My name is Rena

I have no idea who I really am.

Not in a existential way, although that is also a bit murky too.

My name is Rena.

I grew up being called Nona, which is short for Wynona, which happens to be the middle name on my birth certificate. I did not know my first name was Rena until I started school, when that legal document had to be turned over to Indianapolis Public Schools and P.S. 9 expected Rena to show up for kindergarten.

My adoptive parents - Dave and Jet Coggins - never told me my first name. They never told me I was adopted, either.

Per Jet’s request, all my school records after that first day of kindergarten listed my name as Wynona, omitting Rena altogether.

Rena was ignored. Rena all but disappeared.

When I needed to apply for a Social Security card, I saw my birth certificate for the first time. I learned that I was born in Sarasota County, Florida in November of 1963. Up to that point in my life, I thought I had never been to Florida. The only home I knew growing up was Dave and Jet’s two-story, shotgun-style row house in downtown Indy’s Lockerbie Square area.

There was house another child a little more than two years older than me, also adopted. She was born in Indianapolis — at Community Hospital — and there were many photos of her as an infant and toddler.

Dave and Jet had no photos of me as a baby, so I don’t know when I first came to live there.

I asked questions and got vague answers.

Why was I born in Florida when we live in Indiana? We never take vacations and have no connection to Florida.

Oh, your mother was just happened to be there.

Why are there no baby pictures of me?

Oh, we just didn’t take as many photos after you came along.

Why is my first name Rena?

Oh, it just is. But we’ve always called you Nona. Just forget about Rena.

My earliest memories are of anxiety and fear. Anxious that I would do or say something wrong. Fearful that my parents would — do what? — I don’t know. I was always afraid that I would screw up and make them angry and then I would have no control of what would happen to me, like the attachment was conditional and could be revoked without notice.

I was certain that I was adopted in 1986. By then I was an adult. My adoptive parents were elderly and I didn’t want to upset them by asking questions. I didn’t want them to think I was ungrateful. I was afraid they would be angry that I knew they weren’t my “real parents.”

Besides, I had a daughter of my own and I told myself that the “real parenting” began with caring for the baby.

So I just let it go.

Dave died in 1987 and Jet died in 1989. Anything they knew about my biological family went with them to their graves. And I tried to bury the betrayal I felt for their lack of honesty with me in those graves, too.

Two years ago I spit into a test tube and mailed it to Ancestry.com. Today I sent away for a test tube from 23&Me.com.

I did not find my biological parents or any siblings on Ancestry, but I did find cousins. I am hoping to widen the potential family gene pool with 23&Me.

Next week I am going to meet my Ancestry cousins. With their help, maybe we can figure out the branch of their family tree from which I sprouted. Maybe I will find more relatives on 23&Me.

I want my newly found relatives to call me Nona, because that is who I know myself to be.

But it’s Rena’s time to find her family.