Damsel in Distress' Cry for Help!

Finding Mom

2 January 2008


I am adopted. And by acknowledging that fact and saying that a million times, I have somehow developed an internal cushion that softened each blow that seeing kids hugging it out with their biological parents - in a typical Hallmark tradition – brings.

Growing up in a society which adheres to double standards when it comes to adoption in the sense that it views the adopt-er as perfect examples of charity personified while it subconsciously regards the adoptee as the poor little soul who got lucky but still could not be fully trusted – it was very difficult for me to feel any form of affinity for any member of my adoptive family, with the exception of my parents and one sibling in particular who I must admit treated me humanely.

Whenever I’d feel ‘disadvantaged’ and alone when I was a kid, I’d go to a quiet place – my little piece of heaven – and lose myself in all sorts of imaginings. I remember I had two favourite dream scenarios which I play over and over again in my head: One was that my biological parents finally tracked me down, bailed me out of my misery and they turned out to be filthy rich too which in the end would mean I, the poor little country mouse, ended up getting compensated real well for all the inconvenience I may have suffered from the day I was given up for adoption. My second favourite dream sequence was that I discovered some supernatural powers that in no time catapulted me to the ranks of heroes who saved the world from the possibility of a catastrophic end.

Unfortunately, no filthy rich parents ever came to my rescue and I didn’t develop supernatural powers either - other than my exotic good looks and unnaturally irresistible charms, of course. It is of little wonder then that I resolutely turned my back on my silly little dreams and went on with my life armed with nothing but my ambition, courage, faith and yes, my missing identity.

I am now a fully-grown woman at the age of 28 and living a somewhat comfortable life. No, definitely not excessive but just enough to be able to pay my bills on time (in some occasions, a day or two late) and still have enough to purchase my personal effects such as clothes, shoes, accessories, jewellery, face and body creams, etc – all of which, I am not very happy to report, I am perfectly fine to give up food and nourishment for.

In case I failed to mention in any of the first few paragraphs of this entry, I AM A SHOPAHOLIC. I, Vicky Ras, am a staunch believer of retail therapy and its magical ways of curing transient ills. And now that we finally got that out of the way, let us move on to the conclusion of this blog entry.

As a result of an ugly family debacle that ensued after my mom succumbed to breast cancer, all lines of communication between me and most of siblings broke down completely – leaving me alone and with whoever was my boyfriend at that time as my ‘in case of emergency’ person. It was tough at first, but I was determined to make it on my own and without unsolicited interference from family members who may not necessarily have my best interests at heart. I did mention I am a cynic, didn’t I?

So I got used to living on my own and whatever lack I may have in the affection department, my friends and boyfriends provide for somehow. The rest find their way into my writing. Remember how when I was little I used to sit in my favourite corner to block out negativities and daydream as a form of therapy? Well, creative writing has replaced that. All my innermost fears, happiness, yearnings, pains and secret desires are now translated into words – and that has become my new form of therapy.

A few months ago, in an interview with Faye of Cosmo magazine, I mentioned that knowing my true identity is no longer a priority for me. Living alone has dealt me with so many responsibilities that sleuthing ala Nancy Drew will only cause me to sacrifice certain personal goals. When I did that interview, I didn’t really factor in the possibility that any of my relatives would get ahold of the copy. True, Cosmo is only THE most widely-read magazine in the land, but I somehow didn’t picture anyone from the family as the Cosmo-reading kind – if you know what I mean. But apparently some of them are.

The night before Christmas Eve, I was with my best buddy Dinzo on our way to dinner at Tiendesitas when my mobile rang and it was my brother Doc Francis on the other line. I must mention that the day before that I met up with my brother – after years of no proper communication – to give him my Christmas gifts. He and I had a good talk and it was a cathartic experience to say the least. Anyhow, back to the serendipitous phone conversation. He said someone wants to talk to me and it turned out to be my sister. I couldn’t make out some of the things that she said because she was sobbing most of time – causing me to start welling up as well. I have THE most hyperactive lachrymal gland, if you must know. Long story short, she said she read the article on Cosmo and wanted to reach out, so she invited me to spend Christmas with her and her family and it seemed to me like the perfect time for us to reconcile our differences, I said yes. After all, life is too short to be wasted on unresolved issues.

In retrospect, I’m glad I took that call because I was finally able to piece the puzzle together – thanks to my sister who gave me the full account of my adoption.

Fast facts:
• My mother’s name is Perla Bataller-Gomez. A former teacher who is now suffering from breast cancer. (I knew there was a good reason why I was compelled to get that Manulife EVE Program in the first place!)
• I have two older siblings named Marigold and Victor. According to my sister, Victor is 4 years my senior and is now an Engineer. He also got married recently. Marigold, civil status unknown, is also a teacher.
• I was only 28 days old when my mom gave me up for adoption. Apparently I got so sick and was on the brink of dying when my biological mom signed me over to my adoptive mom – who nursed me back to health. Adoptive mom made biological mom swear never to set foot in our house again and she never did.
• Adoptive mom made her biological children swear never to tell me I’m adopted even after her death – and sure enough, none of them did. Until a few days ago.

Now comes the tricky part: Finding Mom. The first thing I did after learning about the identity of my biological mom and siblings was to go online and google ‘em up. Results: ZILCH! I tried Friendster and got the same disappointing result.

I didn’t know there are still three people in this day and age who are not self-absorbed enough to publish their profiles on Friendster and other social networking sites! Guess I have to move two steps backwards and attack phone directories next – see if there are people listed under Bataller and Gomez who may have a clue on the whereabouts of my blood relations.

Now this may be a little too much to ask of you guys, but I was thinking maybe you could do your part and help a distressed damsel out. *Wink. Wink.*

Ask around. Think six degrees of separation. Someone you know might know someone who knows someone remotely related to my biological family. It’s fairly simple isn’t it?

Though I must tell you right off that bat that there isn’t really something that I can offer you in exchange for doing me this one huge favour, except for the following:

• The exciting chance of putting a distressed damsel out of her misery and finally helping her get acquainted with her genetic roots. Come on, you guys give out a few shillings to the beggars on the sidewalks right? How about setting aside a few minutes of your time spreading the word around or maybe mass emailing my blog and multiply url to friends and acquaintances?
• Think of the number of good karma points you will rack up by doing this. By helping me find my biological family, you could be saving me a few hours and several thousands of shrink time. Of course, I’m NOT into that kind of therapy, but what if I am?
• Finally, once this little mission of ours is accomplished, your name will forever be etched in my memory and when I become famous sometime in the near future (and I swear to the high heavens, I will be!), I will never ever forget you and how good a Samaritan you once were to me.

So, how about that? Did I butter up the deal enough for you guys? *Eyelashes fluttering like Bambi’s* Come on, let this be one of many GOOD things that you will do this 2008.

Save me. You know you want to.


Xoxo,

Vicky