One Lucky Bastard: a Memoir: A Memoir

By James B. Myers

After being separated for thirty-seven years, I was reunited with my biological mother on Mother's Day, 1995. At that very moment, I knew I had to pen such a life-changing miracle and so decided on a memoir. In reality, the project proved to be much more of a challenge than I had ever anticipated. Then I remembered reading a quote that put my writing challenges in perspective. "You own everything that happens to you, tell your stories, if people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better," myself included.



I was born a bastard, left by my mother in the hospital following my birth and adopted two years later. My parents provided me with love and all of the material necessities, but it wasn't enough to protect me from the enlightened age of puberty, where a pivotal moment of self-discovery was made. While my male peers lusted after girls, I secretly lusted after my male peers. My fear of being discovered caused me to lasso the first girl that looked in my direction. We forged an eight year relationship based on a core of deception. Eventually, the truth emerged like it always does and the facade of our perfect relationship came to a swift end.




Little did I know, but that was just the beginning of my tumultuous journey. Along my not so yellow brick road, I had to bear witness to the death of my soul mate as he became a victim of the AIDS´ slaughters. Next, came the murder my Godchild's mother by her husband, my best friend at the time. The spiral of tragedies continued when my father was admitted to a Veteran´s hospital for a routine operation and ended up bleeding to death on the hospital floor. The shock of his death was too much for my mother to bear, who had already hinted that Alzheimer's disease was beginning to ravage her mind. The one thing that kept me afloat amidst so much uncertainty and darkness was an abiding faith. I always felt that ultimately, I was never abandoned by God, my source or whatever a person refers to as a power greater than them.




One Lucky Bastard, A Memoir, will be an inspiration to anyone who has been adopted, or who has given a child up for adoption by choice or force. People, who have been impacted by the Alzheimer's epidemic, will be able to relate to this story. Lastly, it is a must read for gays or lesbians who have struggled to find and live their lives with authenticity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453503782

James B. Myers

James B. Myers is a native of South Carolina and makes his writing debut with One Lucky Bastard, A Memoir. “Imagine, being adopted by two wonderful and loving people and then having the good fortune of finding your biological thirty-seven years later. I had no choice; I had to write about it.” It became a journey back to the past, a brutally honest narrative that has resulted in a deeply personal and moving story. James B. Myers lives in Los Angeles California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

SEPTEMBER 26, 1957

AT TWO IN the morning, I awakened Mae and announced that I was ready to enter the world. Her screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood. It was the sound of grueling and unbearable labor pains. Time to get her ready to go, Sam declared and made no further comment. Everything had been arranged. Mae would be taken to the hospital to give birth. She would then be forced to give me up for adoption, no questions asked, and end of story.

Mae begged her mother to let her keep me but her pleas were in vain. I am told that the delivery itself was very difficult. It was almost as if I didn’t want to come into the world. I think I probably wanted to stay inside of her where it was warm and secure. My efforts to remain inside, however, were thwarted and on September 26, 1957―I was born.

After my birth, Eula came in and sat by Mae and held her hand. In the background Mae heard one of the nurses say, What a cute little boy. Mae raised her head slightly and said, I want to see my baby, let me just hold him. That’s not possible honey, now you get some rest, the nurse then vanished behind the swinging doors. From the very beginning, my birth was unwanted and unwelcome.

The young man who fathered me wasn’t pacing the hospital halls wondering whether I would be a boy or a girl, and he wasn’t passing out cigars. In fact, he was nowhere to be found. No one cared, except the young girl and there was nothing she could do. I was born a bastard, big deal. Not everyone enters the world through the eyes of Normal Rockwell. What is important to understand is that fate had charted our courses and would send us in different directions for a while, a very long while.

