As I watched the cab vanish, I went to my Grandmother Stetten's house (Ken's Mom). I remember little about the next few hours. There were two calls from the hospital. The first related to us that the situation was serious and I should get to the hospital as soon as possible. After that call, we phoned Ken to have him pick me up. The second was just as Ken arrived. My Mom had died.
Few things in life are more tragic than losing the person who you believe loves you most. Although my relationship with my mother was not an intimate one, it was still the best I had. There were nights I had prayed to a God I didn't believe in that she would die. I thought my life would be so much better without her telling me what to do. But the moment my wish had been granted, I realized an emptiness I'd never known before. The memorial service was surreal. I sang "I Get by With a Little Help from my Friends" by the Beatles. Ironically, I'm not sure I had any real friends at the time.
Custody went to Ken, who had since remarried a young woman named Mary and had a young son named Jason. To say the least, I was an enormous inconvenience. My bedroom was in an addition attached to the living room. I lived halfway between Purcellville and Lovettsville, VA in a place aptly called Wheatland. During the blur of time that I lived there, I finished the 8th grade at Blue Ridge Middle School. That winter was the largest snowstorm I had ever seen. It was on February 19th & 20th and dropped nearly two feet of snow where I lived. I saved the front page of The Washington Post from that storm for many years. That is the only clear memory I have from that school year. We were out for a week.
That spring our "family" traveled to Santa Fe, New Mexico where my Grandmother Stetten had moved. We traveled by car, and fittingly, I was stuck in the back of a Volvo station wagon for the entire cross-country trip. I remember very clearly feeling as though I was not a part of this family, and there was no changing that. So it was really no big surprise to me that when the family announced they were going to be moving to New Mexico before the end of the school year, I wasn't going to be going with them. I would stay behind so I could "finish out the school year." Yeah.
When they left, I moved in with a family who lived on a farm fairly near my school. Suddenly my routine involved getting up at about 5:30 in the morning to feed chickens and horses. There was something that seemed wholesome about this family, which is probably why I fit in like a square peg in a round hole. I did think the daughter who was about my age was very attractive. Which is probably why I didn't end up living there very long. The two clearest memories I have during my time living there was listening to the Beatles over and over again, and having my first experience with Tarot cards and a Ouija board. I remember being told my life card was "Death." Not the most encouraging sign, to be sure.
At some point during this period of time, Ken Stetten called the Pierce Warwick Adoption Agency. This was the agency that processed my adoption. He apparently asked if there was any way to give me back, or to somehow alleviate his responsibility to me. The woman who took the call was named Ginger Swisher. About seven years before this she had received another all about me from my biological mother. She had asked that a note be put in my file indicating she would like me to be able to find her. She also asked that a name be put on my record -- James Michael. This was my father's name, and the name of the man she intended to marry. Although closed adoptions like mine are supposed to be kept strictly confidential, Ginger gave Ken contact information for my biological mother. I, of course, knew nothing about any of this at the time.
Meanwhile, that fall I started high school at Loudon Valley High. I stayed there for a couple months, and then was moved -- but not to New Mexico. I ended up moving to Leesburg with a single mother and her two kids. She had a boy and a girl. I don't remember anything about the boy, but I remember the girl was nearly as old as I was and still regularly wet the bed. The woman who lived there had different men come home with her. I remember living with headphones on, filling my head with Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall album. I transferred to Loudon County High School, the archrival of the school I had just attended. But I hardly cared, since I never stayed in the same place long enough to develop any loyalties -- to schools or people. It was my fifth school in two years, and the big change was still to come.
If you've ever experienced a day when you just knew something weird was going to happen, you know the feeling I had the first day of spring in 1980. I was 13 years old in the 9th grade, and all day long I felt like I was living in The Twilight Zone. So I really wasn't all that terribly surprised when I walked into the place where I lived and saw my Grandmother Stetten sitting there with a young dark haired woman. My grandmother Stetten had moved back to Virginia at some point, but it was very unusual for her to be in Leesburg. I asked her, "Grandma, how did you get here?" She answered, "This lovely young lady brought me here." We exchanged small talk for a few moments, and then my grandmother got up and left the room. At that point I turned to the lady and asked, "So, who are you lovely young lady?" She responded, "Are you ready for this?" Having no idea what I was agreeing to, I said, "Sure!"
"I'm your mother."
I stared at her, my mind whirling to try to figure out if she was telling the truth. She spoke again, and simply said, "Well?" I responded, "I'm in shock." When she said, "I'm in shock too," it only made sense to say, "Let's be in shock together!"
We stood and looked at one another, and after offering her a handshake, we instead exchanged a somewhat awkward embrace. Was I supposed to be hugging this woman that I had never met before ten minutes ago? Should I love her since she may well be my biological mother? Could I call her "Mom" when the woman I'd known as Mom for my childhood had died? I wish I could say I recall the rest of this encounter with the same clarity I have for that brief part of exchange. But we did talk for a while longer, and eventually they left.
Over the next couple months, plans were made for me to finish school early and move in with Virginia, my bio-mom, my birth mother. I didn't know what that was going to be like, but I figured anything had to be an upgrade from my current living situation. In May, I moved in with her. I discovered she was married to a Greek man named Panayiotis Gouskos. She had previously been married to another man (Michael Bugg), but never married my father. I found out then that my father Jimmy Isenberg died when I was five years old of a drug overdose. He had been addicted to heroin, but actually overdosed on methadone, a drug they gave him to help him break his heroin addiction.
