Waiting for a name – or not!

Did you read my last blog? It was called Waiting for a name – A little bit of background information about my life as an adoptee. The pitfalls of having a little information, and hoping that the next piece of information I would get would put a little more of the jigsaw puzzle together.

I’ve recently asked Social Services for a fuller copy of my adoption file. Well – I’ve had a zoom with a great social worker called John, who said that my file was now ready to hand over to me. He asked all sorts of questions. What did I know about my history, how far had I gone with my search for answers? How supported was I in my life, what family did I have etc etc etc. He was surprised how much I knew. That I had done my DNA test, found 2nd cousins in America, established I was 50% Welsh, and 50% European, that included a smattering of Ashkenazi Jewish. Heinz 57 really. I told him honesty I was hoping there would be a name in the file. He said there was!

What I was waiting for was a bit more of a clue about what happened in 1959 with Elizabeth my birth mother and this mystery man she had met while working in Germany.

Well the file tells it all. There was an offer of marriage when he found out she was pregnant. She came home to Wales to have me, she didn’t want to keep me. Wasn’t financially stable, elderly parents to consider. She was planning on going back to Germany after my birth. He didn’t know I had been born. Sorry – it didn’t add up. but that’s her story.

I had done a lot of research around the 2nd cousins. Researched algorithms that would help establish where the birth father fitted within the family I could see I had connections in. I was hopefully my file would help me…..

There was a name. John told me not to be too hopeful. But I was – wouldn’t you have been?

The name in the file of the putative father was John Cross. Nothing like the family I thought I belonged in. I couldn’t see where it fitted in.

I think she made it up! The first name she could think of and her emotion at the time of finding her life would never been the same again!

John Cross!

Waiting for a name

Since I started this journey way back in 1979 I have been waiting for a name. Not just any old name, but the name of my birth father.

Actually let’s start again. 

When you’re adopted you have a few names that are circulating around that you would like to know. The name of your birth mother, the name of your birthfather, and the name you were given when you were born.

I found out two of these three from my adopted mam. Oh I hate calling her that! She was the mam who brought me up, changed my nappies, and fed me when I was a baby. Looked after me through the many bouts of illness I had growing up. The tonsillitis that kept me off schools for weeks on end, and the childhood illnesses that lots of us had in the 1960 -scarlet fever, chicken pox to name but a few.  SHE was my mam.

And of course when I talk about my mam to my friends they know who I’m referring to. But to those who are with me on my name finding journey, I have to clarify who I’m talking about.

When I was a baby she and my daddy told me how special I was, that I had been chosen from a room full of other babies, and taken home with them. They were told as parent to go home with their new baby, and make a life together. Which they did.

What she didn’t tell me was that in fact in February 1961 when she and my dad went to court to officially adopt me, the clerk of the court handed her the wrong birth certificate!! She was given my original birth certificate, with the name given to me at birth, and the name and address of my birth mother. She kept this information in her heart until I was 19, and told me the information!

I was called Jocelyn Harris at birth, and my mother was called Elizabeth Harris. Wow!

With the blessing of my mam – I tried to make contact myself. I wrote to Elizabeth – a very ambiguous letter along the lines of ‘you may know me I was born in 1960, and wondering if you would be interested in making contact’. I got a firm letter back saying – thank you but no thank you! It broke my heart. It wasn’t to be, and as I learned later on, I realised why.

Life moved on. I married, divorced, married again and had 2 children. This cycle of life together with the loss of both my parents spurred me along to make contact again. But first I wanted to find my birth records, for a bit more history.

I used the information my mam had given me when I was 19 to obtain my birth records, in the hope I could establish some sort of relationship with my birth mother. I had to go through social services to get this information, and I did this with the help of my social worker Mimi. She was amazing. She wrote to social Services in South Wales, who send me a one page, 5 line letter back! Who my birth mother was (of course I knew this anyway) her date of birth. Also the scant information of where she was when I was conceived, and the type of ambiguous information about the man who impregnated her! Didn’t give any other clues.  

