Becoming Patrick: A Memoir

By Patrick McMahon

When Pat McMahon risks the love of the mother who raised him by seeking out the mother who gave him away, he transforms from a mild-mannered engineer into a frenetic detective. After he overcomes the challenges of existential angst, bureaucratic roadblocks, and unemployment, the phone call to his first mother releases a torrent of long-buried feelings. During a sometimes turbulent long-distance unfolding, he absorbs her shocking revelations and comes out as gay once again. Their eventual reunion creates a profound bond, even as he navigates waves of conflicting emotions, merges past with present, and embarks on a new future rooted in truth and insights into the universal quest for identity and human connection. He is Becoming Patrick.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick McMahon
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9780982801925

Patrick McMahon

Patrick McMahon was born in Chicago. He grew up in an adoptive family in the suburb of Downers Grove and lived high school years in Monett, Missouri. He has an engineering degree from the University of Missouri - Columbia, and a Bachelor of Music from San Francisco State University. His memoir, Becoming Patrick, about reconnecting with his original family, was a San Diego Book Awards Finalist. His life-long passion for photography has resulted in portrait work and national fine art exhibition. He currently resides in San Diego, where he writes, photographs, and plays clarinet and saxophone.

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Part One

Submergence

Chapter 1

September 1990, Kansas City, Missouri.

Mom, what can you tell me about my adoption?

The question is out. For all my life, it's been a hammer that could shatter a glass house with a tap. After approaching the brink many times during her visit from Chicago, after years of the relentless inner chant, Who am I? I've sat her down in my living room and finally spilled it out.

Her face registers little, maybe a hint of anxiety, or is that relief? She stands, sighs, and leaves the room. Surely she's coming back. Surely the glass house was only in my mind, which now races out of control. Yes, the ground-breaking talks about Dad's alcoholism and their divorce went well, but this is indeed new territory. Somewhere deep inside, I quiver. And yet, I know my mother is strong, a survivor. She'd do anything for her two sons. She's accepted me as a gay man. All I'd written in the letter before her trip was, There's something I want to talk about when you visit.

A clock ticks. A train whistles in the distance. After an endless minute or two, she emerges from the bedroom and slowly sits down in the chair next to the couch, her face calm, yet apprehensive. In her hand are some envelopes, and in an instant, I know what they are, even though I've never seen them. She leans forward to hand them to me, creating a moment of suspension and lake-bottom quiet as I look into her eyes and accept the bundle without a word.

Savoring this gift, yet wanting to rifle like a child in a Christmas-morning frenzy, I begin to sift with deliberation. Soon my world reduces to the emerging papers in my hands. I see letters from the State of Illinois Department of Public Welfare, a Notice of a Birth Registration with my name on it, and three typed pages on that thin, waxy, crinkly paper. The words Petition to adopt jump off the first page, but my eyes are pulled to the most official looking document, sheathed in a baby blue, thick paper cover with one typed word in the middle: DECREE.

My heart pounds as I unfold it to reveal five more legal-sized pages. My eyes try to take it all in at once, but soon words and phrases begin to jump out. Otto Kerner...Acting Judge...1958...Petitioners to adopt BABY BOY SHIELDS. Baby Boy Shields. Is that me?

I scan down. That Richard Shields is the father, and Barbara Mizer a/k/a Barbara Shields is the mother of the said child. My God! They have names! I silently mouth Richard and Barbara.

I flip the waxy page and read on. That Richard Shields, the father, abandoned and deserted his said child...That Barbara Mizer a/k/a Barbara Shields, the mother, is unable to maintain her said child, and she abandoned and surrendered her said child to the petitioners herein.

The floor drops from beneath me. Of course I've known that in order to be chosen, I had to be un-chosen. Surely every adopted child figures that out. But now here it is, all official. Two people with real names deserted, surrendered, and gave me away.

As sadness stirs in my gut and the word abandoned sinks into my bones, I read through to the final paragraph: IT IS THEREFORE ORDERED, ADJUDGED and DECREED that from this date, Baby Boy Shields, a minor, shall be to all legal intents and purposes the child of the petitioners, Leonard Patrick McMahon and Joan Marie McMahon, his wife...and it shall be the same as if he had been born to them in lawful wedlock. IT IS FURTHER ORDERED that the name of the said child shall be changed to Patrick James McMahon.

