Then, with a thick black marker in hand, she darkened the names from the copies. Then, she photocopied the photocopies. Even if I’d had the foresight to be clever, she outsmarted me.
I asked her if I could also have a copy of the photograph of the eight women from the hallway.
She photocopied the photograph.
Although I don’t have their names, I have their addresses and phone numbers from 1956. I have their college applications. I have their essays as to why they should be chosen for the year-long practice home experience. I have their copies of their final projects. I have their transcripts.
I don’t have any verification that I was there though. Not even a hint of my existence.
But I fear I’m moving further away from my mother. I’m drifting into Iowa’s clean columns and demarcations.
I’ve always envisioned my mother in something like chaos.
Here I am: moving the other way. And I’m excited about it.
Truth is: None of this should even matter to me. I’m a grown man. I’m successful. I’ve got this beautiful little daughter here, but the fact of it is that I’ve had the experience of the first year of her life, and all melodrama aside, it was pretty magical.
Those eight women experienced that first year of my life.
Blanche didn’t.
And my real mother didn’t. My real mother missed out on all that.
I hate her.
I’m thinking I should abandon her.
Like she abandoned me.
I’ve been told that talking to a baby expedites the language-learning process. Honestly, though, I think the woman who told me that just felt sorry for me. It’s not that she had any particular reason to feel sorry for me, and honestly, if I were a woman, she’d have probably seen nothing strange in my behavior, but you see a man by himself talking to a little baby, and all of a sudden, it’s like some water faucet, cute-fest, pity party ensues.
But yeah, I talk to Blanche all the time. For one, it helps to talk out difficult situations. Two, she’s a pretty good listener, although she obviously doesn’t respond in any coherent language. And three, it’s a bonding process. Whether or not she retains any active memory of this time or what I said to her, she’ll at least know that I cared enough to keep her informed.
I’d like to think the women from the college did the same for me.
I’d like to think they spoke to me softly, told me what to expect in the future, warned me. That should be part of the protocol.
That’s not what happened though. Instead, they probably cooed over me, constantly touching me, spoiling me, treating me like royalty. They made me fussy.
Even Blanche told me I was impossible when she’d first got me from the State: I’d wail the moment she stopped holding me, only eat freshly pureed fruits and vegetables (none of that canned shit for me!), sleep only when I was put into a rocking cradle. Little Blanche isn’t so different. Even though I was a pain for Big Blanche, I’d like to think that I was worth it. It’s worth it for my own daughter.
Whereas I’m unsure how my second eight mothers treated me (numerically speaking, I had an original mother — the one who abandoned me. Then, I had another eight for a year. Finally, my tenth mother — ten being a perfect number and all — was the one who kept me.), I know how Blanche cared for me. I know she kept active communication and never denied me any truth about my past or present.
I couldn’t have been any older than four when she taught me I was adopted.
And yes, there was a lesson in it. One that I have kept with me.
Blanche teaches by example: she took me to toy store and told me I could pick one teddy bear. I have a very clear memory of this. There were rows and rows of teddy bears. It may have been a store specializing in teddy bears and stuffed animals. I remember this because I asked if I could pick a stuffed goat instead, but Blanche made her rules clear: I had to pick a teddy bear (and no other animal) and give her a full explanation why before she would purchase it for me.
Blanche tells me I touched almost every bear in that shop. I picked up many of them for a test squeeze. I put my cheek and chin against their fake fur. Blanche tells me that even the shop owner was impressed by my thoughtful methods and obvious deliberations.
Finally, I picked a bear that I found at the very back of the shelf, shoved behind other bears. Its mouth was a little uneven. I’m told that I wanted this bear because it wasn’t perfect, like all the other bears, that it was different.
That must not have made it easy for Blanche — given that she probably didn’t want to explain to me how she chose me because I was damaged goods — but she managed to draw a parallel between my picking of bear to her picking of me. It was a clever scheme, and although I don’t remember all the details, I still have the bear.
It’s a keepsake. I don’t let anyone else see it. It’s hidden somewhere. That way, it’s both safe from harm and dust.
Also: I was supposed to have been the baby everyone else wanted. I chose a bear no one else cared for. That’s what made it special to me.
Following this logic through to the end, that must mean that Blanche only cared for me because everyone else wanted me.
To make her lesson truly relevant, I ought to have chosen the most popular style of bear, the bestseller.
But I suppose her lesson was about choosing wisely, not necessarily desire.
Yesterday, as Blanche and I drove into Iowa, I promised her it would be a short trip, that we were only here for some quick detective work. Yesterday, upon entering Iowa, I felt nothing akin to home. Now, a slight 24-hours later, there’s comfort in all this corn. People here amble. There’s nothing quick about this state.
I look back at Blanche. She’s sleeping, of course. I negotiate with her: a new toy and a different type of cuisine or restaurant of her choice to sample for every day we stay in Iowa. The new toy will be purchased here. The food, obviously, once we get home. Blanche is an adventurous eater, and she’s not particularly keen on the selection she’s seen here so far.
When Blanche finally wakes up, I take her into a diner for lunch. It’s an unimpressive menu.
There, I spread out a map, and even though I know this will lead me nowhere, and especially nowhere closer to my real mother, I plot out the eight addresses the administrative assistant gave me. Then, I call into my office, telling them I’ve been detained here in Iowa: a family emergency, which of course, they understand. I tell them I’ll be back next week.
I tell Blanche: This is a start to a whole new adventure.
But she just looks blankly at the map. It looks more like a grid than a map, except for the eight black stars that disrupt Iowa’s clean lines and controlled order.
america (from Elizabeth Hildreth)
I.
Sometimes, he pins a sign to his back: For Sale. $30 obo.
Not surprisingly, people come up to him and offer him money.
They ask what he’s willing to do if they buy him.
They ask if he went to college, as if that would make any difference.
But he still answers: Yes. Notre Dame. Class of 2006.
Then, they offer him more money.
He clarifies that the price is per hour, and they don’t get any discount if they buy in bulk.
Surprisingly, it’s mostly men who want to buy him. He’s really not a bad looking guy. He thought the sign would be a sure-fire way to get laid.
People buy him to do their taxes, clean gutters, baby-sit.
II.
She only moves an inch, and they stuff some dollars down her shirt.