The first time I met my biological father...

I met my dad for the first time was I was 19, I am now over 40 so I have now had my dad in my life longer than I have not had him in my life.  That is a strange thought.  

This was me at 19, about the time I met my father for the first time.

However, if I were to bet on it, that clock will start ticking backward again now that we really have seemed to have severed any connection.

There are two significant meetings, or first's, if you will.  The first first was one I actually met him in 1992, the other was when I saw him with his family for the first time in 2008.  

I don't remember much of the first encounter and most of what I remember is because at one point during all the turmoil we would go through together later, my dad actually reminded me of all our encounters.  Somehow I had blacked out (or blocked out) all these memories.  When my dad retold them to me, it was as if the memories would come back about 5 minutes before he would tell them to me.  I don't know if that makes sense.  It's as if someone is describing a person so that you can make a sketch of it, only seconds before they tell you the guy had a mustache, you see it.  

The idea that these memories were in my brain but not memories I could pull up on command was very unnerving.  What else had I blanked out? Am I now remembering the truth, or some conjured up story? How did I forget?  

Perhaps it was too painful a memory so I choose to lock it away.  Or perhaps, and I think this is more likely, I just choose to not think about it, so the memory vanished.  My dad met me, and than got in his car and drove back to his life as if I didn't exist.  That's not something a young person wants to think about too much.

So, enough with the psychobabble, here is how I came to meet my dad....

After meeting with my grandmother in the park, I learned what state my father lived in.  With that information I had a friend with connections run a drivers license search and a match was returned with the name and what I guessed would be the age of my father.  I didn't get to see his license, which of course was disappointing since I had assumed I would know my dad when I saw him.  However, I had his address now, I was so close.

Also, this being 1992 and although the Internet existed I sure the hell didn't know what it was.  So the library was a place I spent a lot of time at.  The bigger libraries had phone books of everywhere, so In the labyrinth of the Salt Lake library I found the phone book for the area I needed and as simple as opening a book, there was the phone number for the person who I thought might be my dad.

I was very hesitant.  I had spent probably less than 4 hours of detective work to find my dad. Recalling the steps it took to find him I remembered that most of the time it took to get this far was time spent calling every private investigator in the yellow pages begging for help.  After calling a dozen or so private investigators and feeling completely dejected one eventually felt sorry for me and gave me the tip to search the LDS missionary indices at the main church building in downtown SLC. That research is what led me to my grandmother.  Within a few hours on the phone to P.I.s, less than 15 minutes in the church records building, a lunch with my grandmother, a favor from a friend and now another 15 minutes at the library and I had my dad's phone number clutched in my hand.  Could it really have been that easy?

Why hadn't my mother ever done this? What about the state authorities, certainly with those resources they could have found him.  How could I have located him so quickly with so few resources?  My father would later claim this was because he wasn't hiding and he would later insinuate that had anyone tried to look for him, they would have found him so obviously this indicates he was helpless in the matter.   But the truth is, the state did find him but they didn't have the ability to force him to address paternity. And my maternal grandparent did try to make contact with his wife at the time.  But my fathers wife didn't want to believe that I could have been his child so she went along with his stories and the state can't force someone to be a dad if they don't want to be.

After a few days or weeks, I really can't remember how much time passed,I finally called the number from the phone book.  I decided to play it cool, like I had called the number a million times.  So when I called, I simply said, "yeah, is ______ around?"

"No, he's not here" replied the casual voice on the other end.  I wondered if this was a sibling of mine and strained to get some glimmer of a clue what life was like on the end of the telephone line.

"Do you know where I can reach him at?" Playing as cool as I could while my fingers trembled so much that I could barely hold the phone still.  

"Yeah,he's at his parents house" was the reply.

"That's great, I'll call him there."

"Do you need the number" the stranger offered.

"Thanks but I already have it" I couldn't have planned it better, now I was certain the caller on the other end wouldn't ever suspect a thing from me.  To this day, I wonder which one of my siblings it might have been.

I knew that if I didn't call the number for my dad's parents home right that second I would never get the nerve again.  So I called and again playing it as cool as a cucumber I asked, "is _______ around" 

"Hold on I'll get him for you" was the kind voice on the other end.

