A Journey for Identity

Author: Craig A. Steffen

I had none of the answers to the questions that echoed above.

When the responsibilities of death were done, I serendipitously came across a yellowed newspaper clipping. It was an obituary of a man who had died in 1992. Though I have no idea from where this article came, this eulogized man turned out to be my biological maternal grandfather.

The ember of curiosity within me, now grew into an oxygen-sucking flame.
For three years I was consumed by this fire as I began and sustained a tenacious search for information that had laid dormant for half a century in flood-damaged boxes and rusty filing cabinets from Iowa, to Texas, to Missouri and finally to Oregon. From the single lead of my biological grandfather’s obituary, I searched Facebook, Ancestry.com, newspaper archives and scores of other websites offering up one scrap of information or another. Each of these scraps was like a puzzle piece mixed into a pile without borders.

How did they fit together? If they did fit and form an unknown picture, would that picture provide the answers I sought? Would I be able to live with those answers?

I learned that a week before my second birthday, my 21 year old mother had left her husband and three kids (I was the youngest) and had “taken the family car and disappeared.” No one knew where she had gone for several years; but no one had filed a missing person’s report either. Had she been abducted? Did she leave alone or with someone? Who? Where did she go? Why?

My research revealed that nearly three years after the disappearance, my biological mother showed up at the orphanage where my sister, brother and I had been. My sister and I had already been legally adopted and, since those records were sealed, there was no way for our mother to find us. My brother was still at the orphanage and she was able to get him back. Orphanage records revealed that she had remarried, had given birth to another girl, and was living in Oregon.

These clues led me to an Oregon newspaper archive. When I typed in my mother’s new married name, the search engine returned a newspaper article from May of 1966 telling the tragic story of a 25 year old woman who had been living there with a new husband, 30 years her senior.

I traveled to Oregon with my sister and met people who had been at the tavern the night the newspaper described. I learned details that pierced my soul with grief, yet revealed nuggets of truth I’d been so diligently seeking. It was at this moment that I realized that truth, regardless of how ugly or painful, was better than ignorance. Even this kind of truth could illuminate some part of my own identity.

I was beginning to understand my own history and, in a strange way, understood better who I am.

Along the path to searching, I also learned the name of the man listed as “father” on the original birth certificates of my mother’s first three children – though I am still not allowed by the State of Iowa to see or possess that birth certificate. But the more I learned about this man, the less I felt a kinship with him. I had a hunch, based on dozens of details I’d uncovered during my search, that my sister and I did not actually have the same father. I convinced her to provide a DNA sample and we sent it in to a lab for a “sibling comparison” DNA evaluation. And now I know …

Thousands of miles, dollars and hours have revealed the answers to most of the questions that echoed in my soul as I stood in the pall of the funeral home. And now the answers keep coming through new relationships that have emerged because of my search. Seeking those answers has not been the result of something horribly wrong in my adoptive family. That experience was certainly not a fairytale, but I hold deep respect and gratitude for those relationships, flawed as they were. Rather, I believe, that the desire to know one’s origins, ancestry and identity lies deep within our genetics. If we’re truly honest, we’ll admit that similar questions that called to me on that icy February funeral day in 2011, have called to us all. But for those of us who have been adopted, finding the answers to the questions takes so much more effort.

The truth is out there. It’s ok to be both loyal to your adoptive family and curious about your biological family – at the same time. These two desires are NOT mutually exclusive, as you may feel. The truth, even when it’s ugly, will still set you free.

We all have a story. Discover and tell yours.

-----------------
Craig A. Steffen is an author, entrepreneur and educator living in Dayton, Ohio. He shares his journey to find his biological identity in the compelling new book “A Family Apart: Sleuthing the Mysteries of Abandonment, Adoption and DNA.” For more information, search Amazon or www.craigAsteffen.com.


A Journey for Identity Author: Craig A. Steffen I had none of the answers to the questions that echoed above. When the responsibilities of death were done, I serendipitously came across a yellowed newspaper clipping. It was an obituary of a man who had died in 1992. Though I have no idea from where this article came, this eulogized man turned out to be my biological maternal grandfather. The ember of curiosity within me, now grew into an oxygen-sucking flame. For three years I was consumed by this fire as I began and sustained a tenacious search for information that had laid dormant for half a century in flood-damaged boxes and rusty filing cabinets from Iowa, to Texas, to Missouri and finally to Oregon. From the single lead of my biological grandfather’s obituary, I searched Facebook, Ancestry.com, newspaper archives and scores of other websites offering up one scrap of information or another. Each of these scraps was like a puzzle piece mixed into a pile without borders. How did they fit together? If they did fit and form an unknown picture, would that picture provide the answers I sought? Would I be able to live with those answers? I learned that a week before my second birthday, my 21 year old mother had left her husband and three kids (I was the youngest) and had “taken the family car and disappeared.” No one knew where she had gone for several years; but no one had filed a missing person’s report either. Had she been abducted? Did she leave alone or with someone? Who? Where did she go? Why? My research revealed that nearly three years after the disappearance, my biological mother showed up at the orphanage where my sister, brother and I had been. My sister and I had already been legally adopted and, since those records were sealed, there was no way for our mother to find us. My brother was still at the orphanage and she was able to get him back. Orphanage records revealed that she had remarried, had given birth to another girl, and was living in Oregon. These clues led me to an Oregon newspaper archive. When I typed in my mother’s new married name, the search engine returned a newspaper article from May of 1966 telling the tragic story of a 25 year old woman who had been living there with a new husband, 30 years her senior. I traveled to Oregon with my sister and met people who had been at the tavern the night the newspaper described. I learned details that pierced my soul with grief, yet revealed nuggets of truth I’d been so diligently seeking. It was at this moment that I realized that truth, regardless of how ugly or painful, was better than ignorance. Even this kind of truth could illuminate some part of my own identity. I was beginning to understand my own history and, in a strange way, understood better who I am. Along the path to searching, I also learned the name of the man listed as “father” on the original birth certificates of my mother’s first three children – though I am still not allowed by the State of Iowa to see or possess that birth certificate. But the more I learned about this man, the less I felt a kinship with him. I had a hunch, based on dozens of details I’d uncovered during my search, that my sister and I did not actually have the same father. I convinced her to provide a DNA sample and we sent it in to a lab for a “sibling comparison” DNA evaluation. And now I know … Thousands of miles, dollars and hours have revealed the answers to most of the questions that echoed in my soul as I stood in the pall of the funeral home. And now the answers keep coming through new relationships that have emerged because of my search. Seeking those answers has not been the result of something horribly wrong in my adoptive family. That experience was certainly not a fairytale, but I hold deep respect and gratitude for those relationships, flawed as they were. Rather, I believe, that the desire to know one’s origins, ancestry and identity lies deep within our genetics. If we’re truly honest, we’ll admit that similar questions that called to me on that icy February funeral day in 2011, have called to us all. But for those of us who have been adopted, finding the answers to the questions takes so much more effort. The truth is out there. It’s ok to be both loyal to your adoptive family and curious about your biological family – at the same time. These two desires are NOT mutually exclusive, as you may feel. The truth, even when it’s ugly, will still set you free. We all have a story. Discover and tell yours. ----------------- Craig A. Steffen is an author, entrepreneur and educator living in Dayton, Ohio. He shares his journey to find his biological identity in the compelling new book “A Family Apart: Sleuthing the Mysteries of Abandonment, Adoption and DNA.” For more information, search Amazon or www.craigAsteffen.com.
Newsletter - February 2016