To Whom Much is Given (Part 2)

Judy Wolfe and Craig McGee were two American kids hanging out in Chicago at the time. Craig was from from Iowa, and Judy was from Michigan.

Judy was in training for the airlines, and Craig was in school to become a draftsman. They fell in love as kids do  (or it was just Chicago fun) and she got pregnant. 

The Vietnam War was also raging, and Craig’s friend Bert wanted to come to Canada to avoid enlisting. Canada, the peacekeeping country, was allowing young men to cross in Vancouver, no questions asked. Craig also had a small problem — me. He had already enlisted to serve in Vietnam, and was proud to serve his country like his father and grandfather before him, and no baby was going to stop him. So the four decided they would venture to Canada, each taking care of the “situation” they were in. 

At the last minute Bert had a change of heart, so Craig and Judy made the journey to Vancouver by themselves, and arrived in late May of 1966, without knowing the full extent of Canadian geography and Alberta winters. Later that summer, Craig was offered a job for more money in Calgary. It was only temporary they both knew — as soon as the baby was born they would head back to the states. 

So on a quiet day in the summer of 1966, they pulled into Calgary in Craig’s 53 Ford. It was there, four months after, that I was born in Calgary Grace Hospital. Craig was not allowed to see me, so Judy carried the burden for 11 days, alone, until the paperwork was complete. I can’t imagine the silence that filled that car on the journey home. They never really saw each other again, as Craig went to Vietnam in January of 1967.

When I first met each of them, (Judy in 2010 and Craig in 2014), the location question was the first I needed to know. I have asked many times about this decision merely from a weather point of view. California did not speak to you? Hawaii? Perhaps the warm Arizona sun? Really? Canada? They had each commented several times when we chatted of “just how cold Calgary was that winter.” Yes. I am aware…..

Judy had kept me a well-hidden secret and had never shared the experience with anyone until a Facebook search found this red-headed lady. 

I can’t imagine that time for her. I had thought about Judy long before I knew who Judy was. When I met her. I was also a mother. I wasn’t a kid anymore who wondered who she was. My empathy for her in that moment of her life, tottering between barely an adult herself, and her whole life before her, pregnant, and the shame of her family knowing is a feeling I cannot even find words for. 

So I appreciated Judy in ways I could not ever articulate. When I received the documents (on photocopied microfiche), there was Judy’s beautifully cursive writing answering the question no 19-year-old could ever imagine answering — “So she can have a better life than I can give her.”

I sent her a Facebook message, which was the exact message I would send Craig four years later. I carefully crafted my life into 14 sentences, starting with “my name is Colleen, and I was born in December 1966.” I thanked each of them for the sacrifice they had made, and I wanted to assure them that I had made something of myself and not wasted the opportunity. It is a single, selfless gift to give up a child you have just given birth to.

Craig’s first day in the Army was January 23, 1967. He also had never spoken of Calgary, Canada, or a baby to anyone. Ever. When I met him in 2014, years of that secret poured out of him. 

He never had children, which was probably the biggest shock to me. I was his only ‘child,’ with Mackenzie now being his  only ‘granddaughter.’ 

He lived in Florida, so I made the sacrifice (in the winter of course) to travel to see him. We both enjoyed sitting by his pool. We talked about politics. I made him my beer margaritas. He shared very few stories of Vietnam. I know a young man died in his arms, and while in Washington, D.C., in 2019, we found Lt. Boyd’s name on the Vietnam Wall, and Mackenzie shaded the young soldier’s name for Craig. His office was as clean and detailed as my desk at school. I recognized the placement of the stapler, the pen in the exact position it needs to be, the carefully stacked papers. Identity.

Being adopted is its own crazy way of searching for our unique identity. The normal trajectory of growing up is a lot of angst as we emerge into our authentic self. This is double angst as an adopted child. And growing up in the 70s and 80s wasn’t a time where open storytelling of your feelings was a thing. It didn’t make sense to complain, because I just couldn’t articulate what my own insecurities were. Meeting Judy and Craig answered many questions. I felt whole. I felt grateful to know each of them.

If birth order means anything, the knowledge that I have several first-born tendencies finally made sense. I was the oldest of the Michigan crew, as Judy went on to have two other children, Jason and Jennifer, albeit from another man she later married. Nature vs nurture. I like being the leader of the pack, — I have a very dominant type A personality, and never really felt being the baby of the family was where I should be, despite that being exactly how I grew up.

As a child, I had red hair that eventually turned blonde, but my daughter Mackenzie has been given that gene with her beautiful red hair. Why am I left handed? [Craig is.] Why am I so weirdly clean and organized to a fault? [Also Craig.] Why do I like hot weather? [Also Craig.]

And so over the next three years, both of them encouraged me to apply for USA citizenship. I didn’t even know if I had a legal claim to make, given my birth and adoption were in Albert. But with the help of their identification, and documents, and the process of swearing who they said they were — I applied in 2017, and waited… and waited. It wouldn’t be till 2020 until I had the answer. 

(to be continued)

Colleen McCullough is the owner of The Virginia May B&B at Eagle Mountain Lake You can follow the B&B on Instagram and Facebook @thevirginiamay