An essay on when I was lost and found
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Two months after my 15th birthday, my mom shared a secret: The man I called Dad wasn’t my biological father. And just like that, I was half Costa Rican.
There were differences I’d long wondered about, like why among our blue-eyed Irish clan, my eyes were brown. Or why my skin was like the desert and theirs the snow. At every Thanksgiving dinner, I would ask the same question: “Why am I darker?” And every year, Grandma answered: “Because my sisters are darker.” Though I’d never met those brown sisters, her words had been my refuge at my predominantly Irish school in New York City, where I battled students who insisted I’d been left on my parents’ doorstep. In the wake of my mother’s announcement, those teasing kids seemed like visionaries. Despite the fact that Mom believed I was old enough to handle the news, I tried to ignore it at first, hoping to lessen the feelings of betrayal. But my anger wouldn’t disappear.
I went from a happy model student to a moody class-cutter; withdrawn one moment, blowing up the next. I felt torn, split between the only world I’d known and the mystery surrounding my biological father and his heritage. At one point, my confusion even led me to contemplate suicide.
After four years of parent-mandated therapy, I realized that I needed to forgive my family in order to move on. I also chose to close the door on the unknown: It seemed easier to embrace the comfortable side of my life, where I already felt accepted.
But more than a decade later—the year I was to be married—I found myself wondering about my father. I’d always thought that when I started my own family I wouldn’t care about the past, but my incomplete history made me feel less than whole. My pending nuptials made it clear: I needed to learn how to love myself for the sake of my future children. But how could I love what I didn’t know? With my husband’s support, I began to uncover my past.
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Thanks...✊
Lost and Found
It was a regular day for my family. My parents had gone to work; my brother and I had walked to
school. The excitement inside me was about to burst. That day was my first year to attend the Benton
County Fair. I was six years old at the time. There were over a few acres filled with different rides,
activities, games, and all the junk food someone could ever imagine.
We entered the gate having our admission paid; the journey began as we imagined what would be
the best night ever. We hit up the ticket booth to buy tickets, to adventure through all the kinds of
rides. My mom had decided to buy enough for my brother and me to have a sufficient taste of the fair.
As we embarked on the first ride, my brother and I begged our parents to join us and came the
expected response of, “You guys go and enjoy, and we will watch you from the side.” We expected
them to say that for they were exhausted after a long week of work. We passed the remark and
handed the ride attendant our admission tickets for the ride. We took seats right by each other, not
daring to think about another kid riding by us. The ride took off, and the screaming began, even if this
had been the 15mph little caterpillar “roller coaster.”
My daringness from the beginning turned right away into fear and motion sickness. As I reached in
the air just like all the other kids to try to blend in, I tried to laugh and scream in a sense of enjoyment
and pretend to be excited, but really this was the biggest event of terror in my life. Listening to noise
of the wheels of the little cart against the metal rails was the most frightening. As I looked into my
brother’s face, there were my emotions mirrored. The ride swayed and carried to an end, and we met
my parents at the rendezvous point of the exit gate. Abdelsayed 2
They asked, “How was the ride...?” and came out the response of, “It was fun” trying to hide our
pathetic, scared expressions. My brother and I shortly forgot the experience and gazed off to see lessmotion-involving rides. As our tickets began to fade, we explored the park to see the cool things there.
We came to see the huge slide you ride down with a carpet, and saw the kids laughing. I showed no
interest, being tired, and thought to myself, “I can do that next year.” We simply admired the sliders.
My parents had called my name and said it was time to go. As I had been slowly hypnotized by the
amusement, I was separated from the rest of my family. I tried to fight the legs of grown-ups, to follow
my sense of instinct of where they were. But no try connected me back with them. The fair that year
had a lot of attendees and was very busy. I, being six years old at the time, was small in size. So
everything that was in my sight of vision was the tall legs of grown-ups.
I hit the knees of a tall man dressed in brown as a sheriff. He asked me where my parents were. I
confessed to him that I was lost. He asked me, “What do your parents look like?” As I began toexplain
what my dad had been wearing that day, he picked me upon his shoulders to give me a betterlook.
We went through people and around corners for about what seemed to be hours. And when Iwas
about to give up hope, I spotted and recognized my dad’s semi-bald head. I pointed in relief andhe
guided the way for both us.
I was reunited with my family at last. My mom’s sigh of relief was nice to see. My parents thanked the
officer as he greeted them. We ended our trip of the fair, for we were too tense to enjoy the rest. And
as our journey home consisted of repeated criticism for not listening to my parents, I accepted it
knowing that I had done wrong. Shortly after, I drifted asleep to go about the next day like the one
before never happened.