I lived in a side room attached to the living room. We lived in the basement of a house that belonged to Virginia's father. She also had a baby daughter, my half-sister Carrie. When I moved in, I felt more loved and accepted here than I had for a long time. But there were still many tensions, and the longer I was there, the more obvious they were. Still, I was grateful for the provision, and for getting to know the family I would have had all along, had things gone differently. When they left to go to Greece for a month during the summer, I got that familiar feeling when they chose to leave me behind. But it gave me the opportunity to meet my father's family, and to have a far more life-changing experience in (of all places), Huntington, West Virginia.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
All Downhill from Here
When I was six, Mom and I moved from the townhouse in Fairfax to an apartment in Reston, VA. We lived in a corner apartment on the bottom floor. I attended Dogwood Elementary, where I had my first teacher crush on Ms. Henson. I was what is now called a "latchkey kid." Each day when I arrived home from school it was to an empty home. I didn't stay there for long though. Most of my childhood afternoons consisted of me dropping off whatever I had in my hands and going outside to play. Although the details are fuzzy, I remember walking in the woods, making a fort, playing football, and playing on a neighborhood playground. When I went outside to play, it never really mattered what precisely we did, it was still fun.
Then there were the weekends. Saturdays Mom (Berit) was almost always around. She didn't really have a social life or any friends. I don't really ever recall her going anywhere or doing anything. She was from Finland, and her family apparently fought against Hitler's Germany during World War 2. I don't really know how that relates, but looking back I have the sense she was emotionally damaged by those childhood memories. Nevertheless, one pleasant memory from those early Saturdays included her telling me to go out to our tiny garden to get some mint leaves. That was her way of saying she was going to make tea for us, a special treat. We sat together on the concrete porch drinking our tea, and for a moment all was well with the world.
Sundays Dad (Ken) would pick me up for the day. He would usually arrive at about 8:00 am. I remember I always used to ask him how far it was to get to his house -- seems like it was always either ten minutes or ten miles away. He lived on Lake Anne on the other side of Reston for a while, and later bought a house. I don't remember where that house was, but the first time I remember smoking was while I was there. I was seven or eight years old, smoking stolen cigarettes. I used an old turtle shell as an ash tray. Smoking became a regular part of my life. Before I went to the bus stop each morning, I used to go to the storage room in our apartment building and grab my hidden cigarettes to smoke.
When I was ten, Ken was the one who first realized I needed glasses. He asked me what a street sign on the road in front of his house said, and I answered, "what sign?" He was incredulous. I think he thought I was trying to be cheeky. I didn't see any sign, a fact which was decisively demonstrated by an eye exam that showed I was blind as a bat. I'm not sure why this wasn't caught by the routine school exams. Perhaps because I memorized what direction the other students said the "E's" faced and I just did the same thing they did. I think I faked a lot of things by just copying other people.
Apparently I learned to use a knife and fork by mirroring my mother. To this day, I am occasionally asked if I'm lefthanded by those who carefully watch me eat. Everything is apparently backwards, and yet not quite perfectly so. It is as though I was a mirror image of someone eating correctly. Because that's how I picked it up in the first place. One day as the two of us sat at the dinner table, I looked up and asked Berit, "Am I adopted?" She couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd drawn a gun and pointed it at her. After lengthy moments of stunned silence, she said, "Yes, you are adopted. What made you think so?" I explained something about looking at her and looking at Ken and just thinking it didn't make sense I was their child. I was ten.
Also that year, I got my first paper route. I delivered The Washington Times since it was afternoon delivery except on the weekends. I was able to get home from school, drop my things off, and go load up my paper cart to deliver the newspapers to make a little money before I started playing. Every day I would use the stopwatch on my digital watch to time how long it took me to deliver all the papers to all the apartments in my complex. I tried to find ways to maximize efficiency without compromising accuracy. I would run down the sidewalks pushing my paper cart to get finished as quickly as possible so I could start playing. At the end of every month, I would collect the money for the subscriptions, pay the Times for the papers and the leftover money was mine. Suddenly I had some money, and a couple new friends.
One friend was a young lady named Renee' who lived on the other end of the same apartment building. She was someone who always seemed like a safe person to talk with when life was hard. My best friends then were Don and Eddie. We hung out almost every day after school. I began smoking marijuana with them when I was ten (it was a big year). We had a stash in the woods where we kept it and the utensils we used (little pipes, rolling papers, etc). The afternoon time playing in the woods had taken an interesting turn. Another interest I had was fire. We used to start fires in the woods to stay warm, and sometimes just for fun.
Once we went into the local Drug Fair and bought some lantern oil. We filled a cup with the oil and went to a local playground. While we were there, a man ran toward us yelling about having a fire on a playground where there were kids playing. He rushed to the cup with the fire burning on top of the oil and there was a moment in my mind where time stopped and I yelled, "No!" Nevertheless, he stomped on the cup and the fuel all ignited at some time, creating a ball of fire that scorched everything in a 5-10 foot radius. He started screaming, and we ran. As I ran, I noticed that the front of my coat was completely burned off, so I took it off and threw it in the woods. The front of my jeans was stiff, and my hair was singed. I ran all the way home, and when I got there I trimmed my hair and cleaned up. I felt off the hook until the phone ran about a week later. When I answered, it was the man who had stomped on the fire. I have no idea how he found out who I was, but he explained that he blamed me for the third degree burns on his body. I hung up on him in fear, and that was the last I ever heard from him.
