Every so often, someone will report to me that they have met my birth mother.  I always find this fascinating, as I myself have never met her and have little more than vague hints to tell me who she is.  The physical descriptions are always the same: long hair, usually red (although I am not naturally a redhead); short and slender; wearing longish mid-calf or ankle length flared skirts.  She is always a woman of energy - once she was walking fast through the Wayne County courthouse building - and she has an interesting vibrancy to her.  She is warm, funny, friendly.  The descriptions are always the same, and I like to think they're all true.  I'm aware that all the reportings of her tell me more about what people think of me than anything else, but I find the stories comforting nevertheless.

I have always known I was adopted.  It was a genuine kindness on the part of my adoptive parents to tell me that from an early age. All it really meant was that I was not biologically related to anyone in my family, and today I think of it as mostly a blessing.  It means I don't have a set model to emulate.  I grow up to be myself and no one else. My life is made by my choices, and while I think thatís true of everyone, I think it's especially true of me.  My role models and favorite cats are all deceased.  Most of my existence has been through uncharted waters - I am the firstborn (first-chosen?) in a family of adopted children, which adds another layer of individuality to what has turned out to be a unique, generally pleasant, mostly danger-free existence.  I seem to have learned from other people's mistakes and I haven't made too many of my own. 

 It also means that I have little concept of what makes a "real" parent.  My birth mother might have been a terrific parent, but in general I think people give up children for adoption for very good reasons.  I think my adoptive parents - my parents for all intents and purposes - treated me no different than if I was biologically theirs.  I certainly acted as if I was.  By my reckoning, the life that certainly is, the life I lead as a Lowe, is far more real than any kind of imaginary life that could have been, had my birth mother not given me up.   The concept of biology as imparting some kind of "realness" to an individual is laughable to me - just look at my brother and I, who look and act so similar it's hard for even us to tell that we aren't biological siblings.  A "real" sibling is as nebulously defined as a "real" parent; they're only real if I want them to be. 

My birth mother, then, is not my "real" or "natural" mother, simply another mother that I may or may not choose to acknowledge.  I know very little about her, and I think she knows nothing about me.  All I know is this: She was 17; she wore glasses to correct a lazy eye (which I inherited); she was a smoker; she had a younger brother who was 15 at the time of my birth; she was German.  My birth name was Stephanie Anne.  For most of my life I built a series of assumptions about her, few of which were based on myself.  I believed she was a high school dropout, like most pregnant women at that time would have been (this did not bother me; I almost dropped out of high school).  I thought she had eventually married and had a few kids and, while she never really forgot about me, I was as minuscule in her eyes as she is in mine.  My mother had told me she was intelligent, perhaps an actress or a lawyer or whatever interest I had whenever the subject came up, and offered to help me find her if I ever thought it necessary.  I wasn't really concerned about this woman who played only a shadow role in my life, especially since I had a mother who was very much in the present.

But I have begun to revisit my assumptions.  The primary clue was my birth name.  Recently, I learned that Stephanie and Anne were, in the late 1970's, two names usually given to the children of highly educated individuals.  Anne is still a name of "class"; Stephanie didn't attain its current cheerleaderish feel until the late 1980's, when overuse doomed it to a pretty demise.   I also started to realize that, even though I was born in a poor neighborhood, my birthplace may have been chosen as a matter of convenience.  The hospital, Pontiac Osteopathic, was only a few miles from the agency that eventually placed me with my parents. While Pontiac is one of the more impoverished areas of Oakland County, it borders some of the wealthiest cities in Michigan: West Bloomfield, Rochester Hills and Auburn Hills. I was discharged from the hospital only five days after I was born, which probably means I was healthy and showed no signs of distress, illness or weakness - a sign that my birth mother received prenatal care of some kind. These small details have challenged me to think quite differently about this woman I've never met.  Perhaps we are more alike than I thought - perhaps she loves rock music and cats, knows how to pick a fine chocolate, avoids alcohol, walks everywhere. 

She may in fact be the same woman in every story I have ever heard about her.  If this is true, then as of two weeks ago she is a technical writer working in Northern California - a place I happen to love and a line of work I once considered.  She gesticulates during conversation.  She dresses in blacks and bold colors.  Apparently she looks so much like me that my friend who reported the sighting did a double take.  He said he came very close to asking her if she had given up a child for adoption. 