Mimi suggested we try and make contact and she set about searching for her. Luckily Elizabeth lived in the same home she had lived in with her family since birth, so was easy to make contact. I got a call one day to say she had contacted Elizabeth – who would talk to me. I went into her office in a big soulless social services building, and she put a call though.

I don’t remember what I said, probably how good it was to be able to speak to her, and where I was in my life. She lived alone with her cat, both parents and her only sister had died. We established that I could call her again.  Which I did, a few times. Funny though there wasn’t such a magical connection that I though and hoped there would be. It was difficult and strained. I had no idea of her personal circumstances, so didn’t know how supported she was with me calling here.

I had a group of other adoptees who met regularly. The group had been set up by Mimi and a colleague as part of the counselling given to adoptees to be able to gain their birth records. It worked so well. And oddly enough on the day I walked into the first meeting, who should be sitting there but a friend of mine – Vikki. We looked at one another and both said ‘I didn’t know you were adopted’ we burst out laughing and hugged. It made being in the group so much easier. Although the group jelled as a whole, 3 of us have stayed in contact. Vikki and I and another friend Bev. All with different stories, all a great support.

I digress. But gives the picture of how I felt supported on my journey. Unlike Elizabeth. She told me she was disabled and lived alone. Only her mother knew about me, and I’ve realised that her sister was still alive when I contacted her in 1979, perhaps that’s why she wasn’t able to form a relationship with me when I first contacted her.

I made an arrangement to visit Elizabeth in her home. I travelled to south Wales with my husband and two young boys. The youngest still a bottle fed babe in arms.

The instructions were to call at an address across from her house. The lady who was her carer would make an arrangement and let me in.  

I finally go to meet with my birth mother Elizabeth. For me a momentous occasion. She told me a little about her life, where she worked when she met my father. But then the curtains came down. She refused to say anymore. She had a cat who entertained us for a while, my hubby arrived back with my two sons, her grandchildren. We stayed for a short period, but left soon after.  I met her once more, and we kept in touch via scant telephone calls. It’s difficult to make a connection with someone you have nothing in common with, who doesn’t leave the house, and has no visitors. I was also a busy mum, I worked full time too. Am I making an excuse for not making more effort? I don’t think so, we contacted one another as much as we wanted to, or were able to.

I sent her a birthday card in February 1997, only for it to be returned to say she had passed away.

I did a DNA test to try and get more info about my birth father. I have no hope he is still alive, he would be in his 90’s now. But this is the name I’m searching for now. I’ve found 2^nd cousins in the USA, but they have no idea where I fit in their family. It’s a complex history I think. As she was in Germany during the Cold war, he could be German, American – who knows.

I went back to social services and asked if there was more information in my birth file not just this 5 line synopsis of the start of my life. It’s been 5 long months of wait. Finally I’m going to have the file handed to me.

I’ve been told there is a name in the file, but not to place too much hope on it. I’ve come this far I’m not backing out now!

The elusive family

Isn’t it funny that something you have been searching for a long time, was right within arm’s reach all along?

It’s a problem probably only a few of us can appreciate. When your adopted, that feeling of not belonging in a family. Looking for something else, that elusive feeling of being part of the same tribe, familiar looks and the same DNA. I’d dreamt all my life of belonging.

What a load of old tosh!

My maternal grandmother kept saying that if I didn’t behave she would send me back to where I came from. That didn’t help the feeling of not belonging. My dad was the youngest of his siblings, he married late and they didn’t adopt me for another 10 years. My mum was in the middle of her siblings, two older and two younger. So I’m now at a disadvantage before I start, the youngest runt of the cousins. All older than me, being closer together than I was.

I moved away when I was 19, most of them were married and established with their own families by then. I lost contact. It didn’t worry me.

I didn’t ‘belong’ anyway.

I did find the youngest cousin on my adopted mother’s side on a genealogy site – he was 14 years older than me and luckily was the family historian. He had made up a great tree of 4 generations back, I learned so much from it.

