When I was growing up, all I wanted was to look like someone.
Fortunately, my big sister was also a tall blonde so even though we were from a Middle Eastern family and our blond hair and blue eyes made no sense, people figured since there were two of us there must be some seriously powerful recessive genes at work.
When I was twenty two, I met my birth family.
First my birth mother, half brother and sister, and my stepfather.
Then my birth father and all his brothers and sisters.
I’ll never forget someone showed up to my birth father’s house with a box of “It’s a Girl” cigars.
I have my birth mother’s eyes.
And her hands.
I have her spirit too – all friendly and funny.
But the rest of me reminds me of my birth father’s side of the family – my long face, my big lips, my round butt.
Example 1 – my cousin and her daughter:
Damn, if we don’t look like relations then I don’t know anyone who does.
Example 2 – an app which turns you into the opposite sex:
Now tell me I’m not the spitting image of my birth father in THAT picture.
It’s thrilling really, to actually look like someone.
Not a day goes by that I don’t get a kick out of looking like Sherri and Paul.
It’s one of the gifts of reunion I never take for granted.
I finally know where I come from.