Staring at this last phrase, I have to remind myself that this document pertains to me, not someone else. It is me, sitting here in my funky, antiquated apartment in the heart of Kansas City, Missouri, who was born in Chicago as a Shields, abandoned and re-forged as a McMahon.

My thumb bears into my temple as I stop and look up. My mother's petite frame sags and her dark brown eyes are etched with worry. I see more clearly the tinges of gray in her short, jet-black hair. This alone causes me to realize just how terrified I've been of losing her, as if asking about my adoption might be a betrayal, might result in banishment or the loss of everything I've ever known as family. After all, it is Joan Marie McMahon who has raised me as her own, loved me, protected me, sacrificed for me. She is who I've always seen as Mother, while since age five knowing of another.

But now here I sit with that other mother's name for the first time. A name that's been sitting in a drawer or box for thirty-two years, that Mom has known and I have not. I can barely take a moment before asking the next question, the second tap against our glass house. So Mom, how did it all happen?

Braced, surely prepared, perhaps even rehearsed, she begins to release the story of my origins. Well, we'd been married ten years and there was still no baby, so we filed for adoption. It wasn't long after that Ann Einarson approached us saying she knew of a woman wanting to have a baby adopted. She asked if we were interested.

Ann Einarson? Our next-door neighbor? Does she notice my rising pitch and eyebrows?

Mom clears her throat. Yes. Well, anyway, the woman was a patient of her mother's doctor. The doctor was quite reputable, well known, had even been on TV a couple of times. She pauses as I note her emphasis on reputable. We weren't quite sure about doing this without an agency involved, but he told us private adoptions were really quite common. So we decided to go ahead with it. But then the woman changed her mind. She decided to keep the baby.

Wait, so that wasn't Barbara? That wasn't me?

No, but strangely enough it was only a few months later that Ann approached us again. This same doctor had another patient wanting to find a home for a baby. Naturally, we wondered about this doctor. You know, was he part of some sort of black market or something.

I feel my jaw drop as she continues.

So your dad and I met with the doctor again, and he assured us it was just a coincidence to have two patients wanting to find homes for their babies. We felt he was telling the truth, so we looked for an attorney. As it turned out, one of our neighbors down the street was a lawyer and agreed to handle all the legal work. Howard Parsons. I don't think you ever knew him. They moved away when you were still a baby.

My woozy head manages to acknowledge. As the phrases black market, telling the truth, changed her mind whirl in the air, I can't help but register my mother's casual tone of voice, as if this is a story she's told on numerous occasions. And yet I can tell she's nervous. She's starting to say, You know more often.

Anyway, he and Ann met with them a couple of times to sign some papers. I think Ann took them some things, you know, like blankets and baby clothes.

Even with these scenes swirling, the question forms, Why did Ann go?

Oh, there had to be a witness. You know, someone to verify that the right people were there when it was time to adopt you.

Ann Einarson met my parents before I was born? My next-door neighbor? Who watched me grow up? I lean back with hands behind head, stare at Mom in disbelief, and try to resist the growing knot of agitation in my gut.

But she seems anxious to get it all out now, and anticipates my next inevitable question. Ann said your mother and father seemed very nice. That they got along well, and had classical music playing when they were there. She also said they weren't married. That when your mother got pregnant, your father had plans to move to New York. He was a musician and wanted to, you know, pursue a career there, but your mother didn't want to move away. Apparently he left and then came back to be with her when you were born, so he must have cared about her.

My heart wilts for a moment. My father cared about my mother, but apparently not about me. But he went to New York? He was a musician? I glance over at the music stand displaying Mozart's Clarinet Concerto. Maybe that's why the lessons began in second grade. For an instant, I love the idea of my father going off to New York. How exciting. How courageous. And then I'm disgusted. That he would leave after getting her pregnant. With me.

Dazed, I scramble for pen and paper, as these questionable events become my origins. Mom, can you slow down a little? I think I need to write some of this down. I can't seem to shake this notion that I might not get up the nerve to ask about this again.

Like a reporter with pen poised, I go on the next question. A big question. So what actually happened after I was born? This may be the closest I ever get to my birth story. The story most everyone else takes for granted. The story I've never heard.

