It was the first day of summer
vacation when my parents dragged me inside to tell me the news: I was adopted,
by my father, anyway. I was 11 years old.
This was a big deal for my folks.
They had speeches prepared; they still loved me, my dad was still my dad,
nothing was going to change.
I didn’t care. All I could think
about was how much fun my friends, Joey and Doug, were having outside in the
summer sun while I was stuck in here listening to grownups drone on about stuff
that didn’t matter. My folks’ entire presentation probably lasted only ten
minutes or so, but it seemed to go on forever.
All I cared about was whether they
were going to keep feeding me and whether I could continue living under their
roof. Once I’d been assured both of these conditions would endure, I was ready to boogie back to
the great outdoors.
I was not a particularly
introspective kid. It never occurred to me to ask who my “real” father was. I
knew my mom had been married before, for a few weeks when she was only 17, to a
guy named Bud. I assumed this Bud fella was
my biological father.
But honestly, I didn’t care. I just
wanted to return to my game of kick the can. Eventually, no doubt wondering how
any kid could be so incurious about his origin story, my folks turned me loose.
It was 20 years before the topic came
up again. And that was only when my grandmother mentioned to my wife, a nurse,
that Bud had had epilepsy. As a nurse, my wife knew that disease is often
passed from father to son and – appropriately, I think – she freaked out.
It was only then that I began to hear
the real story regarding the conditions surrounding my own inception. I relate
the facts to you now only because all the principals involved in the story
(save myself) have long ago departed this mortal coil.
Bud, my grandma said, was not my real
father after all. My mother knew I believed this and never bothered to correct
me. The reasons for this omission, I was to learn, were numerous.
It took some coaxing, but my
grandmother slowly and reluctantly shared the true story.
My mother had married Bud on a dare. They
were on their first date at the time.
Bud, only a year older than his new
child bride, worked as a nurse; my mother was a beautician. Not surprisingly,
the marriage was something less than a resounding success. It was also of very
short duration.
A few weeks after taking her wedding
vows, my mom skipped town. Bud filed for divorce. No one knew where my mother
had hitchhiked off to until nearly a year later.
Turns out she had run away to sunny
California, where she had landed a job as a “dancer” at a night club in the
city of angels. (My grandmother was rather vague on this part of the story, but
I’m assuming my mom wasn’t dancing with the Bolshoi Ballet and that tassels
were likely a component in her work uniform.)
While living in an efficiency
apartment above the night club, my mom met a young, Greek merchant marine. A
customer at the club.
Mom and her Greek sailor lived
together for a few months. Then he went back to sea and my mother came back to
Detroit.
A week later she learned of my
impending arrival.
So.
It took me a month or so to work up
the courage to ask my mom for additional details. Some she gave up, some she
never would, no matter how much I bugged her.
She claimed she couldn’t remember my
biological father’s name, which is obviously baloney. I mean, she lived with
the guy for months. She remembered his name. But I never learned it.
He was handsome, college educated and
a good dancer. That’s about all I ever got out of her. In truth, it’s all I
ever really needed.
Until recently, when my doctor wanted
a detailed family medical history. I
could give him only half. I’d like that info, sure, but not as much as I like
having an interesting origin story.
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