In the winter, we used to throw snowballs at cars. We would time the cars coming around the corner and throw our snowballs to try to hit the windshields. We got pretty good at launching them from the woods beside Colts Neck Road. It was great fun . . . until the direct hit on the police car. We knew we were in trouble when the lights went on and he stopped his car immediately in the road. He ran straight up the hill toward the woods, and we scattered. I made it home, but apparently someone else didn't, because some time later he knocked on the door of my apartment and explained to my mother what had taken place. He required me to write a three page paper on why I shouldn't throw rocks or snowballs at cars. At the time, three pages seemed like it may as well have been a hundred. But I guess I did it.
My other brush with the law came when I was teaching a friend how to shoplift from the Drug Fair. I had just slipped a Chunky bar into my pocket when I noticed a manager had spotted us from the little diner upstairs. As he ran down the stairs toward us, my friend and I ran out the door. We cut left and tried to race around the corner where we could hide without being seen. But just when I thought I'd gotten away, my friend called out "Peter," and I knew there wasn't any point in running. He had already told them my name. They dragged us upstairs to the office where they called the police and our mothers. I don't really remember exactly what they said or did, but I remember thinking I got off the hook.
I was a voracious reader. I read nearly anything I could get my hands on. My fascination with dinosaurs soon led me to pursue more knowledge about evolution. I used to think church kids were rather amusing with their childlike belief in a God who shaped and made the world in a week or so. I enjoyed getting into conversations with them about evolution because it was so clear to me they didn't have the foggiest idea what they were talking about. Besides, church kids really didn't seem any better or nicer than anyone else.
But my interest in reading also led me to read works of fiction as well. My early experiences with Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown quickly gave way to a fascination with fantasy. I read a lot of fantasy books, but what most captured me were the books by J.R.R. Tolkein. At first, I loved The Hobbit. But something about The Lord of the Rings trilogy absolutely enthralled me. I couldn't get enough of them.
When I was in elementary school, I was often in trouble. In the classroom, I was ahead of the other kids. In 6th grade math, they stuck me in a corner with an algebra book and told me to teach myself. But socially I was retarded. I did everything I could to get attention and it didn't particularly matter to me what sort of attention I got. At one point, I remember my Mom started taking me to these group therapy sessions where they stuck me and a bunch of other "troubled" kids in a room with foam bats where we were supposed to beat one another's brains in. I'm not sure how that was supposed to help me, but it was kind of fun.
Because I had skipped a grade, I finished elementary school early. My first year of middle school was at Herndon Intermediate. But I only went there a short time because they had just built a new high school. They decided to start middle school kids there so we could all grow into the school together. It was the fall of 1978. I was twelve years old and in the 8th grade at South Lakes High School. The school was a change of scenery and everything looked and smelled new. But Mom was sick.
She had what she thought was the flu. She couldn't keep anything down, though she tried to keep drinking water and eat toast. At first, I kept up my usual routine. She hardly ever got sick and I knew she would recover quickly. But after several days, I stayed home more. I began to get concerned because it didn't seem she was getting much better. She called the doctor who she went to see for her diabetes and he told her to come immediately to the hospital. She called a cab, and the driver came to the front of our apartment building. I followed her out and hugged her. Then I asked her, "Promise me I'll see you again?" She answered, "I promise." It was October 14th, 1978, and the last time I saw her.
Then there were the weekends. Saturdays Mom (Berit) was almost always around. She didn't really have a social life or any friends. I don't really ever recall her going anywhere or doing anything. She was from Finland, and her family apparently fought against Hitler's Germany during World War 2. I don't really know how that relates, but looking back I have the sense she was emotionally damaged by those childhood memories. Nevertheless, one pleasant memory from those early Saturdays included her telling me to go out to our tiny garden to get some mint leaves. That was her way of saying she was going to make tea for us, a special treat. We sat together on the concrete porch drinking our tea, and for a moment all was well with the world.
Sundays Dad (Ken) would pick me up for the day. He would usually arrive at about 8:00 am. I remember I always used to ask him how far it was to get to his house -- seems like it was always either ten minutes or ten miles away. He lived on Lake Anne on the other side of Reston for a while, and later bought a house. I don't remember where that house was, but the first time I remember smoking was while I was there. I was seven or eight years old, smoking stolen cigarettes. I used an old turtle shell as an ash tray. Smoking became a regular part of my life. Before I went to the bus stop each morning, I used to go to the storage room in our apartment building and grab my hidden cigarettes to smoke.
When I was ten, Ken was the one who first realized I needed glasses. He asked me what a street sign on the road in front of his house said, and I answered, "what sign?" He was incredulous. I think he thought I was trying to be cheeky. I didn't see any sign, a fact which was decisively demonstrated by an eye exam that showed I was blind as a bat. I'm not sure why this wasn't caught by the routine school exams. Perhaps because I memorized what direction the other students said the "E's" faced and I just did the same thing they did. I think I faked a lot of things by just copying other people.
