In the News THE PUZZLE SOLVER A poster of Sherlock Holmes hangs in Bertie Hunt's office, near a sticker that reads, You can run but you can't hide. Hunt's name is oddly appropriate. The Orlando woman is a hunter by trade, a conduit linking people's pasts to their present. She has the power to change people's lives, and she does so regularly.
In 12 years, she has reconnected more than 2,000 birth parents and adoptees. "You have the right to know who you are," she tells her clients again and again. "You can't afford to wait." Hunt learned that from personal experience. On a rainy afternoon in 1991, Hunt was eating with a family friend at Pizza Hut when the friend blurted out the secret she had held in for 20 years. "There's something you should know. . . ." At age 50, Hunt learned she was adopted. The news blindsided her. Hunt knew that she had been born prematurely at 7 months, weighing 3.4 pounds. She didn't know that her birth mother was a 20-year-old who gave her up at birth. Hunt's adopted parents willed her to live, holding her and rocking her constantly. She grew up to be a strong-willed woman who never doubted she was loved. But once she learned she was adopted, she felt compelled to find her history. In Florida, adoption records are sealed, as are original birth certificates -- which name the birth parent. These documents can be opened only with the cooperation of adoption agencies or as a last resort, a court order. Often, it comes down to the whim of the judge and his or her definition of a good cause for unsealing the records. Hunt, who formerly worked for the Orlando Police Department in the communications division and earned her private investigator's license in the late '80s, was familiar with the system. She petitioned the court to release the name of her adoptive parent. She knew the judge, who figured that she was old enough to have her records. Two years later, Hunt journeyed to Georgia to find her biological mother, whom she calls her "birth person." Hunt wondered if her birth person ever thought about her. Hunt wasn't searching for peace. She was searching for answers. "I had a mother," Hunt says. "I wasn't looking for another mother. She would never have been my mother. She left me to die. She gave me life, and she gave me away. I'm strong and I made it without her I wanted to tell her that, `You did this. You brought me in the world. And I made it.' " Hunt never had the chance to confront her birth mother. She was already dead. Hunt did reunite with three half-sisters and developed a strong kinship with one, whom she speaks with twice a week. She also developed a mission. THEY WONDER WHY When Hunt learned of her adoption, she needed support and information. Central Florida had no such support group, so in December 1991 she started Triad. Every month, the three prongs of the Triad -- adopted children, adoptive parents and birth parents -- gather at the Marks Street Senior Citizen Center in Orlando. For hours on end, they swap stories and ideas. Some are searching for their relatives, others have found them -- or have been found. Though their many experiences are different, the same themes surface. Adopted children remember their helplessness in drawing elementary school family trees and filling out family history forms at the doctor's office. They recall gazing in the mirror and wondering whom, if anyone, they resemble. And they wonder why they were abandoned, thrown away. Wasn't I cute enough? they might ask. Was I bad? I keep things that are valuable to me. Don't tell me you couldn't keep me. Birth parents describe surrendering a child as a death. For years before her biological daughter contacted her, one mother would go outside at night, focus on a star and pray that her daughter was safe. And many birth parents wonder, Are you OK? Did you have a good life? And most important, Did I make the right decision? Adoptive parents struggle with fears that their children will love them less once they find their biological families. And sometimes, they can't help but be angry. They did all the work -- they dried the tears, kissed the scraped knees, mended the broken hearts -- and now they have to share their children. Hunt knows she can be adoptive parents' worst nightmare. Not always, though. Some adoptive parents, such as Jodie Howell, have sought Hunt's help through Triad for the sake of their children. Howell helped her 20-year-old daughter, Amanda, find her Salvadoran birth mother. The Howells are planning a trip to Central America to meet her this summer. Triad has supported the Howells as they prepare for that journey. "Bertie has taken something really traumatic and let it define her life in a positive way," Jodie Howell says. "She uses that experience to reach out to others." Hunt is grateful her parents never told her she