why "sharon ruth"?

No, it's not the name on my American passport, or on my drivers license. It's the name given me by my birth mother. It's the name on a Canadian passport with a small photo of a two week old baby with a sad, far-away look. It's the name I didn't know I had until I was nearly 40 years old.

My parents adored their two adopted daughters. They showered us with attention, affirmation, and love. We were the answer to their prayers.

I heard "fair" when, in answer to the question, "How did you get me?" my mother told me that a lady from the welfare agency brought me to her and put me in her arms. I pictured a sort of gazebo at the county fair, near the displays of pies and vendors of hot dogs, with babies on a shelf on the perimeter. I imagined my mother (and sometimes my dad) walking around, looking at all the babies and finding the best one--me!

I also spent some energy wondering about why the lady who gave birth to me couldn't keep me and loved me so much that she wanted to find a family that could take care of me. Was she dead? Did she die in a car accident? Did she die of a terrible illness? If she was still alive, what if her circumstances changed and she was now okay? What if she came back for me? What if she was mean? Could I claim my parents as my "real" parents and cling to them? What if she was nice? How would I figure out then where my loyalties should go?

One of the less obvious gifts of being adopted is that there is a secret alternative identity that might perhaps be re-appropriated some day. Maybe, I'd think, I really am a princess, and my father, the prince, will come and claim me. Maybe they were very rich, and would step out of their limousine to reclaim me. My father would be tall, in a pinstripe gray suit, have lots of wavy hair. My mother would wear a tailored suit, a small hat, and gloves. They would stand there, beckoning, perhaps with an armload of presents. My adoptive parents would stand empty-handed, but with hearts full of love, eyes imploring, in the doorway of our modest bungalow. Would I go? Would I stay? As I grew older, my fantasies changed. Maybe my parents were young and madly in love. Maybe they had a falling out, went their separate ways. Maybe I have a birth father that doesn't know I exist. Maybe they reconciled and would return to reclaim me. Maybe my birth mother was mentally ill, crazy, institutionalized somewhere with a terrible disquiet of mind that I would inevitably inherit...

The real story of my birth mother is largely untold. I spoke with her twice by phone, once my mother gave me my adoption papers, which actually contained her name, and the name she had given me: Sharon Ruth. It was the name on the Canadian passport with my baby picture, that my sister had discovered (along with another one with her baby picture in it) when she helped my parents move out of their big house to a retirement community. My mother had lied, the only bald-faced lie I ever knew her to tell, and said she didn't know the name of my birth mother. When I asked her about that, I think she said she'd "forgotten." That didn't seem plausible to me. I think she was afraid for me, and still more afraid for herself.

Sharon Ruth still is a name with possibilities, an identity into which I sometimes imagine slipping if my present life becomes too unbearable. It's a sort of secret escape route, or a Superman costume in the back of my closet, or a spy's cache of extra passports.