Apparently I learned to use a knife and fork by mirroring my mother. To this day, I am occasionally asked if I'm lefthanded by those who carefully watch me eat. Everything is apparently backwards, and yet not quite perfectly so. It is as though I was a mirror image of someone eating correctly. Because that's how I picked it up in the first place. One day as the two of us sat at the dinner table, I looked up and asked Berit, "Am I adopted?" She couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd drawn a gun and pointed it at her. After lengthy moments of stunned silence, she said, "Yes, you are adopted. What made you think so?" I explained something about looking at her and looking at Ken and just thinking it didn't make sense I was their child. I was ten.
Also that year, I got my first paper route. I delivered The Washington Times since it was afternoon delivery except on the weekends. I was able to get home from school, drop my things off, and go load up my paper cart to deliver the newspapers to make a little money before I started playing. Every day I would use the stopwatch on my digital watch to time how long it took me to deliver all the papers to all the apartments in my complex. I tried to find ways to maximize efficiency without compromising accuracy. I would run down the sidewalks pushing my paper cart to get finished as quickly as possible so I could start playing. At the end of every month, I would collect the money for the subscriptions, pay the Times for the papers and the leftover money was mine. Suddenly I had some money, and a couple new friends.
One friend was a young lady named Renee' who lived on the other end of the same apartment building. She was someone who always seemed like a safe person to talk with when life was hard. My best friends then were Don and Eddie. We hung out almost every day after school. I began smoking marijuana with them when I was ten (it was a big year). We had a stash in the woods where we kept it and the utensils we used (little pipes, rolling papers, etc). The afternoon time playing in the woods had taken an interesting turn. Another interest I had was fire. We used to start fires in the woods to stay warm, and sometimes just for fun.
Once we went into the local Drug Fair and bought some lantern oil. We filled a cup with the oil and went to a local playground. While we were there, a man ran toward us yelling about having a fire on a playground where there were kids playing. He rushed to the cup with the fire burning on top of the oil and there was a moment in my mind where time stopped and I yelled, "No!" Nevertheless, he stomped on the cup and the fuel all ignited at some time, creating a ball of fire that scorched everything in a 5-10 foot radius. He started screaming, and we ran. As I ran, I noticed that the front of my coat was completely burned off, so I took it off and threw it in the woods. The front of my jeans was stiff, and my hair was singed. I ran all the way home, and when I got there I trimmed my hair and cleaned up. I felt off the hook until the phone ran about a week later. When I answered, it was the man who had stomped on the fire. I have no idea how he found out who I was, but he explained that he blamed me for the third degree burns on his body. I hung up on him in fear, and that was the last I ever heard from him.
In the winter, we used to throw snowballs at cars. We would time the cars coming around the corner and throw our snowballs to try to hit the windshields. We got pretty good at launching them from the woods beside Colts Neck Road. It was great fun . . . until the direct hit on the police car. We knew we were in trouble when the lights went on and he stopped his car immediately in the road. He ran straight up the hill toward the woods, and we scattered. I made it home, but apparently someone else didn't, because some time later he knocked on the door of my apartment and explained to my mother what had taken place. He required me to write a three page paper on why I shouldn't throw rocks or snowballs at cars. At the time, three pages seemed like it may as well have been a hundred. But I guess I did it.
My other brush with the law came when I was teaching a friend how to shoplift from the Drug Fair. I had just slipped a Chunky bar into my pocket when I noticed a manager had spotted us from the little diner upstairs. As he ran down the stairs toward us, my friend and I ran out the door. We cut left and tried to race around the corner where we could hide without being seen. But just when I thought I'd gotten away, my friend called out "Peter," and I knew there wasn't any point in running. He had already told them my name. They dragged us upstairs to the office where they called the police and our mothers. I don't really remember exactly what they said or did, but I remember thinking I got off the hook.
I was a voracious reader. I read nearly anything I could get my hands on. My fascination with dinosaurs soon led me to pursue more knowledge about evolution. I used to think church kids were rather amusing with their childlike belief in a God who shaped and made the world in a week or so. I enjoyed getting into conversations with them about evolution because it was so clear to me they didn't have the foggiest idea what they were talking about. Besides, church kids really didn't seem any better or nicer than anyone else.
But my interest in reading also led me to read works of fiction as well. My early experiences with Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown quickly gave way to a fascination with fantasy. I read a lot of fantasy books, but what most captured me were the books by J.R.R. Tolkein. At first, I loved The Hobbit. But something about The Lord of the Rings trilogy absolutely enthralled me. I couldn't get enough of them.
When I was in elementary school, I was often in trouble. In the classroom, I was ahead of the other kids. In 6th grade math, they stuck me in a corner with an algebra book and told me to teach myself. But socially I was retarded. I did everything I could to get attention and it didn't particularly matter to me what sort of attention I got. At one point, I remember my Mom started taking me to these group therapy sessions where they stuck me and a bunch of other "troubled" kids in a room with foam bats where we were supposed to beat one another's brains in. I'm not sure how that was supposed to help me, but it was kind of fun.
Because I had skipped a grade, I finished elementary school early. My first year of middle school was at Herndon Intermediate. But I only went there a short time because they had just built a new high school. They decided to start middle school kids there so we could all grow into the school together. It was the fall of 1978. I was twelve years old and in the 8th grade at South Lakes High School. The school was a change of scenery and everything looked and smelled new. But Mom was sick.
