Glitch by Lee Rourke
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What first attracted me to this novel was the philosophical description of glitches. What they are, how they appear in our lives and that they are not necessarily faults to be feared. This way of thinking ties in with another writer that I admire and have been reading recently, Hosho McCreesh, whose simple, elegant but powerful broadside ‘Crux’ (“It’s not that everything is either laughter or despair…it’s that everything is both”) I have framed and on the wall in my home.
I love reading because you either learn something completely new about the life experience or you get to hold a mirror up and see something you recognise reflected back that you are able to take from. It can change you inside, you can’t describe the change but you know it has taken place. The second reason why I was drawn to this novel was a more personal one relating to the Mother-Son relationship.
Though I have not suffered the grief of losing a parent there is a gap, or severed connection in my own life that I felt was mirrored in L-J (the novel's led character) and in particular the memories he has of his relationship with his mother. It’s a wonderfully strange coincidence that books sometimes appear just as you need them and given some recent experiences I was in need of a book about memory, about love and relationships, about loss and about Mothers and Sons.
I have always known that I was adopted. I never remember being told, it being a hidden thing suddenly relieved or being traumatised by the discovery. I have, honestly, simply always known, even before I think I understood the concept of what adoption is. In 2006 I went to the Family Care Adoption Services to pick up my requested adoption file. As my adoption was made in England I had full access to all documents pertaining to it. This differs from adoptions carried out in Northern Ireland, where I currently reside, where a letter is drafted by a social worker based on the contents of your file.
In that 2006 meeting a social worker went through my file with me. There was quite a bit of documentation within, including letters between my birth mother and her case worker, one of which describes her effort to get a flat in London in an attempt to provide for me, to keep me. From the social worker I was also to learn, with a small box of tissues sitting between us, that my birth mother had married, stayed in London and had three children. I now had two half sisters and a half brother. In the end I was able to take all the documents and letters home with me.
Before you meet someone you can create a mould that you can pour every wish into, every compliment you’d like to hear, every reassurance you’d like to be given. You have complete mastery over how they treat you. In L-J’s vivid and flowing recollections of his interactions with his mother I saw reflected my own imagined meetings with my birth mother and the acceptance of my half sisters and brother. For 12 years I continued to imagine, on and off, about continuing my search and the possibility of an eventual meeting.
I was now 44 and my mother was beginning to slow down, still hellfire as ever when she wanted to be, but slower in her movements. After a few conversations I decided to take the next step and again contacted Family Care Adoption Services. This time the meeting was in a different location, a healthcare complex not very far from my home. When I arrived the lady, who had arranged the meeting by phone, met me. She seemed to remember me from all those years ago or kept very good notes. Either way, I was at ease talking about the process of contacting my birth mother and what that would mean. I, once again, had to reassure this kind social worker of my ability to cope, especially if my birth mother rejected any kind of contact. This was an easy enough task. My thoughts and feelings in regard my adoption had not changed and I was supported in my decisions. I left that day knowing that another step had been taken and I walked up the hill home on a mildly pleasant Autumn day without rain.
A longer time passed than I thought would be needed to complete the contact process described to me, after all, the details were all there. In October last year I took a phone call from the Family Care Adoption Services. The purpose of the call was to tell me that the person from the 2006 trace was not my birth mother, that there were no half siblings. It came to light that an inheritance hunting company had also arrived at the same wrong conclusion. It was just one of those things, a glitch.
For me, it meant I was back on the start line, waiting for the pistol’s permission to get going. Another trace was begun and all the details available were going to be checked again but that I should be aware that not every trace works, not every person can be found. This is my glitch, my gap, my leap from one family to another, may never be filled in.
Throughout this small journey of mine I’ve always admired my Mum’s empathy with my birth mother, it was certainly an influence on my decision to trace. She told me I should be brave enough to reach out because it was not just my own feelings that I needed to consider. And my thanks to my Wife and Children to whom I will always be connected.
But back to books. Glitch by Lee Rourke is a wonderful book. A book that deconstructs the complex and makes it simple and in doing so brings joy and heartbreak, warmth and endearment. I loved reading this book as I selfishly got to explore things about myself. That is why I love reading, love books. We get to explore all that we are and learn more about who we can be.
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