She pauses, one clenched hand covered by the other, and takes a deep breath. Well, I was sick with the Asian flu that was going around then and wasn't able to go to the hospital. Your Dad and Grandma and Ann went and picked you up. This was a few days after you were born. They brought you home; Grandma carried you in and then stayed to take care of you for a couple of weeks because I could barely get out of bed. She pauses, stares off for a moment. It was hard not to... Her voice cracks. I didn't get to see or hold you much. I just didn't want to take a chance on getting you sick.

When she turns back with watery eyes, I crumple a bit, unable to write, moved by her sorrow. It's been a very long time since I've seen her upset, and the sight takes me back to the boy whose world was so easily shaken by it. How can I continue?

Yet the rush of the story floods and pushes me on. I realize I've always assumed she was there and could tell me what happened. Now the missing details seem important. What happened at the hospital? How will I ever find out? Grandma is gone. Dad is distant. Composed again, and as if she can hear my thoughts, Mom continues, You may want to talk to Ann. I had lunch with her a while back and mentioned that you might be calling to ask about this.

You did? My mind bends into new shapes as I imagine her preparing for this from the moment she received my letter. It's both comforting and unnerving. I slowly spin out, Well, yeah, I probably will want to talk with her.

This revelation transforms me into an eager interviewer. Mom, when did Ann meet them? Where did they live? What else did they tell her? It doesn't seem possible I've lived thirty-two years without asking so many basic questions. How did they come to the decision to adopt? How did they feel about finding a baby by word of mouth? How did the rest of the family feel about this? These queries fire like cannonballs, and I can see she's uncomfortable, rearranging herself in the chair once in a while, but she answers everything with no sign of feeling pummeled. That's all I need to keep at it.

So you had to go to court to finalize the adoption, right?

Yes. That was about six months after you were born. Otto Kerner was the judge. You know, the one that was later convicted of corruption and spent some time in jail. I cringe as she takes on an air of fond memory. I remember sitting in his huge office and holding you in my arms. Even your dad seemed in awe of him. I remember the judge leaning forward and saying, 'Now remember, this is not a toy. You must take good care of him.'

Astounded by his patronizing tone, I want to ask more about it, but Mom looks so nostalgic, so I simmer down and move on. Tell me about those first few months. Was I easy or did I cry a lot?

Mom sits back, relaxes a bit, and seems to enjoy sharing how thrilled they were to finally have a baby, how she read Dr. Spock's books, how I was an easy child, especially compared to my little brother, adopted five years later. I'm not surprised. My brother and I could not be any more different. With warmth and pride, she tells me, I used to put your crib by the living room picture window.

I'm grateful to know this, to feel loved and cared for, even as that scene begins to look like being on exhibit.

I sit back, stretch out my legs, and stare at the bookcase across the room, housing hundreds of my albums and books. I want to touch all of them and study each one to see if it still feels like me.

As the first lull ensues, my mother, drained of the tale she has held all these years, looks tired, unburdened, expectant. Part of me wants to forge ahead, or else hear everything she's said over and over, like it's a new bedtime story. But I know we're done for now.

"Well Mom, this is a lot. It's going to take some time to think about all this. Then I feel compelled to say, But I am glad you brought it all. I'm glad you told me everything." As I sit up, I wonder if she's glad.

She smiles slightly. Yes. Well, I guess you have a right to know. But then she sighs, and I can't tell if it's from relief or worry. I think it's time I go to bed.

Yeah, it's getting late. We both stand and fumble for a way to simply say good night. I lean over a little and give her a hug. I guess I just wasn't ready to ask until now.

She holds on tight, then pulls away and gives me another small smile.

Neither of us finds words for our feelings, perhaps the most normal aspect of the entire evening.

As Mom retires to the bedroom, I stand and watch her disappear, then sit back down on the couch, not anywhere near ready to throw sheets on the air mattress and attempt sleep. Raw and numb, I glance at all the opened envelopes resting on the end table and reach for one, as a hive of thoughts and feelings begins to buzz. So relieved she didn't freak out. Amazed she brought the documents with her. Worried about the aftermath.

In the dim light and stillness, I navigate through my childhood and search for surviving memories of anything that might be colored by what I've learned tonight. As I sink back into the cushions, a distinct scene plays out in my mind.

In bed. Lights out. Pillow fight with Brian. Dad comes in twice. If I have to come in here one more time... But we keep whispering. Then no more Brian. He goes to sleep so fast.

Mom on the phone in the kitchen. Using that on the phone voice. I wonder who she's talking to. Can't hear real well. Is it Grandma? Aunt Marilyn? Mrs. Einarson next door?

