I left my father’s assisted living flat white as a ghost. I was carrying a document I had just found there that held some very personal information. For as long as I could remember people were asking me - as an adoptee, if I didn’t want to search out my birth parents and if not, then why. The answer was simple - who gives a shit! I’m not saying I’m angry about it. And this ain’t the fucken Oprah show, so we aren’t gonna be out the handkerchiefs. It just was what it was, and it didn’t come as a shock to me like it does to people that only find out the truth of their adoptions as adults. I knew all about it from the very beginning. The only shock was that I found information without searching and now it was. before me: just like that.
I was in a bit of a rush that day, as my old friend L. was in Montreal from New York and had invited me to come see a Reggae show at Les Bobards. For this reason the document remained unopened.
We had met while attending the same moronic Jewish institution known as Herziliah High School. Strike that - attending is the wrong word. We met while avoiding the place like the fucking plague! To this day I want to sue these shmucks. What kind of high school in Quebec divides it’s daily curriculum up like this - Hebrew, Jewish history, English Lit., Prophets, Math, Talmud, and finally, French. That might hurt a young man in the workplace, n’est ce pas? There was a similar high school in town called Bialik, but over there they taught you Yiddish too. With that under your belt at least you could negotiate with your Nazi captors or find a decent job in the garment industry!
When I walked into the bar L. was already seated and had ordered us up some beers. I guzzled mine down before even making a proper greeting.
‘What’s this? What’s wrong now?’ she asked.
She knew all about my history so it didn’t take much explaining. ‘Give me that fucking thing! Let’s see what it says.’ I gave it to her.
‘This is how they did secrecy in the 60’s!? Liquid paper!! That’s shoddy work!’
Both my parent’s names and mine were all whited out on the document. L. made short work of scratching the gunk off with her fingernail as I anxiously watched. Now, there had always been a question as to my true heritage. Not just on my part, but amongst everyone that had ever seen or heard that I was uncircumcised. Not only that, but due to certain facial features some people were certain I had First Nations blood coursing through my veins, an idea that I found quite enchanting. I often dreamt of walking up to some paleface asshole and telling him that he spoke with forked tongue.
L. began laughing.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ll tell you what it is Christopher.’
‘Huh?’
‘Your real name, its Christopher Leslie Silzer, har!’
I just stood there flabbergasted. That was the fruitiest name I ever heard. So much for hanging out on the rez. Nope; now I needed to go out and buy a dress and get my pussy waxed instead.
The Reggae band came on stage. Appropriately to my mood, the group’s name was Inwards.