She had what she thought was the flu. She couldn't keep anything down, though she tried to keep drinking water and eat toast. At first, I kept up my usual routine. She hardly ever got sick and I knew she would recover quickly. But after several days, I stayed home more. I began to get concerned because it didn't seem she was getting much better. She called the doctor who she went to see for her diabetes and he told her to come immediately to the hospital. She called a cab, and the driver came to the front of our apartment building. I followed her out and hugged her. Then I asked her, "Promise me I'll see you again?" She answered, "I promise." It was October 14th, 1978, and the last time I saw her.
Monday, July 26, 2010
A Head of Cabbage
"Of course you're pregnant. No, it's too late to get an abortion. The baby is the size of a head of cabbage. But if you have this baby, it will ruin your life." That's the advice $5 bought from the gynecologist my biological mother Virginia went to see in the basement of a flower shop. She was sixteen years old and five months pregnant out of wedlock. In 1966, that was a big no-no. Not long after that she went to the "House of Mercy," a home for unwed mothers located near the Washington National Zoo.
Such homes are designed to isolate women, and this one apparently accomplished its purpose. Aside from occasional visits to the nearby zoo, she didn't see many people outside the home. My biological father Jimmy came by once, twice if the return to retrieve his wallet counts. The song "They're Coming to Take you Away" was popular that summer and she couldn't help but relate to the lines, which sound as if they're coming from someone being committed to an asylum.
Despite the less than idyllic circumstances, she entered her 10th month of pregnancy still waiting for me to be born. She wasn't really ready to give me up, either physically or emotionally. Nevertheless, labor was induced at George Washington hospital where I was born on July 16,1966. For the first five days of my life, I stayed with my biological mother as most children do. Two weeks later, she held and fed me again when it was time to sign the adoption papers. I was adopted by a family who said they would be Christian parents. Kenneth and Berit Stetten were many things, but so far as I could tell "Christian" wasn't among them.
That isn't to say I was raised by bad people, I just don't ever recall church being part of my childhood in any sense. Ken Stetten was raised Jewish and apparently became a member of a Unitarian church so he could adopt me. Berit was from Finland and if she had any faith in God, she was very private about it. When they first adopted me, we all apparently lived for a short time in Arlington, VA. But before I had my second birthday, they had divorced and I moved with Berit to Fairfax, VA. My first memories come from a townhouse just off Gallows Road near Fairfax Hospital. The memories are broken and disjointed -- more images than anything else. I remember some things, but not really in any particular order.
I generally tend to blame my lack of cohesion on either trauma or marijuana use, but the truth is I really don't know why I remember so little of my early years. When I consider recollections of my childhood with what my own kids remember, it is truly paltry by comparison. Nevertheless, here are a few things I remember . . .
I had my own bedroom upstairs with windows facing the front of the townhouse. There was a large tree outside my window whose branches brushed the glass when the wind blew hard enough. I went to a daycare when I was little, and to Congressional Summer Camp. I skipped the first grade in private school because of my reading level. My mother drove a volkswagen, and didn't drive much. Her diabetes affected her eyesight. I remember Christmas was a BIG deal. I still recall Finnish Christmas music, pomanders and cookies -- gingerbread men and some meringue based cookie I wish I could find the recipe to. It was there I learned how to ride a bike for the first time.
What left the most lasting scar on me (literally) from those very early years was a rock fight I got into with some kid named Alex. He was about my age, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship. Once we started throwing rocks and each other and we hit one another at about the same time with a rock in the head. I still have a scar on my forehead.
Aside from that, I really don't remember much else. I probably shouldn't write about the time I ate a nickel and then noticed it came out later. People don't care about stuff like that.
We lived in Fairfax until I was six years old. At some point in that year we moved to Reston, VA on the Hunter's Woods side of what was then more of a town. We moved into Colts Neck Apartments, where I would be for the years I can only describe as the years of my corruption.
Such homes are designed to isolate women, and this one apparently accomplished its purpose. Aside from occasional visits to the nearby zoo, she didn't see many people outside the home. My biological father Jimmy came by once, twice if the return to retrieve his wallet counts. The song "They're Coming to Take you Away" was popular that summer and she couldn't help but relate to the lines, which sound as if they're coming from someone being committed to an asylum.
Despite the less than idyllic circumstances, she entered her 10th month of pregnancy still waiting for me to be born. She wasn't really ready to give me up, either physically or emotionally. Nevertheless, labor was induced at George Washington hospital where I was born on July 16,1966. For the first five days of my life, I stayed with my biological mother as most children do. Two weeks later, she held and fed me again when it was time to sign the adoption papers. I was adopted by a family who said they would be Christian parents. Kenneth and Berit Stetten were many things, but so far as I could tell "Christian" wasn't among them.
That isn't to say I was raised by bad people, I just don't ever recall church being part of my childhood in any sense. Ken Stetten was raised Jewish and apparently became a member of a Unitarian church so he could adopt me. Berit was from Finland and if she had any faith in God, she was very private about it. When they first adopted me, we all apparently lived for a short time in Arlington, VA. But before I had my second birthday, they had divorced and I moved with Berit to Fairfax, VA. My first memories come from a townhouse just off Gallows Road near Fairfax Hospital. The memories are broken and disjointed -- more images than anything else. I remember some things, but not really in any particular order.
