French + Irish + Scottish + English = Adopted

To understand my husband is to understand his family.  His parents came up during the Great Depression.  His mom spent all year saving and siphoning groceries for the family vacation down the shore.  My parents would have taken the family out for over-priced Chinese food.

 

My husband was adopted.  He was adopted at 5 days old, by 2 loving parents, a bit older than the rest of the crowd in the neighborhood.  His brother, two years older, was also adopted.  Except for the occasional “Gee, I have no medical history,” inkling, he has no tangible curiosity about his birth parents.  Born before the Benetton explosion of multi-multi-culturalism in America, he was given an assignment in first grade, regarding Nationalities and Folk Ways.  “Irish people believe in Leprechauns,” the assignment began, “This is a folk way, or tradition.  Go home, find out a folk way from your family and heritage.”  So he went asking.

 

“Mom, what Nationality are you?”

“French, Irish, and English.”

“And what Nationality is Dad?”

“Scottish, Irish, and English.”

“And what Nationality is Craig?”

“Polish.”

“And what Nationality am I?”
”You’re Armenian.”

 

Fractions and subsets were not yet on the curriculum for first graders, but somehow he had his doubts about his next question, “So, French plus Irish plus Scottish plus English equals Polish and Armenian?”

“No, honey, you’re adopted,” she answered.

 

Then they explained what it meant, and that they had chosen him, and loved him very much.   His first grade self took it in stride, knowing these parents, the only ones he’d ever known, were the ones who loved and supported him, listened to his weird jokes, and drew sketches of Spider-Man for him, because that’s what he was interested in.  Some “birth” parent had no idea of what went on in his budding mind, or how he liked his pork chop gravy.  His mom and dad were his mom and dad.  What passed from them to him in a glance or a guiding hand or a decade of rides to the mall is what formed who he is.  Oh, and shortbread and bagpipes are Scottish folkways.  Armenia – that’s near Greece, right?