Why is it that people, especially women it seems, so desperately want to believe that good exists? Not only do they seem to need to believe it, they are pretty persistent that I believe it too.

Now, mind you, this doesn’t upset me. I just find it, well, interesting. But more on that later.

Here’s what happened after I landed in NYC to begin my new life with my new family…

Not a whole lot, really. I slept, drank bottles, liked the swing, and soiled my nappies – probably prettier similar to what I was doing with my original family. My adoptive parents converted me to Judaism via an orthodox conversion process (for all you knowledgeable Jews out there) and life continued.

Until the doorbell rang.
Which it did.
Just a few months later.

To this day, I have been told only two things about that visit. The first is a story my adoptive mother told me since I was a young girl:

There I (adoptive mom) was, giving you a bottle with your sister playing at my feet. I was on the phone with your Aunt M. And she was complaining — ‘you never tell me anything! I don’t know what’s going on with you!’ But what was going on? Nothing. I had a baby and a toddler and then the doorbell rang. I called M. back and said “well, you wanted me to tell you what’s going on? They want Loren back.”

That day my adoptive parents were served with legal papers to reclaim their rightful daughter.

You pull into the driveway and bound out your door. Jog up the front path and knock on the door. Your friend is expecting you so you try the door. It’s only after a couple of minutes that a nagging feeling begins to creep across your heart. Why isn’t she answering the door?

Stepping off the front stoop you peer through the living room window to only see darkness. And an empty room.

What happens next is straight from a lifetime movie – the “friend” disappeared with the baby never to return. Police were involved and pleas were made via the media. Some time passes, it is unclear exactly how much and then your doorbell rings. It is a man who says he is a lawyer. He represents the people who stole your child. He says you have to sign papers to relinquish your parental rights. He says you are unfit to be a mother. He says your husband does not belong in the United States. He is wearing a well-fitting suit and is extremely confident. You are terrified. You are not well-educated and as a result do not know your rights. Worse still, the stronger this man seems the smaller and more scared you become.

How can this happen? What if they are right? Where is my baby? He says she is safe and happy. He says she is with a better, stronger family. But she is my baby! But what if I am unfit? I am young and not that smart. My husband isn’t here. What is the right answer? What is the strong answer?

We think my parents signed something. They probably did. What happened next was that I was flown from Chicago to NYC in the care of my adoptive parents’ lawyer’s someone. It was my adoptive parents who I am told met me at the airport and for the first time took me to my new home.

I was 4 months old.

I cost $32,000. In 1973.  That is tantamount to $166,714.95 in 2012 according to this inflation calculator. None of which my birth parents received.

My adoptive parents wanted another child and sadly could not fulfill that wish themselves. So they reached out to a lawyer who had facilitated private adoptions for close family friends.

And that, my friends, is where I went.

Here is my answer — yes. And no.

All right, that’s it. Have a great day everyone. (I always wanted to say that!) The answer isn’t that easy, though, is it?

Here is the question part of Ms. Erdmann’s comment in full:

“I understand that the fact that she was “stolen” and “sold on the black market” was not directly related to the conversation (perhaps), but one could not help but want to know HOW she was stolen, BY WHOM, what was her adoptive family told about where the baby came from, and since she was STOLEN, how did she find her birth family. Is this part of Ms. Levinson’s amazing story and journey not something which she wishes to be public?”

Many of you have asked similar questions and I realize I haven’t answered them yet; at least not fully. So with my kids off to school and my coffee warm, here it goes.

How was I stolen & by whom?
In the early 1970′s there existed an industry of private adoption. However, due to demand outpacing supply, some enterprising individuals found ways to increase supply albeit unethically. (For more information please see http://www.amfor.net/babybrokers/) The baby brokers have people in different parts of the country scout for young, financially weak, unsupported women with whom to develop relationships. In my case, a woman named Dolly befriended my mother when she was pregnant with me. A few months after my birth, my parents (who were married, in love, and loved me) needed babysitting help and Dolly stepped-in as many a good friend often does. Unfortunately, when my mother went to pick me up from her friend Dolly’s home, I and Dolly were gone.

I promise to continue tomorrow! Promise!

Topic?

can I (Loren, aka Sara) be really Jewish?

Answer? The consensus at the table is yes because I had a bat mitzvah.

My answer? I’d like another martini please.

cheers!