was adopted. Every day, she sees the feelings of abandonment that adoptees experience, and she feels fortunate she was spared that pain. ON THE TRAIL National adoption law has shown a shift toward greater openness, particularly in Western states. However, Florida is not likely to change laws anytime soon, experts say. The state does have a resource called the Florida Adoption Reunion Registry, which matches adoptees and birth parents. About 7,000 Floridians are registered with the agency. Both parties must sign up with the agency, which matches about 10 pairs a month. Although Hunt will not discuss her specific searching methods -- tricks of the trade -- she uses the same techniques as any PI, with access to computer databases and an extensive knowledge of public records. She also has insider insight -- connections are key in her business. The shortest search took Hunt seven minutes flat. The longest searches are ongoing: She has searched for three people off and on for the past six years. She suspects they left the country, or changed their names and died. But with every search, Hunt warns her clients: "This is going to change your life. Are you prepared for that?" She urges them to join a search or support group Once Hunt finds a name and contact information, she encourages her clients to make contact on their own. Sometimes, they are not ready to confront their birth parents. So adopted children will knock on doors posing as a delivery person just to catch a glimpse of the birth parent. Then they decide if they want to go through with it. Out-of-the-blue phone calls from private investigators make people feel threatened. So sometimes, when Hunt leaves a message for an adoptee or a birth parent, she will say that nothing is wrong. She says she is calling about a special type of inheritance. A MISSION AFFIRMED Sometimes Hunt wakes up in the middle of the night with a jolt and asks herself: Am I doing the right thing? She knows that her work can be painful for everybody involved, particularly adoptive parents. "They are people, they have rights," Hunt says. "I respect their rights." Still, she says, "If somebody gets hurt, that's the way it has to be." But she knows her efforts are appreciated. She has hundreds of happy reunion photos and boxes full of emotional letters to prove it. And she has her angels. Hundreds of angel statues and figurines guard her home -- gifts from grateful clients who believe she has helped them reassemble a broken part of their lives. "We're only half until we find all the
pieces," Hunt says. 2 SEARCHES DISCLOSE REWARDS AND RISKS Bertie Hunt warns her clients: "This is
going to change your life. Are you prepared for that?"
Still, in case her birth mother had ever questioned if she made the right decision, Slusser wanted to assure her that she had a wonderful life growing up in Lake Mary. Jody Krampe of Winter Park always wondered about the daughter she gave up for adoption at 15. And she could have found out easily: Krampe was a childhood friend of Hunt's daughter. But she didn't want to intrude on her birth daughter's life. Neither Slusser nor Krampe knew that they lived 30 minutes away from each other, until Slusser enlisted Hunt's help. They met for the first time at Hunt's home in January 2002. They looked like sisters -- blond and petite, dressed almost identically in black pants, turquoise shirts, black leather jackets and boots. There was one thing Slusser had to know right away. She asked to compare their feet. When they removed their boots, they found the same hooked pinky toes. West also grew up in a stable and loving environment, but he always felt as if he stood out. He would scan crowds, searching strangers' faces, wondering if his mother was out there. "I want a visual sign that I belong to someone," says West, 38, of Orlando. In a matter of hours last year, Hunt found his birth mother, who lives in North Carolina. West sent her a letter and some photographs. A month later, he received a thin envelope. He paced around his dining room table before finally ripping it open. A typed letter challenged West's "claim" and indicated that "my husband and I want no further contact with you." The letter's defensive tone struck Hunt as strange. Had it not been the birth mother, she thought, the woman would have replied more politely. West has sent his birth mother several cards but hasn't received a response. Still, he points out, she didn't return the cards to sender, and he clings to the hope that someday she will come around. He has no intention of upending her life, but his birth mother's silence has amplified his feelings of rejection and abandonment. There are things he wants to know. Mostly, why was he put up for adoption? And where did he come from? Source: Aline Mendelsohn,
Orlando Sentinel Staff Writer |
