Crowded head

College was interesting for a lot of different reasons

It's where I met him

We haven't had much contact over the last 30 years or so

He was arrested five years ago along with another person

They were charged with horrendous crimes - I can't even talk about that part

The other person pleaded guilty to one of the charges in exchange for a 30-year sentence

Well, 30 years plus an additional 30 years of parole 

One charge for 30 years

You do the math

But the one I know from college pleaded not guilty

Jury selection on Monday of last week

Trial on Tuesday and Wednesday

Guilty verdict by Thursday (the timeline is fuzzy)

Sentenced to life in prison plus another 15 years for a lesser crime

Concentrating on other things has been challenging

Maybe now I can put him out of my mind

I also struggled with "plead" vs "pleaded" - went with "pleaded" because The Google told me it was acceptable. Anything for some levity.

His death. Her sadness. Her death. My sadness.

We converted our guest bedroom into an office when I started working again in March. But doing so meant we had to disassemble the gorgeous bed that was generously given to us about 7 years ago from a friend and her husband. Even now, as I sit here at the desk in the office, I can see two of the torn pieces of tape that he had attached to the various parts of the bed - he wrote different letters of the alphabet on those pieces of tape in an effort to help us put the bed together when we got it home. When we picked the bed up from their house, it had already been disassembled - but he had laid every piece out on the floor, and then walked us through all of it. They wouldn't let us give them anything for the bed. It had apparently belonged to a friend of theirs...and that friend didn't want it back. I don't know very much about furniture, but it looks expensive. So generous. We're moving to a new house in about a month, but there won't be a good spot for this bed in that new house, so it's going to a new home where it will be well loved. 

When we got married, we couldn't invite our entire church community to the wedding - the spaces we used were simply not large enough. We got married on a Friday evening, mostly because our church held its liturgy on Saturday evenings. Following our wedding, we planned to spend a week in a cabin in the woods, but we weren't leaving until Sunday. Knowing we'd be at church on Saturday, she asked if we'd be open to a small celebration with church folks - she'd bake a cake. If you knew her, you already know that if she offered to bake you a cake, you simply did not turn her down.

That small I'll-bake-you-a-cake celebration turned into a second wedding reception, complete with a full meal and live music. And gifts. And cake, of course. Amy's parents said something about going back to church if that's what all church meals were like.

But for us, that's what all church meals were like. She had a gift for hospitality. She had a gift for executing a damn good church meal. She'd buy meat in bulk when she knew another meal was on the calendar. And on the night when a meal was on the calendar, she'd keep a close eye on the number of people in attendance, and if she felt under-prepared (not something that happened often), she'd make a mad dash to the grocery store while the rest of us were in church - those nights, in particular, had a very "loaves and fish" kind of vibe. Those meals were flawless and delicious. She'd accept help in the kitchen, but by invitation only. And if she needed you to make something for the meal, she'd send a recipe instead of allowing you to go off the ranch with some sort of risky experiment. She knew what she was doing.

One summer, we were all at church on a Saturday morning for a plant sale we were hosting. She was there to prepare and serve us breakfast. He showed up with three of the tiniest kittens I've ever seen. They were frequently asked (by the local Humane Society) to foster newborn kittens, so we'd listen to stories of middle-of-the-night feedings and stories of how they were really trying not to get too attached to these babies. She'd send me and Amy emails with pictures of the kittens. Caring for those tiny babies brought them both a lot of joy. And if she had to be at church at a time when he wasn't at home (and therefore unable to take care of a baby), she'd bring a kitten with her....to church. It was fantastic.

About 7 years ago (which I almost said was 4 years ago until I just looked at my Google photos....because where does the time go??), a bunch of us took a 10-day trip to Rome, Italy. Those two were frequent travelers to Rome, and they were excited to show us around their favorite city in Europe. Many years earlier, they had befriended an ex-pat who had made Rome his home....and on this trip, she convinced this friend to take us all out on an Art-in-Rome excursion - and I want to go back to Rome to see more of the things he showed us. On our last night in that amazing city, they made reservations at one of their favorite restaurants on the Piazza Navona - they had already pre-selected (and paid for) the meal and wine (oh, the wine...), and all the rest of us had to do was sit back, relax, and enjoy their generosity.