I generally tend to blame my lack of cohesion on either trauma or marijuana use, but the truth is I really don't know why I remember so little of my early years. When I consider recollections of my childhood with what my own kids remember, it is truly paltry by comparison. Nevertheless, here are a few things I remember . . .
I had my own bedroom upstairs with windows facing the front of the townhouse. There was a large tree outside my window whose branches brushed the glass when the wind blew hard enough. I went to a daycare when I was little, and to Congressional Summer Camp. I skipped the first grade in private school because of my reading level. My mother drove a volkswagen, and didn't drive much. Her diabetes affected her eyesight. I remember Christmas was a BIG deal. I still recall Finnish Christmas music, pomanders and cookies -- gingerbread men and some meringue based cookie I wish I could find the recipe to. It was there I learned how to ride a bike for the first time.
What left the most lasting scar on me (literally) from those very early years was a rock fight I got into with some kid named Alex. He was about my age, and we had an on-again, off-again relationship. Once we started throwing rocks and each other and we hit one another at about the same time with a rock in the head. I still have a scar on my forehead.
Aside from that, I really don't remember much else. I probably shouldn't write about the time I ate a nickel and then noticed it came out later. People don't care about stuff like that.
We lived in Fairfax until I was six years old. At some point in that year we moved to Reston, VA on the Hunter's Woods side of what was then more of a town. We moved into Colts Neck Apartments, where I would be for the years I can only describe as the years of my corruption.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Let's Take it From the Top
For years, people have told me I ought to commit my story to writing. I suppose it makes sense, since it can be rather confusing following my convoluted ramblings of my personal history. The added benefit is that it may cut down on the number of times I have to tell the tale, and add to clarity among those who really are curious for whatever reason how I came to be . . . well . . . me.
By way of disclaimer, I ought to state a few things right at the outset. First, I do not claim to be particularly adept at telling my own tale. Secondly, I'm not entirely sure why anyone other than those closest to me would care. So a public forum really (honestly) isn't some bizarre egocentrism playing out. Rather, it is a place for accountability for me among those who read. Knowing there may be people who await the next episode (so to speak) of my life in written form may help keep me motivated to write. Writer's block, I'm told by my dual English/Theater major daughter, is really either fear or laziness.
I should probably also explain that I have done this before. I began writing the story of my life on my laptop while on a plane years ago. I desperately wish I knew where that file was, but I have been unable to find it. This blog will serve as my personal "back-up," so to speak, of what I write. I'm hoping it will be a bit harder to misplace what is here for the world to see. I know I still have over 90 pages of Myspace blog saved on my hard drive now, even after I deleted the Myspace page. Perhaps someday I shall look at what I wrote there as well.
In the meantime, I am going to compile my best recollection of my story, aided to some degree by a few pages I have of my biological mother's recollections months before my birth. I really have no idea how long this will be by the time I'm done. I'm torn between hoping it will be brief enough someone will actually read it, and hoping I will recall enough specific details to make it interesting color commentary on a life thus far rather oddly lived.
By way of disclaimer, I ought to state a few things right at the outset. First, I do not claim to be particularly adept at telling my own tale. Secondly, I'm not entirely sure why anyone other than those closest to me would care. So a public forum really (honestly) isn't some bizarre egocentrism playing out. Rather, it is a place for accountability for me among those who read. Knowing there may be people who await the next episode (so to speak) of my life in written form may help keep me motivated to write. Writer's block, I'm told by my dual English/Theater major daughter, is really either fear or laziness.
I should probably also explain that I have done this before. I began writing the story of my life on my laptop while on a plane years ago. I desperately wish I knew where that file was, but I have been unable to find it. This blog will serve as my personal "back-up," so to speak, of what I write. I'm hoping it will be a bit harder to misplace what is here for the world to see. I know I still have over 90 pages of Myspace blog saved on my hard drive now, even after I deleted the Myspace page. Perhaps someday I shall look at what I wrote there as well.
In the meantime, I am going to compile my best recollection of my story, aided to some degree by a few pages I have of my biological mother's recollections months before my birth. I really have no idea how long this will be by the time I'm done. I'm torn between hoping it will be brief enough someone will actually read it, and hoping I will recall enough specific details to make it interesting color commentary on a life thus far rather oddly lived.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Experiential Paradox
The only time we can experience God is now. When the Lord shared his name with Moses, he expressed himself as present tense existence -- "I am that I am." We can recall those moments in the past, or anticipate those moments in the future. But we can only experience Him in the present. We are currently time-bound mortal creatures who are limited by years, months, days, and hours. We cannot step laterally in the time continuum to experience what is going on in some other moment.
Because of that, our apprehension of the moment we are in is typically far keener than our ability to discern what has taken place or (more particularly) what will take place. As I consider God's role in my current experience, I cannot help but feel blessed. I recently shared with a brother in Christ that I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. We have all we need, our family is healthy and content. I serve in a church where I can worship as well as lead others. I believe the Lord uses me to make a difference in the lives of others, and I'm seldom called upon to suffer. [As an intriguing sidenote, while I was writing that last sentence a student approached me and asked me about Mormonism. She recently went to church with a Mormon friend of hers and wanted to ask me about some things she had been told. What a timely demonstration of what I was just writing!]