I do not know if I will ever actively pursue her.  It's been so many years, and I was virtually unconscious as a human being when we parted.  What would I say to her?  All I would really want to tell her is that I'm not angry at her for giving me up, and that there's nothing to forgive.  I didn't really get why she gave me up until I turned 17 myself and quickly realized that I would have made the same decision, were I in the same circumstance.  But beyond these few ties - the stories and the hints and the personal revelations - we would likely have very little to share with each other.  I have known a few adopted people who met their birth mothers; many regretted it, at least in part because their images of their birth mothers didn't match the experience.  My image is so fragmentary, however, that I don't think I would have that kind of a negative experience.  I think all I would do is share a coffee (at Cafe Felix if at all possible) and say my quick peace, then walk away forever.  I really don't think I'd want or need anything more than that. 

I have no regrets.  I also have no idea what meeting my birth mother would do for me, since I have nothing to ask of her.  I can't imagine she would have anything to ask of me, beyond my acceptance.  I am prepared to give it, sight unseen.  I am prepared to accept that she is herself, as I am myself, and we need not think anything more of each other than that.  We are the cats who walk by ourselves, and all places, whether near or far, are alike.  In that respect, we are just like everyone else, related or not.

Mark Sanford, the governor of South Carolina, has been caught having an affair with a woman in Argentina, an affair that has been going on for 8 ½ years.  He denies gays the right to marry and claims to faithfully follow Christian teaching, yet when it comes to his own life, he’s caught in the morass that so many of the faithful find themselves in.  I do not deny that he is a Christian, and by many standards he may even be an exemplary example of his faith.  I decry his hypocrisy, but not for the traditional reasons.

Has anyone noticed that the vast majority of conservatives in power have messy personal lives?  And has anyone else seen that the loudest voices in opposition to gay marriage and in favor of a return to “traditional” values are the ones most likely to take a personal fall?  I think I may have found a contributing factor.  In an article I was reading about Sanford’s faith, it claimed that “love is not a feeling.  It’s a choice, it’s an action”.  True enough on the surface, but it denies the essential humanity underneath love, in favor of a godlike perfection. 

Love is the perfect commingling of the human and the divine – love is the foundation of every world religion and the only faith followed by atheists. It is love that leads to sacrifice and love that causes pain and love that makes people survive even the worst traumas.  There is no single thread of love – it’s more like something in the air. It’s also the multi-armed Kali, Siva in all his guises, as complicated as rocket science and as essential as life itself. 

To divorce love from faith is to say that human feelings are meaningless.  Humans have few well-developed instincts, and emotions often fill the void out of necessity.  It is incorrect to dismiss love as merely a fleeting impulse, and it is equally wrong to suggest that love cannot grow and change to fit any number of situations.  To think that love is always unidirectional is to cripple much of our own capacity to believe in the goodness of others and ourselves.  If God is a god of love, then s/he is incapable of separating love and faith, and gave love and faith to us commingled on purpose.  Therefore, in order to truly live by God’s example, we must believe in love in all its dimensions – choice and action for sure, but also feeling, intelligence, compassion, spiritual resolve, fire and drive and anger and release.

I have no idea if Sanford loves his wife – he might.  But I think he loves his mistress for sure, and certainly more than his wife.  I see nothing really wrong with this, and in my life the most honorable thing to do would be to divorce his wife and let her find a better love for herself (and collect handsomely through the blessings of the court). The Argentinian woman isn’t going to disappear anytime soon, and trying to revive a marriage that was dissolved in spirit years before is futile.  It would probably be too much to ask for a gently polyamorous solution. 

I think I also see the root of his anti-gay stance.  Since he has been unable to openly follow his heart for almost a decade, how can he possibly allow others to do so?  A woman’s right to choose, a man’s right to live without intimidation, a gay couple’s right to marry – these are all actions of mercy and love that a government is capable of providing.  But when those in power are stunted so severely, they are blind to the love they hold in their hands.  Now that the blinders are off, at least for a moment, perhaps he will find the love to grant equal rights and protect the citizens of South Carolina.  This whole mess could be a blessing. 