I never did hear much about how it all went down, but he died during the very early days of Covid. 

Over the last 16 months, I've sent her various emails - to check in - to say hi - to let her know that we were here when she was ready...

There was a part of me that knew I'd never see her again. But honestly, I thought I'd never see her again because I expected her to escape to another part of the country....or Rome. I mean, I understood that death was a possibility, because sadness and survivor guilt are real....but I sure as hell wasn't prepared for the news we received.

She was an intensely private person, and I have decided to mourn her by learning as much about her past as I can. It's actually been a lot of fun - finding high school photos, newspaper articles, family obituaries - all giving me little pieces to a very big puzzle. And I really wish we could meet for dinner somewhere in the twin cities so I could show her the things I've found...and watch her be amazed at my research.

This is a photo of her from high school. I am really going to miss her. Rest in peace, friend.

Inside my head

George Floyd. So much destruction. The sky is so blue this morning! It's beautiful. Minneapolis is on fire. Friends are trying to breathe. What about people living in places with windows that aren't sufficiently sealed? What about the folks with asthma or COPD? What does COPD stand for? I should tackle some of the weeds today. Weeds? You're thinking about weeds? Jesus. Wait - was that a prayer or a curse? Could it be both? It's definitely both. We were supposed to pick up a bakery order today - but they cancelled. Do we have enough bread? Why the hell am I concerned about bread? If we need bread, we'll go buy some. I hate knowing that there are people who can't buy bread. Jesus. Prayer and curse. George Floyd. The video. A fake $20. I watched the video. Maybe that was a mistake. But no - I need to watch. I need to understand. Maybe I'll pull some of the giant weeds first. He stopped moving - stopped talking. George. Jesus. I can fill up the Yard Waste bin. I missed a call - the neighbor's house was broken into. The cops are there. Oh God, are they looking at the weeds? Jesus - enough with the weeds. Prayer. Curse. Facebook. Evacuation plans. Photos. Carry on my wayward son - ha! We just passed Kansas St while listening to Kansas. I know all the songs on the oldies station. George. Cops. Good cops. Bad cops. Weeds. The cat is licking himself. Cats are weird. Facebook - I don't even know what to post. Do I tell people I'm praying? That will piss of the "enough with the prayers!" folks - and they're right. Did I remember to wash my hair in the shower? There are 31 days in May. March April May - my God - May is almost over. Put gas in the car - wore a glove, but not 2 gloves - so had to touch everything with one hand. That was dumb. George. I should make more oatmeal. Why didn't we buy more craisins? Tomorrow is Pentecost. Fire. Minneapolis is burning. National Guard. Writing backwards is more difficult than it should be. Zoom - that word no longer conjures up images of Mazdas. I should be drinking water instead of coke. A fake $20. That plant is dead. I hope the lawn mower starts. The bird feeders need to be filled. Christian Cooper. Jesus. Have I ever had Hot Cheetos? I need to fix the whole in the bathroom wall. Cops. Rubber bullets. Mace. George Floyd. I'm sure they saw the weeds. That glass of wine last night was delicious. I slept great. My friends in south Minneapolis didn't sleep at all. Prayer and curse. Photos. That video. Pray. Curse. Cry. Laugh. Double check my $20 bills. Wait - I'm white. Jesus.

It's been a hell of a year

I know I've said this before, but I really am going to try to write more often. I recently finished a 6-week creative non-fiction writing course at The Loft, and it served as a great (and necessary) reminder that I really do have a wealth of stories to share...but that will only happen if I actually sit down and write!


