The past whispers constantly

This is a story of the power of listening to someone's story and caring about her journey. Still today, it makes me cry thinking about this adventure we had.

The past whispers constantly
Published in Longleaf Style, Summer 2009

The past can be haunting. For some people, lingering questions of “who am I” often distract at inconvenient times. Maybe it’s a family reunion where one blond is surrounded by a sea of dark hair. Sometimes it’s in the doctor’s office where the family history is left blank on the forms.

At other times, it is meeting a stranger and wondering, “Could she be my mother?”

Not all adopted children wonder about their birth families, but, for some, the past whispers constantly. Anniston resident Catherine “Cathi” Handy heard those whispers and grew weary of trying to drown them out. “I tried for years to find out who my birth mother was, but I didn’t know what to do,” she said. It was never a secret to Cathi that she was adopted.

The one thing that was a secret was her birth mother’s name. Any reference to her identity was blacked out on adoption papers. Cathi had treasured a few facts, she knew she was born prematurely in New Haven, Connecticut, on December 14, 1949, and she was adopted on September 17, 1950.

She knew a few nuggets about her birth mother; a single mom, abandoned by her sailor boyfriend, who was in her sixth month of pregnancy when she contacted Catholic Social Services about adoption.

“She felt unable to provide a home for her child without the support of a father or her family . . . adoption is in the best interest of the child,” the adoption papers read. Cathi’s mother also added a few details of her own, like the fact that her birth mother died. Cathi always felt this wasn’t true. A strange intuition?

Perhaps. After graduating from high school in East Haven, Connecticut, Cathi married and had two children, Jo-Ann and Steven. After her husband’s sudden death of a heart attack at 31, she was a single mom working labor jobs to pay the bills. Eventually, she re-married and moved to Alabama and came to work at The Anniston Star in the building department. In the midst of her adult life, she attempted to find information about her birth mother and even left a letter with Catholic Social Services.

She heard nothing.

Life went on.

The Search 
There are times when a conversation is idle and has little life-changing value. But, often, if you listen closely you will find something priceless.

One morning in October 2007, Cathi and I, a friend and co-worker, had our usual chat about the day’s work and somehow her love of opera came up. She said something like, “I wonder if my birth mother liked opera.” I was curious about her comment. I had to know more.

As I listened to her share the disappointments about not knowing her medical history and exactly where she fits in a the family tree, I wrote down all the details she had gathered through the years. She was ready to know more. Besides, her adoptive parents were both deceased and she felt a quest for the truth would not be painful to them.

“I had a good life, I have no regrets.” she told me. I wanted to help Cathi. As a former church social worker, I had contacts. My first call was to Catholic Social Services in New Haven, Connecticut. The organization emailed an “Adoption Reunion Registration” form, which Cathi and I completed on October 31, 2007. If her birth mother had completed the same form, then she would be reunited.

We hoped against hope. I also made a call to the probate office and inquired about adoption laws in Connecticut. Then, we waited. After several months, we knew the next step had to be taken. So, on May 9, 2008 we completed a “Search” form with Catholic Social Services and sent it along with a $200 search fee.

Then, we waited some more.

Occasionally, I called the caseworker and told her all about Cathi’s excitement and prayers while inquiring about the search. Since the adoption was in 1950, our contact had her work cut out for her. In July, the caseworker called to tell me that she was being reassigned, but she wanted resolution on the case before she left.

Cathi and I got to the point of not even bringing up the search when we passed each other in the hall at work. We just nodded. Our patience couldn’t handle the pressure of conversation.

Then, On September 9, 2008 I received a call from the new caseworker. The news was not good. She faxed a death certificate. I called Cathi and told her that I had news.

As we sat in my work area, I started to cry as I told her that her birth mother died of breast cancer in 2004. Along with our year-long search, Cathi’s journey ended. But, much to my surprise, Cathi said, “But, you know her name!”

She then whispered “Mary” a few times. Also, she wondered out loud if she had any siblings. Cathi and I had been on this quest too long to stop. We were committed to the search. I called the local newspaper in New Haven to get a copy of Mary’s obituary and was referred to the library. After another form, another fee, and another search, a copy of the obituary was mailed. Cathi now had the name of Mary’s husband and children. A quick Internet search yielded an address.

Cathi wrote a letter. More waiting.

Almost a year to the date from the beginning of our search, Cathi received a phone call from Ellena, her half-sister. I received a call from Ellena as well. It seemed she had been searching for Cathi for many years, as had her mother.

Mary and Ellena didn’t have much information to help in their searches. Mary, Ellena said, had been told that her baby died. She always felt it wasn’t true. Strange intuition indeed.

