John Callahan may be Portland's most famous adoptee. The
carrot-topped, 49-year-old, feminist-bashing, lesbian-baiting
cartoonist was adopted in Portland in 1951, six years before
birth certificates were sealed by the state of Oregon. His
mother came here from the Midwest to go through her pregnancy
alone at a home for unwed mothers, give birth, then leave
town again. Callahan was adopted from Catholic Charities
as an infant and grew up as the oldest of six children in
the Dalles. In 1983, after spending decades looking at red-haired
women in wheelchairs and wondering if they could be his
mother, Callahan went on a search for his birth mother,
defying social mores and the resistance of his adoptive
parents. He wrote about the search in his 1989 book Don't
Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot.
While the opponent of Ballot Measure 58 continue to work
to prevent birth certificates from being unsealed, Callahan
talks about searching for his birth mother in the days before
reunions became common talk-show fodder, back when the system
told him he was crazy for even wanting to try.
Willamette Week: How old were you when
you found out that you were adopted?
John Callahan: I was very young.
My father took great care to let me know. He used to chase
me through the house and call me a little bastard.
He did not!
No, he didn't.
Do you remember when they
told you?
Maybe two or three years old.
Did people tell you it was wrong to search for your
birth parents?
Oh, of course. My parents, the family doctor. You know
it's the same old thing. You say, 'You know who they were.'
And they'll say, 'Oh, she loved you so much she gave you
away,' but it never satisfies you.
Did your birth parents help you search?
No. I had no clues. I knew my birth mother was not a feminist
because I was alive [laughter]. Please leave that
in there, OK?
But you know that's not true. Lots of feminists carry
their babies to term and give them up for adoption.... So,
how did you find her?
The agency gave a few hints; that's part of the rules.
I think they told me she had blue eyes, light strawberry-blond
hair. But it was difficult because it had such a social
taboo, and people made you feel nutty for doing it. The
doors were all locked back then. But then I started to really
push them. And I really got honest with my mother; I said,
'You know, this is really important.' One day, she gave
me a call and said, 'Come on out. I have a piece of paper
for you.' It was just a name. Just a common name. Annie
something.
So they had the name of your birth mom?
They had it, but they had nothing else. No Social Security
number or anything. So I took that to Catholic Charities.
There was this sort of smarmy, smiley, prickish guy who
was not about to give me the records, but eventually, he
gave me some more clues. I'd be so grateful to get these
clues. And I was going down the sidewalk about an hour later,
and I said, wait a minute, I'm supposed to be grateful?
The clues to my own fucking life?
What kind of clues did he give you?
Oh, like, 'She's from a state that starts with an I and
ends with an S.' Stuff like that.
So what was the breakthrough?
We would play guessing games. He would generalize about
the information and I would guess it down to a specific.
Finally I got the name and the state.
What was the name?
Well, I shouldn't mention the last name.
OK. What was it like when you first knew you had it
nailed down?
I made the wrong call to a woman with the identical name.
Somebody in San Diego. She said, 'I wish I were, you sound
like a nice guy.' It was slightly off. Then we tracked it
a little closer, and I found the right one. I was in the
wheelchair pacing back and forth and a friend, helping me
with the search, got ahold of her sister, in Texas. And
I'm over here listening to him on the phone, and it's like,
"uh, uh," and then I hear him say, 'Oh, she is? Oh.' Then
he hangs up with this sort of stupid look on his face and
says, 'She's dead.'
What did you do then?
I drove around the block a few times and got used to the
idea over the next day or so. It was hard. There's grieving
that takes place when you find out that you don't ever get
to meet someone. When you're really looking for something,
you build it up in your mind. Then I called the sister.
She would talk about my mother and say this and that, but
then she would stop and say, 'But no, my sister never had
a baby.'
She came from a time when women were used to keeping
secrets.
Yeah, it was such a horrible thing to have a baby out of
wedlock then.
How did your mother die?
She died in a car wreck in 1964, so that shows I have the
gene for car wrecks. She had relocated to Denver and was
very strong in the Catholic church and spent the rest of
her life working with orphans in the inner city. She was
an activist type. A young priest was driving with her and
several other nun-like women. They missed the turn and went
over the edge.
You said your mom was an activist. Like social justice?
Yeah.
She could have been a feminist, John.
I don't think so. I heard she wasn't, but I don't know
for sure [laughing].
Do you think it's possible she was a lesbian? She was
hanging out with a lot of women... never married....
No! That doesn't mean...come on now, watch those stereotypes.
You're a liberal.
What do you know about your father?
He died many years before. He had had an affair with my
mother right before he married his wife. He then had a female,
then a male child with his wife. They're two or three years
younger than me. They're both lawyers in California.
Have you contacted them?
I wrote a letter back then to my brother. He was young
at the time. His partner in law was an adoptive father.
He got hold of this letter of mine and he wrote me back
a letter, the most offensive, demoralizing letter you ever
saw in your life. Cease and desist. Get off this tangent.
Years later, my brother called me and apologized about the
letter.
How about your sister?
I'd promised my brother I'd never contact my sister. Their
father died young, a military hero. But then years went
by and I said, screw this. I looked up her number and called
her and explained who I was, cold turkey. She just about
shit a brick. And she didn't believe it, but was very patient
with me.
What did you say?
I said, 'I don't want to move into your life or have any
other contact with you. I'm calling because life is short
and I want you to know that I exist in this universe. That's
all I want you to know.' And I never called her again.
Was your brother angry?
No. A couple years later, in fact, he wanted to come up
and visit. I was kind of too busy. I think it was a case
of semi-cold feet.
Calling your sister, you did exactly what some people
are afraid adoptees are going to do: Promise they won't
contact someone and do it anyway. If you contact them, they
say, it can ruin their lives.
People are stronger than that. It may have shattered people's
lives back in the '50s more. Now it's like a Madonna lifestyle
for everybody. Nothing shatters anyone. You can be a slut
and it's no big deal--and in 10 years, people will still
be amazed that women were able to hide their identity. But
if you want a better story, read Chapter 7 of Don't Worry,
He Won't Get Far on Foot [Vintage Books, 219 pages,
$12]. Can we plug the book?
No.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 12,
2000
|
