I'm White and Oprah Was My Mother

It's hard to believe the cute little girl in this picture would grow up to be me.

When I was 12, I watched my mother walk away from me and my 4 brothers. In her wake, she left behind an angry 15 year old boy, a confused little girl, a lost 5 year old boy and a tiny set of twin boys with too much skin pigment.

After being fully inspected via psych tests, physicals and a visit to the dentist we entered "The System."  Where, like cattle unaware of their fate, we were herded to where children like us go.  Unfortunately, we had to go it alone and without each other.

I felt lost for awhile and then..I found...Oprah, my chosen mother. She was consistently there for me, if  I turned on Channel 7 at 9 a.m. that is.  She filled a void in my life my real mother left wide open. For the first time, I saw myself in another and sometimes many.  Those "Aha moments" gave me hope. Secretly, I believed it was only a matter of time before she would personally invite me on her show. I would imagine myself sitting in a chair facing an audience mostly wearing red and they would know and I would act like I didn't know, that in "green room", awaited my 4 brothers for our much anticipated reunion.  This thought alone got me through those terrifying, lonely years as I floundered in a grownup world.

My relationship with Oprah changed the day she told me she was African American or in reality, I noticed. I didn't know she was different from me, just like I didn't know my twin brothers were not the same as me. She explained her hips were nice and thick, her nose was of certain shape and she wore wigs at times. In addition, she suffered not only because of the similar childhood we shared, but because of a skin color I did not have. I knew, but I didn't know and now I realized I didn't belong in her world. An icy realization of truth swept over me, my brothers were like her and I didn't belong in their world either. My secret hope of her finding me, embracing me and reuniting me with brothers was not to be my destiny.  I would have to wait another 27 long years before my dreams would come true...without the help of Oprah.

A Little History

O.K., I know everyone has a story.  By no means are my brothers or myself trying to dwell on the obvious, but in order for my readers to understand our story, I will need to delve into how we got here.

Well, the truth is...I really don't know.  I was only 9 when the twins were born, but based on all the mumblings from the adults around us, I have pieced a few things together.  Joyce, our supposed mother, had 5 children and was diagnosed with some sort of mental illness that precluded her from having to take any responsibility for the abuse and abandonment of her offspring. (DISCLAIMER: Now and throughout this blog, I do not by any means discount my mother's or any other person's mental illness. I will come across as bitter, blase, and sarcastic when appropriate as a way to dispel a bit of this anger I have collected over my 43 years and hopefully my critics won't be too harsh).

What I do remember was my mom bringing home two gorgeous babies.  I think they weighed around 3 lbs something each! Being the only girl, I remember having 2 baby dolls all to my self. 

                                    My precious baby brothers

My time with my brothers,  flew by and yet dragged on some days. Since there were 5 of us children living with an unstable couple, it was tough to be good to each other considering our parents weren't good to us.  If Joyce wasn't tormenting one of us children, she was cutting herself and if that wasn't enough, her husband of the time self-medicated. He apparently was having a hard time digesting Joyce's version of why the twins had too much skin pigment.  Her explanation included a story about her dark skinned great- grandma or something along those lines.  Now this was the 70's and if her husband wasn't buying it, his family definitely wasn't. One of the serious conversations ended in a pool of blood with Joyce's front teeth being punched through her lip!

As one would imagine, things continued to heat up in our family's household. At some point Joyce's husband left taking what he claimed to be his biological son, Tony, with him.  My older brother Brian went to live with a family member and the twins and I tried settling in with our mother in a 2 bedroom apartment in the burbs.  This lasted 6 months before child protective services took us into custody.  No need to go into all of that, let's just say it wasn't a big deal for me as long as my brothers and I were together.  For the most part we were.  Tony's dad allowed me to visit and the twins were with me at my maternal aunt's house. Cool right?...Nope.

Joyce eventually moved in with her new boyfriend in Kentucky and refused to do what the courts asked her to do to get us back and we were destined to be separated.  The saddest part was how I was going to explain to my brothers that I watched her walk out of the court room without looking back.

The inevitable conversation about the twin's skin pigment came up and according to my maternal aunt, the social worker said the twins would be better with their kind. What?!  Now please know their kind lived on the south side of Chicago...Engleside to be specific.  Did I mention we lived in the safety of the suburbs?  I was then shipped off to live with my biological dad I hadn't seen since I was 4 in Washington State. I was 12, the twins were 3, Brian was 15 and Tony was 5.  Our lives changed forever! 


Not a great pic, but the only one we have of all of us together.

The twins are 3 in this pic and this was the last time I saw them as children.

Here we are meeting for the first time a few months ago.  They are now 34.

Lastly, I'm going to share an excerpt from a college paper I wrote a year ago. I remember writing this piece thinking I would never see my brothers again.

"As I revisit my earliest years I am immediately taken back to what it was like to live with my mother. As a bee flits from flower to flower, my mother made her way through much of the suburbs, eventually resting in another state all-together. In the meantime, my four brothers and I held onto her coattails as tightly as possible until we lost our grip and watched her move on to the next place without us. A house with its confining white picket fence, nagging patch of grass that always wants for something, surrounded by twisting sidewalks slowing strangling any potential freedom was not conducive to the type of freedom my mother felt she deserved. An apartment with its twelve month lease provided her with the comfort she needed and we learned to adapt.

Until I was twelve years of age, a balcony gave me the view of my home, which I call “the ‘burbs.” As some see their childhood homes as a place to call home, I call the following collaboration of burbs my home, Arlington Heights, Rolling Meadows, Elk Grove, and my favorite -- Mt. Prospect. Altogether, they give me that tinge of familiarity. Why Mt. Prospect? More specifically, why Boxwood Drive? I had the best of all worlds for a child of 9. My playground was Randhurst Mall, the largest indoor playground any kid could ask for. It was the greatest place to be except for the looks of disdain thrown my way by patrons who seemed to know a secret I didn't. Each time I visited, I tried to keep my eyes averted and my concentration on my precious cargo in the heavy, oversized stroller as I pushed past stores I had no right to visit, such as Montgomery Ward and Carson Pirie Scott. In stark contrast to my long, straight, blonde hair and blue eyes, my little twin brothers had thick heads of kinky, curly black hair. Their big brown eyes looked up with anticipation as I zig-zagged around innocent shoppers unfortunate enough to be in our path. The wild ride would end abruptly in front of the florescent lights peering out from Kreskes (a little store within the mall owned by K-mart). Here, every dime or quarter we produced was accepted and treated with the same importance as the tens and twenties exchanged at the more prestigious stores."