A New Identity

As a kid, as soon as my parents settled down for their Shabbos afternoon nap, I’d disappear into the study and read and reread my adoption papers

As Told to Rochel Burstyn

WAY BACK The orphanage ignited long-forgotten memories inside me: the yellow walls! Pink tiles! Even the smell! Everywhere I went people stared. I understood — you can tell a Roma gypsy a mile away. We’ve all got similar high cheekbones coloring eye shape

I ’ve always identified with Queen Esther; besides sharing a name I too was adopted at a young age and wasn’t raised by my biological parents.

I wonder how much Queen Esther knew about her parents. Did she like me stare in the mirror wondering if she looked like her mother? Her father? Grandparents? It is difficult to move securely into the future when your past is a mystery.

I’d always been filled with curiosity a desire to connect to my roots. As a kid as soon as my parents settled down for their Shabbos afternoon nap I’d disappear into the study and read and reread my adoption papers mouthing the unfamiliar names to myself. (“Timea” was the name on my birth certificate.) When I was 13 my exasperated mother told me — to my delight — “I know what you’ve been doing. Here keep the whole file.”