Blog: The Face Smiling Back at Me

In a back bedroom of the house I grew up in, was a bureau with a drawer full of old family photographs.

When I was a little girl, I used to love to finger through those old photos, trying to pick out the nuts in my family tree.

One picture in particular stood out from the rest. It was an old black and white snapshot of my mother, taken before I was born. Every time I studied her smile, and thought about her life, I wondered if she ever thought about mine.

Although many people who grew up in my hometown remember it as being a throwback of the old television show, Leave it to Beaver, not all families had parents like Ward and June Cleaver.

In fact, I’m certain many did not.

My parents were divorced shortly after I was born, and for the first several years of my life, my brothers and I were raised by my dad, and numerous housekeepers. Luckily, I had a grandmother who stepped in and smoothed the rough parts.

When I turned 18 and moved away from home, I secretly tucked that black and white photo of my mother in my bag, and took it with me.

It wasn’t until I was married with children of my own that I realized I needed to find some answers about my family tree. Where was that woman in the picture, and how could she have left five children, without ever looking back?

I gathered what little information I had, and began searching telephone books, Criss-Cross directories, and courthouse records. I even visited the San Francisco address where she had once lived.

Eventually, my detective work paid off.

I was 23 years old when I finally stood face to face with the smiling woman in the photo. 

Knocking on her front door, I expected to be greeted by June Cleaver, wearing pearls and pumps; instead, I was quite surprised when a plump middle-aged woman wearing a muumuu and slippers met me at the door.

It has been 33 years since that first meeting on my mother’s front porch. I learned a lot of things about her, but more importantly, I learned a lot about myself.

Although the past can’t be changed, I learned that I could change the future. 

I am no June Cleaver, and my family is far from perfect, but when my children and grandchildren finger through old family photographs, there will be no secrets smiling back at them.

They will understand what tree they grew from, and they will know all the nuts by name.