Here’s the interview: Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and American: A Woman’s Unlikely Background http://bit.ly/Tg9a6c

Last night, we were included in one of the best Thanksgiving feasts I have ever had. The company was fantastic (i.e. smart, cultured, funny AND we got to watch football), the experience was divine (i.e. gorgeous table setting, delicious wine, there were even candles), and the food… the food was out of this world. Even the turkey was good. Seriously, good turkey! But the dessert. Oh my word – the desserts were rock-star!

Pecan pie with chocolate, apple pie with a hint of caramel, trifle (yes! trifle), two kinds of fudge, cheesecake, and did I mention the pecan pie? Focus, Loren, focus! What is this post about…

Pie covered? check.
Turkey covered? check.
Thankfulness covered? Better get cracking!

As with many people, I am thankful for my family, most of all my husband who puts-up with me and my children who, well, let’s just say they continue to challenge me. But that’s not what Moses & Muhammad Walk Into A Bar is all about. This blog is about honestly challenging perceptions and assumptions. And more so, authentically sharing that experience. So with a new cup of coffee, here are some things I’m particularly thankful for this morning.

The Universe — It seems that despite my fear and insecurity, the universe continues to gently push me towards sharing my story. Be it opportunities to receive advice from amazingly accomplished friends (Mr Ryland) or call-backs for interviews from The Takeaway (bit.ly/Tg9a6c). It seems that there is a path along which I need follow and yet despite all efforts to stray, the Universe continues to guide me. I am so grateful for this.

All of you readers — I am so very thankful for you, reader, for continuing to check back despite my long absence, for you who take the time to share a comment (comments are a gift and I am grateful for all of them; even the critical ones!!), and mostly, for continuing to be interested in my voice. Every voice matters and it is an honor to be able to share my own.

I wish you all a meaningful and laughter-filled holiday season, no matter what holidays you celebrate. Just let’s keep being thankful.

xoxo l.

My literal brother,
My figurative brother.

My brother in country,
My brother in blood.

We laughed and teased,
About our sameness and our difference.

One Jew,
One Muslim,
Both American.

Our lives better together
Than they were apart.

It has been a while. I apologize to any who have checked back and wondered about the silence. I could say that life became super busy (which it did) or that work became busy (which it also did) but I know that isn’t the real reason for my absence.

I wasn’t ready to think more deeply.

There, I said it! Whew. Anyhoo…..

It seems it’s time for me to actually sit down and read the Quran, cover to cover, critically. (Thanks to a recent commenter).

So here it goes — this is the version I have chosen because it is a pdf (easy to search terms and make notes).

http://www2.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/koran/Koran.pdf

Here goes nothing!

I am sitting in a corner in a small room, on a loosely coiled orange extension cord (don’t ask). The walls are beige and in need of a new paint job. Electrical wiring is seemingly haphazardly hung along the ceiling and corners where the walls meet. There are flats of iced tea and ramen noodles along the back wall with a microwave perched atop a cabinet. I try to take it all in yet am struck only by the sea of eyes.

The women are silently lined up alternating between bowed heads and fully prostrate bodies. They move lithely and with grace. But in the back of the small room, I sit near the children. Who, as with all children, talk and laugh, poke each other, and play games. It is not their voices or their games; nor their varied attire of traditional Muslim mixed with the classic American style —  it is their eyes. Eyes that I realize I have longed to see my whole life.

I saw those eyes on Friday evening when a most generous new friend, S., brought me to her masjid for family night. Did you know that mosque is simply the American word for masjid? While I had attended prayer for Eid (the festival marking the end of Ramadan) it was held at a banquet facility due to large attendance. That made this my first time going to an actual mosque. I half expected to have some type of emotionally moving experience while my other half was wishing I had a cup of coffee to stay awake. S. informed me that prayer began at 8:30 pm and the whole evening was expected to last until around 10:15 pm. My normal bedtime is a pathetic 9:30 pm — lame. I know.

There I was at evening prayer in a masjid. As I mentioned, I was expecting to experience many emotions: surprise, hesitation, concern, maybe even some fear. But I was not expecting what struck me the hardest; a sense of coming home mixed with longing for a shared history I will never have. Because even though it was my first time in a mosque, this could have happened anywhere. A playground. A sidewalk. A classroom. It did not matter where. What mattered was the eyes. For the first time, I swam in a sea.

A sea of eyes. Eyes like mine.