The More Things Change

Finding my Birth Family Part 2

Photo by Elena Crisanti

As America geared up to swear in Trump as the 45th president in January 2017, I was watching the brouhaha from across the pond. I voted from Italy, which is where I currently reside, and it was monumentally frustrating yet oddly comforting to watch events unfold from afar. The distance certainly afforded me a bit of objectivity. I was sure that U.S. television was bombarding its citizens with rhetoric from both sides of the fence in an unending stream. Here in Italy, we were only hearing snippets. The focus is on the earthquake and subsequent avalanche that buried the hotel Rigopiano in Abruzzo. The hope instilled by the discovery of eight people found alive after 48 hours buoyed this nation in the midst of tragedy.

Think of all the songwriters out there scratching their heads and trying to put the state of the country, the unrest, the unease to music. There were tens of thousands of songs born from this turmoil that we would never hear, but which so many were compelled to write nonetheless. So I was researching, writing songs in response to the moment, when I came across an interview with country singer Lee Greenwood that served as the impetus for this post. In an interview with, ahem, Fox News, Mr. Greenwood criticized artists who had come out against Trump or who had refused to sing at his inauguration. He said, “An entertainer should never use their stage as a pulpit to talk about politics or their personal agenda. You’ve been hired to sing and do the best you can to entertain your audience...”

Photo designed on Canva

My immediate thought was wait, but as songwriters, isn’t it part of our job to reflect, through the prism of our own experiences and realities, what we see happening around us? Does that mean we should shut a blind eye to the President-elect’s many and varied failings in the name of unity?

So, okay, admittedly, I get it that many artists didn’t feel comfortable taking sides publicly. I thought Bob Dylan was probably the master at that. Refusing to explain his lyrics and not playing the game on any level (who doesn’t pick up their Nobel?!) had created an air of mystery around what exactly his political and even religious beliefs were. He, as I thought a songwriter ought, seemed to be looking at the much larger picture. However, that didn’t include selling oneself at any cost. His thoughts were in his lyrics; he was picking sides, and he was talking about politics. Mr. Greenwood, despite his claims to keep his politics out of his music, was speaking through his actions as to where his allegiance lay by choosing to sing at the inaugurations of Reagan, George HW Bush, George W Bush, and then Trump.

My feeling was that President-elect Trump’s (just a few short hours after this reflection, he had become President Trump) behavior forced us to abandon the idea of the artist’s public political neutrality. Trump himself, through his words and deeds, left us with little choice. Vote yes, be engaged in the process sure, Americans united certainly, however patriotism to my mind did not include blindly following such a self serving bully of a man who made and broke promises as if they were of no worth, who himself did not honour every person that resided within the country he proposed to run as a corporation, whose man of the people discourse spoke more to his ignorance than to an effort to speak the language of the people. Politics is a dirty business; many a greater man than Trump began with idealism and was ground down by the constant compromise necessary. Nothing I had seen so far had convinced me that Trump would rise to the occasion.

So I would use my stage, such as it was. I would raise my voice in admiration of those artists who had taken a stand against the incoming. If there were a time for neutrality, this was not it.

The Search Continues

Regarding the ongoing search for my birth family. I sent out a snail mail to a candidate for my birth mom. She seemed a likely match, with the same name and living just four streets from the address on my original birth certificate. No email for her, so I sent her a good old-fashioned letter… I wrote that I did not wish to intrude and that I respected her privacy, but I wanted her to know I was doing well, and if she were so inclined, I was open to speaking.

Finding my birth mom and siblings is going to prove very difficult; so many things may have changed, including her surname. The avenue for my birth father, if indeed the name on the birth certificate reflects the reality ( he never signed it, his name was penciled in ), would seem to be an easier path, as his name is very unusual.

I’ve found only one Isell Denson out there, but, nonetheless, repeated attempts at contact through Facebook, emails, phone calls, and snail mail have brought no response. Truly, I’m more interested in finding out about my birth mother and siblings, for now, as the connection can be more easily proven.

I think the next step will be to proceed with DNA testing. Unfortunately, I can only do that from the States so it will have to wait for April when I’m in Colorado as a performer and speaker for the Conference on World Affairs.

In the meantime, I’ve joined all kinds of online search groups. It is amazing how vast the network of searching adoptees is. In particular, my Facebook buddy Eleana messaged me an article about a Facebook group called Search Squad. They are doing amazing things for a lot of people, but so far, my “Search Angel” has unearthed the same information I have already found, though I remain hopeful that with DNA, they may help me dig further!

The waiting was hard. You steel yourself for disappointment while letting hope run wild anyway. When you’re adopted through a closed system, you’re building a bridge to people who don’t know you exist, reaching across decades of silence with nothing but a name and an address. Every response, or lack of one, feels seismic. Below is a moment from that time, opening a letter from a woman I’d hoped might be Shirley.

Sorry for the shaky camera work; this is clearly before I upped my social media game.

The More Things Change

It was 2017 when the seeds were planted to begin searching for my origins while the world around me felt unmoored, artists grappling with how loud to be, how much to risk. Eight years later, as I reshare this journey, I find myself in an eerily familiar moment. I’m struck by how little has changed and how we are still wrestling with the same questions about art, voice, and courage.

I’ve been deeply inspired by the magnificent Pamela Means. Though we’ve never met irl, her music, her humor, and her all-around badassery have long moved me.

When I saw her recent Instagram story sharing her response to being asked to censor herself, I was in no way surprised to see her walking the walk when tested.

The night before her show, she was asked to “be sensitive”, code for censor yourself, to the political leaning of the city hall funding the event.

Now, listen, her songwriting has always been, as the New York Times declared, “Stark and Defiant”. They knew exactly who they were booking.

In these chaotic times, Pamela’s refusal to compromise is a vivid reminder of what it means to be an artist. As Audre Lorde said, “Your silence will not protect you.” I created these found poems (including a blackout poem) using only words from her response to honor her strength and courage of conviction.

I am comforted and exhilarated by the many artists in my life, as committed as Pamela. I admire you and stand with you. Together, we are rethinking tired systems and forging new visions, holding equity, compassion, and creativity at the forefront. Thank you, each of you.