Why I travel to France
Jul 6, 2012 2:38:19 GMT
Post by htmb on Jul 6, 2012 2:38:19 GMT
Though I have often visited the Any Port forum many times over the past few years by following links posted on TA, I had not spent much time reading through posts here until last month when I became an official member. I have been enjoying posts from the past, as well as new ones, and even began participating a bit as I anticipated my most recent trip to France (I followed kerouac’s directions through CDG to the RER into Paris). I thought that since I am new I would tell you a little bit of my background, as well as explain why I travel to France.
I was born in Tampa, Florida and am a “baby boomer.” I’ve lived in North Florida the majority of my adult life, am the mother of four adult children, and grandmother to several very young grandchildren. We are quite a child-centered group! I’m also an educator and work with academically advanced high school students in my profession.
My parents, grandparents, and several of my great-grandparents were also born in Florida. In the late 18th century my paternal grandmother’s maternal ancestors traveled to New Smyrna from Minorca, Spain as indentured servants to Andrew Turnbull. Her father, who was from Scotland, worked for the Florida Eastcoast railroad beginning in the late 19th century, and the family lived in Miami for awhile at a time when it was complete wilderness. The story goes that my great-grandmother insisted they move to Tampa because of the sounds of panthers screaming in the swamps of south Florida. In Tampa, my great-grandfather went to work for the railroad built by H.B. Plant. My grandmother later married my paternal grandfather, a plumber in the shipyards, and his family completely disowned him because he had married a Catholic.
My great-grandfather on my maternal grandmother’s side was a concert violinist. Both my great-grandmother and grandmother attended college, rare for women at the time. They were very kind and gentle people. I’m not sure what attracted my grandmother to my paternal grandfather, but assume she liked the “bad boy” type, which is exactly what she got.
I know a good bit more about my family’s history, especially since some of my mother’s cousins have done searches and family trees going back to the American Revolution, but assume you get the idea. However, all of this ancestry has really just been borrowed by me because, as an infant, I was adopted.
I never remember NOT knowing that I was adopted and give credit to my parents. I always felt loved and cherished. I was told they picked me out of the nursery at the hospital because I was “the most beautiful baby there.” They took me home three days after my birth. As I got older, I sensed that any demonstration of curiosity I might have about being adopted caused a lot of pain, especially with my mother. She would dissolve into tears and leave the room if I hinted I had questions, so I learned to keep them to myself.
As I got older I often wondered about my family background, especially when the time came to write about our “ancestors” in school. Who did I write about? I knew the stories about my parents’ families, but wasn’t it cheating by also claiming to be related to those folks? I knew I was loved, but I was so different from everyone. They were loud, gregarious, and out-going; I was quiet and introverted. They had lots of friends; I had a few very select friends. My parents were my parents, and my extended family (a very large one) was my family, but who had I really come from and what was my biological family background? I hadn’t a clue. For all I knew I came from Mars. This didn’t really bother me most of the time, but it was always just “there.”
I was about 18 when my father finally began to open up to me about the circumstances of my adoption. My mother, who had several miscarriages and had been warned not to get pregnant again, had a physician who basically brokered babies. He arranged for young women who were pregnant and wanted to give up their babies to come to Tampa from “New York,” though I suspect they were from various parts of the northeastern United States. The doctor worked with Catholic Charities to place babies with adoptive families. The adoption laws in the state of Florida were very loose back then and this doctor had a lot of power in placing babies in adoptive homes.
It turned out that the reason my mother became so upset whenever I tried to ask questions was because my biological family had tried to get me back at some point early on, causing my adoption to be rushed through by the doctor, my parents’ attorney, and the judge (I figured most of this out later). My mother was constantly fearful that she would lose me, and now I had more to think about. They wanted me back? What’s the whole story here?
When I reached my forties I became ill and, though it turned out to be something not all that significant, I used the opportunity to apply to the Florida courts for the release of all my adoption records with the hope of getting medical information. Whenever I’d go to a new doctor I could never answer those family medical history questions. It would be nice to know what to look out for (or maybe it’s nice not knowing). My parents had just died and I figured I no longer needed to be protective of them. I got copies of my original birth certificate, adoption papers, and a report from the Catholic Charities caseworker, but not much else. The involved parties were all dead or had dementia, and both the hospital and attorney’s offices had lost their records in mysterious “fires.” I also hired someone who specialized in adoptions to look into my case.
