The search for one's roots

New Ontario law gives adoptees the right to information about their past
August 11, 2008


Paul Zadvorny

The Hamilton Spectator



(Aug 11, 2008) For
weeks at a time, I have sat in Hamilton's Central Library, searching
for my resemblance in the black and white pages of old yearbooks. My
eyes have tirelessly scanned hundreds of headshots, looking for a girl
I imagine has red hair, blue eyes and a smile like my own.
I know my birth mother's face is there, and until new Ontario law
comes into effect, Hamilton's Class of '78 is my only hope of solving
the riddle of my identity.
Searching for people and information held in sealed adoption records
has been a notoriously difficult endeavour for birth parents and for
adoptees in Ontario. I am but one of thousands of people throughout the
province who have had to endure the indignity of being denied the right
to know where we came from.
Last fall we won and lost the chance to know our past when the
government passed the Adoption Information Disclosure Act, only to have
it immediately stuck down by the courts. The government has now
introduced new legislation that corrects its past failure and may
finally provide answers, and perhaps closure, to thousands of adoptees
like myself.
It's a bizarre sensation knowing that for a short time early in my
life, I was someone else. In the few days that I spent with my birth
mother, she named me Christopher Paul 'D.' Thanks to the current law,
the Catholic Children's Aid can tell me little else about my
background. I know my mother's family came to Hamilton from Scotland.
They were Catholic, upper-middle class with three children, my mother
the eldest. She was 16 and heading into Grade 11 when I was born in
September 1976. I know even less about my father -- he was 17 and born
to a German family -- and I'm unsure he even knows I exist.
When I was 10 days old, I became Paul Gregory Zadvorny, son to
parents every child should have. My parents never hid the fact that I
was adopted, and they have always been supportive of my search for my
birth mother. But as a kid, and even now, I've hesitated to discuss my
adoption with them. I fear that I might upset my mum, or make her feel
as though she has somehow become secondary. Consequently, much of what
I have done in regard to my search has been on my own -- which at times
makes things emotionally difficult.
At an early age, my longing for information was sporadic -- often
triggered by family functions and uneasy feelings of not belonging. As
a teen I recall curiously digging through my dad's filing cabinets, in
search of something, anything, to satisfy my need to know. Finally,
lingering amid old receipts and tax forms, I discovered my adoption
papers. I remember crying when I read Christopher Paul D. -- it seemed
to finally make my adoption real. Still, my discovery gave me a clue
and a sliver of hope that one day my search might end, that I would
finally find my roots.
With a starting point, I began to explore my options -- immediately
finding that they were limited. I requested non-identifying information
(where all of the aforementioned details of my former life originated),
and added my name to the Adoption Disclosure Registry. After years of
waiting for a response, I hit a brick wall. I had exhausted the only
active search option provided to adoptees in Ontario.
It became an onerous waiting game. The registry is a list consisting
of tens of thousands of adoptees in search of their past, weighted
against three provincial employees conducting the searches. A veritable
needle in a haystack. Something had to be done.
In April 2005, Community Services Minister Sandra Pupatello
introduced a bill that promised to finally give adoptees in this
province the right to finally know where they came from. I was
ecstatic, and celebrated a moment that I and many others had
anticipated for some time. If passed, Bill 187 would allow adoptees
over 18 and birth parents to get information that had been sealed, such
as birth certificates and adoption orders that would inevitably reveal
identities.
Included in the bill was a "contact veto," which was similar to a
restraining order where a concerned party could request not to be
contacted by his or her birth relative. However, the bill did not have
a universal "disclosure veto" provision that would allow a party to
stipulate that his or her identifying information not be released.
The bill seemed to address both the wishes of the adoptee and birth
parent, and was readily supported by the numerous children's agencies
and adoption groups. It would also have brought Ontario in line with
Alberta, Newfoundland and British Columbia, the only three provinces to
have open adoption records.
In September 2007, the bill was passed. I took comfort that the
answers I sought would soon be available. Two days later, Mr. Justice
Edward Belobaba of the Ontario Supreme Court struck down the law. The
act, he ruled, breached the privacy provisions granted by the Charter
of Rights and Freedoms. In an instant, the hopes and efforts of many
were simultaneously quashed.
Revised legislation was introduced by the provincial government and
became law in May. Its one critical amendment allows either party to
apply for a disclosure veto to prevent the release of the adoption
records if the adoption was finalized before this Sept. 1.
Adult adoptees and birth parents will be able to apply for copies of
original birth registrations and adoption orders starting in June 2009.
Disclosure vetoes, by either party, will be accepted by the province
starting in September.
I am cautious about getting my hopes up once again, so in the
meantime I will continue to scan through yearbooks and make phone calls
to strangers hoping to solve my personal mystery.
There seems to be an unspoken bond between mother and child. It is
an experience that most people take for granted, and one that I
arduously work to attain. It exists between my children and my wife,
and between my brother (who's not adopted) and my adoptive mother. The
optimistic outcome of my search would be to one day experience that
bond.
However, with every idyllic foreshadowing of how my search may end,
I have obviously had to consider the contrary. I cannot begin to
imagine the emotions and circumstances that my mother faced, and thus
have had to empathetically consider things from her perspective. And as
difficult as it may be if she chose to remain anonymous, I would
respect and accept her decisions.
Still, I continue to hold onto hope that one day my search will come to an end.
It is impossible to predict the results of my efforts, so I have had
to prepare myself for whatever the outcome may be -- a harsh reality,
softened by the fulfilment of having tried.
Paul Zadvorny lives in Hamilton. zadvorny@hotmail.com