I come from a people who believe most fervently in the circle and cycle of life. In fact, the circle is incorporated into many of my homeland's most sacred icons and symbols.

I was born in Cork, Ireland in 1960. I was placed for adoption through the auspices of a mother-baby home in Cork and U.S. Catholic Charities (Philadelphia). Through the Byzantine network that is the Roman Catholic Church, a childless couple from Philadelphia somehow heard of my existence and availability and adopted me into their American home, followed two years later by a brother (not mine by birth) from the same mother-baby home.

My growing up was relatively uneventful: something straight out of the Cleaver Book of Parenting. Nice neighborhood, nice friends, excellent Catholic schools, summer activities galore, girl scouts, piano lessons. My adoptive parents provided every opportunity for my brother and me. They were also, thankfully, truthful from the very beginning concerning our adoptive status. I grew up comfortable in the knowledge that I had been "specially chosen" and had the added status of being "imported."

There was always a lurking question, though, that I was confident would one day be answered: who am I, really?

I sat on this question for a long time, allowing it to surface a little along with my hormones when I hit adolescence. I suppose my mother had long prepared herself for this moment, and was appropriately armed with basic non-identifying information. This included my birth name and papers pertinent to the time frame surrounding my adoption (passport, vaccinations, adoption decree, etc.) Unfortunately this left a giant black hole preceding my arrival in the United States.

The arrangements leading up to my adoption were not finalized until I was almost two years old. I arrived at JFK Airport in New York in December 1961, all of 18 months old. Bless my adopted mother's head, she had not received any other identifying information from either Catholic Charities or directly from the mother-baby home in Cork. But she gave me what little she did have, and although it made me that much more comfortable knowing she was willing to share this little bit, the question loomed larger now: okay, I know the where, when, and my name tag, but who am I, really?

All through school, I was considered exceptionally bright, well-adjusted and on the spirited, or "stubborn" side. This reckless spirit usually didn't make its presence known, or when it did, it manifested itself in relatively harmless fashion. That is, until my sophomore year of high school — oh, the sweet sixteen of it! I had been dating the younger brother of a friend of mine (I was over a year older than he) all through that year. We shared mutual interests in music: he played drums and came from a musical family, I was actively involved in our high school drama club, sang, danced, acted and also was a member of our drill team and marching unit. We also shared the same circle of friends and a gentle bent toward rebelliousness.

Thinking myself the 'mature' woman in love, my friend and I gradually drifted towards the question of doing "it."

"It," at the time, was not something our crowd generally participated in at age 16 or 17. Most of my peers were still busy rounding second base and here we were contemplating the ultimate act of love. By December of my sophomore year and my boyfriend's freshman year, we had consummated our relationship. Neither of us had been well-schooled in the art of contraception and because God protects children, fools, and drunks, we somehow managed to avoid pregnancy (venereal diseases a mere passing thought-ah! the innocence of the early 1970's!) That is, until the summer of 1977. At the end of August of that year, my keen body awareness told me the jig was up. I shared my news with my boyfriend, who I believe went into a complete and total state of shock, then stayed that way for at least nine months. I did not, however, immediately share the news with my adoptive parents. Although good and loving people, I wasn't sure how they'd react to a pregnant daughter. It also occurred to me that this would be an enormous emotional slap in the face to my adoptive mother, who could not bear children of her own. Now here I was, an obviously fertile 17-year old.

As time progressed, it became unnecessary to say anything to them. I was immediately beset with the most hideous all-day sickness you could imagine. I would wake at six o'clock each morning retching absolutely nothing in the bathroom (and trying to do so in a quiet manner so as not to alert the entire household). My mother was obviously not fooled. I suppose she'd finally had enough of the suspense, and one morning drove to my high school, where she hauled me out of the cafeteria before first period bell and confronted me in her car in the parking lot.

Being a woman of action, her first phone call was to her own obstetrician, to whom she blurted the question, "What should we do?" His unfortunate advisement was to encourage me to have an abortion. She slammed the phone down on him. The next phone call was to our more pragmatic and understanding pediatrician, a man straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting but with the tongue of a sailor: "Goddamn it, Ma (his usual opener). Why don't you have a pregnancy test run first of all so you can be sure? Then call Catholic Charities — they've got the counseling and options available." She followed his advice and marched me first for a test with a general practitioner who was not from our immediate area (my first taste of the politic subterfuge my mother engaged in during this time). She then contacted a local branch of Catholic Social Services, where I met and worked with a social worker named Tess. Tess very frankly gave me my options, which, surprisingly (for Mother Church) included abortion. Although I must say this third option wasn't, er, heavily pushed. Then she met with the very nervous prospective father and me alone on our next meeting and took in-depth profiles from each of us.

At this point in my pregnancy, I was all for keeping my child. The father and I had concocted this marvelous fantasy life of responsibly raising our wondrous child. I called this Phase I.

I quickly learned that my parents' intention was to whisk me off to a home for unwed mothers run by the Catholic Church, where I could finish my senior year of high school away from the prying eyes of my peers, teachers, and neighbors. This conveniently worked out with me leaving school at the end of fall term, Christmas break, as I was entering my fourth month of pregnancy (and just barely starting to show).

I'm not quite sure who my parents thought they were fooling, but in small towns such as ours (for all the cosmopolitan air from its suburban proximity to center city Philadelphia), you could hide an elephant easier than a pregnant teenager. All my friends knew (I had no intentions of keeping it secret), all my teachers knew (they were most supportive throughout and kept in touch with me personally during my "confinement"), and most assuredly the entire neighborhood knew. That's just the way it was. But my parents — in the interest of protecting our 'good name' — felt I'd be safer in the wilds of Upper Darby, PA — a somber, working-class mixture of a neighborhood. St. Vincent's, both home for unwed mothers and for juvenile "problem" girls (oh joy), was plopped down in the midst of this bizarre concrete jungle.

