I was a shy kid, sheltered by my mother and grandmother and cut off from the mainstream by my mother’s chosen religion – Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Once in High School some kid told one of my girlfriends I was a bastard; she promptly volunteered to kick his ass. Well, she didn’t say “ass”, she said “butt”. Nobody swore around me, I was pretty darned pious.
In the 60s being a bastard was a HUGE deal. I couldn’t figure out why someone would say something so hurtful. Of course, back then I didn’t KNOW what he’d said was true.
My mom divorced when I was 7 and I never saw my dad again. He was an Italian jazz musician. A good man. I wondered why he stopped seeing me. When I looked him up 18 years later, I found out why.
He was “expresso” - black hair, green eyes and olive skin. His second wife was as blonde and white as my mother – pale as cream. The children of my father’s second family were varying shades of mocha latte. They invited us to dinner and I said it was strange that we didn’t match.
Later that night he called and told my husband the truth. He and my mother married when I was 2 and he had adopted me. I was devastated. My entire life to that point had been a lie. Not knowing who my father was, somehow I didn’t know who I was. I could have picked up the phone and called my mother or grandmother, but they’d gone to so much trouble to hide the truth, I wasn’t willing to burst their bubble. I would continue the charade.
OK, so my dad wasn’t my dad. I became more spiritual, figuring if I didn’t have a father in the flesh, I had the mother of all fathers in spirit.
My life progressed just fine. I was more sensitive to others because who knew what they were going through. Even my career was going well. My company was sending me to Europe and I’d need a passport. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother, I expected her to be proud.
And by the way, I would need a copy of my birth certificate.
She invited me to lunch at a favorite place and I could tell she was worried sick. She said “I have something to tell you.” I said “about what?” She said “about you.” And I said “don’t worry, I already know.”
She was afraid the birth certificate would give her away. It was so painful for her, I only asked a few questions. Who was my father? What did he look like? What nationality? I assumed Jewish because most of my friends were. She said “No! His family would have lit the ovens!” She told me he was a German named Karl (Carl?) Smith. After getting her pregnant, he had married her best friend.
I left it at that and never asked for more. I walked away thinking “OK, at least I know what nationality I am on that side. German.”
I found Karl’s number and talked to him on the phone, but he pretended not to know me. I know he did because his voice shook. To be denied by my real father, to know he never cared to see me, was a crushing emotional blow.
“OK, my biological father never wants to meet me. I’ll get past it.”
And I did.
In the years that followed my mother went into therapy and came out the other side firm in the belief that having a child out of wedlock had wrecked her life. She was glib about it, as if I weren’t involved. This is me waving my hand saying “hey, that’s me you’re blaming. And I was just an embryo.”
This is me wanting to put a bag of flaming poo on her therapist’s doorstep. Except that knowing my mom, that is probably the conclusion she reached after the therapist tried to convince her otherwise.
It didn’t stop there. Her story changed as years advanced. She started saying she was raped. I imagine that’s good cover for anyone with a checkered past. I took it with a grain of salt. I preferred to think of her as a teenager with passions rather than a victim.
Today mom is excited that I’m working on the book on the family tree. She dedicated 20 years of her life to family genealogy and damned if she didn’t hit pay dirt. Since then she has been obsessed with pedigree. D.A.R. and all that.
Yesterday we were talking about some of what I’d learned about William the Conqueror – a.k.a. William the Bastard. She piped up “I’ve started thinking about your father. I wonder if ‘Smith’ is English. You might have another English connection.”
I said “well, you told me he was German.” She said “I don’t know.” I asked her to describe him. She said he was 6’ tall with a rosy complexion - an exciting guy with a nice car. In fact he raced cars. His family lived in a nice area - 6 Mile and Gratiot in Detroit was once fairly elegant.
To my dismay, Mom was in the mood to talk. She said he was going with her best friend Dottie – “a ditzy tramp with big boobs.” I wondered why my mother chose a best friend like that. Don’t birds of a feather ….
Then she said “I got you the night he drove me home from Thanksgiving dinner.” (I got you?) She concluded “and he raped me in the driveway.”
BONK. I don’t remember what she said after that. I was stunned, picturing my Grandmother’s tree lined gravel driveway and the little white house in the distance. I guess it’s an ok place to be conceived. And it was probably a nice car, after all.
OK, I’ll get over this too. I’ll learn to tell people I am English, Finnish and ???
The rape thing? I don't know if I'll get over it. I know saying that makes her feel better, blameless, but it makes me feel guilty for being born.
I remember my Grandmother getting a little more open as she got older. My mom is about 75 right now. Heaven help me if this is the start of what’s to come. Fortunately, I know from my research on the family tree that – if shaken – at least one history-changing bastard will fall out.
I like to think we boomers will be the last generation to give a shit about this crap. Our kids and their kids will only get some sense for it from old-time movies like “To Each His Own”.
They won’t have to live it.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Each_His_Own_(film)
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