__________________________________And Now for the Story of my Birth
By Stephanie Kemp
August 27, 2024
I am 57. I have never had a birth certificate until yesterday. (Thank you, State of Michigan Vital Records Department - please know that my experience was awesome until I get around to taking your brief survey, at which time I will go into more complimentary detail.)
I have always wondered why my parents didn’t have a birth certificate for me (or how they might have lost and never replaced it), but this is NOT a Blame the Parents story, I swear! I have been done with those ever since my friend Rose posted something like this on on The Facebook:
When a Kid learns that their Parents are Human they become an Adolescent…
When an Adolescent learns that their Parents aren’t to blame for all their shit, they become a Grown Up…
When a Grown Up learns to forgive themself for all the things they fucked up (and/or did or didn’t do), they become Wise.
Now in fairness (and honesty), what Rose posted was more eloquent and did not include any swear words, but you get the gist.
Back to the story of my birth……
Here’s what I have always known about my birthday:
My mom thought she “had more time,” as I was her second kid and she believed “everything was under control.” This obviously proved not to be true (and could never be true, given the nature and reality of childbirth). Mom had to take a cab to the hospital because my dad was at work and Aunt Frannie was getting her hair done. (Aunt G was probably up north in Alpena, mapping out plans for her restaurant, The Purple Pickle, or making cool jewelry.)
So (after calling the salon to have Aunt Frannie meet her at Beaumont), Mom called a taxi and raced south on Woodward, squeezing her knees together and swearing through gritted teeth and tears (“of happiness!”).
Family Lore has it that as the speeding cab was about to make a hard right onto Thirteen Mile and into the hospital parking lot, Mom saw Aunt Frannie standing on the corner wildly waving both arms in anticipation of our arrival, so she screamed at the driver to stop and pick her up. “It’s just what sisters do,” Mom always insisted whenever I questioned her on this detail of my Natal Day. (A little background, in case you are not from suburban Detroit: the corner of Woodward and Thirteen Mile Road - or Woodward and any mile road - is not exactly a safe or easy pullover. Plus the entrance to the hospital is less than a football field away and there is ample parking. Aunt Frannie could have very easily met us in the lobby.)
That said (and wherever that particular truth may lie), Mom made it to the maternity ward just in time!, to very quickly deliver her “perfect, curly brown haired, curious little…athlete!”
(“By the time your dad got there, they had already taken you away to clean you up, but he would’ve loved you anyway!”)
Here is where the story becomes legend and explains a lot (at least to the person that is me):
“When they brought you back, I burst into tears. What had they done? Where were my baby’s beautiful curls? They had cleaned you too much! I was glad the goo was gone, but what had they done to your hair? I had just been explaining to your father that you looked exactly like him, and now you looked like Winston Churchill wrapped in a dinner napkin!”
Unsurprisingly, the story of my birth got better and bigger every time my mom told it over the next 53 years:
“I had no choice but to start licking my fingers and bring back your ringlets. You needed to start your life as you, not someone else’s idea of you! It must have taken me two hours to get all of those curls back. The nurses had to keep feeding me water through a straw because my mouth was so dry from all of that finger licking! No one had ever seen anything like it! People came from all over the whole hospital to see your beautiful hair!”
(The only thing I ever heard from my dad about this momentous meet and greet was, “You were pretty cute.” This is an important detail because my dad was not a liar and there exists not a single baby picture of me, which will have to be tackled in a separate essay - or film!)
All in all, that summer day in 1967 was a good one for most of our family. (My golden haired sister, Tracy, was the odd man out, as for 18 months she had enjoyed being an only child. I know this because of two more family stories I just remembered and will now also have to write down someday: “No, No, Baby, NO, NO!” and “Pin the Skin through the Diaper.” )
Speaking of Siblings, it is important (when you are not the only one born into a family), to acknowledge those who came before and after you. (Little Sister Ginny would arrive 39 months later.) And while I would never want to steal anyone’s literal Origin Story, this is what I remember hearing about my sisters’ Life Kick Offs:
Tracy (Winter, 1965):
“She looked like an angel. I couldn’t believe I was holding my own baby. When your dad came in and saw her, I knew he couldn’t wait to hold her. I was so happy to see him finally realize that he did want to be a dad!”