Mary’s Story 
Mary was, in fact, an unwed mother in 1949 and was “promised the world” by her boyfriend, until she got pregnant that is. Raised in a strict Roman Catholic Italian family, Mary’s father was abusive and put the 19-year-old out of the house. She lived with family and friends. Since the time her mother died when she was six, Mary had probably never felt more alone. She turned to Catholic Social Services as her last resort.

When Cathi was born in 1949, Mary was still under the influence of her strict father. She was torn between doing what was right in the eyes of her culture, family, and faith regarding keeping her baby. She knew her firstborn was a girl, but she never got to hold her baby. After her discharge from the hospital, Mary went back and told them she changed her mind and wanted to keep her baby. She was informed the baby didn’t survive. She went back again a few days later and was told again the baby didn’t live.

She was taught to not question authority; so she went on with life. Mary married the love of her life and they had three sons and a daughter. Ellena told me that she and her father were the only ones who knew about Cathi, but it wasn’t something she talked about much. When she died of breast cancer, Mary told her daughter to find her sister. It would be naïve to say that this story had the happy ending that Cathi, Ellena and Mary dreamed about. As the two sisters get acquainted, the life of their mother is resurrected through memories. This is not always a comfortable feeling for other family members, such as Mary’s 80-year-old husband. He held the secret close to him during his 54-year marriage and from their church and community. It’s safe to say that even in death, Mary is under the influence of a strict code of silence.

Now, after finding each other, Ellena and Cathi are getting to know each other and plan to meet in New Haven In July. Cathi plans to take Ellena to the opera because she has never been. They will hug, share stories and visit Mary’s grave. More than anything, they will realize that Cathi, Ellena and Mary are not connected because of a haunting past, but through their roots.

Theresa Shadrix is managing editor of Longleaf Style. She counts her experience as helping Cathi locate her birth family as a precious one. 

It's not about you...

I've done everything imaginably wrong as a teacher.

I've called students by the wrong name. In the second semester.
I've lost projects that needed to be graded.
I've given assignments that flat out didn't work.
I've worn my shirt inside out and didn't notice until 6th period.
I've stared at a roomful of teenagers and could see that watching an episode of South of Sunset was more interesting than listening to me.
I've given A's when students didn't deserve it.
I've given F's when students did deserve it.
I've meant to praise more, but allowed paperwork, emails, and phone calls to overwhelm me.
I've allowed negativity to get the best of me some days.
I've written lesson plans and, for educational assistance, Googled objectives, before/during/after, and rubrics and still not understood what I wrote.
The list could go on and on...

In all of my failures, doubting myself, and wondering if I'm doing any good at all, I remember one thing a former journalism professor told me, "It's not about you."

That advice really fits for anything in life. Because, it really isn't about me. It's always about the students. It's why I choose to become a teacher.

When I turned 40, I suppose you could say that becoming a high school teacher was my midlife crisis. Although I was working in my dream job as managing editor of Longleaf Style magazine for The Anniston Star, I left to teach high school. Some celebrated and some pondered my mental status.

Well, I just finished my third year of teaching and I realize there are so many things I would have never learned in a newsroom. (No offense to my former co-workers as you may relate to a lot of these).

• I've learned how to awkwardly Dougie and to Nae Nae,
• I've learned that teenagers have dreams, but are sometimes scared to dream.
• I've learned teenagers may stare blankly at you, but they are listening. Sometimes, they just like to stare.
• I've learned that there are life lessons in everything. Literally. Just ask my students.
• I've learned that jumping jacks are a good thing when they are dragging. (Thank you Ron Clark for that validation.)
• I've learned that it's OK to eat lunch alone, but it's much better when you eat with a friend.
• I've learned to laugh at my mistakes. Because, honestly, most of the time the students are already laughing.
• I've learned to listen. I mean "Deer in the headlight" and "I'm not moving until you are finished talking" kind of listening. Sometimes, teenagers just need to be heard.
• I've learned that teenagers think they are the only ones who make mistakes and they need compassion, not condemnation. 
• I've learned that F10 is your BFF when you allow students to choose the music.
• I've learned that when adults believe teenagers are all thinking about immoral and illicit things, some are really thinking about how they will eat that night or if the power will be on when they get home.
• I've learned that my "last nerve" is really longer than I thought.
• I've learned that choosing to be "too nice" is always better than the alternative.
• I've learned that my heart has multiplied. Because every time a student has graduated, a piece of my heart is released into the world. Every new student has filled that empty spot and the growth continues.

So, as I venture into my fourth year of teaching, the main thing I'm going to keep in mind is that, It's not about me. It's about them. I'm going to repeat it over and over and over....

Selfie with some of my students at the 2015 Alabama SkillsUSA competition in Birmingham, AL. We pretty much rocked. 