Sanford could acknowledge his life not as a series of mistakes, but as a discovery of love within himself.  He could garner faith in his community by being honest and sincere about what really happened.  He could say that his mistress is important and beautiful and supportive and delightful, so much that he had to follow his love.  These would all be constructive measures, and while they are not the typical responses to this situation, they would certainly do more to heal everyone involved.  Instead of hiding behind Scripture, Sanford could come out and reveal himself to be what is now too obvious: a human being who was misled by example.

I do not permit it.  This is a bad cosmic joke, a childhood memory twisted by a tornado into something cold and untenable.  Our generation's answer to both Howard Hughes and Fred Astaire, with a touch of Charlie Chaplin, has gone the way of Nijinsky.  Michael Jackson joins the ranks of the dead. 

I do not permit it.  He was the consummate entertainer: a dancer above all dancers who danced by himself better than anyone else with a partner; a singer of depth, emotion, precision and warmth; a solid lyricist; a human beatbox; a sharp businessman and self promoter; the ultimate in fashion.  He influenced an entire world to accept black people on their own terms, and it is his music that continues to be embraced by millions daily.

I do not permit it.  Michael's work is something of an ambassador of race and taste.  I remember hearing about a Ugandan woman who avoided arrest by reciting the words to "Beat It" with a friend of hers after they were out past curfew (arrest would have meant rape and brutal beatings).  I have seen an Indian version of Thriller, more tribute than serious work, and any number of imitations, simulations and parodies.  All are honest in their admiration.

I do not permit it.  Michael Jackson was the first artist I actively researched; a large part of my interest in music history is due to my rigorous studies into his career as a precocious seven year old. My mum bought me a Michael Jackson Cabbage Patch Kid - it was specially made by a local artist because the original manufacturers refused to make a black doll at the time.  Being white and attending a mostly white school, I was not permitted to show it to anyone.  My first concert was the Bad Tour of 1988 - I sat in the Loge section, row 35.  I even had a Beat It-style zippered jacket and a single sequined glove.  I was more than a fangirl - I was totally empathetic.

I do not permit it.  I do not permit it because Michael represented people like me.  Michael was the youngest in a talented group; I was the youngest in my class.  Michael sang about the downtrodden and the friendless; I had few friends and was somewhat misunderstood by my teachers.  What always struck me was how alone he was, even in an ensemble - the show was always Michael, front and center, with others as scenery.  He outshone everyone.  It showed me that talent, whatever talent you could call your own, was your best chance at anything.  It also showed me that the finest among us were often the loneliest.  For much of my teenage years, it was one of the few comforts I had. 

I do not permit it, but it's out of my hands.  It is not up to us who loved him from afar.  We all knew he was suffering.  Many mocked him for his outward displays of eccentricity, and many more hounded him for scraps - a surgical photo, a sordid tale, an allegation of plagiarism or child abuse.  I have no idea if all or none of it is true.  I always saw a man in pain above anything else.  I wish I could help him, and maybe I did by avoiding the tabloids and disbelieving the wilder stories.  The only way anyone ever could would be to outshine him, to cast a shadow on him so he could heal away from prying eyes.  No one ever could. 

I do not permit it.  The gods get jealous, and once they've had their sport on earth they reclaim their own.  A man disenfranchised by his own abilities - it's the hardest thing to understand, but he was too good for us.  We rewarded him as best we could, but it wasn't enough.  It couldn't be enough.  He spoke for us, but he wasn't us.  He was Michael Jackson.  No child will ever bear that name again - it is too great a burden.  It is time for him to rest on earth and walk on the moon, as he was always meant to do.  I do not permit it, but I forgive it.  I forgive as long as the music remains.

I haven't blogged, or done any other form of serious interesting writing, in over a month.  I started out fairly focused - make list of books and then read them all, do a website, redo my own website one of these days just because I ought to have my website up, work hard at the office because I absolutely love my job and feel terribly lucky to have it.  Well, life, as always, is never what you plan. 

It started with the books.  On my list was Slaughterhouse Five, and I actually had to buy it because there was no library for miles that had a copy. Loving patrons loved it a little too much and kept it for themselves, risking all future loan privileges for the sake of a single book.  I figured, if it was going to get stolen so many times, it had to be good.