The investigator met many dead ends and concluded most of the details listed in my papers were fabricated. I also spoke with the adopted daughter of the original physician and she told me her father had made up information for most of his adoptive babies to completely guarantee anonymity. At this point I was so frustrated I really didn’t care that much anymore, it just would have been nice to have some information. The report did state that I had older siblings. Could I have brothers or sisters out there somewhere? Do they even know about me? I will probably never know.
About five years ago, on a whim, I decided to submit my DNA for testing since it had become so easy to do. I didn’t expect much, but maybe I could find out that my physical traits came from what I supposed to be Scottish ancestors. Basically through the testing, and then a little more testing, I not only found out my ancestral heritage, I also had a distant match with someone else!
So, to skip over a lot of details, “Mary” and I contacted each other and it turned out she was adopted as a young child, too. Someone has a cruel sense of humor! However, when she was about fifty, Mary’s older siblings, who had been raised by their parents, found her and she was able to spend several years getting to know them before they died. Mary and I exchanged many emails and talked on the phone. She also sent me a complete family tree of her maternal side, which is where our connection is, and it had the most wonderful French names on it going back to France in the 1600’s! It seems my relatives were Huguenots who immigrated to Staten Island, NY due to persecution. Their relatives later moved to New Brunswick, Canada about the time of the American Revolution, and then down into Maine, which is where Mary was born and raised.
So now I had a bit of family history and, coincidentally, I had just agreed to travel to France for the first time with a friend who would be visiting there and didn’t wish to travel alone. I had never been to France, knew no French, and had forgotten most of what I ever learned of French history in school. I found my initial trip to be the beginning of a very new chapter in my life and I have returned every summer for a total of five years. Each time I go I learn more about myself as a person and delight in the wonderful history and culture experienced on my trips.
I occasionally scan the Internet for possible relatives and have followed some leads via Mary, but I find I am content with this little bit of information. I am grateful to have been raised by such loving parents, and am thankful for the richness my visits to France have added to my life.
I was born in Tampa, Florida and am a “baby boomer.” I’ve lived in North Florida the majority of my adult life, am the mother of four adult children, and grandmother to several very young grandchildren. We are quite a child-centered group! I’m also an educator and work with academically advanced high school students in my profession.
My parents, grandparents, and several of my great-grandparents were also born in Florida. In the late 18th century my paternal grandmother’s maternal ancestors traveled to New Smyrna from Minorca, Spain as indentured servants to Andrew Turnbull. Her father, who was from Scotland, worked for the Florida Eastcoast railroad beginning in the late 19th century, and the family lived in Miami for awhile at a time when it was complete wilderness. The story goes that my great-grandmother insisted they move to Tampa because of the sounds of panthers screaming in the swamps of south Florida. In Tampa, my great-grandfather went to work for the railroad built by H.B. Plant. My grandmother later married my paternal grandfather, a plumber in the shipyards, and his family completely disowned him because he had married a Catholic.
My great-grandfather on my maternal grandmother’s side was a concert violinist. Both my great-grandmother and grandmother attended college, rare for women at the time. They were very kind and gentle people. I’m not sure what attracted my grandmother to my paternal grandfather, but assume she liked the “bad boy” type, which is exactly what she got.
I know a good bit more about my family’s history, especially since some of my mother’s cousins have done searches and family trees going back to the American Revolution, but assume you get the idea. However, all of this ancestry has really just been borrowed by me because, as an infant, I was adopted.
I never remember NOT knowing that I was adopted and give credit to my parents. I always felt loved and cherished. I was told they picked me out of the nursery at the hospital because I was “the most beautiful baby there.” They took me home three days after my birth. As I got older, I sensed that any demonstration of curiosity I might have about being adopted caused a lot of pain, especially with my mother. She would dissolve into tears and leave the room if I hinted I had questions, so I learned to keep them to myself.
