White, Adopted, Gay, Hindu
An Autobiography
Categorization, the dictionary definition states that categorization is the description of objects, people and places by labeling or giving a name to characterize. We are all categorized in our lives; it allows others to instantly believe they know everything about us. In our ever faster paced lives social utilities like Facebook and MySpace allow us to categorize ourselves to our friends and thousands, if not millions, of others we don’t know. Categorization gives us a basis for our identities; it gives a basic name to who we are. Our all important identity is in fact who we are, whether that identity is what we are born with or what we become is decided as we grow. We can choose to expand or stay in the shell or protection that we are granted by following societal identification norms to the T.
Since the early 19th century it has been obvious that humankind is obsessed with categorization as the whole field of scientific thought of that century and beyond became completely enslaved with the need to classify everything and everyone in the great taxonomical experiment. We have created whole lexicons of words to describe our genders, religions, race, and relationships. Is this all we are; A classification that can be done in a few words? Can this possibly ever hope to describe our experiences, show the true depth of our relationships or even attempt to explain the vast expanse that can encompass our beliefs on fate, the universe and what the word religion means?
In the short phrase, White, Adopted, Gay, Hindu; I am classified by race, family relationship, sexual preference and religious views. As different and odd as this classification may seem when put together it does give a quick, if small, insight into who I am but as a person, as a human, I am so much more, we all are, possibly more than words will ever be able to describe.
This book is my testament of what and who I am. My experiences and thoughts that I want to pass on and give to society. The story of how and why I am classified in this way and what it took for me to finally realize my ideals, morals and my beliefs that set me apart. This is also a book to show how each person is so much more than a number on a page or a name on a Facebook account.
Chapter 1
Childhood Memories
I was born in the rural town of West Union in Adams County the Southern Ohio valley. I was born to a girl of sixteen who had arranged for my adoption long before the date of my birth. My new parents, John and Cheryl McCane had become parents after expecting that it was impossible for them to have children after nearly ten years of marriage on November the second 1987. I was born a month premature so I had been kept at the hospital for a month after my birth before I could finally be taken home.
Even after being allowed to be taken out of the hospital my health was very poor and so my father had me sleep on his chest and whenever I would stop breathing he would shake me lightly to bring air back into my lungs. My mother still tells me how I was so small, a little below five pounds, that I couldn’t cry at first and I sounded like a baby chicken if I did attempt to cry. Though soon I did learn to cry and I made up for what I couldn’t do as a new born because of a terrible case of colic. So much in fact that after several months, my aunts and uncles took pity on my mother and began taking shifts with me so she could finally sleep.
My Father was an electrical engineer for Cincinnati Milacron and had been for ten years at my birth and so traveled everywhere and anywhere for the company. His time at home was limited when I was a child but I still remember well waiting at the window to see him drive up after a week’s trip to Japan or a month in Europe. This left my mother alone for the majority of the time and so from my earliest childhood I have mostly memories of her. Though, I could never get enough of hearing my father’s stories about places that were so far away and so different to the tiny village that I grew up in. He would bring presents from the places he had been so to this day I have the most interesting home décor, Amazonian dart guns, a Japanese tea set, sculptures and pictures from around the world dot my apartment. As a child I had no idea how the instillation of such curiosity would affect my future.
My younger sister, Julia McCane was born 2 and a half years after me, a surprise to parents who thought that having a child of their own was impossible. I was never the child to be envious of my mother’s attention toward my new sister. If anything I was the most excited big brother there could be. As children we fought worse than two gladiators in pitted combat and yet our parents were always told how well behaved we were. At the age of 13 my parents decided to teach us discipline and enrolled us both in a Tae Kwon Do school. Instead of instilling discipline this simply gave us the tools to turn our fights into mortal combat. My sister was an amazing Gymnast, one of the best in the country for her age and so this enhanced her ability to gracefully flip over my head while kicking me in the back. As horrible as our relationship sounds, as any brother, if anyone dared hurt my sister I was there to defend her and Vice versus. We were a very tight knit country family that was quite common for the area.
We went to church every Sunday morning where either my grandfather or one of the families close friends was probably the preacher. Both of my grandfathers were preachers and devout Christians. My mother was the member of a family singing group with her brothers and sisters. Some of my fondest memories as a child were of sitting and listening to those old, familiar songs. If I ever feel down or homesick I just think of those times and I am instantly in a better mood. While I never liked to sing in public my parents made sure I was in every Christmas, Easter, and every possible holiday play in between the two that the area could offer. Now that I think back to those days when my wise man costume was a XXXL sweater or a cut up sheet it amazes me how much you can do with so little.
Yard sales were very common summer occurrences where I grew up and I am very sure that my family always put up the biggest. Our house was a very large, Victorian style home with a complete wraparound porch… this meant that we hosted every even that could be hosted. Weddings, baby showers, funeral wakes, anniversary parties and yes the inevitable summer yard sale. Of course not everything in our yard sale was ours but a conglomeration of our families, my grandparents and all of my uncles and aunts families stuff. As children we used this as an opportune time to get a little cash ourselves and so would sell off our old toys or open up lemonade stands next to the rode and sold to whoever the yard sale attracted… I mean, no one can resist a few 6 year olds at a lemonade stand. It also gave us reason to go on adventures with our cousins.
At one such summer yard sale when I was about fourteen years old I decided to take my sister and our cousins Jack and Kayla (who were slightly younger than me) on an adventure to see what we called a rainbow tree somewhere in the forested hills near our house. The summer had been particularly wet and so the ground was damp and muddy. My cousin Kayla had worn a new light blue leather jacket and brand new white tennis shoes to show off. We sneaked away from the house as our mothers all sat together gossiping about everything on the porch while waiting for customers to show up. We hiked for about a half-mile into the forest without incident until we came to a huge canyon that we had to cross before we could reach the fabled rainbow tree. A tree had fallen the year before and could be used as a bridge between the sides of the canyon. It was large enough to crawl over for kids our size so I headed right over. Kayla followed, a little more cautious and then came her younger brother Jack’s turn; he scooted until he was half way and then began to cry incessantly and told us all he hated us for getting him to do this... my younger sister being who she was crawled out to him and tried to push him so he would scoot to the other side. This turned out badly as she fell off the log onto her back in the bottom of the canyon nearly ten feet below. By this time we were all hysterical, I thought Julia had been paralyzed because she kept screaming she couldn’t get up and Jack was still crying that he was going to die on the log. I crawled down the canyon wall to get Julia who jumped up perfectly fine… “I thought you were paralyzed”, I remember saying.
“Oh, I’m fine now”, I remember her saying back. Smiling and giggling the whole time. We managed to climb the canyon wall where we found Jack had finally crawled onto the ground and off the log. Just in time for us to give up and climb back over… oh and I forgot to mention, in all the fuss Kayla’s new shoes became a nice muddy brown that never came clean even after my mother washing them over and over and her leather coat had been ruined. When we made it back home in this disheveled and absolutely filthy state all of our mothers berated us and forced us to take showers… even as we knew had the best time on our adventure; even if we had given up half-way.
Many people have asked me why I started traveling to India at all and the only answer I can give is that India called me to her. Traveling through that country you realize that India is not simply a patch of earth but a vibrant living thing. Bharat Mata is a name given by locals meaning Mother India and she is just that and for some inexplicable reason all my life I felt a pull by Mother India almost as a human calls her child home, I felt as if I were being called home. 
.jpg)