CHAPTER 2

37 YEARS LATER… MOTHER’S DAY, 1995

I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m sitting here waiting to meet my mother for the first time in thirty-seven years. How does that feel Mr. Myers? The reporter asked. I was at a loss for words, but I thought for a moment, looked him dead in the eye and answered, I’m absolutely terrified. I had no idea what to expect and I certainly wasn’t sure that having an entire news crew on hand to capture our reunion on Mother’s Day was suddenly such a great idea. What if the reaction I was hoping for blew up in my face?

In my lifetime I have been known for making some really bad decisions and now I was hoping that this wasn’t another trophy on the wall. Anyway, I thought to myself, What’s the worst thing that could happen? Well, she could have a heart attack right there on the spot, but that wasn’t part of the plan, so I sat back, wiped the beads of sweat off my nose, and continued answering questions from the reporter.

So your mother has no idea that you’re going to be here? None at all, she thinks I’m still in California. How did this all come about? He asked. That’s a long story, way too long to tell before she arrives. Maybe someday I’ll write a book about it, but in short, here’s what happened. I discovered I was adopted at a very early age and that word ‘adopted’ followed me around like a little lost child most of my life. Three months ago I solved the mystery surrounding my adoption and everything else just sort of fell into place, you know, like when you discover that you have five pieces left to complete a thousand piece puzzle. Destiny took the wheel and, well, here we are.

Of course the process was way more complicated than destiny could have ever imagined. Every story has to start somewhere, but I never knew mine for thirty-seven years, and before it was to be revealed to me many subplots, twists, and turns would take place, all events playing out like they were supposed to, so that I might be able to discover who I was and where I came from. Everyone should own the truth to their birthright.

If I had to single out one catalyst that was instrumental in launching my search, it would have to be the death of my best friend in 1992. One of my favorite quotes is from The Sound of Music. Sister Maria gets kicked out of the convent and the Mother Superior tells her, When the Lord closes a door, somehow he opens a window. Well, just like Sister Maria, I found myself without the constant figure that had been by my side for eight years.

At first, he was my lover and after the lust had lost its luster, the friendship matured into something really special and he became my brother and best friend. It was because of that great loss that I had a void that needed to be filled. Sometime after his funeral, maybe weeks, maybe days, thoughts about my adoption kept returning to me. I had never given a great deal of energy to the notion of looking for my birth mother, but that was how my search for her began.

Quite naturally, by then, I had already lived a major portion of my life. I had two wonderful parents, a comfortable home, in fact, everything a child could ever ask for. I now realize that from the very beginning I was, indeed, one lucky bastard.

If we all take a moment or two to reflect upon our past, it is easy, at least for me, to perceive that our life cards were dealt to us early on. We more or less get brought onto the scene. The story is already written. We assume the role upon our arrival and the rest becomes a journey of self-discovery.

At the end of our journey, the best we can hope for is to be remembered often and fondly, that when people think of us, a smile appears. Who on earth could ask for anything more?

When I think of my parents, more than just a smile appears. Who I am is a result of who they were and what they stood for. I have never been one to think that I had any answers to life’s deepest questions, but what I know for sure is this: We have no control on how we enter the world, or how we will leave it. The only mission I see us charged with is how we are to live; to take this precious and fragile gift called life, and squeeze every ounce of joy we can out of it. Life is fragile make no mistake about it, and it’s over before most people realize why they were placed on the earth in the first place.

If there is one thing I am thankful for, it is my inability to let go. If we completely let go of the past, our souvenirs and memories become lost forever. I’ve held onto the past like a badge of honor. My memory has served me well and was the embryo from which my story was born.

CHAPTER 3

CHOSEN

MY ADOPTIVE PARENTS, Thomasina and Jimmy were educators in the small town of Newberry, South Carolina, population ten thousand. Thomasina was a gifted musician who was raised by very proud parents, Nellie and Quincy Gallman. My grandmother was a private nurse and I’m not sure what my grandfathers did for a living, but they were both strict disciplinarians who passed that rather annoying trait on down to their daughter.

