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LilMtnCbn
03-01-2004, 07:16 AM
http://www.newsday.com/news/local/newyork/nyc-magdalene0229,0,2265224.stor
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Adoptees search out their birth mothers

Feb 29, 2004


BY Anthony M. Destefano
Staff Writer


In the town of Roscrea in the midlands of Ireland stands the ruined chapel of
Sean Ross Abbey. Ivy covers the crumbled walls, near a small, unkempt
graveyard.

A visitor has to part some tall grass to fully see a black granite headstone
that bears a distinctive legend.

"Michael A. Hess -- A Man of Two Nations and Many Talents," it reads. Born July
5, 1952, at Sean Ross Abbey, he died on Aug. 15, 1995, in Washington, D.C. He
was 43.

But what the tombstone doesn't reveal in its chiseled letters is how the burial
came to be in the Irish countryside. It is the story of an abiding love of
Ireland cut short by an untimely death.

Hess' mother had given birth to him at Sean Ross Abbey, a church-run facility
for unwed mothers, and saw him leave at age 3 just after Christmas 1955 for a
trip to a new family in Iowa. He was one of the legion of Irish toddlers sent
to the United States from the 1940s to 1960s, sometimes without their mother's
consent. Some of the mothers, shunned by their families, were consigned to
years of labor in harsh church-run workhouses known as Magdalene Laundries --
depicted in the 2003 film, "The Magdalene Sisters."

Hess did well for himself. A graduate of Notre Dame University and George
Washington University law school in Washington, D.C., he worked his way up the
ranks of the Republican National Committee and in 1993 became its chief
counsel.

But long before he got there, Hess' endearing personality as a child would
shape his destiny.

Dr. and Mrs. A. Michael Hess of Ferguson, Iowa, a suburb of St. Louis, already
had three sons, but they wanted a daughter as well. With the help of a relative
who was a local Catholic bishop, they learned that Ireland was a source of
children for adoption.

Mrs. Hess spent about six weeks in Ireland in the summer of 1955 and became
acquainted with a 21/2-year-old girl, Mary Kate, at Sean Ross. She was exactly
the child they wanted.

But a dark-haired boy named Anthony seemed always to hover nearby. The Hess
family decided to adopt him as well.

Renamed Michael, the young boy continued to be close with Mary Kate. Both
seemed to prosper in the new American family and gradually lost their brogues.

"They were inseparable, those two," remembered their brother, Tom Hess, now in
Florida, who is about 10 years older.

Despite his bonds to his new family, Michael maintained a lifelong link to
Ireland. Mary Kate, now known as Mary Reynolds and also living in Florida, said
Michael often traveled to the city of Cork in Ireland, where he felt at home.
"A lot of people looked like they were related to him," Reynolds said.

On one of his trips, Hess visited the old abbey grounds where he was born.

"He was here on holiday, looking for his roots, and fell in love with it [the
Abbey]," said Sister Margaret Dobbin, the head of Sean Ross Abbey, now a home
for developmentally disabled people.

When he died of complications of AIDS, Hess' body was sent to the abbey as he
had requested. Tom Hess was among the mourners who gathered around the grave
for a simple ceremony.

Though he tried for years, Michael Hess never found his birth mother. But in
recent weeks, the elderly woman, now living in England, learned of his death
when a photo of his headstone was placed on a Web site with the date of his
birth.

"She was understandably devastated," Jane Libberton, Hess' half sister in
England, said in an e-mail. The family of Hess' birth mother was planning a
visit to the grave this past weekend.

"This is going to be a very emotional experience for us all, but particularly
my mum," she said.

It took decades, but some adoptees, unlike Hess, were able to find their
mothers. For many, the memories of Ireland had faded, just quick glimpses of
their birth mothers as they were shuttled away from the only homes they knew.
Here are three of their stories:

MARY KOMOROWSKI
Born: 1949
Arrived in U.S.: April 1952
Mary Komorowski remembers many things -- good and bad -- that time should have
erased.

Now 54, Komorowski's earliest memory is of a traumatic day in April 1952 when
she saw a person she now believes was her birth mother for the last time at
Sean Ross Abbey in Roscrea, Ireland.

"I remember a lady in a blue dress with a huge white collar," Komorowski said.
"My birth mother, maybe, was dressing me for the last time and there were
mothers in the background screaming, crying and carrying on."

The mothers of Sean Ross Abbey, some 75 miles southwest of Dublin, knew the
grim drill. Although many lived at the church-run home for about two years with
their children, for many there eventually came a dreadful day when their child
would be wrenched away for adoption in the United States.

"All I can remember is being pulled to the left and then [the nuns] taking a
woman ... just pushing her to the side, and saying 'go.'"

Hurried down the grand interior staircase of the abbey and out to a waiting
black sedan, Komorowski, then known as Mary O'Brien, was taken to Shannon
airport. She was flown to New York City, where a kind Italian-American couple
living on Himrod Street in Brooklyn adopted the Irish toddler.

To a child of rural Ireland, the streets of Bushwick were another world.

"I kept asking 'where are the cows?'" Komorowski recalled.

Still, her new family, the Cacioppos, supported her Irish heritage. When
Komorowski was about 10, the family moved to Bogota, N.J., where she still
lives. Married and with four grown kids of her own, Komorowski now teaches in
Bergen County.

When Komorowski discovered that the Sean Ross Abbey was a mother-baby home,
where the young moms actually lived with their children before they were
adopted, she was shocked.

"Then I thought to myself 'I wonder if that wasn't the mother who was dressing
me for the last time?'"

