“What are you doing, then? Sometimes I have no clue who you are. I just don’t understand you.”
The next morning, while my father was in synagogue, I walked with my mother through Golden Gate Park. We strolled past the Arboretum and the de Young Museum, then circled back through the Haight.
“I’d like to have been here in the sixties,” my mother said.
“It’s still the sixties here.”
“No it’s not. It’s a bunch of teenagers pretending it’s the sixties, a lot of whom know nothing about politics. They don’t even remember who Ho Chi Minh was.”
“How could they? They weren’t even born.”
In the summer of 1963, my mother went south with my father and registered voters. Two summers later she went south again, holding Jonathan and me, a baby in each arm, and knocked on doors in Montgomery, Alabama. With all her heart she believed in equality. She’d wanted to name her children after the murdered civil rights workers Andrew Goodman, James Chaney, and Michael Schwerner, but my father insisted on biblical names.
“Why not name them after someone we care about?” she said.
“I care about the Bible,” my father answered. “These are the people I’ve dreamed about all my life.”
“What about the people I dream about?”
But in the end, she relented. She knew when to pick her fights with my father.
I put my arm around her. Her hair was still long, although it now had streaks of gray. Her shoulders had grown sharp and pointy. She’d always been thin, and she’d become even thinner over the years. I could probably pick her up. This thought made me feel protective of her. I looked down at her slender wrists, the silver bracelets jangling against her arms.
We stopped in front of a café on Haight Street. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” she asked. It was the sabbath; you weren’t supposed to spend money. But when my mother wasn’t with my father, she didn’t observe the sabbath, and she knew I didn’t observe it either. Her offer was like a bond between us, something forbidden and exciting. When my father was my age he’d already fought in a war. He’d captured a battalion of Germans. He’d lived his own life, and now I lived mine. So why did I feel that I was betraying him?
“You get coffee,” I told my mother, “and I’ll just sit with you and talk.”
After she finished her coffee, we climbed the hills of Cole Valley, up to Ashbury Heights and over to the Castro near Jonathan and Sandy’s house. We walked to Twenty-fourth Street and turned east. Boys were playing basketball in the playgrounds. Off Valencia Street the taquerías were full. The sidewalks were crowded, car exhaust was in the air, and my mother and I were simply walking, with no particular direction, it seemed, until I realized we were in the middle of the Mission, a few blocks from where Susan lived. Maybe I was tempting fate. What if we bumped into her?
Perhaps my mother felt this herself. “You know,” she said, “you haven’t talked much about your birth mother.”
“I guess she just hasn’t come up.”
“Do you still see her?” I detected a note in her voice—distress, derision, I couldn’t tell what. She asked the question as though Susan were an affliction I couldn’t get rid of. Do you still have athlete’s foot?
“Yes.”
“What are you hoping to find out?”
“I’m not hoping to find out anything. That’s not what this relationship is about.”
“What’s it about, then? Dad and I talk about this sometimes. We assumed that by now the novelty would have worn off.”
“The novelty? You act like this is a hobby, Mom—like I’ve picked up stamp collecting or something. You know, Susan’s had a hard life. She had another son, and he died in a car crash.”
“He did? When?”
“Last year. That’s what led her to find me. He wasn’t even twenty-one yet.”
“That’s awful.” My mother took my hand in an almost reflexive gesture. She said nothing more, but I sensed that she was shaken. Was she simply a bleeding heart, susceptible to anyone who suffered? Or was it something that, as a nonparent, I couldn’t understand: that anyone who’s had a child, especially parents like my own, who went through so much in order to bring up children, will always relate to the loss of a child as something deeply personal?
The next day was my father’s lecture. We all sat in the audience: Jenny, Tara, and I, Sandy and Jonathan, my mother in the middle, the matriarch.
My father was lecturing on the collapse of the Soviet Union. I realized halfway through that I didn’t know what he was saying. I’d been concentrating on the sound of his voice, watching his hands rest gently on the lectern.
“Russia,” he said. I thought of White Russia, where his parents were born, and of a map he’d once drawn for me that chronicled his ancestors’ travels. He had notes on the lectern, but he barely referred to them, delivering his speech without hesitation, talking in full paragraphs. I’d taken a Soviet history course at Yale, a huge survey lecture in which the professor referred on numerous occasions to “Suskind”; the name came out of his mouth with such ease and familiarity he might have been referring to a national hero. Every time he mentioned my father’s name, a smile came across my face.
That evening, I drove my parents to the airport. I could see my mother’s shadow in the rearview mirror slide across the vinyl. She hummed a tune I didn’t recognize. I listened to it and tried to hum along.
I pictured my parents landing at Kennedy. I imagined flying ahead of them and greeting them there, the way they’d sent me letters when I left for summer camp, letters that arrived before I did. There was something about airports that made me sad. On my own trips to places far away—even in cities where there was no one I knew—I imagined someone would be there to greet me.
