The Joel Train

It is with great joy that I admit I did not know that Stephen Hawking was British.  Hawking is that theoretical physicist (a word I cannot spell on my own) who is disabled and communicates through a computer.  His computer speaks with a flat robotic, and to my ears, American accent.  So I was mistaken to believe he was also an American.  I swear to you that this is true.  I delight in my own ignorance.

I love the reframing that happens when something you believe to be so is proved wrong.  And then afterwards it's so obvious that it was incorrect, that the truth of it snaps into place and you can't unknow it.

I'd first been introduced to the typo that unraveled everything just after my fourteen birthday.  I needed my birth certificate to complete my work permit application.  A few other classmates were already working as parking lot attendants and helpers at fast food restaurants.  I was desperate to join them.  But Mom explained that there was a problem.  I was born May 9th, but on my birth certificate the date read October 9th, my mother's birthday.

She made it sound like a strange, but easy mistake.  In all the confusion of my delivery, some absent minded nurse wrote Mom's birthday down instead of mine.  The dates were kind of similar.  We just needed to fix it, she said.  But that would mean hiring a lawyer and going to the government and filling out forms.  It would be expensive to fix just for a work permit.  Couldn't I wait until October and then use the birth certificate we already had?

I didn't want to, but I waited.  And for a while having both a real birthday and a fake birthday was great.  I had a funny story to tell my friends.  The strange circumstance made me feel unique, special.  We even started having a small celebration in October.  Two birthdays, how fun!

But there were drawbacks. The five months between May and October were prime.  Waiting until October meant missing a whole summer of washing cars or handing out happy meals. Knowing I was really old enough, just not on paper, made me feel punished for no reason.  The next year it was my driver's permit that was postponed.  That's when the quirk of my birth certificate became intolerable.  I decided that someday I'd fix it.  Even if my parents couldn't, or wouldn't; I'd figure it out on my own.

And 6 years later I did.  I don't know how I fell upon a plan.  I'm not really plan oriented.  But I decided to take a day off in the middle of the week and figure it out.  I was living in Asheville by then, and I called Mom to tell her what I was up to.  I was hoping for a word of encouragement.  I was afterall resolving a long-standing family curiosity.  But instead I got resistance.  The more I tried to explain the more upset she became. "Why can't you leave it alone!?" Mom finally yelled, and the line when dead.  I remember being so puzzled by her reaction.  I wasn't asking her to do or pay for anything.  I was taking care of it on my own.  What was going on?

First I called the hospital where I was born.

"We don't have that information.  You'll need to call the county and talk to vital statistics.  They should be able to help."

I called Wake county.

"We don't have a record of your birth on file here sir."

"Really?"  That was weird. Could I be in the wrong county?  "What about my brother and sister?" I asked and gave their names and birth dates.

"Yes, they're here.  We have their records."

When I asked why Ashley and David had files with the county, but I didn't, the clerk said she didn't know.  She told me to call the state office.

So I called the North Carolina divison of vital records and they found me right away.  So I asked again: why would I be on file at the state level, but my siblings records were with the county?

"Well, were you adopted?"

"No." I said quietly.

"The only way to know for sure is to call the clerk of courts and ask them if they have any record of an adoption"

And so I did.  I remember laying on the floor of my bedroom, writing notes on a small notepad.  Phone numbers and names of departments and contacts as I navigated this strange backwater of government agencies.  At some point I looked down to tight, nervous circles scribbled on the pad.  I put my pen down.

"Clerk of Courts"

"Uh, hi.  I...could you...Look, there won't be, but could you look for adoption records for Joel Allen? Date of birth October 9, 1978?"

"One moment please"

She didn't place me on hold.  She just laid the phone down.  Minutes passed.  I could hear the muffled sounds of the office.  My own breathing through the earpiece.  Until that day, I'd never heard of a clerk of courts.  It had an almost royal ring to it.  I pictured a grand hall with a vaulted ceiling that amplified the footsteps of the Clerk of Courts as she walked to the filing cabinets.  The hall would be dark, like a medieval library, Lit by random wall sconces and those green visor'ed desk lamps you see sometimes.  Maybe there was a suit of armor someplace.

"Yes, I have it here.  Joel Allen, adoption finalized March 16, 1981."

"Oh.  I see.  Thank you."

And like that, in the space of an afternoon, I was adopted.  The birth certificate, my fake birthday, my real birthday.  How old was I really?  If I was adopted in 1981, did I live with my birth parents for the first 2 years?  I pictured a gray orphanage.  Why was this a secret?  Mom's outburst made perfect sense.  But now nothing made sense.