I brought it with me on one of my thousands of train trips back and forth, expecting something engaging and brilliant and nutballish and mildly outrageous.  I am a casual fan of Vonnegut, and everything I've read of his so far was at least popcorn entertainment.

If I had popcorn, it would have been the only entertainment I would have had.  I was bored.  Boredom is one of the major capital crimes in my world, one of the few that will be punished to the fullest extent possible (the others are anonymity and dishonesty, but that's another blog).  How do you punish a dead fiction author? 

Donating the book is far too good for him.  Yes, others would benefit, but see, Vonnegut might actually like the idea of me giving away a book of his.  He was a professor, after all.  More complicated is that I actually really, really like some of his work.  I've worn my copy of "Welcome to the Monkey House" into two halves of varying length.  I returned "Breakfast of Champions" after about two years of adoration.  "Mother Night" was my first, and arguably one of my favorites of any author, period.  Destruction of books is tantamount to censorship, and I deeply distrust censors of all kinds.  I'd say I ought to take it to a garage sale and leave it there for someone else to sell.  It needs to stay in the reading life cycle, but it doesn't need to stay in my reader life cycle.  Garage sale prices are, on the whole, cheaper than Salvation Army prices.  It should go for the lowest common denominator, placed silently - anonymously - in a different place for different readers. 

Next on the list: websites.  My beloved actually makes money, in an indirect way, off his website, so his takes priority over mine.  And he really does need a revamp - he's done so much work since the last version.  I've got a few new photos taken with his luxurious longish hair (I can pull it back into a Paul Revere ponytail - ponytails are another blog, too), we're working on the content... and then came the posters. 

I designed my first rock poster for someone other than myself last month - two of them, actually - and realized I have a lot to learn about Photoshop. I think most artists have some trial-and-error factored into their creative processes, and in this way I'm no exception.  What separates real artists from hack jobs like myself is the mastery of tools and techniques, and I wasted close to six hours on a draft that just wasn't working.  I think the Renaissance Center is iconic and a great image to use as a symbol of a technosavvy Detroit, but I learned that I was at the mercy of the photographer's lighting choices.  Even with a wonderfully hi-res digital photo, I still wasn't able to overcome the photographer's original intentions.  In a sense, I'm a little relieved - I tend to think artists have the ultimate control over their work, and I am but a poor facsimile of a bad artist. But I still had to finish the poster, and ultimately chose a pic of a motherboard to work with.  The final results are posted in the "Blog Inspirations" folder.

My partner's website is pending.  So is mine.  I also allowed a brief interruption of all tasks to observe the Stanley Cup Playoffs.  As a casual fan slowly becoming a diehard, my Red Wings can do no wrong.  And I believe that, had Gary Bettman, our not-at-all-beloved commissioner, not treated the NHL like a redheaded stepchild, we probably would have taken home our 12th Cup.  Bettman needs to go.  Now.  He is too willing to kowtow to television interests and alter the game for better TV ratings (see: the 2nd Winter Classic egged on by CBC-TV; the awful scheduling for this year's Finals and the longtime doomed campaign to remove fighting) and leaves us fans with nothing that we have come to love. 

Yo, Gary: you want to know why the Phoenix Coyotes are suffering?  Because THEY'RE IN PHOENIX, a city with absolutely no ice.  This always seemed too obvious to mention, but apparently you just don't get it.  Ice hockey is played on ice.  Ice is formed when water reaches a temperature of 32 degrees Fahrenheit or below.  It has never, ever, been 32 degrees Fahrenheit in Phoenix.  Not even during the Ice Age.  If someone wants to move the team to Hamilton, Ontario, which has both ice and hockey fans in large numbers, it only seems logical to do so.  Even if the team moved back to Winnipeg, it still would be a smarter move than forcing a team to languish in a place where it is clearly not wanted. 

So yes, ladies, gentlemen, gentle readers, whoever you may be, I have been busy.  I do not know when this situation will change.  I just got back from Manistee, and I'll be in Alpena next weekend.  In between, I'll be working at my museum, loving every minute of it.  We're still very busy at the office, and will be for as long as we exist.  Come visit sometime - it might be the only chance you get to see me for a while.  I'll try to blog more, though.  I think it's a good thing to do.