One moment I’m in an orphanage in Tehran, the next I’m sitting here writing this, wondering where “here” is. In the past 33 years I’ve lived other peoples’ lives. I don’t remember being an Iranian or even living in Iran, but I do remember being a Mormon, being on fire, being married, and eventually graduating from grad school. But now all of it has come full circle, and the root of it all stems from being adopted, plucked from one home land and transplanted to another.
And now I face my age, my time left in this existence, and of more disconcerting concerning is my hair loss. Because I don’t have parent knowledge or biological roots, I don’t know what I’ll look like in a few years. How bald will I get? What kind of bald will I be? Should I just shave my head and avoid the rush? All of these questions lead right back to my status of the unknown story of being adopted. I know nothing more of my biological family than when I arrived in this country. I know nothing more of my biological makeup, of my health, of my frailties. Intellectually I know much; personally I know nothing. Where am I?
