By AMY SHANKLAND
Perfectly Imperfect
I was so touched at the response from last week’s column as I introduced my adoption and reunion story. Troy Dunn himself left a comment on the Reporter’s website! Thank you all for your support. Note – some names will be changed as I go along.
As a child growing up in the early 70s, I never picked up on any clues that I was adopted. I wasn’t the most observant little girl. Maybe I should have noticed that my mother, father, sister, and brother all had dark brown hair, tan complexions, and brown eyes that contrasted with my light brown hair, pale skin, and blue eyes.
I never thought it was weird that my brother, Mark, and my sister, Vicky, were so much older than me. I was a happy kid whose siblings just happened to be married and out of the house by the time I was five. I was probably one of the few girls back then who became an aunt by the time she was six years old.
Mom stayed at home with me in our wonderful old gray Colonial house while dad worked as a salesman. I had all the important things in life, including a maternal grandmother who spoiled me rotten when I went to visit her and my grandfather every Tuesday. I had a sandbox, dolls, model horses, a handful of friends who lived nearby, and my stately brick elementary school across the street.
Dad was a good provider, and I would happily press his name, address, and phone number on his catalogs with a rubber stamp to help him each week. The three of us went to a Catholic church in nearby South Bend, Ind., on Sundays. I enjoyed playing piano, reading Nancy Drew books, and dreaming of owning horses some day with my best friend, also named Amy.
My peaceful little world was turned upside down when I was in fourth grade. I’ll never forget Jim Hostetler coming up to me in the hallway one Friday morning and asking, “Are you adopted?” The only other thing he had ever talked to me about before that moment was his obsession with Star Wars.
My nine-year-old mind and face both shriveled up in confusion.
“What? No. Where’d you hear that?” I asked, thinking he was probably off in some other reality once again.
“From some kids. I think Miss Johnson told them.”
Miss Johnson was one of the most popular teachers in our school. She was young, tall, and thin, with sparkling blue eyes and perfectly feathered brunette hair. I remember she always had a toothy, pretty smile. I didn’t understand at that moment why she would be telling some crazy lie about me.
Rumors can spread just as quickly throughout the halls of a small elementary school as they can in the cubicles of an office building. By the time lunch was over, I was alternating between tears and intense denial. And by the end of the school day, unbeknown to me, another teacher that I liked by the name of Mrs. Price had placed a phone call to my mother.
As I was preparing to head home that Friday, Miss Johnson walked up to me in the hallway. I could tell she was troubled. She gave me a gentle hug.
“Amy, I’m sorry about what happened today. I was just explaining to some of the children that there is something special about you. You should be proud of who you are.” Miss Johnson’s face was conflicted as she looked down at me. I really couldn’t do much at that point other than nod, trying to hold back tears once again.
I had no idea what the weekend would bring.