Mother and Child Reunion: A Remix

by Hannah Andrews

The song played like a sad trombone in my brain. I sat, nibbling sushi, drinking a giant Diet Coke, and flipping through photographs in a mother-son memory book with my newly found fully grown 32-year-old baby brother. It was January 2020, and I was having a reunion with someone I’d never even known existed. Is that a thing? It is in my world.

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Some backstory: When I finally searched for my first mother, I found out not only that she was real (and not some ghost kingdom invention of mine) but that she’d never forgotten me, had looked for me, and even told this total stranger now sitting before me (or at least instructed her bestie to tell him) that I was out there somewhere. Then she died. A decade later I decided to search.

In this new now, I chit-chatted with my new, and only, blood brother, while an ancient Paul Simon song echoed through me like a record stuck on repeat.

New brother was lovely, but he wasn’t what I was looking for. At best he was a consolation prize in some sort of This is Your Life game show existence I’d apparently unwittingly, but willingly signed up for.

I’d longed for that dreamy TV reunion. A teary-eyed introspective retrospective with my long-lost mother. I’d never have that as she died a month after her 57th birthday, and a decade before I searched. I’d been terrified to search, worrried she wouldn’t remember me, wouldn’t want to talk to me, but never, not once, did it occur to me that she might be deceased. That hit me like a freight train.

Thank goodness my brain has an internal deejay, one with more than a half century’s worth of pop, rock, and folksy songs—a plethora of perfect, or at least perfectly ironic, songs for any occasion. My subconscious music mixer decided “Mother and Child Reunion” was spot on for the 50-year-old child (me, I’m that old kid) who will never have said reunion.

It is maybe a bit odd that I’m referencing Paul Simon, but hear me out.

Simon (often alongside Garfunkel) was a featured artist on the soundtrack of my GenX youth. I learned the words to Homeward Bound and Sound of Silence practically alongside my ABCs. For context, I happened into a very
musical household and soaked up every 4/4 timed poetic rhyme like a sponge. S&G was just one artist in a mountain of 45s and 8-tracks my mom kept in perpetual rotation. Said mountain also contained The Beatles, Elvis, Barbra, John Denver…but Simon was always somewhere in the mix.

Solo Simon seemed quirky and cool to me, goofing around with Chevy Chase in the 1980s Call Me Al music video. Mrs. Robinson was remixed during the grungy early 90s. What I’m saying is that Paul popped in and out of my life, like that uncle or cousin you only see at family reunions.

The Garfunkel-less “Mother and Child Reunion,” was released when I was three, before I dreamt of a mother-child reunion. Or maybe, after I’d already told my infant self to stop dreaming of it. It was likely a few years before I heard the song for the first time, but I soon knew the lyrics by heart.

That’s the thing about me. I hear a song twice, and the lyrics are stuck in my brain forever. I can’t remember if I take a left or a right turn on an oft-traveled street, or if I just took my vitamins or need to, but lyrics stick forever. I could win big on Beat Shazam, the modern-day Name That Tune. But I won’t. Mostly because I despise game shows.

I know, I’ve now referenced three game shows in one blog post, but seriously, I never watch them. They’re nails on a chalkboard to me. I love sitcoms, and dramedies, scripted stuff, and of course, shows about music. It only recently occurred to me that both music and television have served as coping mechanisms for me.

But I digress.

I’m fascinated by the makers of music and what inspires them lyrically, so I researched the story behind the song. It’s a weird music geek thing I do. I’m often disappointed. That’s how I found out my favorite U2 song wasn’t penned as a love song but rather, about substance abuse. In fact, I probably learned that, forgot it, then learned it all over again once Google replaced those old-fashioned liner notes.

Turns out, the title was straight from a Chinese restaurant Simon frequented or happened upon, depending on the story. “Mother and Child Reunion” was a menu item, the name of a chicken and egg soup they served. Get it? The chicken and the egg, mother and child, reunited in a soup. It’s dark humor, which I love. Except, the farm girl in me would have to point out that like human eggs, chicken eggs aren’t embryonic unless there’s a rooster pecking about, fertilizing said eggs. Sometimes an egg is just an egg. Like in people. Takes two to tango, even in the chicken coop.

As for the lyrics: Those were inspired by a combination of him reminiscing about the loss of his beloved childhood dog and dreading how it would feel if he lost his wife. So, this song is named after a couple of dead chickens, and the lyrics allude to a lost family pet, the possible eventual loss of his love, and even some ponderance about the afterlife. And it’s set to a frolicking reggae beat. Of course it came to me when I was breaking bread with my newest next of kin.

We actually had an okay reunion, if you can call meeting a brother who you didn’t know existed a reunion. Which, for the record, I have decided I can. It wasn’t what I’d wanted, but honestly, it went well. He even introduced me to his 6 and 7-year-old daughters as his sister, which I am, but I’m pretty accustomed to being a secret at this point in my life. I’d have understood if he’d had just referred to me as a friend or cousin or some lady he knew who vaguely resembled him.

He said, “Remember how I told you Daddy had a sister that he didn’t grow up with?” as if he’d mentioned my existence before.

They nodded their little ponytailed heads and said, “Yes, Daddy.”

To them, I am his sister.

To me, it’s more complicated. He isn’t quite my brother. It’s tricky to explain, though if your brain is like mine, you probably get it. My adopted brothers, with whom I share no blood (nor are they biologically related to each other or our adopted family) I consider more my “real” brothers. We aren’t exceptionally close, but they’ve always been there. To me they are my brothers, and he is my half-sie. Some people don’t qualify those relationships with halves. I do. I qualify everything. He’s only half mine. They’re all mine. Emotionally and legally.

Along my journey, I also discovered my birth mother's half-sister and half-brother through DNA. Neither had known, or even known of, my mother. One was an adoptee. The other knew she had a different biological father than her siblings but never knew who that might have been. (Spoiler alert—it was my bio grandpa.) My biological grandparents both had children out of wedlock with other partners.

I was very fortunate to have the assistance of genetic genealogist search angels and DNA matches who were happy to help untangle my roots. I’ve reunited, at least via email, with relatives I never knew I’d lost.

My biological father, who I may have mentioned a time or twelve, is still a mystery. All I know is that he was a blue-eyed blonde with a very common name. Search angels think he’s likely adopted too. I still hope for a reunion. I don’t want to say I obsess about it, but…

In my imaginarium he looks like Robert Redford, usually “The Way We Were” Redford, though sometimes I picture him as an even younger, “Barefoot in the Park” Redford, though sometimes with hippie hair. Sometimes he’s 1990s Redford. Only occasionally is he the current-day Redford, who is actually about a decade older than my biological father. It’s hard for my brain to wrap itself around the fact that if he is still living, he’s 75. In my make-believe world, we’re both younger. In my make-believe, he’s a musician, or a neurosurgeon or a bunch of other cool things, but also a bit of a sad sack because he’s always pined for my biological mother and wondered what ever happened to that baby they placed for adoption.

In my make-believe world, my mother and I are always “the ones that got away,” to him.

So, I keep looking, hoping for just one more reunion. I may be setting myself up for disappointment.

Reunions are hit or miss if they even happen at all. If I could do it all over again, I’d search sooner. If I could do it all over again with the condition and foresight that it would end the same? I’d probably do that too.

Everyone is different, but I’d rather have answers I didn’t want than questions I can’t ignore.

Thanks for reading.
Hannah Andrews

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