Ok - so where did I leave off? I believe I was talking about finding the birth mom, and I also believe I insisted on using all the initials instead of the actual names. Don't worry - I'm not going to provide you with last names or social security numbers, but I think I feel comfortable enough to tell you that her name is Ruthie.
We talk on the phone about once a month. I put 'about' in italics because, well, sometimes we play a mean game of Phone Tag. A two-hour time difference can be prohibitive. And then when you add in the fact that I go to bed at 7pm her time (that's 9pm my time - math is hard), it makes things even more challenging.


But Ruthie isn't the reason I pulled out my computer. Let me try to explain....


When I started down this DNA road, I really only had one wish - one desire - one hope. I really just wanted to know who my birth parents were.

That's it.
And truthfully, I wasn't convinced it would work. But it did.


When I met Ruthie, she confirmed that I had been her only pregnancy. I was her only kid. And most of her family had no idea I existed.


She also confirmed the name of my birth father - Larry - a name I had already discovered by researching a DNA-matched 2nd cousin. And after some more research, I knew that my birth father had been married before, and I knew he had 3 kids from that marriage...and I knew he died in 1980. So while my head absolutely understood that I had some half-siblings out there, my heart didn't really feel the need to know or do more.


That all changed on Wednesday, April 11th - one day after my birthday.
That's the day Jenn's 23andMe DNA results came back, and we were matched as half-sisters - we shared the whole damn X chromosome. Same father. And she wasn't one of the Original Three.


We have since made contact with the Original Three - Lorri, Carol, and Larry. On one hand, this news shocked them....but on the other hand, they acknowledged that they hadn't really known their dad very well at all, and I think this we-might-have-more-siblings-out-there thing was always in the back of their minds as a real possibility. Right now, we're just trying to get to know them through email.


But my connection with Jenn is different - it's natural. It's like I've known her forever. Sure, there have been lots of getting-to-know-you emails with her, too - but those feel more like confirmation-of-what-I-already-know emails. It's really difficult to explain, but it does remind me of my relationship with Amy - who has been in my life for less than 10 years , but yet is someone my heart has known and loved forever.


I will never regret the decision to have my DNA tested, and I'll never regret having it tested with 2 different companies. One test delivered a mother (and cousins!), and the other test delivered a sister.


I have more wealth than I ever dreamed possible...and it just keeps getting better.

Gene's jeans, and Jean's genes

Do you know there are 6 possible ways to identify a 3rd cousin?

Definition 1:
My 3rd cousin's great grandparent is my great grandparent's sibling.

Definition 2:
My 3rd cousin's grandparent is my great-great grandparent's sibling.

Definition 3:
My 3rd cousin's great-great-great grandparent is my great grandparent's sibling.

Definition 4:
My 3rd cousin's great-great-great-great grandparent is my grandparent's sibling.

Definition 5:
My 3rd cousin's great grandparent is my great-great grandparent's sibling.

Definition 6:
My 3rd cousin's great grandparent is my great-great-great grandparent's sibling.


When I first decided to purchase a DNA test kit from Ancestry, I did so because a Facebook friend had just posted a story about receiving his results, and how he was finally able to find his birth father....and I thought, "well, there are worse ways to spend a hundred bucks"....and I ordered a test kit for myself.

When the kit arrived, I spit a copious amount of saliva into a test tube...then sealed the tube according to the directions, and dropped it in the mail. At the very least, I thought this would be an excellent way to finally know more about my genetic makeup - specifically, where did my people come from? I've known my whole life that both birth parents were "of German descent," but that's not a lot to go on.

My results arrived on July 31st. I had one 1st cousin match, one 2nd cousin match, one 3rd cousin match, about 950 4th cousin matches, and about 5000 'distant' cousin matches....and more matches showed up every week. I now have a total of 7,346 DNA matches. On July 30th, I couldn't tell you one person to whom I was genetically connected.....and now there are 7,346 connections. That's insane. And those matches have expanded to now include another 2nd cousin match and another 3rd cousin match. Oh, I'm also 53% Western European (specifically, my people are from Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg), 15% Irish/Scottish, 10% British, 8% Eastern European, and 8% Southern European.