Ginny (Spring, 1970):
“But my baby boy doesn’t have a penis!”
Now, I will obviously send this to my sisters before it goes to publication (or into my journal), but here is why I am writing this down (today):
It is a strange thing to be holding and seeing your birth certificate for the first time ever when you are 57 years old. It’s sort of like a promise of The Holy Grail mixed with a dash of This Reminds Me that I Have to Renew my Passport.
I thought it would hold my secrets. Or let me start at my Actual Beginning as I continue this interesting journey of writing things down as I make my way to my Eventual End. (This is not me being morbid, just so you know. I am mostly really enjoying my Life Ride but am always aware that everyone has an Eventual End, which helps me to more fully enjoy my ride.)
I have also always wanted to know what time I was born. I thought it would let me into some Magical Zone of Self Knowledge (otherwise known as Astrological Awareness, like my friend Grace has) or hand me a key to The Place on Earth Where Only I Exist. (I believe that everyone has and should have access to this place, even though I am not officially spiritual, in case you were wondering or have follow up questions that I might not be able to answer.)
But what is most interesting to me about my belated birth certificate is what is not there in black and white:
4b. TIME OF BIRTH
Not Recorded
6a. MOTHER’S CURRENT LEGAL NAME (First, Middle, Last)
Not Recorded
Just who was in charge of filling out the forms here? Were they on the sauce? On the lam? On the phone? On the pot? TIME and MOTHER’S LEGAL NAME feel like pretty big things to miss, don’t you think? And what about my length and weight? What sort of athlete is sent onto the field with no stats?
Were they setting me up to fail?
Was my sister Tracy behind this inexcusable dereliction of duty?
Is this recklessness why I went home birth certificate-less?
But, again (and by “again,” I mean for the first time, just now)………I think of my friend Rose on The Facebook, take a deep breath and (re)find my Wisdom.
I may not be able to build out my astrological chart based on the exact time and place that I joined this Human Adventure, but I do love that my birth certificate was so prescient in what it did include:
6b. MOTHER’S FULL NAME BEFORE MARRIED (First, Middle, Last)
Dorothy Lynn Dawson
And
8a. FATHER’S CURRENT LEGAL NAME (First, Middle, Last)
Robert Dale Kemp, Jr.
I like to think that my birth certificate (and the Great State of Michigan) somehow knew that my mom’s “CURRENT LEGAL NAME” might not always (or ever) define her.
That she might always be exactly who she was before she got married (and after).
I like to think that these two people loved me (and my sisters) up the mountain, even though their own Human Adventures ultimately led them in different directions to separate destinations.
I like to think that two people on their own paths raised three kick ass girls into women.
Three kick ass women who:
…still have great hair (Ginny’s is a varsity version of mine, although it did have to overcome some mighty childhood challenges, thanks to a few too many Canadian Club inspired home haircuts.)
Three kick ass women who:
…wave their arms high in the sky when they need to be seen and/or want to help each other as they evolve the sisterhood (especially because they are splashed across the country with their own families and because there were to be no baby boy penises born into the family until the next generation).
Three kick ass women who:
…Take (and share) family stories with a grain (or a pinch or a fistful) of salt.
All of this to say that I guess the Big Lesson of my birth certificate is something I already knew:
The most interesting parts of who I am are the bits I (still) have to discover and fill in on my own...
…and there is no cheating.
There.
That feels pretty wise.
I’m going to write that down.
Right after I finish my survey, as promised to my (forever) home state.
____________________
Ps. I am still waiting on sibling clearance for publication, but I did find out that Tracy and Ginny each have (and have always had) copies of their birth certificates. Now I have to write yet another story:
“Jan Brady was Right....About Everything.”
But first I will write down every detail I can remember about my daughters’ births. I will put it all in the file with their birth certificates, after I ask my husband where the file is.
They can read it later,
Or not.