That being said, I still find myself frequently questioning the metanarrative of my life. Why is it that I have so many pieces of my own experience that seem to not fit? Why is it that so many thoughts I was relatively sure of have apparently been mistaken? The filming for this year's season of Survivor began on June 14th. My Dad died on June 16th. When things like that happen, at least the moment I'm in seems vindicated by the unfolding of events. But I feel like there are so many other things that don't make sense.
What makes this particularly vexing is when I have the same subjective sense about events in someone else's life and it is spot on. For example, when our youth minister and his (soon to be) wife were wrestling with whether to live in Roanoke -- a big factor was the unlikelihood of her finding a teaching job when the schools in our area are laying teachers off. I felt led to say I believed that when they chose to come to Roanoke that God would open that door. Not only did events unfold that way, but it required very little effort and was exactly the type of job and school she was seeking. Coincidence? I think not.
Yet when I have a feeling or sense about what is coming for me, my record is quite poor. Every time I think something is going to happen, a change is going to come, or some transition will take place -- it doesn't. Is this because I'm not doing what I need to do? Have I sabotaged it by doing something I ought not to do? Is the real problem that I'm still waiting or being prepared for what is yet to come? Or is the truth that I'm too emotionally connected to my own situation to accurately discern what God is doing in my own life? I don't know, but hope I someday will understand.
Meanwhile, I am experiencing a paradox. I feel so blessed in the moment that I'm in, and sometimes abandoned in the big picture. But then, that's just a feeling.
Because of that, our apprehension of the moment we are in is typically far keener than our ability to discern what has taken place or (more particularly) what will take place. As I consider God's role in my current experience, I cannot help but feel blessed. I recently shared with a brother in Christ that I wouldn't trade my life for anyone else's. We have all we need, our family is healthy and content. I serve in a church where I can worship as well as lead others. I believe the Lord uses me to make a difference in the lives of others, and I'm seldom called upon to suffer. [As an intriguing sidenote, while I was writing that last sentence a student approached me and asked me about Mormonism. She recently went to church with a Mormon friend of hers and wanted to ask me about some things she had been told. What a timely demonstration of what I was just writing!]
That being said, I still find myself frequently questioning the metanarrative of my life. Why is it that I have so many pieces of my own experience that seem to not fit? Why is it that so many thoughts I was relatively sure of have apparently been mistaken? The filming for this year's season of Survivor began on June 14th. My Dad died on June 16th. When things like that happen, at least the moment I'm in seems vindicated by the unfolding of events. But I feel like there are so many other things that don't make sense.
What makes this particularly vexing is when I have the same subjective sense about events in someone else's life and it is spot on. For example, when our youth minister and his (soon to be) wife were wrestling with whether to live in Roanoke -- a big factor was the unlikelihood of her finding a teaching job when the schools in our area are laying teachers off. I felt led to say I believed that when they chose to come to Roanoke that God would open that door. Not only did events unfold that way, but it required very little effort and was exactly the type of job and school she was seeking. Coincidence? I think not.
Yet when I have a feeling or sense about what is coming for me, my record is quite poor. Every time I think something is going to happen, a change is going to come, or some transition will take place -- it doesn't. Is this because I'm not doing what I need to do? Have I sabotaged it by doing something I ought not to do? Is the real problem that I'm still waiting or being prepared for what is yet to come? Or is the truth that I'm too emotionally connected to my own situation to accurately discern what God is doing in my own life? I don't know, but hope I someday will understand.
Meanwhile, I am experiencing a paradox. I feel so blessed in the moment that I'm in, and sometimes abandoned in the big picture. But then, that's just a feeling.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thoughts on "Christian" vs. Secular Media
This is actually a response comment I wrote to a blog by Leslie Nease. Leslie had mentioned in a previous blog that she listens sometimes to secular music. Some of her readers responded expressing their concern for her listening choices. In reply, she wrote a blog entitled "Listening" which you can read here: http://leslienease.blogspot.com/.
Here was my response:
Thank you Leslie for these words. There needs to be more discussion in the Church about matters of opinion, particularly with respect to use of media.
There is a big difference between rationalization for the sake of personal indulgence and God giving a believer a clear conscience. Christians need to wrestle with the application of Romans 14, 1 Cor 10:23-11:1; and Col 2:16-23. The Lord has given us clear instruction about how we are to handle matters of personal freedom.
This is vital for the modern church. The church in America has a well deserved reputation for being judgemental towards some sins while easily overlooking our own. We sneer at rock stars and homosexuals while basking in our pride and gluttony.
I suspect part of the reason Christians struggle with what to do with modern media is that we have our own music industry. The development of a Christian subculture has given us an entire world of products designed for church consumption. So when we listen to the world's music, we take attention and business away from the "Christian" market. The problem is, the word "Christian" wasn't designed to be an adjective, but a noun.
Being in the world but not of it involves engaging the world on its own terms. It means noticing the idols in our midst so we can address our culture in ways that are relevant (Acts 17:23). It is true we need to be wary of things that distract our attention from Christ. A good guide for our attention is to think about things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, etc. (Phil 4:8).
However, a good barometer of our hypocrisy is found in asking ourselves whether we are as discriminating about what movies we watch as we are about our music? Are we as cautious about what websites we visit as we are about what radio stations we listen to? Because if we are not, we reveal about ourselves that our interest in selecting certain "Christian" things to do is a matter of personal preference and not necessarily a measure of spiritual maturity.
