My holiday card tradition on Thanksgiving day

Habits can be extremely rewarding.

One of mine is to write my holiday cards on Thanksgiving day. I have kept this tradition for more years than I can recall. No matter where I have lived or what happened on that day, I always found time to think about those in my life, including family and friends.

The act of writing and remembering reminds me of the bonds of connection I have with people far-flung across this country. Some of these connections help sustain me, good times and bad. Some have little impact in my life.

I went with an Oregon-themed card this year. In past years I have made my own. On each of the cards I create a personal message, written by hand and signed. A regular theme, if I can find one, is to share a positive wish of good fortune for the coming year. It is always preferable to be positive, even when we know some persons may be experiencing hard times, like some of my relations and friendships.

In my case, my card writing involves my circle of friends who seem to remain a part of my life as I age. They can be called my “chosen circle.” They are not family, for me at least. They matter a great deal in my life.

My “family card list” includes my step-family, my adoptive family, and my biological family. Because I am adoptee, and because that status is fraught with complexities about the meaning of “family,” my holiday card tradition has challenged me.

Having had a step-family since I was 18 years old, I can vouch first-hand that these relations are not easy. Step-family bonds are not blood-based or kinship-based.

Everyone in those dynamics knows the minefields, and to deny these tensions is to deny the critical role of genetic kinship in how all species, including humans, care for and help their close genetic relations succeed. This is equally if not truer of adoptive-family relationships.

I explore this in my greater detail in my adoptee memoir and critical exploration of the U.S. adoption system, in my chapter appropriately titled “Blood is thicker than water.”

Author and adoptee Rudy Owens gets ready to mail his 2022 holiday cards to his biological, step-, and adoptive family and friends on Thanksgiving day 2022.

In my book, You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are, I write about the meaning of relationships with non-biologically related step-family and other distal adoptive kin: “There simply is no bond that joins us, much the way I feel about my adoptive cousins, uncles, and aunts. For me, there is no blood that ties us, nor DNA to bind us. We are not true kin, both as I perceive it and as I have experienced this relation for decades now.”

Yet each year, on Thanksgiving I will still write letters of fellowship for the coming Christmas, or winter holidays if you prefer to call it that.

There is very little power I have to create relations where none are hardwired to exist by the determinant laws of biology and genetics. What I do control is my ability to offer a hopeful gesture. Whether that gesture is accepted or rejected, like so much in our lives, is not in our power to manage.

Because I was separated as a newborn baby from my biological family by laws and systems that erased my past and discriminated against me and millions of others by status of birth, I only began my biological family relations in my mid-20s. I explain all of this in my book for any reader seeking to understand what that means for me and other adoptees.

As someone who is now in my mid-50s and getting older, I remain clear-eyed how those relations will remain forever impacted by this system of separating families. And with my surviving biological family members who I do have contact with, again, I am not able to control how they respond. It has never been simple or easy to explain to anyone who is not adopted and separated from their biological family relations.

So with Thanksgiving now behind us, and my holiday cards on their way to my blended, adoptive, and biological family, I will celebrate what some may call our betters selves, to be the person I prefer to be.

Yes, adoption as a system forever made my holidays a mixed up time, but I have, for decades now, not let this define the meaning I give this time of year freely.

So are you talking to me, asked the man of the beautiful woman

In the past month, I have been left speechless in the presence of pure genetic beauty. I say genetic, because human beauty does have a component derived from one’s ancestors, how they looked, how they cared for themselves, and how they selected their mates.

Athleta, the product line that captures the "beautiful athelete" look in its products makes me think of the women, and also men, I am seeing with great frequency in and around Portland.

Athleta, the product line that captures the “beautiful athlete” look in its products, makes me think of the women, and also men, I am seeing with great frequency in and around Portland.

There is also just sheer randomness in the assigning of physical features to a person, and the utterly incalculable fate that placed someone in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Bay Area and another in some godforsaken neighborhood in Detroit, where there are few resources, poor food choices, high crime, and economic despair. (That’s my public health nerd speaking here.)

Those gifted with good fortune can also take additional steps. They can eat good food, exercise daily, become religious, build social networks, adopt a positive outlook, and own a dog. All of these actions can also improve a person’s health, and thus one’s exterior appearance to their world.

So when I see beauty, I never think it is just one thing, though I know genetics matter. I think it is a combination of factors. I know that those with good fortune being born into the right class and group may have a higher probability of good looks.

I think about beauty often now in Portland, mainly because I see a lot of it. It seems Portland has become a popular spot for successful people, including people who have talent, connections, and an upper middle-class upbringing that promotes good luck, opportunity, and a higher chance at being good-looking. (In this country, the poorer you are, the higher your chances are at being overweight and obese, which creates many health and physical appearance issues.)

I have no magic quotient what a high proportion of beautiful people is to a low proportion. I just sense it when I am startled by it on a growing frequency. Portland, since I moved back here in 2014, has a very high percentage of attractive people. They look fit. They look confident. They appear to have a level of wealth—even some of the younger ones, who likely should be saddled in enormous debt given their age. That is unless they were wealthy to start.

Oddly, I stumbled on two incredibly beautiful women in the last month, both on biking excursions. One I met biking with friends. She was the co-owner of a winery, and she was a gracious host to my party. I could not get comfortable with this perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, perfectly mannered woman in her early 40s asking me for my order. I felt the Monster character in Young Frankenstein, who was confused when the Doctor said, “Hello handsome.” Was she talking to me? Yes, she was that perfect of a person in how she presented herself to the world.

Hello Handsome. That's what it feels like some times when you encounter Portland's class of beautiful people.

Hello, handsome. That’s what it feels like some times when you encounter Portland’s class of beautiful people.

Despite her nearly perfect everything, she was still a nice soul and a gracious business woman. I told my colleagues as we biked away, she was the girl who would never give me the time of day in high school. Yet, she was proving me wrong just minutes earlier.

Yesterday, again while biking, I saw yet another apparition of physical perfection. This time it was a blonde cyclist—and I normally am not someone who favors blonde hair and the Nordic look. She had on very stylish and colorful bike clothes—meaning expensive. She straddled a bike that was clearly in a price bracket above mine and stroked her machine confidently. We passed on my normal hill climb. She was descending. I was ascending. She gave me a friendly biker “hello,” smiled, and was soon gone, leaving me looking at her colorful figure fade into the distance. She seemed like some dream from a movie.

I would not think too much about this, were it not for other sitings of pretty women and handsome men in this city and in the surrounding area. Portland has changed. We have now become the beacon for the beautiful. It is not just for Southern California anymore.

All of this is highly unscientific, but often one must trust one’s intuition and test one’s hypothesis. I think the hypothesis I have confirmed is that I likely find myself in a pool with the prize catches, and perhaps I am not the king salmon. I still do not know where all of these large numbers of pretty people of Portland are coming from, but make no mistake, they definitely are coming here.