"Yes, but what about your REAL parents?"

Those of you familiar with six-year-old Shannon know that I was a precocious child. That is to say, much more of a smart-ass than someone at that age has any right to be. Those of you who met me, say, 20 years later, I’m sure you can only imagine. I used to explain words to adults that I had just learned, thinking that, since I had previously been unaware of their existence, there were probably others out there in the same boat. Thus you would find me saying things to people about eight times my age like “This says EXPIRATION DATE. Do you know what an EXPIRATION DATE is?” And then, of course, I would explain to them what it meant. (The irony is that expiration dates now mean nothing to me, my boyfriend frequently asking things such as “Babe? Are these the eggs you just ate? They expired last week.” Whatever. They didn’t HATCH, did they? Then they’re ok. Sheesh.)

Anyway. When I entered into Kindegarten and First Grade, that meant interacting with a whole new social group, and lots of kids had questions about me being adopted. Of course they all KNEW I was adopted because I loved to offer up this information. I had learned quickly from reading books about superheros that superheros were either orphans (Batman and Robin) or came from some mysterious birth (Wonder Woman) or were, like me, adopted (Superman). I had not yet read Joseph Campbells “Hero with 1000 Faces” (actually I still haven’t, but that doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it at parties) which explains that the first step of any Hero’s Journey is that the Hero must have an unusual birth. Though I liked the idea of being sculped by an Amazon goddess and magically brought to life like Wonder Woman, and I also enjoyed wearing my Wonder Woman underwear around the house as if it were an outfit, I identified most with Superman.

For those of you who weren’t at Comicon last week, Superman was originally named Kal-el to Jor-el and some chick with an equally dorky name on the planet Krypton. Something bad happened to Krypton, like shit blowing up type bad, and, much like Moses, Jor-el and wife sent lil Kal-el in a magical space-basket to Earth, where he was found by Ma and Pa Kent. Ma and Pa Kent raise him as their own, try to keep it a secret from him that he’s a space alien, but then one day he starts flying and stuff and you guys know the rest.

It always seemed pretty obvious to me that Superman loved Ma and Pa Kent very much and thought of them as his parents. So it confused me, as six-year-old Shannon, when people asked me if I knew who my “real” parents were. Granted, these were other six-year-olds conversing with me so their vernacular was a little limited at the time, but I never missed the opportunity to give them my smart-ass answer: “Of course. I LIVE with them. DUH.”

It was always just a “duh” to me. I realize that not all adopted children were so lucky. I know some weren’t treated like “real” children or given all the love and Pontiac Sunfires they could ever need. I know that some adopted kids have been neglected, or made to feel less important than their brothers and sisters who are “natural children” of their parents. Not me, man. As early as I could remember, my parents had told me “Kelly” (my sister) “came from mommy’s tummy and you came from another lady’s tummy.” I was like, ok, that works. It made sense. And it was just one more think that made me different and special, so I wore it like a badge of honor.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious. Even superman went to his secret ice-cave and talked to the disembodied head of Marlon Brando. I still need to find my own disembodied head of Marlon Brando.