2017 Edit: I'm completing my fifth year of teaching and I could also add that saying goodbye to students is one of the most difficult encounters in the journey. However, learning about their adventures and moments of the transition from teen years to young adult is so rewarding.

Thanks for reading. Have a blessed day!

Theresa

The Road Paved with Wisdom

I read a sign recently that stated, "Rules are made to break." I used to believe that and I tested it in my youthful days. But, the older I get, the more I cherish the simplicity of living. I don't look at rules as something to keep me out of life, but to keep me alive.

In reading Proverbs 3 recently, it really hit home that God rewards us for our devotion to Him and following the rules He sets for us. It's not for His good, but for ours. Because He loves us.

In reading the wisdom of Proverbs 3, there are 10 things that really stood out to me. Along with the rules God gives, there are 10 rewards when wisdom is the path taken. It's pretty clear that God wants us to treat others with love and kindness. He wants us to trust Him. He wants us to show wisdom in the choices we make.

I've simplified the chapter, but I think you can see clearly when we follow what God has set before us, we will not have shame or doubt littering the road we travel. Instead, our road will be paved with wisdom.

Read Proverbs 3:1-35 here.

1. Don't forget His Commandments.
Reward: Long Life and Peace

2. Be Merciful and Truthful
Reward: Favor and High Esteem with God and man

3. Trust in the Lord
Reward: He will Direct your Way

4. Fear the Lord and Live a Holy Life
Reward: Health and Strength

5. Give First Fruits and Store
Reward: You will be prepared

6. Take Corrections (ouch, this is a difficult one)
Reward: Reveals Love

7. Seek Wisdom and Wise People
Reward: Tree of Life and Happiness

8. Be Wise and Discrete
Reward: Safety, Rest and Peace

9. Be Kind to Others
Reward: Blessings from God

10. Be Humble
Reward: Inherit Glory and No Shame. 

Noble with words

While cleaning recently, I found a typed note from an anonymous writer who graciously mailed me after I spoke at an event. Well, so I wasn't really cleaning. I was thinking about cleaning and tripped over a box and the note was on the floor. I picked it up. That is considered cleaning.

In any regard, the note corrected my grammar. The message was simple. It included a noun, verb, and an odd statement about a word I used that didn't exist. There was no return address. There were no fingerprints on the paper or envelope.

To be honest, I was actually impressed with her typing skills and devotion to correct grammar use. Although it's been several years, I still think the note is adorable. I would never take the time to type a message, including the address on the envelope, and then purchase a stamp and actually mail it.

I kept the note as a reminder that perfection would never be an option for me. I also wanted to remind myself that making up words while speaking to crowds of people can cause grammatical pandemonium, but it might sell stamps.

To be honest, I understood the writer's need to inform me that my use of a word was incorrect. It probably kept her awake for many nights. Writing me gave her some satisfaction that one less person in the world would misuse a word. When she mailed the note, she could finally get some rest. She was at peace with me, myself, and I.

There was also a time a woman told me all that was wrong with Longleaf Style magazine and how her writing was better than mine. She didn't come right out and tell me that, but she made it pretty clear she was a real editor and the magazine was looking to save money by hiring me as managing editor because I missed a spelling error. It was such an amazingly awkward conversation.

A few weeks after our conversation, she sent me something she wrote and asked if I would consider publishing it. I thought about sending her an anonymous letter. But, I didn't have a stamp.

My two grammatical benefactors are not alone in feeling the urge to share mistakes.

I admit that I irritate my students all the time by correcting their grammar. I plead with them to overcome the sickness associated with using only lowercase letters and no punctuation. But, it's my duty to rid them of the linguistic plague that attacks with a vengeance.

If we do not stand together and become the glue that bonds words, inflections, punctuation, and functions of the alphabet, then we are nothing.

So, today, during Noble Prize Week, I wish to salute my anonymous writer and the real editor, who both helped me to appreciate the power of words.

Because, I've learned that we must all not only use words correctly, but we must be noble with them.

God loves ugly

"You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you." Song of Solomon 4:7 

I love the song God Loves Ugly by Christa Black. It's not a new song. It was released in 2010. This song is a real journey. In her book, God Loves Ugly and Love Makes Beautiful, she reveals her own struggles with childhood sexual abuse, an eating disorder, and depression. I can relate to her struggle to love herself and see herself as beautiful. 

Sometimes, I turn on this song and just listen to it over and over. I soak in all the words and allow them to permeate inside my head and heart. Her song has power because it's her personal realization that what the world sees as ugly, God sees as beautiful. It's a song that I encourage you to turn on, then close your eyes and focus on what she's saying.

Listen here>> God Loves Ugly ~ Christa Black