Shalom My Gantseh Megillah Family and Friends,

This month our Megillah theme is family. We all have at least one, so it’s a subject with appeal to all our readers. I put great importance in the concept of family. All of the subscribers to this journal are referred to as my Megillah family, and the features are authored by members of the Megillah family of writers. Some people think this is corny; I happen to think it is kinda nice. When a group of people share certain values, backgrounds, experiences or beliefs, they are to some extent a family.

Because I am an adopted child, I never took my family for granted. Although we do not share a single drop of blood, I am a Fein through and through. Surprisingly my dad and I share many physical similarities. I once saw a photo of my father when he was 17 years old and I could have sworn it was a picture of my twin. There is no doubt that Michael is the son of Ben Fein.

Emotionally I have far more in common with my mother. Sylvia Fein was a woman of small stature (4 ft, 9 in) but enormous spirit. She was the family spitfire. Sylvia spoke her mind, and often the minds of others who were too meek or timid to express themselves. My mother was not the easiest person to get along with, and she could not tolerate hypocrites. She could sniff out a phony like a bloodhound could locate a rabbit. My mother was not all piss-and-vinegar though; she had a soft and nurturing side as well. She would champion the downtrodden by protecting the abused while standing up to those who tried to take advantage of them.

As with most parents, their child’s interests were paramount in their lives. They appreciated enormously what it meant to be a parent. My parents were married almost twelve years before I came into the family. During the first dozen years of their marriage, my mother suffered seven miscarriages and two stillborn births. However, she and my father were convinced they were meant to be parents, and they decided to go through the very lengthy and intrusive process of adoption.

Back in the 1940s, adoptions were primarily handled by agencies. Yes, there were some exceptions where adoptions were dealt with via high-priced lawyers and other means, but that was reserved for the wealthy and was also looked upon as often being somewhat less than kosher. My adoption on the other hand was certified 100% kosher.

I was adopted through the Rabbi Steven Wise Foundling Home. The name has a bit of a Dickensian sound to it. I never really think of myself as a foundling; but I digress. The process took a very long time. Both parents were carefully interviewed and screened. They were put through emotional and physical examinations. Relatives and friends of the family were also contacted and interviewed. The archaic institutions of those days felt empowered to evaluate all aspects of the adoption environment.

Inspectors from the home would show up unannounced at any hour of the day or night for surprise inspections. Once the adoption commenced, it was provisional for one year. During that time, surprise spot-checks continued. I was examined by a doctor to make sure I was getting proper care, and a social worker interacted with me on several occasions to ascertain whether I was thriving in my environment. On the day the adoption was to be finalized we all went to court, where a judge actually spoke with me, as well as he could speak with any child under two years of age.

Most parents have nine months to wait until their baby arrives. In the case of my parents, and many other adoptive parents, the wait can take years. And then, even after the baby arrives, there is more waiting until you are sure the baby will actually remain a permanent member of the family.

When the adoption became final, my parents threw a huge party for me. I guess this made up for the lack of a proper bris celebration. All of my new aunts, uncles, cousins, my two grandfathers (both my grandmothers had died) and various assorted friends were in attendance. Most of these people remained an important part of my life for as long as they lived. Today, I am still close to my few remaining aunts and most of my cousins. I don’t know if the fact that I was adopted has anything to do with my strong sense of family, but whatever the reason, I am grateful for all of them.

Sure, we all have our family tiffs and differences. Yeah, Aunt “so-and-so” with her big mouth said the wrong thing and hurt Cousin “whose-a-what’s” feelings or any other myriad situations that can cause strife between people. But overall, family is part of who we are; some by blood and some by sheer luck.

I am a very lucky man, indeed.

Much love to all of you,
Michael