I hear my name. Pat...yes, he's nine now...yes...fourth grade...oh, doing very well...mostly A's... All the usual stuff. But what's that? ...had filed...were so lucky...brought him home when he was three days old... She's talking about me being adopted. So what? Everyone knows.

But there's more. Can't quite hear. Maybe if I go crack open the door. No, Dad might come by. I'll put on my glasses. Can hear better with them on. But still, only bits and pieces. To the hospital...talking with the doctor...Jewish...another family...preferred Catholic... Wow! Never heard this before. And who's she talking to?

Happening so fast. Keep hearing Jewish. Can't be me. I'm in Catholic school. My other parents? Some family I didn't go to? Wouldn't they tell me if I was Jewish? That might be cool. But would I have to switch schools?

Yes...you too...bye now. She's done? That's it? Mom walking by the door. Heart pounding. Stomach hurts. Head feels full. I want to know more. Wish Mom would come in so I could ask her who my other parents are, and what happened when I was born, and if I'm Jewish. The stuff that's not in that book, The Chosen Baby.

Gotta lie down. Gotta get to sleep. But I keep hearing Mom's voice. I know, ask tomorrow. But what if she gets mad? Or cries? Or she and Dad get into a fight about it? What if she just says, That's for when you're older. Can't I know now?

Getting sleepy. Nope, better not ask. Too scary. Maybe hear more again someday. Have to pay close attention. Yeah, that's it. Listen more from now on.

With a start, I inhale deeply and wonder how many more times I wanted to ask. And why I blocked it all out. Mom was often my protector from a Jekyll and Hyde alcoholic, but was I really that terrified?

When I glance down, I see my hands holding the magical, potent decree, rub my thumbs back and forth over its cover, slowly unfold, and begin to read through it again. Something deep in my gut stirs. I have the beginnings of my beginnings, and I'm so excited I could dance, so sad I could curl up and weep, so confused I could pace all night long. But I continue to sit.

Barbara Mizer and Richard Shields. Just knowing their names makes me feel a little more like everyone else. As Barbara and Richard echo in my mind, they sound like names I've never heard before, and try to attach to something familiar, to become parents. Barbara...Barbra Streisand, Barbara Walters, my ancient Aunt Barbara. Richard...Richard Burton, Richard the Lionheart, Little Richard.

As I make the bed, I wonder what else I might have lost. I may have brothers and sisters, and grandparents, and aunts and uncles and cousins. Do I want to find them? Would they want to know me?

As I turn out the lights and stretch out, the notion grows that my life has been a play, scripted and cast and carried out. Only I didn't know I was on stage. All my life I've known of my adoption. All my life, I've not known that my next-door neighbor played a part in it. Just how would Mom and Ann have talked about this over their recent lunch? I imagine Mom visiting the old suburban Chicago neighborhood, virtually unchanged, most of the adults in my childhood still living there. I picture Mom chatting with Ann over salads and sandwiches in her kitchen, the same one I passed through countless times as a kid.

Would Ann have frozen? Dropped her fork? Said something like, Oh, Joan. Really? After all this time? Would Mom have been nervous? Clutched her cup of coffee? Responded, I guess it was bound to come up sometime. Maybe it's that therapist he's been seeing. He'll probably want to talk to you. I can see Ann's perpetually youthful face in distress. I can hear the voice so firmly implanted into my brain. "Sure I'll talk to him, if it's okay with you. Should I tell him everything? I keep seeing all these reunions on Oprah and Sally. Do you think he'll look for them? Are you all right? And Mom fully recovered, Oh sure, it's okay. I'll be fine. I just don't want him to get hurt."

How much more don't I know? Ours was a close-knit neighborhood. Did any conversation over martinis at holiday cookouts result in the revelation of my origins? Did the Hartleys know? The Reillys? The Mochels? The Morleys, Fencotts, Nelsons, or Lithios? What about the families of school friends? Our doctor? Our dentist? I can't recall any of them saying anything, but did they ever look at me and see a child with mysterious or questionable beginnings? Probably not. But right now, all I can think is, others knew more than I did.

As I glance at various barely illuminated touchstones of the life I know now, my thoughts drift back to Ann. She saw me grow into a toddler, a young boy, a teenager. I must have been quite a curiosity for her. I wonder what she thought when my musical talent emerged, or when I displayed shyness or excelled in school or did silly, embarrassing things. Did she see either of my original parents in me? And did she have any regrets when Dad's drinking got bad?