My father rested his hand on my back. “Ben,” he said. He wanted to tell me something, I was sure, but couldn’t find the words to say it.
When I got home from work the following day, Sandy called and asked me to join him on his window-washing route. He had a late-afternoon job and wanted to talk to me.
It was the last week of school, and my students had been busy with their oral reports. They’d become interested in my experiment; at last they seemed engaged. This pleased me, but my part of the work—reading their papers, preparing final grades—had tired me out. When I got home that day, I wanted to relax and spend time with Jenny and Tara. In two weeks, Tara was going to sleep-away camp for the first time, and although I told Jenny I was looking forward to our privacy, I was already beginning to miss Tara.
“Is everything all right?” I asked Sandy over the phone. Was someone sick? Sandy had looked fine at my father’s lecture. So had Jonathan. He seemed a little thin, but he always had; now I was scared. It wasn’t like Sandy to ask to talk to me.
When I arrived, though, Sandy looked relaxed. He handed me two squeegees, a bucket, and a pair of black rubber boots. He’d parked his small truck across the street. It was bright yellow, with the name WIPER-UP printed in black.
We walked down Church Street, our tools bumping against our jeans. People waved at Sandy, and he waved back. He was a familiar figure around the city, with his blond ponytail and his wide frame, his tools jangling from his belt. Motorists would see him hanging from a window, and they would honk at him and wave.
“I’m not hanging from any windows,” I said.
“All right. I may make you climb up a ladder, but nothing above the second floor.”
We washed the windows of a bakery on Church and of a sushi restaurant down the block from it. You’d think washing windows would be easy, but the body takes a while to adjust. Sandy moved the squeegee like a painter’s brush, his gestures graceful and fluid. I needed to learn how much water to use and how to move my hands with the right rhythm.
Next we washed the windows of an apartment building on Valencia; I worked on the ground floor while Sandy climbed several stories and reappeared, dangling from the window by a thick metal belt. He waved at me, then pretended to los
e his balance, his arms and legs splayed, like someone being pushed into a swimming pool. “Catch me if I fall!” he shouted.
When we were done washing, we sat on the hood of his truck, drying off in the sun. Sandy laid his tool belt across the hood and stretched out on his back. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “You never told me what it was like to meet your birth mother.”
“It’s been complicated,” I said. “Has Jonathan talked to you about it?”
“Not really. He barely even talks about his own adoption.”
“We used to speak about it all the time when we were kids. But then he stopped. It seemed like a conscious decision.”
“I remember when he told me that he was adopted. He was so casual about it.”
“He changed a lot in college. Around the time he came out, he withdrew from the family.”
Sandy fingered the edges of his tool belt. “You know, I’d never have guessed that you and Jonathan were adopted. For all your differences, you’re a lot like your parents.”
“I guess . . .”
“It’s funny, but I used to think I was adopted. My parents even joked about it. They said they must have switched babies in the hospital. But I was different from everyone in my hometown.”
“Always?”
“For as long as I can remember. When I came out in high school, my parents accepted it pretty well. Nothing surprised them any longer. They wouldn’t have been shocked if I’d told them I was from Neptune.”
“Still, it must have been hard. They’re your parents, after all.”
“Sure. There are things I wish we could talk about. We hardly ever speak on the phone. It’s not the way it is with you two and your parents. But there’s a strong bond between us.”
A pigeon alighted on the car in front of us and picked at a morsel of bread. The Muni trolley passed across the street, the orange-and-white cars clanking along the track, heading toward Noe Valley.
“I look at you,” Sandy said, “and I see Jonathan.” He rested his hands on his lap. They were big, the skin pale even in warm weather; beneath the skin you could see his veins. “Your brother may have changed in college, but he still cares about the family.”
“I know he does.”
“Look how hard he works. He’s so obviously your parents’ son. Your father’s books are on his desk. Even his decision to go into geriatrics had a lot to do with your father.”
“Is that why you wanted to talk to me?”
Sandy nodded. “Jonathan told me about your argument in the hotel room.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Maybe not, but he feels bad about it. He should tell you himself, but he won’t. Sometimes he can fly off the handle.”
“We all can.”
“I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this.”
“I thought you were going to say that something was wrong with you guys.”
“Wrong?”
“Like that one of you was sick. Maybe problems in your relationship.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted you to know you’re important to him.”
For our final class meeting, the day before school let out for the year, no assignment was due. It was my turn, I said, to give an oral report. I’d done my best to transform the class—to personalize it, and democratize it also—and it seemed only fair that I do the same work my students had done.
“You never did the same work before,” one student said. “I’d have liked to make you memorize the Gettysburg Address and the names of all the secretaries of state.”
“I’d have liked to make you take one of our tests,” another student said.
This semester had been about change, I told them, and this was another change I’d instituted.
I spoke about the history of adoption. Originally, I explained, closed adoption was the rule. Hospital records were sealed, and the privacy of the birth mother was guaranteed. But in some states the laws were changing. Open adoption was becoming more common. Many children knew their birth parents and were establishing relationships with them.
