Out of curiosity after seeing a picture of my father with what I consider blue eyes, I specifically googled his eye color and this is the answer which came up:
Blue eyes.Light blue eyes…At least thats what it says in his autopsy.
The autopsy report does read “light blue” which is a little bizarre. I am assuming this remark had to something to do with the death glaze. His eyes were defintely dark brown in life.
The picture does make it seem as if his eyes were deep blue, or maybe grey. I realize this most likely has to do with the way the image was developed. Kind of a sepia tone, not sharp color. Most images of my father were in black and white, at least those I’ve managed to find, so because of his heritage one automatically assumes, I believe, his eyes were brown. This is something I know, yet when I saw this image, my mind began to question my memories.
Despite how many of my dreams regarding my father, not dreams of him, but those in which a description of him was important, blue eyes became a theme. Instinctively I knew his eyes were brown, I wanted my own eyes to be brown because of my need to look like my parents, believing I think, my eye color would somehow connect me to them, prove I did not belong in the family that raised me. This in itself was important for me to recognize because although I was not born into the family which raised me, everyone, with the exception of Ian my youngest brother, had blue eyes. This fact made it seem that indeed I belonged with this family. Why then did I never feel I connected to them, questioning my own appearance and suspect I was adopted?
My eye color has been the most difficult aspect of my appearance for me to accept. It is perhaps my greatest stumbling block preventing me from confirming my own heritage. We place a great deal of trust in our physical appearance matching those of our relatives, so of course with ones first impression of me, I do not display the necessary connection to my parents. Therefore there is this continual need to justify why there is not a outward representation making it obvious who I am. My son becomes the answer because his physical appearance seems to bare an obviously strong resemblance to my father.
So to see this image of my father with eye color closer to mine, the sense of belonging is also stronger. Without verifiable proof, without physical evidence tying me to either of my parents, perhaps one could begin to understand the difficulty of claiming my own birth right – becoming an island because there is no way to connect me to the very family I was born into. This leaves an emptiness which craves recognition. This ensures loneliness on a level most cannot comprehend. This prevents me from trusting in my own self, my judgements, my ideals, my certainty of belonging. To tell my story requires complete faith in this void having substance simply because it is there, it confirms my existence. Our personal power stems from complete understanding of who we are, therefore mine was eroded before it had a chance to completely develop. Getting it back not as easy as one would hope.
Perhaps I will never be able to prove who I am, this is blatantly obvious as I continue on my path. In the beginning, once I understood who my father was, more so than my mother, I believed my story was important. As the days go by, especially living in Canada, I wonder how my story can even be relevant. Over 60 years have passed since my birth, the worlds tumultuous situation seems so very far above the importance of my story, and yet there are these breakthrough moments of clarity, it is indeed going to have its day in the spotlight. Perhaps it is just my selfish need to go home, to be with family, which inspires these thoughts, knowing I cannot do so until I have the proof needed to verify my identity. I cannot be sure. A part of me is very angry though because until I am able to retrieve what I know is meant for me, not for ambitious reasons, just the sense of belonging, I will be stuck in limbo. Therefore, the knowledge since returning to Canada, I do not belong anywhere is terribly strong, the emptiness which accompanies this understanding is very difficult to bear now, more than ever.
Being grateful for all that was done for me in order to basically save my life, does not have bearing on what I am going through since coming back here. The overwhelming sense I have lost my one opportunity to find home, to find my people weighs heavy on my mind. My desire for all this false pandemic crap to end is directly connected to my need to find a way to return to my place of birth, to make it count. How do I find meaning in what I went through if I cannot come full circle returning home, the physical place. I have already returned home in my heart, which happened the moment I accepted who my birth father was, but I know there is more.
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