred our mother's ashes. We sang Elvira at the columbarium site. The advisor joined us on the chorus, "giddy up, oom poppa, omm poppa, mow mow, heigh-ho silver away." After we said goodbye to mom, one cemetery staff took off his cap, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "That's the best memorial service I've ever attended."

I began believing I am fearfully and wonderfully made on my path to healing from rejection. I no longer see the world from the outside looking in. Instead, I revel in ways I am different and appreciate the talents I see in others. Once I started accepting my differences, rather than trying to conform, I did indeed bloom. And my Father is proud. 

Random Rememberings

It was probably fourth or fifth grade when the wonder of being adopted started wearing off. Sure, my parents told me they chose me. But, grade-school-me realized they were choosing a baby, and at the time, it happened to be me. It could have been someone else, but I was available when they wanted a baby. Now, I'm not saying it was random because I know it wasn't. God placed me in my parents' lives and them in my life, and it truly was a match made in heaven. That became truth to me years later.

But when I was old enough to understand that I was available to be chosen only because someone else didn't want me, it hit pretty hard. My elementary self was incapable of entertaining the thought that my birth mother thought she was doing what was best for me, and maybe for her too. All I could repeatedly hear in my mind was, "Why didn't she want me? Why? Why?"

So, being the child I was with a pretty active imagination, I created a scenario that explained why she could not keep me. My birth mother was a homeless person. She lived on the streets and fought for every scrap of food she could find. This explanation was the only reason that made sense to me.

I became obsessed with these thoughts, and one day, my mom asked me what was wrong while we were both in the car. Unable to keep my feelings inside about this facet of my adoption, I spilled out the words. "She had to be a street person, homeless. Is that why she gave me up?" I was crying, and my mother, not one generally blessed with patience, was abnormally patient with me. She held me, let me cry, probably cried with me, and tried to explain that she was sure my mother had wanted to keep me but just couldn't. She didn't know her circumstances, but she didn't think she was homeless. This may have been the first time mom told me that if I ever wanted to find her, she and dad would help.

My mother was kind that day, and I don't mean for it to sound like she wasn't always kind. On the contrary, she and dad were very kind and generous. However, she wasn't always patient.  This time, though, she was kind and patient, but even so, a root took hold of my heart and mind. The root of rejection. It would be years before I realized this for what it was, and more years finding the tools to uproot this negative influence in the core of my being.

I'm not unique in feeling rejected from being adopted. And of course, any unhealthy relationship can breed rejection, but I’d say many adoptees feel deep rejection at some point. And often following rejection is performance-based behavior. Yearning for acceptance, I learned to play the "please like me" game. I would act the way I thought people wanted me to, so they would like me. I learned to perform. Now, I didn't have to perform for my parents to love me. I know that now. But I didn't believe it when I was 10, 15, 20, or 25. I started believing in my 30's. Unfortunately, while generous and loving, my parents didn't make it easy to believe either, as they had strict behavior requirements. If we didn't behave correctly, there were consequences. When we were good, there wasn't a lot of praise or encouragement, so there was a lot of striving to be better and better.

For several years I tried to be good. Really good. Really, I tried. But by seventh grade, I was worn out and started imploding. I could be pretty good at school, but my emotions were running wild by the time I got home, and I often exploded in anger at my family. Mom and Dad were always in awe of how my teachers spoke about me so lovingly. I'm sure they wondered about my two personalities. I wasn't that same person when I was home. But I realize now that I must have felt safe at home to allow all those emotions to run free. I must have known somewhere deep inside me that no matter how angry and mean I was, they wouldn't give me back. I wasn't going to get kicked out. They were showing me a version of God's love that I wouldn't understand for years to come.