As I got older I often wondered about my family background, especially when the time came to write about our “ancestors” in school. Who did I write about? I knew the stories about my parents’ families, but wasn’t it cheating by also claiming to be related to those folks? I knew I was loved, but I was so different from everyone. They were loud, gregarious, and out-going; I was quiet and introverted. They had lots of friends; I had a few very select friends. My parents were my parents, and my extended family (a very large one) was my family, but who had I really come from and what was my biological family background? I hadn’t a clue. For all I knew I came from Mars. This didn’t really bother me most of the time, but it was always just “there.”
I was about 18 when my father finally began to open up to me about the circumstances of my adoption. My mother, who had several miscarriages and had been warned not to get pregnant again, had a physician who basically brokered babies. He arranged for young women who were pregnant and wanted to give up their babies to come to Tampa from “New York,” though I suspect they were from various parts of the northeastern United States. The doctor worked with Catholic Charities to place babies with adoptive families. The adoption laws in the state of Florida were very loose back then and this doctor had a lot of power in placing babies in adoptive homes.
It turned out that the reason my mother became so upset whenever I tried to ask questions was because my biological family had tried to get me back at some point early on, causing my adoption to be rushed through by the doctor, my parents’ attorney, and the judge (I figured most of this out later). My mother was constantly fearful that she would lose me, and now I had more to think about. They wanted me back? What’s the whole story here?
When I reached my forties I became ill and, though it turned out to be something not all that significant, I used the opportunity to apply to the Florida courts for the release of all my adoption records with the hope of getting medical information. Whenever I’d go to a new doctor I could never answer those family medical history questions. It would be nice to know what to look out for (or maybe it’s nice not knowing). My parents had just died and I figured I no longer needed to be protective of them. I got copies of my original birth certificate, adoption papers, and a report from the Catholic Charities caseworker, but not much else. The involved parties were all dead or had dementia, and both the hospital and attorney’s offices had lost their records in mysterious “fires.” I also hired someone who specialized in adoptions to look into my case.
The investigator met many dead ends and concluded most of the details listed in my papers were fabricated. I also spoke with the adopted daughter of the original physician and she told me her father had made up information for most of his adoptive babies to completely guarantee anonymity. At this point I was so frustrated I really didn’t care that much anymore, it just would have been nice to have some information. The report did state that I had older siblings. Could I have brothers or sisters out there somewhere? Do they even know about me? I will probably never know.
About five years ago, on a whim, I decided to submit my DNA for testing since it had become so easy to do. I didn’t expect much, but maybe I could find out that my physical traits came from what I supposed to be Scottish ancestors. Basically through the testing, and then a little more testing, I not only found out my ancestral heritage, I also had a distant match with someone else!
So, to skip over a lot of details, “Mary” and I contacted each other and it turned out she was adopted as a young child, too. Someone has a cruel sense of humor! However, when she was about fifty, Mary’s older siblings, who had been raised by their parents, found her and she was able to spend several years getting to know them before they died. Mary and I exchanged many emails and talked on the phone. She also sent me a complete family tree of her maternal side, which is where our connection is, and it had the most wonderful French names on it going back to France in the 1600’s! It seems my relatives were Huguenots who immigrated to Staten Island, NY due to persecution. Their relatives later moved to New Brunswick, Canada about the time of the American Revolution, and then down into Maine, which is where Mary was born and raised.
So now I had a bit of family history and, coincidentally, I had just agreed to travel to France for the first time with a friend who would be visiting there and didn’t wish to travel alone. I had never been to France, knew no French, and had forgotten most of what I ever learned of French history in school. I found my initial trip to be the beginning of a very new chapter in my life and I have returned every summer for a total of five years. Each time I go I learn more about myself as a person and delight in the wonderful history and culture experienced on my trips.
I occasionally scan the Internet for possible relatives and have followed some leads via Mary, but I find I am content with this little bit of information. I am grateful to have been raised by such loving parents, and am thankful for the richness my visits to France have added to my life.
;D ;D 
, so I doubt anyone would want to share my life.