I placed adoption in context: Roe v. Wade and the abortion struggle; delayed childbirth, surrogate motherhood, and the impoverished state of foster care; the children’s rights and fatherhood movements, including court cases in which children sued their parents for divorce and fathers returned to claim their biological offspring.
My students weren’t interested in this discussion. They preferred to hear me talk about myself, even if I didn’t mention my sex life.
I gave them a brief personal history, outlining the Jewish laws my family observed. I sketched a replica on the blackboard of the map my father had drawn me of his ancestral homeland in White Russia. I’d known that I was adopted, but I’d believed I’d come from White Russia too. I’d seen myself as a long-lost cousin.
But then, I told my students, I found out I wasn’t born Jewish.
“Were you baptized?” one student asked.
“No. My parents converted me and raised me as a Jew.”
“But did your birth mother baptize you before she gave you up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“If you were baptized,” the student said, “then you’re Christian.”
“Christianity is about belief,” I said. “Judaism is essentialist.”
“What does that mean?” a student asked.
“It means it’s about essences. Either you’re Jewish or you’re not. It doesn’t have anything to do with belief.”
“It’s a culture,” another student said.
“Right. But it’s also a religion.”
“It’s a race,” said another.
“Not exactly.”
“For Hitler’s purposes,” the last student said, “you were Jewish if any of your grandparents were. They killed you no matter what you believed.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“I’m half Jewish,” said a girl whose mother was Irish and whose father was a Hungarian Jew. I wondered if she knew the rabbis wouldn’t agree with her. According to them, you were Jewish or you weren’t. If fate had reversed itself—if her father had been Irish and her mother a Hungarian Jew—then she would have been welcomed in any synagogue in the world. How could that possibly have made sense to her? It didn’t make sense even to me.
Paul, the adopted student, raised his hand. “I don’t think your birth mother had the right to find you.”
“Why not?”
“She violated your privacy.”
I disagreed, I told him. It had been up to me whether to meet my birth mother. Besides, I was happy she found me.
“She had no way of knowing that. She gave you up. She has to live with the consequences.”
“She’s lived with the consequences and so have I.”
“I think there should be a law,” Paul said, “to prevent birth parents from tracking their kids down.”
The next day, when school let out for the year, I drove across the Bay Bridge to Susan’s apartment. She’d invited me for tea, to celebrate the end of the school year. I’d never been in her apartment before, and I felt like someone whose blindfold has been removed.
I was surprised by how well furnished the place was. Susan had come to San Francisco without plans to stay, yet her apartment looked like a real home. In the living room, where we sat, were a paisley sofa, a wicker rocking chair, a coffee table, a leather lounge chair, and a TV set. A rug was spread across the floor. On the wall above the fireplace hung a ceramic mask.
Susan went into the kitchen and brought back cups, saucers, and a pot of tea. The cups were white, with tea stains on the inside that looked like part of the pattern. Had these cups come with her from Indiana?
“How long are you planning to stay here?” I asked.
“I don’t have any plans,” she said coolly.
“You must. You said you’ve rented this apartment month to month, but look at all the furniture you have here. Did it come with the apartment? Is it yo
urs? This doesn’t feel like the home of someone only visiting.”
“I may not be only visiting. I just don’t know. Once I met you, I bought furniture and other things. I had my husband send some dishes from home.”
“Who is your husband, anyway? You’ve hardly said anything about him.”
“I told you who he is. He works in a bank. He was Scottie’s father. We’re having some trouble right now. That’s all I feel like saying.”
“Do you want to work things out?”
“If we can. But it’s not always that easy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ben—”
“I’m curious.”
“All right. His name is Frank. But I don’t see why it matters.”
“It matters because he’s your husband. And because you’re my birth mother, and I’m curious about you.”
“But you have to respect my privacy.”
“What about my privacy? I spoke about you in class yesterday and one student said you didn’t have the right to track me down.”
“Did you agree?”
“No. But he has a point. At the very least, it’s hypocritical for you to lecture me about privacy.” I fingered the chipped edge of my teacup. “What about my birth father? You’ve told me next to nothing about him. And here I am in your apartment for the first time, and it looks like you’ve been living here for ages. You come bursting into my life, demanding that you meet people, but when it comes to you, you say nothing.”
“Look,” she said, “what happened with your birth father took place a long time ago. When I got pregnant, he disappeared. I don’t have very good memories of him. Why should I help you find him?”
“Find him?”
“Isn’t that why you want to know who he is?”
It wasn’t, I told her. She was more than enough for me to handle. “I just want to know a little bit about him. It’s reasonable for me to be curious, don’t you think?”
“Maybe it is. And I might tell you more about him sometime. But I don’t feel like talking about it right now.” She flipped over a magazine that had been lying facedown on the coffee table. It was a copy of The American Spectator.
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