(Because Wisdom looks different for everyone.)
cc: Rose, Grace, Tracy, Ginny, Olivia, Frances, Adam, Michigan
I am 57. I have never had a birth certificate until yesterday. (Thank you, State of Michigan Vital Records Department - please know that my experience was awesome until I get around to taking your brief survey, at which time I will go into more complimentary detail.)
I have always wondered why my parents didn’t have a birth certificate for me (or how they might have lost and never replaced it), but this is NOT a Blame the Parents story, I swear! I have been done with those ever since my friend Rose posted something like this on on The Facebook:
When a Kid learns that their Parents are Human they become an Adolescent…
When an Adolescent learns that their Parents aren’t to blame for all their shit, they become a Grown Up…
When a Grown Up learns to forgive themself for all the things they fucked up (and/or did or didn’t do), they become Wise.
Now in fairness (and honesty), what Rose posted was more eloquent and did not include any swear words, but you get the gist.
Back to the story of my birth……
Here’s what I have always known about my birthday:
My mom thought she “had more time,” as I was her second kid and she believed “everything was under control.” This obviously proved not to be true (and could never be true, given the nature and reality of childbirth). Mom had to take a cab to the hospital because my dad was at work and Aunt Frannie was getting her hair done. (Aunt G was probably up north in Alpena, mapping out plans for her restaurant, The Purple Pickle, or making cool jewelry.)
So (after calling the salon to have Aunt Frannie meet her at Beaumont), Mom called a taxi and raced south on Woodward, squeezing her knees together and swearing through gritted teeth and tears (“of happiness!”).
Family Lore has it that as the speeding cab was about to make a hard right onto Thirteen Mile and into the hospital parking lot, Mom saw Aunt Frannie standing on the corner wildly waving both arms in anticipation of our arrival, so she screamed at the driver to stop and pick her up. “It’s just what sisters do,” Mom always insisted whenever I questioned her on this detail of my Natal Day. (A little background, in case you are not from suburban Detroit: the corner of Woodward and Thirteen Mile Road - or Woodward and any mile road - is not exactly a safe or easy pullover. Plus the entrance to the hospital is less than a football field away and there is ample parking. Aunt Frannie could have very easily met us in the lobby.)
That said (and wherever that particular truth may lie), Mom made it to the maternity ward just in time!, to very quickly deliver her “perfect, curly brown haired, curious little…athlete!”
(“By the time your dad got there, they had already taken you away to clean you up, but he would’ve loved you anyway!”)
Here is where the story becomes legend and explains a lot (at least to the person that is me):
“When they brought you back, I burst into tears. What had they done? Where were my baby’s beautiful curls? They had cleaned you too much! I was glad the goo was gone, but what had they done to your hair? I had just been explaining to your father that you looked exactly like him, and now you looked like Winston Churchill wrapped in a dinner napkin!”
Unsurprisingly, the story of my birth got better and bigger every time my mom told it over the next 53 years:
“I had no choice but to start licking my fingers and bring back your ringlets. You needed to start your life as you, not someone else’s idea of you! It must have taken me two hours to get all of those curls back. The nurses had to keep feeding me water through a straw because my mouth was so dry from all of that finger licking! No one had ever seen anything like it! People came from all over the whole hospital to see your beautiful hair!”
(The only thing I ever heard from my dad about this momentous meet and greet was, “You were pretty cute.” This is an important detail because my dad was not a liar and there exists not a single baby picture of me, which will have to be tackled in a separate essay - or film!)
All in all, that summer day in 1967 was a good one for most of our family. (My golden haired sister, Tracy, was the odd man out, as for 18 months she had enjoyed being an only child. I know this because of two more family stories I just remembered and will now also have to write down someday: “No, No, Baby, NO, NO!” and “Pin the Skin through the Diaper.” )
Speaking of Siblings, it is important (when you are not the only one born into a family), to acknowledge those who came before and after you. (Little Sister Ginny would arrive 39 months later.) And while I would never want to steal anyone’s literal Origin Story, this is what I remember hearing about my sisters’ Life Kick Offs:
Tracy (Winter, 1965):
“She looked like an angel. I couldn’t believe I was holding my own baby. When your dad came in and saw her, I knew he couldn’t wait to hold her. I was so happy to see him finally realize that he did want to be a dad!”