I had been secretly hoping for something as close as a 1st cousin match, and I wasted no time reaching out to the person on Ancestry.com who managed her record. I wrote out a bit of my story for this person - that I was born in 1970 - my birth mother was 23 and Catholic - my birth father was 28 and Lutheran - I was born in Monroe, WI and placed for adoption with Catholic Social Services, and grew up in Madison.

I received a response almost immediately. He said that my story sounded a LOT like his sister E*'s story, except that she was born 2 years after me. He connected us via email, and E* and I started communicating that same day.

With the help of her mom and dad, she was able to find her birth parents about 10 years ago....and she had met every one of her birth mother's siblings.....so if we were connected on her birth mother's side, chances were pretty good that she had already met either my birth mother or birth father.

Based on what she already knew about her birth mother's family, E* came up with a possible name for me....on that same day. I had a name of someone who might be my birth mother on the same day I received my DNA results. That's a hell of a lot faster than I ever expected to have known anything (even if it turned out to be the wrong information).

E* turned out to be right - my birth mother is R*, and she lives in Vegas. We talked on the phone for the first time on Nov. 20th....and we met face-to-face on Dec. 3rd.



I have spent a lot of time (consciously and subconsciously) "looking" for my birth mother - looking at faces in large crowds - looking through high school yearbooks (even though I had no idea where she grew up) - wondering if I had her nose, or her eyes, or crooked toes.....lots of looking, coupled with absolutely no finding.

And then, on Dec. 3rd, in a parking lot of a restaurant here in the twin cities, the looking came to an end.

She came with her sister T* (who also happens to be E*'s birth mother) and T*'s daughter S*. T* and S* gave us some time alone at the table - I showed R* lots of pictures of me and my family - and in many of those pictures, I looked a lot like she looked as a young kid.

R* and I don't look as alike as I expected we'd look....but each time I look at the picture I took of her that day, I see the resemblance more and more. T* and S* have since asked if maybe I sent my wife in my place....because they didn't see any resemblance at all....but R* and I both know the truth - she gave birth to me in that hospital over 47 years ago - something she told to very few people - something most of her sisters never knew.



I also now have the name of my birth father. I know that he passed away a long time ago (in the early 80's), so now I'm just trying to find out as much about him as I can. R* told me that he refused to sign my birth certificate (the original birth certificate - the one locked up forever in Wisconsin - the one that lists my first first and middle names - Rachel Marie), so there's really no telling whether anyone out there, related to him, knows about me or not. His refusal to sign my birth certificate is really the last time R* had any interaction with him, so she still has some bitter feelings about him.....and understanding that bitterness, I'm not involving R* in my quest for more information about him....his name is L*.


So, the adventure continues. I haven't told my mom about R* yet, because I really don't think she'd be able to grasp it....she has dementia, and it's been getting worse. I'm going down to NC to see her in a little over 2 weeks....I'll bring my computer and show her some of the things I've found while researching her family history....and then we'll see where that goes. If she's having a particularly lucid day, I might try talking about R*....but that remains to be seen.

In the meantime, I remain incredibly grateful things turned out the way they did. It's really easy to play the "what if" game - what if she never gave me up for adoption - what if I grew up without a dad because he wanted nothing to do with me - what if I had been an only child living in the desert of Las Vegas....but those things didn't happen, so the "what if" game is just that - a game. Real life has been pretty good to me. I have a great family (immediate and extended), I have great friends, and I found Amy....and now I have her amazing family, too. And I'm not taking any of those things for granted.

Life has been good.

Life is good.

And now life has given me R*.....and that's pretty damn amazing.

My crazy-ass leg wound

Many years ago, I spent a day up in Taylors Falls, MN with some friends. At one point, we were right next to the river's edge (the St. Croix River) when something happened and I fell. I was walking at the back of the pack, so no friends actually saw it happen (but they did hear the sound of the splash as part of me hit the water).

When I stood up, they noticed that blood was coming from my leg....but I literally had no idea what my leg might have hit or grazed during the tumble. Anyway, we wrapped my leg up, and then I took some Advil when I got home (when in doubt, take Advil...right?).

