So I finally went to apply for my passport this week, and in doing so, came across a glitch . . . my birth certificate was issued more than one year after I was born, and so I need to provide additional “proof” that I was, indeed, BORN and therefore have a legitimate right to a passport.

It’s not the hassle of tracking down the necessary information that bothers me . . . rather, it’s the almost-immediate sense of shame that comes upon me when I’m faced with an incident like this one that reminds me of my dubious beginnings . . .

The woman who was handling my application had to consult with someone else about it, and although she didn’t speak in hushed tones, I felt like she should have as she reported to her co-worker, “She was adopted . . . ”

Yes, that’s right. I was adopted. Why does that word invoke such shame in me and make me want to hide under the counter? Why did I feel so utterly conspicuous, and why did I leave there with a heavy heart?

Of course, I felt compelled to say to her, “I’m not legally allowed to have a copy of my original birth certificate” . . . it annoys me, too, because they’re demanding something that I’m not allowed to have . . . so I have to get a copy of the adoption papers from the county I was adopted in (I had to ask, “The county I was born in, or the county I was adopted in?”), and my passport will likely be even more delayed than “normal” people’s are right now anyway . . .

but then again, as I have stated before, I don’t know anything about “normal”.