Thomasina carried herself regally, and to some, even came across as somewhat of a snob. By age twelve she was already playing the piano for Sunday morning church services. She went on to college in nearby Columbia, South Carolina, received a music degree and came back to Newberry to reside. She taught fourth grade, was the church organist, and gave private music lessons at our home. To say that my mother was an overachiever would be an understatement. It was a characteristic which failed to have a single influence on me.

My fathers’ beginnings weren’t so noble. He was raised in poverty. I remember him telling me how he used to have to walk miles to the nearest school barefoot, and if he did wear shoes, they were in sorry shape. He was from a family that had nothing, which was why, as a father, he tried to make sure that my mother and I wanted for nothing. When my father finished elementary school, a white man that he worked for while attending high school paid for his college education where he received a degree in masonry/carpentry. In addition to being a teacher, he was also the vice principal at the only black high school in Newberry.

Thomasina and Jimmy had everything going for them: respect in the community; good jobs; and, a comfortable home. The one thing they wanted and could not have was a child. Thomasina suffered several miscarriages and so they finally came to the conclusion that adoption was their only hope.

They set out to adopt a child and wound up with me, and that was how our lives as a family began. Following my wretched birth, I was placed in a foster home. With the aid of an adoption agency, my parents brought me home in 1961 and proceeded to love and give me all that I needed and wanted, which wasn’t always a good thing.

Thomasina was the disciplinarian, while my father played the role of Santa Claus. Which one do you think I bonded with the most? It caused for a bit of friction between the two of them and turned me into a spoiled little brat. It’s a trait I outgrew, almost. There is a heavy price to pay for always getting what you want. At some point, life took care of that and I got slapped into reality.

Back in 1961, adoption wasn’t that common within the black community. There was, in fact, a stigma attached to most adopted children, a belief that they were damaged goods because no one knew where they came from. What could have possibly happened to make their own mothers discard them? People just assumed there was something off about adopted kids. Well, they were right, but I can only speak for myself. I’ll be the first to tell you that there was something off about me. It wasn’t noticeable like a third eye on my forehead, it was just a feeling and the way people tended to look at me.

Perhaps, I was slightly paranoid, but even as a child, I knew I was different. That difference was confirmed at the tender young age of eight. It was a moment of gargantuan awkwardness.

It was my first true experience of enlightenment. Everyone has a moment in their lives that changes them profoundly, for better, for worse and most certainly, forever. For me it was when I first heard the word adoption, immediately followed by stares in my direction.

My mother, father, and I used to take road trips almost every weekend. We’d visit relatives on either my mother’s or father’s side of the family. On one particular visit to one of those relatives, someone let the cat out of the bag regarding my origins. They were speaking to another relative whom I had never met. That there’s a little adopted boy. I wonder if they thought I was deaf, as in, Hello, I’m right here in the room, I can hear you! Apparently they didn’t think or care about my feelings.

I left with my parents that day a changed boy. Even at the age of eight I was already developing into a drama queen. I worried myself sick; in fact, I wondered if the word adoption meant that I was retarded or, perhaps, something even worse.

For months the sound of that word adoption would not leave me, and so one Saturday morning, when my mother was performing her annual task of cleaning the house, that’s right, annual, I mustered up the nerve to ask her about the word adoption.

What does adopted mean? I remember feeling as though I had put her on the spot and was afraid of how she would respond.

Her reaction was one of pure shock. I could see her scrambling for an answer. She took a moment and composed herself before speaking. When you were born, you had no mommy and daddy and so we brought you home to live with us so that we could be your mommy and daddy. We got you from a place where none of the children had mothers or fathers. So what happened to my other mommy and daddy? We don’t know, she answered, her voice full of sadness. I accepted her answer as truth and never revisited the subject with her again.

I fantasized about the idea that there was someone else out in the world that gave birth to me. I wondered what she was like, why she didn’t want me. Perhaps she was some drunk who had me and just walked away, leaving me on some stranger’s doorstep.