Encouraged by her adoptive parents and her husband Henry, Komorowski began
looking for her mother. Nuns at Sean Ross Abbey, which is now a home for
developmentally disabled people, told her the birth mother's name as well as
other information useful for a search.

Eventually, Komorowski learned that her birth mother and father had married and
had five sons and another daughter, Eleanor. During a trip to Ireland and with
the help of relatives as intermediaries, Komorowski reunited with her family in
2002. Her father cried as he held her. Her mother was happy but a bit reserved,
Komorowski remembered, worried that bad memories might flood back.

"The five boys and my sister and my birth father feel that the best thing that
happened in their family is that I came into it," she said. "Mother was quiet,
always had this deep secret and now she doesn't have this secret anymore."

CATHY DEASY
Born: 1954
Arrived in U.S.: 1958


For Cathy Deasy, the anger is personal.

At the age of 43, Deasy's mother, Johanna Sheehy fell in love with the son of
the owner of a farm where she worked. When she became pregnant, the farm family
arranged for a local priest to take her away to a home for unwed mothers run by
the Sacred Heart sisters in Bessboro, County Cork. It was a decision that would
relegate her to a lifetime of hardship and loneliness.

"She was put to work in the laundries," Deasy said in an e-mail interview,
referring to the work homes where some of the unwed mothers at the time were
sent to live. "Got up at 4 a.m. for a prayer hour, then ate a meager serving of
gobbled **** -- so my mother called it -- and worked until 5 or 6 p.m., had
some more gobbled **** and prayers again, then bed."

Deasy said she lived for 41/2 years in an adjoining nursery section and was
rarely seen by her mother.

"My mother tells me she was told she was nothing but a black sheep and a tramp
and a disgrace," Deasy said, after her mother was caught sneaking into the
nursery to put some knit booties on her daughter's feet.

Deasy was put up for adoption in 1958. She said Sheehy was given five photos of
her daughter's arrival in New York City as keepsakes before moving to the
Sunday's Well facility near Cork run by the Good Shepherd sisters. Sunday's
Well gained a reputation for being among the toughest of the Magdalene
facilities for the unwed mothers.

Deasy, now 49 and in Florida, lived for much of her life in Elmont. Her life
was never easy. She felt out of place. A relative, Deasy said, used to charge a
nickel for other children to listen to her brogue. Her adoptive parents, she
said, also seemed unsympathetic and distant.

After graduating from nursing school, Deasy bounced around to Massachusetts and
Florida, drifting in and out of depression.

When U.S. television reported in the 1990s about the exported children of
Ireland, Deasy was jolted by pictures of her old orphanage and interviews with
aging birth mothers.

"They interviewed and filmed mothers in Ireland crying and saying they don't
know where their babies are," Deasy said

In June 2002, after searching for nearly 15 years, a volunteer in Ireland found
her mother, who was 90. She left the Good Shepherd home in 1982.

Johanna Sheehy, now 92, and her daughter are in constant contact. In January,
Sheehy fell and now uses a wheelchair, but is still in good spirits, her
daughter said. Yet, Deasy remains embittered by her mother's experience. "My
mom was told all her life she will burn in hell for her sins," Deasy said in
her e-mail, "but I know and want the world to know my mom is destined for
heaven for all she has been put through."

ROSEMARY McCONKEY
Born: 1960
Arrived in U.S.: June 1962


When 2-year-old Rosemary McConkey was pulled away one day from her mother in
Ireland in June 1962 and suddenly flown to New York City for adoption, she was
terrified.

The terror, McConkey was later told by her Long Island adoptive mother, showed
in her young eyes and face.

"She said it took time to finally get me to smile and laugh," McConkey said. "I
would not go to my adoptive father for quite some time. I was very afraid of
him."

Befriended by her two adoptive brothers, McConkey gradually warmed up to family
life in America -- any memories she had of the birth mother she left at the
mother-baby home at Castlepollard faded quickly.

McConkey, now 43, had a happy childhood growing up in Northport and later Stony
Brook. After her adoptive parents divorced, McConkey went to live with her
adoptive mother when she remarried. Still, she's had a lifelong fear of
rejection.

"The idea of perfection and not wanting to rock the boat, wanting to be
accepted, unconsciously I guess was the fear of being returned or rejected,"
McConkey said. "I remember in school I was always the teacher's pet, always
tried to do the right thing so nobody would get mad at me."

Spurred by the news programs in the 1990s about the Magdalene laundries and the
large scale exportation of Irish children to the United States, McConkey began
a letter-writing campaign to people around the country who had done their own
successful searches for their mothers.

The breakthrough finally came, as it has with many other adoptees, through the
Web site of the Adopted Peoples Association in Ireland. Volunteers who
discovered McConkey's birth mother in October 2003 set the stage for the Long
Island woman to call her in January.

"It was weird," said McConkey, remembering that conversation as being a bit
awkward.

But her mother soon launched into the whole story, telling McConkey about how
she and the birth father had been in a long-term relationship when she became
pregnant. The couple, McConkey said, planned to go to London for the birth but
her father backed out and left.

So instead of marriage, her mother ended up alone, and had to say goodbye to
her daughter. "I just don't understand, that was torture," McConkey said.

"My view on adoption is, let them leave as infants, don't establish a
relationship with the child and the mother and then separate them," McConkey
said.

McConkey will be reuniting with her birth mother, who ultimately married and
had other children, later this month in Ireland.


-------------------------
A good friend will come and bail you out of jail . . . but, a true friend will
be sitting next to you saying, "**** . . . that was fun!"
-----Unknown

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