Here was my response:
Thank you Leslie for these words. There needs to be more discussion in the Church about matters of opinion, particularly with respect to use of media.
There is a big difference between rationalization for the sake of personal indulgence and God giving a believer a clear conscience. Christians need to wrestle with the application of Romans 14, 1 Cor 10:23-11:1; and Col 2:16-23. The Lord has given us clear instruction about how we are to handle matters of personal freedom.
This is vital for the modern church. The church in America has a well deserved reputation for being judgemental towards some sins while easily overlooking our own. We sneer at rock stars and homosexuals while basking in our pride and gluttony.
I suspect part of the reason Christians struggle with what to do with modern media is that we have our own music industry. The development of a Christian subculture has given us an entire world of products designed for church consumption. So when we listen to the world's music, we take attention and business away from the "Christian" market. The problem is, the word "Christian" wasn't designed to be an adjective, but a noun.
Being in the world but not of it involves engaging the world on its own terms. It means noticing the idols in our midst so we can address our culture in ways that are relevant (Acts 17:23). It is true we need to be wary of things that distract our attention from Christ. A good guide for our attention is to think about things that are true, noble, right, pure, lovely, etc. (Phil 4:8).
However, a good barometer of our hypocrisy is found in asking ourselves whether we are as discriminating about what movies we watch as we are about our music? Are we as cautious about what websites we visit as we are about what radio stations we listen to? Because if we are not, we reveal about ourselves that our interest in selecting certain "Christian" things to do is a matter of personal preference and not necessarily a measure of spiritual maturity.
How Are You Doing?
Have you ever had someone ask you how you are doing and you had no idea how to answer? This has happened to me regularly for some time, and particularly over the past week. In the wake of my father's passing, I've wrestled with knowing where I am in the grieving process. I wonder if I've been thinking too much to be able to feel as much as I ought to be feeling?
When I was in my 20's, I avoided the topic of death habitually. I didn't want to go anywhere near the dying or funerals. The Lord helped me break through this barrier when I got a call shortly after arriving at New Hope telling me the father of one of the kids in the Youth Group had died. I was asked to go to the funeral home. I reluctantly drove to Vinton and entered the funeral home. There at the front of the parlor was the casket and the student standing beside it. Family members asked me to go get the student because they needed to start the service and he was stuck there. I remember thinking, "I'm supposed to go get him?" I walked to the front and stood beside him for a few moments. Then suddenly as if he was snapping out of a dream he looked up and said of his father, "He's not there (in his body) any more." With that, the spell was broken, and we walked together down the aisle.
Now as I'm approaching my mid 40's, I deal with the topic of death far more often. I minister to adults now, not just youth. I've been at the bedside of quite a few people at their passing. I've watched many families deal with the loss of a loved one. As I've observed people going through various stages of grief, it has been remarkable to me just how precisely some of the stages can be identified. But it is a different thing when the one grieving is you. A stack of condolence cards reminds you that you are in the thoughts and prayers of others. But of course the source of real inner peace is the One to whom we pray.
I guess what I'm wrestling with at this point is the question of whether the peace I feel signals the end of the grieving process for now? Or perhaps I'm just moving from one stage of grief to the next? How do I know? Does the fact that I cannot help but analyze the emotional process keep me from fully embracing the experience I am going through? This is what is on my mind these days.
So, how am I doing? Honestly, I don't know. I'm trying to enjoy life, return to a stable routine, be a good father to my kids and husband to my wife. The desires to read and write and listen are becoming more acute. In the past these impulses have been positive indications for my soul. If this is still true, I suppose for now I'm doing just fine.
When I was in my 20's, I avoided the topic of death habitually. I didn't want to go anywhere near the dying or funerals. The Lord helped me break through this barrier when I got a call shortly after arriving at New Hope telling me the father of one of the kids in the Youth Group had died. I was asked to go to the funeral home. I reluctantly drove to Vinton and entered the funeral home. There at the front of the parlor was the casket and the student standing beside it. Family members asked me to go get the student because they needed to start the service and he was stuck there. I remember thinking, "I'm supposed to go get him?" I walked to the front and stood beside him for a few moments. Then suddenly as if he was snapping out of a dream he looked up and said of his father, "He's not there (in his body) any more." With that, the spell was broken, and we walked together down the aisle.
Now as I'm approaching my mid 40's, I deal with the topic of death far more often. I minister to adults now, not just youth. I've been at the bedside of quite a few people at their passing. I've watched many families deal with the loss of a loved one. As I've observed people going through various stages of grief, it has been remarkable to me just how precisely some of the stages can be identified. But it is a different thing when the one grieving is you. A stack of condolence cards reminds you that you are in the thoughts and prayers of others. But of course the source of real inner peace is the One to whom we pray.
I guess what I'm wrestling with at this point is the question of whether the peace I feel signals the end of the grieving process for now? Or perhaps I'm just moving from one stage of grief to the next? How do I know? Does the fact that I cannot help but analyze the emotional process keep me from fully embracing the experience I am going through? This is what is on my mind these days.
So, how am I doing? Honestly, I don't know. I'm trying to enjoy life, return to a stable routine, be a good father to my kids and husband to my wife. The desires to read and write and listen are becoming more acute. In the past these impulses have been positive indications for my soul. If this is still true, I suppose for now I'm doing just fine.
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