Before y’all go thanking I am drinking too much Facebook Hater-ade, I will let you know the following.
I really do like Facebook. I know it gets a bad rap and has security issues and people either love it or hate it but I do enjoy it. Mine is largely used for truly social networking. I share no adoption cocka there. It is about my darling sons, my family, my career, my hobbies, passions and other such personal nonsense. I am cautious about whom I friend and can state that of the 202 people I have on my friends list I have know almost everyone personally. I will also offer that I regularly remove people via my quarterly clean-ups. The point of Facebook for me is to socialize, network, or both. If you are not active, don’t post, comment, share, you go. I am not going to give you a silent creeping peeping view into my life. I post oodles of pictures of cupcakes I make, my fabulous sons and random shots of sunsets out my family room window. My security settings are checked regularly (as are my sons as he is allowed an account but I have the password and monitor him) and it is a regular part of my day.
In summary, I dig it.
Imagine my surprise this morning (after putting my newly minted seventh grade son on his middle school bus for the first day of school – adorbs!) as I read my feed and notice a chillingly familiar name on a friends feed.
This man, this person, was the director of Easter House for two years. Yes, that Easter House. The Easter House that sold my child after I surrendered her under significant duress, coercion and threats of lawsuit. Gasping for air (and the nearby chair) I wrote on the wall of the adoptee/friend asking them how they knew said man. It seemed off to me to see HIM well, THERE, HERE, in my protected space. (Again, I don’t talk or push my adoption agenda on my facebook and am VERY selective which adoption affected peeps I accepted as friends. So, how, dear ones, did my friend, that I find to be one of the most amusing, charming, loving adoptees that I know become friends with he who shall not be named?).
After the 18 year old mother in me recovered from the shock and confusion, the 43 year old mother, activist, all around rabble-rouser woke up (I had also ingested a few swigs of coffee so that also helped). What did my wondering eyes and itchy fingers do then?
I messaged the man. Reintroduced myself (he and I have spoken over the years) and suggested we catch up. He messages me back, admits once again to his one time employment with a baby broker, and touts his current position with an adoption agency in IL and his active status in reform efforts. This does not impress me and in fact, makes me more cautious. It seems a bit defensive to me…a tad bit off.
I am guarded.
See, in my mind, in my memory, HE was the one that Easter House flew to CT to meet with my mother and I. He is the one who pushed the piece of paper across the table to my mother and made her sign it, obligating her to pay them whatever they wished should I decide to keep my child. I never saw this paper. I never read it. I just watched the transaction from my 18 year old shamed and frighted eyes (and technically so did my daughter since she was nearly four months into her gestation). I am not confident of this memory. I have asked my mother if she remembered the mans name, she says she doesn’t. I asked her if she remembered what he looked like. She doesn’t, not clearly (it was after all 25 years ago).
And yet somewhere in some cell of my body I think it is him. I shudder at his name. I stare at his face. I feel physically ill.
And so I approach this man with caution.
He seems genuine. He seems honest and concerned and desirous of helping and chatting. I will be talking with him. I will see what he knows and if he can help me in my efforts to help reunite all separated by the Kurtz network of baby brokers.
And yet, that cell, calls out to me telling me to approach with caution. Objects in the facebook message box may not be as innocent as they appear. Or are they? Could this just be my own issues speaking to me? Could this be an immature response from the 18 year old maternity “home” confined mother kicking out in protection?
For both of us, I will approach with caution.