What's clear to me is that my childhood now has a new veneer. Untold stories. Neighbors involved. People wondering, if not asking, where this baby came from. After all, Ann and Dad and Grandma apparently brought me home in broad daylight.

As shadows reach across the room from blinds blocking streetlights, newly formed questions keep floating up like rubber balls released from the bottom of a pool, silently radiating circles of waves when they reach the surface. How many more are there? Where are they coming from?

As the waves eventually smooth out, I get up, tiptoe to the bathroom and splash cool water on my face. On my way out, I poke my head into the bedroom. She stirs. Of course she's awake. I whisper, Good night. And thanks. I can barely see her as she softly replies, No one will ever love you more than I do.

I feel a tear beginning to form. I know, Mom. I know.

Chapter 2

Most weekday mornings for the past year and a half have been similar. I wake, shave, shower, have toast or cereal, climb into my five-year-old white Mitsubishi Montero, maneuver freeway traffic through downtown Kansas City, cross the bridge from Missouri into Kansas, glance at the winding Missouri River, and arrive at work about eight o'clock.

Today is no different except for the treasure I've brought with me. The manila envelope holding my adoption decree, lying inertly on the passenger seat, might as well be an extra passenger, perhaps a distant relative. Quiet and calm, he waits for me to initiate conversation, but I have no words for him yet.

As I coast down into industrial Kansas City, Kansas, most signs of this picturesque autumn morning - trees transformed to gold and rust, grass beginning to fade, bags of swept leaves left for disposal - disappear and are replaced by dozens of square miles of factories. As I pull into the familiar parking place near the front door of MidWest Chandelier, I catch the usual doughy whiff of the Sunshine Biscuit Company cranking out endless cases of crackers. When I'd first seen the ad, New position: Industrial Engineer, I'd thought, How romantic. Improving the quality and production methods for chandeliers. I wonder if they have any famous clients. Sidney Lefkovitz, the current patriarch of this seventy-year-old family business, dispelled that fantasy during my first interview: Oh, we switched to fluorescent lighting fixtures decades ago, but never changed the name of the company. Midwest Chandelier does not make chandeliers.

Today, this fact parallels how I feel: Pat McMahon is not a McMahon. Identity switched decades ago.

At my office door, I pause and wince. I suppose I should be enjoying this recent construction of new work spaces, but they're really about as comfortable as the back of a garage or basement. My surroundings at Westinghouse in California were not lavish, but plush in comparison. And my jobs there as project planner and quality engineer felt more prestigious, more substantial.

Every day I try to be grateful though. After all, I did leave engineering for several years to get a music degree. And then decided I didn't want to be a struggling classical musician. The familiar inner refrain begins again, You should be glad to have this job after the breakup with Daryle and moving back to the Midwest in a shambles to seek refuge with your oldest friend, Mark. You should be glad to have this job after months of rejection letters during an economic recession. You should be glad to have this job that has allowed you to move into your own place for the first time in eight years, even though the salary barely makes ends meet.

Yet more and more every day, I wish I were opening a different door, a door that might proclaim in red paint,

Home of Pat McMahon Artist

THERE ARE NO LIMITS

The door would lead into a funky downtown loft, not one of those new yuppified ones. It's a bare bones studio space, the real version of what I've tried to create in my dining room at home. There's a darkroom for printing from all the black & white film I've been shooting lately. There are dozens more lofts in the building, and on the main floor, a gallery, and around the corner more galleries and more lofts. I thrive here. I've become an artist in a community of artists who create work, hang out, put on exhibits of provocative, exquisite, or wacky photographs, paintings, and sculpture, and sell enough to live.

With an audible sigh, I enter my office and quickly close the door. The punctuated humdrum of metal stamping machines, power tools and production workers chattering in English, Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Laotian becomes muffled. The smell of grease and grime fades into an industrial mustiness. I glance at the half-dozen charts on the wall, documenting the ever-increasing productivity of the plant and justifying the value of my job as this company's first efficiency expert.