Over the next few weeks, my leg appeared to be healing nicely.....and that was a good thing since I had no medical insurance at the time.

But then, about a month after the tumble, I noticed that a red ring was forming around the site of the wound. I might not have been a genius, but I knew that red ring was a problem. So I headed to a clinic associated with a county hospital here in the twin cities (read: no insurance). That's when I learned that the body, in an effort to protect itself, will seal the wound at the surface.....which is fine when it's just a surface wound, but that's not what happened to me. It turned out that when I fell, something actually punctured and penetrated my leg....so underneath the surface, there was a tunneled system of open infection that needed immediate attention. The doctors had to re-open the wound (which was probably the most intense pain I have ever experienced) and then attempt to 'track' the wound to see if bone had been involved. There was even talk of potentially needing to utilize a hyperbaric chamber (intense oxygen therapy to help the body heal itself)....but thankfully, by packing the wound and spending more time with doctors than I care to remember, the wound healed itself without the need for further intervention.


I'm sharing this with you because I had an "ah-HA!" moment the other day....

This crazy-ass leg wound of mine is a metaphor for my own racism.

During the first 3 weeks after I fell, I thought my leg was healing nicely - I mean, there was NO open wound....at all. Skin was COMPLETELY covering the wound.


On the surface, things looked great.

But when the surface was opened, a huge festering and infected hole was discovered.


I don't know about you, but I like to think of myself as pretty accepting of all people, regardless of skin color or race or religion.

On the surface, everything looks fine. I have black friends - I'm good!


But then I catch myself having ugly thoughts.....thoughts that make my own stomach churn with disgust....

Like when I see a black man riding a bicycle.....and I wonder if he stole the bike.


Or when I see a black man in a wheelchair....and I wonder if he was shot during some sort of gang-related war.


Or I see a black woman with several kids, and I wonder if each kid knows who his or her dad is (first, assuming they do not know....and second, assuming there's more than one dad).


Or when I make fun of people who pronounce "ask" as "axe."


Or when I laugh at someone's name, wondering if his or her parents got the idea for the name while shopping for detergent at Walmart.


I hate having these thoughts. Hate it. And I admonish myself every time.


I know this is something within my heart that needs to change, and I will just keep lecturing myself every time it happens. I don't know what else to do.




I'll keep packing this wound until it heals from the inside.


Change begins with me.

Twenty years ago...

I moved to St. Paul in September of 1996, about 3 or 4 weeks after my dad passed away. I moved in with a friend who owned a house on St. Paul's west side - there were actually 5 or 6 of us living in the house (something that is relatively easy to do in your 20's....I can't even fathom that kind of living situation now).

I was surrounded by women who loved to look pretty, loved to wear dresses, loved Jesus, and prayed faithfully for a good, holy husband. And then there was me.....living in a bedroom down in the basement, slowly coming to terms with my sexuality - something I had been secretly fighting for about 10 years.....while in high school in the middle of the bible belt....while in college at one of the most conservative schools in the country.....while in the convent pretending to have a religious vocation.....while serving with a traveling youth ministry team for 2 years.....while back in school on that same conservative campus.....while living in Houston, working as a nanny.....and lastly, while experiencing my dad's death.

That Fall, after his death, I took some of the money from my dad's estate and bought my first computer. And with a little help from my new friend AOL, I ventured out into the crazy world of the Information Super-highway.

Once online, I met Sarah P - she invited me to join a group of women for an evening out.

And that's how I ended up at a gay bar for the first time. Even though I was scared to death, a part of me knew I was taking a huge step just by going out that night.

Going to a bar might not seem like a big deal to you, but I assure you - it was the scariest thing I had ever done.

And that night, at a gay bar, full of folks just like me, I met a group of women who would become friends....and eventually, they became family.

That bar was my safe place, and it remained my safe place for many years. A gay bar.

I never went to get drunk or hook-up. Those things never happened. I simply wanted to be around people like me. At a gay bar.



A sanctuary. A safe haven. A gay bar.



Orlando - I am so sorry.