However, at the end of the day, I understood that whoever my mother was, and for whatever reason she had left me, didn’t really matter. I had parents who raised me with love and lots of religion, so much religion in fact, that we lived right across the street from Miller Chapel, A.M.E. (African Methodist Episcopal) church. As a boy, growing up in a very religious household it never even crossed my mind not to go to church. Unless I was hit by a bus, or some other catastrophic phenomenon crossed my untimely path, I was expected to be in church every Sunday morning.

Thomasina and James were key players in the church, literally. My mother was the organist. My father was the closest thing to a deacon in a Methodist church, he was head steward. But aside from that, he surely missed his calling altogether; he should have been a preacher. I don’t know what kept him from it, because his desire to be a man of the pulpit ought to have been evident to anyone who knew him, especially those who had to listen to him each Sunday morning, after the sermon.

The church we attended was a typical southern black church. Fire and brimstone set the tone for the sermons. Don’t do this and don’t do that or you will forever reside in hell where there will be eternal gnashing of teeth. All of these warnings were delivered with the ferocity of a rabid dog while saliva gathered in the corner of the preachers’ mouth. As a kid, I just wasn’t into it. It was too loud. I had a thing about being yelled at. I hated when my mother yelled at me and I wasn’t ready to make an exception for the minister.

All of this to say that church, at least for me, was always an intense experience, but after one particular Sunday morning, I refused to set foot into Miller Chapel Church for the next sixteen years.

Although he never wore a collar, my father still found a way to preach. As the head steward of the church, one of his responsibilities was to give a report each Sunday on the church’s financial standings. He did this from the Amen corner of the church right after the collection plate had been passed.

The report he was supposed to give should have been brief and to the point, but that wasn’t the case with my dad. Somehow, he took that moment as an opportunity to give an uninvited commentary on the sermon and how it played into our lives. It was within itself, a mini sermon. I remember sitting there squirming as my father rambled on and on. I’m sure he made some valid points, but I certainly never listened.

His mini sermons became the one moment that everyone in church dreaded, but unless you were a heartless asshole, it was easy to tell that his heart was in the right place. Well, apparently one particular Sunday, the entire congregation turned into just that, the heartless assholes. He was right at the apex of his mini sermon, This is why God wants and needs us to do right. We can’t go around here with these lofty attitudes, thinking that we’re better than anyone else. We’re all the same, whether we like it or not. He was almost finished when all of a sudden, a woman’s voice in the congregation bellowed out across the church, Why don’t you sit down and shut up! I think I must have been doodling on the pew when the sound of her angry voice grabbed my attention immediately. I snapped my head in her direction so fast that I could have easily developed a whiplash.

The eruption began and the whole church seemed to rise up all at once and take turns lambasting my father. Their taunts overlapped one another. Why do we have to go through this Sunday after Sunday? I’m sick of this too, yelled another one. Your job is to give us a report, not another sermon. It was like a small riot and the feeling utterly surreal. I could not escape what was happening and I wanted to, badly. Instead, I was forced to sit there and hear the congregation verbally lynch him.

He tried to stand his ground. Am I saying something wrong here? I’m just speaking the truth, he shot back. A lot of you walking around here are just full of the devil. If he was trying to put them in their place, it wasn’t working. They continued their storm towards him. Unable to handle any more, I ran out of church and back across the street to the safety of our home.

Later that afternoon, my father walked into the house wounded, but not defeated. He also continued to give his weekly reports, but added not a single word past the report itself.

It was a very strange period for all of us at home, but particularly for me. I felt a lot of anger for the way they had treated my father. He was someone I adored and even though his speeches, at times, embarrassed me, he was still my dad and I wanted to protect him. I never forgave the ones that chastised and hurt him and I remembered them all.

There were several Sundays following the attack on him where I actually refused to go to church, and no one forced me to. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be years before I set one foot back into that church, and, even then, the memories