Real

There are some words I just don't care for. Phlegm. Diphthong. Real. Yes, real. Most people wouldn't add "real" to their list of disliked words. It seems odd, really, to almost hate such a plain, unassuming word. Real. The thing is, I really don't like it. In some cases, I'd even venture to say I hated it.
I've known that I was adopted forever. I never had one of those Jerry Springer-esque moments: "surprise, we aren't actually your parents!" I've always known, sometimes even forgot. It was never a big deal to me. I'm adopted...and?? Growing up in a small town in Ohio, everyone knew your business, sometimes even before you did. My being adopted wasn't a secret. It was, however, something kids thought they could use against me. One girl, my nemesis, who we will call "Kristie," decided to tell me that I wasn't a real kid because I was adopted. Being the ever more mature and sensible sixth grader, I proceeded to punch her in the face, because, after all, if I wasn't a real kid, it couldn't have really hurt to be punched by me. Apparently, I was real after all. When kids would be ugly, I could remind them that my parents choose me, theirs were stuck with them.
As I got older, people would react strangely. I'd say something in conversation and the look of shock and awe said it all. "Oh, I didn't know you were adopted!" Then I get asked THE question...the one every adopted person will be asked at some point in their life.  "Do you know your real parents?" My real parents, I'd ask. They would stutter for a second then say, "You know, your real parents." I'd take a deep breath, try to tone down the defensiveness in my voice, and then begin their education. My real parents, as you call them, live ten minutes down the road from me. My real mom stayed up with me when I was sick. She took me shoe shopping. She was in the delivery room when Hannah was born. My real father taught me to fish. He walked me down the aisle at our wedding, and likes his Chihuahua, Rita, almost as much as his kids! Real doesn't mean we share DNA. Real is being a family. My brother Adam was adopted from South Korea. He is my real brother. We fought just as much as biological siblings growing up. I also felt immensely protective of him when kids in our one stoplight town would make fun of him; calling him "flat face." I recall threatening to give one little boy a matching flat face if he picked on my brother again. Last month, he became a father, and I an aunt. I adore my real nephew.
When I get around to the meaning behind their question, the answer is yes. I know a few things about my biological parents. I know that he had glasses and is therefore the reason I have glasses (gee thanks for that genetic gift). I know her name, which, for obvious reasons, I will not use here. I know that they were in high school. My aunt went to school with her. She saw her a few years ago and learned that she is now married and has a daughter. I'm often asked how I feel about that. Truth be told, I'm happy for her. I am thankful that she was brave enough to give me up for adoption, knowing that she wasn't ready. I'm happy that she was able to have a family of her own. I do not, however, feel the need to meet her. I respect her privacy, as I hope she respects mine.
Sometimes you can tell if a person is adopted. My brother in law, Nickalas is black. My in-laws are not. Adam is Korean, my parents, not so much. I happen to look a lot like my mom. Just lucky I guess.  Adoption does leave a mark on kids. You can't see it, it's deep inside. It's knowing that you were loved enough for someone to put your needs above their own wants. It's knowing that you were wanted, prayed for, and your arrival was celebrated. That's what's real.