While we were permitted limited freedom to jump on the el trains on weekends and travel into center city, we were forced to maintain strict boarding school-type rules during my stay there. When not attending classes and becoming an expert at spades and pinochle, I kept a daily journal of my feelings, conversations with my friends, my boyfriend, my parents; it was an outlet for me and a chronicle of growing up in a few confusing months. My health was excellent throughout my pregnancy and I was relieved of the continual morning sickness by the time I arrived at St. Vincent's. This was later to be replaced by constant heartburn, suffered no matter what I ate. A girlfriend's mother, another of the supportive adults who treated me not as a pariah but as a real person, suggested my unborn child would have lots of hair. Heartburn was a sure sign, this wonderful Lithuanian woman proclaimed. She was right. My firstborn daughter, whom I named Erin Maureen, clocked in at seven pounds, fifteen ounces; 19 and one quarter inches long, with dark brown eyes and an amazingly thick, long cap of copper-colored hair. All prejudice aside, this child of mine was one gorgeous creature.

But I digress.

Prior to her birth, I was gradually brought around to the idea of adopting out this baby. In all fairness, I was aided in this decision not only by Tess, but by my own acceptance of my adoption and the fact that I had no fear of adoption: it was a relationship I had grown up with and was relatively comfortable with. The father, too, was fast coming to the realization that neither one of us were in a position to support a child, much less each other. I had just turned 18; he was still some months shy of 17. And ultimately, keeping my daughter didn't seem to be an option anyone else in my family would countenance. No one offered support; no one seemed to realize the repercussions of relinquishing a child at that time. Little did I know how deeply that loss would cut, and how much it would affect my psyche. So it was with great regret that he and I made an official decision to adopt our child out. Enter Phase II.

At the same time, Tess was helping me put together the pieces I needed to make application to colleges and begin working on the next step in my life. This was Catholic Social Services' usual clever tactic: move on, forget — push all this to the back. I also suffered some indignities along the way: perhaps they seem small now, but at the time they were heart-rending and emotionally scarring to me and proved to me just how shamefully society still viewed unwed mothers, even in 1978. In my last trimester of pregnancy, my high school was presenting our annual spring show, Brigadoon. The principal role of Fiona was a given for me even before auditions were held. Our director, one Father Sabatini (the Cecil B. DeMille of diocesan priestdom), had earmarked this part for me, knowing that my singing and acting talent, combined with my gift for dialects (especially Gaelic based dialects — burrs, brogues, etc. — which came naturally to me through my heritage made me a shoo-in. Unfortunately, my pregnant situation and location made this impossible.

I accepted this cruel fate, but was intent on going to see the performance and the good friends who were sharing the role of Fiona. My parents — more specifically, mo mother — forbade it. They put their collective feet so firmly into the ground, it registered on the Richter scale. They enjoined the St. Joseph's nursing nun who administered the unwed mothers' wing of St. Vincent's and tried to convince me I was 'too close to my due date' to risk a weekend trip home (this was early April, I was due May 11). They won. I never got to see the show. At least my friends shared with me the taped soundtrack of the music and the stories that I would have normally been a part of. I also had three great girlfriends whisk me off for dinner the night of our senior prom. They decided they didn't want to go and rescued me from the talons of St. Vincent's for a tame evening of dinner and dancing at a popular spot across the bridge in New Jersey.

Not long after came Erin. In fact, on May 11 (the aforementioned due date), I wakened from a dream in which I and my fellow St. Vinnie's inmates in all our pregnant glory were wading/waddling in a local lake and picnic area. When I came to, my bed sheets were soaked. I had broken my water. Being well-trained by the diligent St. Vinnie's staff in birth, the Lamaze method, and its associated trappings, I did not panic. I quietly got up and announced to the house mother on duty, a wonderfully warm woman named Mrs. Johnson, that I had broken my water. Equally calm, she had me shower ("but don't wash down there!" she admonished), check my hospital bag, then went to wake the nursing nun.

Within twelve hours (only three or so of actual hard labor), Erin Maureen entered the world from the tight confines of my rather small teenage body. Actually there had been some initial concern and much x-raying over the potential lack of pelvic span I possessed. I am not entirely convinced it was some innate knowledge Erin possessed: "I know you're giving me up, dammit, and I won't come out!" But with some gentle prodding on the delivering doctor's part, out she came. I agree, though, with comedienne Carole Burnett: it was very much like taking your bottom lip and stretching it over the top of your head.

Before relinquishing this beautiful little person to the unknown hands in the mist (as one adoptee very eloquently put it), I made sure very loudly and persistently that I got the chance to hold Erin, feed her, dress her, and talk with her before we parted. If not for this closure, I don't think I'd be the person I am today. More indignities were suffered when I first discovered the nursing staff had placed a thin piece of masking tape along the top of Erin's nursery bassinet proclaiming in thick black marker: FOR ADOPTION. I went ballistic when I discovered that and stormed the nursery, demanding the nurses remove the offending tape immediately. They did. I was also told I could have no hospital photos taken of Erin. So I appealed to Tess, who said she'd get me some Polaroids after Erin left the hospital. She did.

Erin and I said our good-byes and I left the door open for her to seek me out once she reached the age of majority. I gave her adoptive parents (through Tess) a letter, which was for Erin when she turned 18. I told her I would always welcome her and would always want to know that she was OK. But it would have to be her choice.

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