My adopted father’s side was different. I had lost touch altogether. I searched social media in the hope they were interested in the town they had lived in till they moved away. And then one day – there she was. My dad’s niece, commenting on a link to the village she had grown up in. The cousin who I had been a bridesmaid for, whose mum had taught me to make French omelettes when I was younger in her kitchen. I tentatively sent her a message, and opened the flood gates of communication. She had been hoping to find me, I had been hoping to find her.  She too is the family historian, thankfully. She has so much useful family information, photographs and anecdotes, conversations and personal memories. She remembers my dad fondly her uncle Trevor.

We met. Her husband and my husband sitting on the periphery of the room like two china cats- while we caught up on 50 years of lost time. It has been an incredible experience, and one I am so very grateful for.

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I was looking to belong
to mix with those who looked like me
to mix with those with shared the same DNA.

We’d laugh at the same jokes
we’d share the same parentage
well one at least!
We’d belong in the same tribe.

I found some who came so close
I reached out, and almost got to touch
but just as it was offered
it was snatched away.

Fear I’d got too close?
Fear I’d find out?
Fear of a family secret?
Fear of a past history?

Rejected again I kept searching.
Then the unexpected happened.

I found someone!
Someone unexpected, from my past
someone who knew my life –
intimately.
Knew my family secrets, didn’t judge.
Was happy to have me back!

All those years of fruitless searching
for the family who wasn’t to be
to finally find someone
who had been with me from the very beginning!

Remembering Family.

I’m seriously into genealogy. I was adopted, but I know who my birth mother is, I met her a few times before she died at the end of the 1990’s. My father is a mystery – so far.

Last year I took my DNA with Ancestry, and when the results came back, a whole new world literally opened up before my eyes! I had connections – all be it distant – in America, Germany, Israel, Australia  and New Zealand. My continued search is another story that I’m sure you will hear about.

Why I’m writing this today, because in the United Kingdom Sunday 27th January 2019 is Holocaust Memorial Day. For many of us, this is something that we have read about, learned in school, and have seen at least one of the films that has been made about the events that happened in WW2.

I opened up an email a few weeks ago from My Heritage. a genealogy site that allows you like many others to build up your family history.  Quite an innocuous email, names I didn’t recognise. I clicked on one of the names to see if the snippet of information could lead me to some other information I already held.  It said the girl had died in a concentration camp. When I looked at her parents, it said the same. This information was like a  jab in my heart. These unknown people who were in my history somewhere had died in the most terrible way I could imagine!

Of course I never knew them, and I have no idea how they are related to me. It was only up until a year ago that I imagined I could be feeling this wave of sadness today.

Our history is so much more than a birth, marriage and a death certificate isn’t it?

My history and I

Our holiday this year has been arranged around two old postcards that were written by my grandmother Elizabeth Williams in 1954 to my mother. She was born in 1887, in a small village in the middle of Carmarthen called Trefeurig. It was a rural area, not many houses, lots of miners lived and worked in the area. Her father Richard Williams who was born in 1860 was one of those miners, he died at a relatively young age of 30 in 1890. At the time her mother had a young baby of 9 months (called Richard), two young sons of 4years old (Luther)  and a 2 year old (Thomas) and her daughter Elizabeth  – my grandmother.

Richard’s parents were Thomas and Margaret Williams. Thomas was born in about 1813. He married Margaret Williams, who was about 3 years younger than he was, and in total had 5 children. 4 sons, and 1 daughter. This is where our history becomes very confusing. The children were called Elizabeth (19), John (16) Thomas (8) Methusalem (8) and finally Richard the youngest at 1 year old – my great grandfather- Elizabeth’s father. Names were handed down in families hence the same names appearing in two generations of family.

Generally around that time children came along on a very regular basis due to the lack of birth control, normally one a year. So it is probably likely there were some still births in this and many other families, who have not be registered on the census records of 1861 that these details have come from.