Ginny (Spring, 1970):
“But my baby boy doesn’t have a penis!”
Now, I will obviously send this to my sisters before it goes to publication (or into my journal), but here is why I am writing this down (today):
It is a strange thing to be holding and seeing your birth certificate for the first time ever when you are 57 years old. It’s sort of like a promise of The Holy Grail mixed with a dash of This Reminds Me that I Have to Renew my Passport.
I thought it would hold my secrets. Or let me start at my Actual Beginning as I continue this interesting journey of writing things down as I make my way to my Eventual End. (This is not me being morbid, just so you know. I am mostly really enjoying my Life Ride but am always aware that everyone has an Eventual End, which helps me to more fully enjoy my ride.)
I have also always wanted to know what time I was born. I thought it would let me into some Magical Zone of Self Knowledge (otherwise known as Astrological Awareness, like my friend Grace has) or hand me a key to The Place on Earth Where Only I Exist. (I believe that everyone has and should have access to this place, even though I am not officially spiritual, in case you were wondering or have follow up questions that I might not be able to answer.)
But what is most interesting to me about my belated birth certificate is what is not there in black and white:
4b. TIME OF BIRTH
Not Recorded
6a. MOTHER’S CURRENT LEGAL NAME (First, Middle, Last)
Not Recorded
Just who was in charge of filling out the forms here? Were they on the sauce? On the lam? On the phone? On the pot? TIME and MOTHER’S LEGAL NAME feel like pretty big things to miss, don’t you think? And what about my length and weight? What sort of athlete is sent onto the field with no stats?
Were they setting me up to fail?
Was my sister Tracy behind this inexcusable dereliction of duty?
Is this recklessness why I went home birth certificate-less?
But, again (and by “again,” I mean for the first time, just now)………I think of my friend Rose on The Facebook, take a deep breath and (re)find my Wisdom.
I may not be able to build out my astrological chart based on the exact time and place that I joined this Human Adventure, but I do love that my birth certificate was so prescient in what it did include:
6b. MOTHER’S FULL NAME BEFORE MARRIED (First, Middle, Last)
Dorothy Lynn Dawson
And
8a. FATHER’S CURRENT LEGAL NAME (First, Middle, Last)
Robert Dale Kemp, Jr.
I like to think that my birth certificate (and the Great State of Michigan) somehow knew that my mom’s “CURRENT LEGAL NAME” might not always (or ever) define her.
That she might always be exactly who she was before she got married (and after).
I like to think that these two people loved me (and my sisters) up the mountain, even though their own Human Adventures ultimately led them in different directions to separate destinations.
I like to think that two people on their own paths raised three kick ass girls into women.
Three kick ass women who:
…still have great hair (Ginny’s is a varsity version of mine, although it did have to overcome some mighty childhood challenges, thanks to a few too many Canadian Club inspired home haircuts.)
Three kick ass women who:
…wave their arms high in the sky when they need to be seen and/or want to help each other as they evolve the sisterhood (especially because they are splashed across the country with their own families and because there were to be no baby boy penises born into the family until the next generation).
Three kick ass women who:
…Take (and share) family stories with a grain (or a pinch or a fistful) of salt.
All of this to say that I guess the Big Lesson of my birth certificate is something I already knew:
The most interesting parts of who I am are the bits I (still) have to discover and fill in on my own...
…and there is no cheating.
There.
That feels pretty wise.
I’m going to write that down.
Right after I finish my survey, as promised to my (forever) home state.
____________________
Ps. I am still waiting on sibling clearance for publication, but I did find out that Tracy and Ginny each have (and have always had) copies of their birth certificates. Now I have to write yet another story:
“Jan Brady was Right....About Everything.”
But first I will write down every detail I can remember about my daughters’ births. I will put it all in the file with their birth certificates, after I ask my husband where the file is.
They can read it later,
Or not.
(Because Wisdom looks different for everyone.)
cc: Rose, Grace, Tracy, Ginny, Olivia, Frances, Adam, Michigan