After my morning tour of the plant, I sense a moment of opportunity and pull out the special envelope. From the moment I read my adoption decree weeks ago, momentum has been building. I've looked at it every day, and every day, fantasies, questions, and memories have been flooding, not receding. Yesterday, while sitting on the steps of the art museum, I might as well have been sitting at the ocean's edge in the rising tide, refusing to move, yet knowing some massive wave would eventually drag me out to sea or send me crashing. Names would not be enough. I decided to gather phone numbers and make a few inquiries.

I also decided this is to be a private endeavor that nobody at Midwest Chandelier will know anything about. Some people might be supportive, but I don't want to deal with potential uncomfortable remarks such as, Why dig up the past? What about the folks who raised you? They're the ones who gave a bastard child a new home, aren't they?

In this cell of an office, I open up my new Velvatone Stenographer's Notebook, write 10/17/90, and take my first step, with no clear idea where to begin. I pick up the phone, stop pencil tapping, and punch in the number garnered from the yellow pages for a Community Counseling Center. Eventually I'm connected with someone named Dr. Lovers.

Resisting the urge to ask if it's his real name, I sputter, Uh, hi. I'm calling to, uh, find out about...well, you see, um, I'm adopted, and I've recently become curious about how I might locate my biological parents. There. That wasn't so hard. For the first time, I've stated to a complete stranger my adopted status and interest in searching. Yet the words don't feel solid. In fact, they feel subversive, like they're a first step into some sort of underworld.

Oh, really? Well, that's very interesting, and a big decision. It takes a lot of courage. His words of support continue in a soothing, therapist tone, Let me see what I can do. There are several directions I can point you in.

Dr. Lovers, who's apparently heard this before, has ideas. He suggests calling the Missouri Division of Family Services, and gives me their number. He also suggests calling a private investigator he knows, a woman whose pager number he'll have to look up. And if it feels right, get back to me. I'd be happy to talk with you. He sounds like he would love to talk with me.

After hanging up, I anxiously look at what he gave me. A Missouri agency is probably useless. Why didn't I tell him I was born in Chicago? Not serious yet? And then a number for a private investigator? Images of an office smaller and scruffier than mine come into view, with a tough broad behind a desk, cigarette dangling out of her mouth, leaning forward and mechanically asking lots of personal questions, then sitting back to assess whether or not she wants to take the case. Is this what searching is all about?

During the rest of the day, I manage a couple more illuminating calls. An Adoption Investigator at the Missouri Division of Family Services advises me to write to the adoption agency for non-identifying information, such as the parents' medical history, ethnic background, physical descriptions, and religious affiliations. She tells me in a pleasant, perky voice that the court will do a search, but I have to get written consent from both of my adoptive parents. So basically, in Missouri, even as a thirty-two-year-old adult, I need a note from Mommy and Daddy to look for the people who created me.

Shifting to the actual state of my birth, I place the second call to the Circuit Court of Cook County, Illinois. A nasally bureaucrat informs me all adoption records, including original birth certificates, are impounded, it costs hundreds of dollars to try to get a court to open them, and that rarely happens, only under the most dire of circumstances. As the word impounded bites like a rabid dog, I wonder if grasping for any sense of roots or identity qualifies as dire circumstances.

By the end of the day, I am educated and agitated. Even though I don't need to see my original birth certificate to get my original parents' names, I find myself tapping a pencil at a machine gun's pace. This apparently dangerous document, which non-adopted people barely think twice about, is locked away like stolen goods and protected more fiercely than a bank vault.

Rattled, I pull out the birth certificate I do have. The amended one. The one that Mom sent me seven years ago because I needed an official copy to apply for a passport. I sit and study it as if I didn't know I was adopted, looking for clues. The top announces a Certificate of Live Birth. Mom and Dad's names are listed as mother and father. The name of the hospital is missing, but it does indicate my birth took place inside the city limits of Chicago. If I read this as my real birth certificate, which perhaps some adoptive parents tell their kids it is, I just might ask myself why a woman living in a western suburb would travel all the way into Chicago to have a baby. And why was the bottom quarter of the document obviously covered when copied?

As I hunch over and swivel slightly at my desk, the knot of anger pulls tighter. My understanding is that birth certificates are amended to protect a child from the stigma of illegitimacy. But times have changed, and now, as an adult who is not allowed to see the original one, I see it as a cover-up, a lie. What about the millions of adopted people who don't have their birth parents' names, and can never get them? Why should state laws prevent that?

I read through to the bottom of this amended certificate. Under the official State of Illinois