The post cards I have kept for many years were written to my mum and dad in 1954. They are of two places that my grandmother had visited on her trip to west wales. It doesn’t say where she was staying, but as this place is so very near to the place her family originated from, it was highly likely that she was staying with some family.

She tells her daughter and her son-in law (my mam and dad) about the places she has visited.

‘having a lovely time out each afternoon, pity dad bach isn’t with me. I have all the places on a paper. went to Aberystwyth yesterday 10in the morning. Called at ^^^^^^ bungalow 9 of them there, very nice. a scorching afternoon after the rain, and returned Newquay we intend going to Tenby tomorrow. St Dogmails is a lovely place you get town and country here. Sat will soon be  here now hope you are both feeling good.Let us know what time to expect you home on sat. hope you have good digs I will not write again now. Kindest regards from Elfyn and Mena. fondest love mam xx and in the margin .our church marked with a spot (dogmael) ‘

I have had these postcards in my possession since my grandmother died in 1978 when she was about 92. I’ve never taken that much notice of what they were, they were just two sepia  postcards, that she had written. 4 years ago I started researching my family tree, and they became a big part of the jigsaw. She said that she was with Elfyn (her son) and his wife Mena. I had found that they lived near to his place. And in fact Elfyn had died the year I was born in 1960, in this area. On the card she makes reference to dad bach, her husband, or in those days the husband was known as dad. He had died just before this card was written.

So why am I telling you all this? Well – we decided that our holiday would be a great opportunity to visit this village where the post cards were from. We researched a local hotel, booked the break, and this story is built around the postcards.

The Cliff Hotel overlooks Poppit Sands in Cardigan. The Teify Estuary leads out to the Irish sea, Poppit Sands is on one side, and the Cliff Hotel is on the other side There is a coast guard station there, a café that does the most amazing Bara Bryth. a selection of Holiday homes, and a YHA (Youth Hostel Association) place to stay. We drove round the estuary, and parked the car in the little car park. We had a coffee in the café, and then walked onto the beach. The wide expanse of golden sand, peppered with little flecks of black and tiny pebbles and discarded cockle shells. Although it was a damp day, it certainly didn’t deter the dog walkers, dogs don’t mind the rain or the wet as they jumped in and out of the waves.

My heart soared, as I thought that this was a beach that my grandmother  (or nain as she was known to her grand children) had walked on. Of course I’d been to many places with her as I grew up with her  and she lived with us until she passed away when I was 18. I could imagine her with her son, and daughter in law travelling around in a little car, looking at the same view I was looking at. Maybe sitting in the same sea side café, and if I know my nain, eating the same cake I was eating, she had  a sweet tooth! Probably where I get it from. Of course I’d been to many places with her, she had lived with our family from when I was 8 so I grew up with her until she passed away when I was 18.

I’d like to think that she went there to gain some comfort from family, having recently been widowed. And although back in the mining communities of the early part of the last century, you appreciate that death was a part of their lives – mining accidents, and child mortality being a more regular occurrence than today – I don’t think they were so hardened to it that they were void of sadness and distress.

We then went to St Dogmaels. A quaint village perched on the mountain side. Winding streets with little houses brightly coloured cling to the mountain, and tumbled down the hill. The 60 year old picture on the post card looked nothing like the village of today, and it was difficult to find out anything that appeared on the card, so we went to the ruins of the Abbey with a little heritage centre that has a lovely café inside.

I kept this post card in my hand trying to find any reference to anything we had seen. Then when I looked for the umpteenth time, it was like a light bulb moment. There on the post card in the middle were the ruins. I had never seen them like this before – I thought they were houses. It all fell into place, and although the village on the card didn’t look like the village in 2016, the trees were more overgrown, and there of course were newer properties in the sight line I could see the village of 1955.

What an amazing day, I look some pictures of the houses in the village, as a reminder of our trip. We walked through the car park to the banks of the estuary, we saw a heron trying to catch some lunch for himself, a young man getting ready for the St Dogmaels market which is held on a Tuesday, where sellers and buyers travel from near and far.

I will go back, and visit this magical and historical place again.