The moment was at hand. What was I supposed to say? Will he know it is me? Will he deny me? Will he tell me to go to hell?

My dad answered the phone in his usually matter.  I know today what that usual matter is, but back in 1992, I had no clue. So when he answered the phone, "what do you want?" I just naturally assumed my cool as a cucumber identity had been discovered and now here was this gruff voice just being as blunt as one could possibly be.  

So I replied back with the only answer that made any sense, "I want to meet you" I said.

It is so fascinating to me to tell you this story, even if there is no "you" out there. Even if the only person who ever reads my story is me, as I mentioned above these memories come back to me with clarity as if the picture is being painted before the brush touches the page.  How accurate the memories are I have no idea. 

During the rest of the conversation we decided when and where to meet.  It would be at the food court in a local mall.  I didn't ask what he'd be wearing and he didn't ask what I would be wearing.  I don't think he even ever asked my name.  One has to assume that for this man, hearing a young woman call him to ask him if he wanted to meet her, why he must have know it was his 19 year old daughter that he'd never seen or heard before.  I wondered if his parents would have asked him what the phone call was all about. I wondered of he turned white as a ghost when he heard my voice.  Again, with the way he answered the phone, I assumed he knew it was me.  I assumed my grandmother whom I had already met had recognized my voice and must have said "it's her" with that look in her eye that every mother has.   Now that years have gone by, and now that I know this is how he answers the phone, I now assume that he too played coolio the cucumber and never let on to his parents on anyone else who exactly it was that had just called him out of the blue.

It is with this memory that my heart goes out to his wife.  I know as a wife myself how important it is to share moments with my husband.  I can't imagine how shut out she must have felt during this time, when he was meeting his daughter and couldn't confide in her what that experience was like.   This is why cheating is so horrible, it robs you of the companionship of your best friend.  But that's a topic for a different post.

So now I'm at the food court at the agreed upon mall on the agreed upon date at the agreed upon time.  With my heart pounding so loud I can't hear my own thoughts I nervously scan the crowd.  Making this search difficult was that my expectations had been set.  You see my mother had dated a number of gentleman in my life and most of them were not model citizens.  To be fair to my mother, we lived in Utah and at the time if you weren't a member of the church, you probably weren't considered a model citizen and while I knew my father was a returned missionary the expectation of what my father would be like was closer to a drinker hobo than a clean cut Mormon with a newly pressed shirt and tie.  

I scanned the crowd for and stopped at every single man over age 40.  "Please not him" I would think as I scanned the number of strange looking men.  For those of you who have never known your birth parents, this is a procedure us lost kids do in every public setting, always wondering, "could that stranger over there be my father/mother?"  For those of you lucky enough to know both you mum and your pa, humor me and go to any public setting, look around and pick a father, you'll find yourself saying "please not that guy" too.  

My scanning and prayer ritual went on for what seems an eternity.  Deciding to make myself busy, I choose to stand in line for a hot dog at the hot-dog-on-a-stick place, I still love their deep fried cheese thingies.  As I'm standing in line, I feel the prescience of someone behind me and I turn around to look into blue eyes. There he was and I knew it, just as he knew it.

And I don't remember anything else.  I know I didn't ask him if he was my dad.  We just talked, but I don't know how long it was or what it was about?  I remember at some point he met my husband and children (at age 19, I had a 2 year old son and two step-children half my age, but that's for an entirely different blog some day).  I know we exchanged a number of letters, most of which I destroyed after one of many future events were he would refuse to tell his family about me.  The next 16 years are so much of a blur.  I never referred to him by anything other than his name and didn't think of him as a father.  When others asked about my dad I would still answer I didn't know who my dad was and that it might be this one guy I had met but I wasn't sure. 

My dad never said he was my father, only that he would be whatever I wanted him to be.  That is why the time I saw him after his confession, and after he actually said he was my father is really more of the first time I met my dad.

This guy that I met in 1992, he was just some random dude.

Fatherlessness

Saw this video today and had to share.

For most, these numbers are only numbers. For the fatherlessness, these numbers are painful memories. Let's end the Fatherless Epidemic

What I did that I regret most when I was introduced to my bio dad's family

It was a Monday morning, when my dad finally confessed to my paternal siblings.  His confession left me stunned, confused, excited, nauseous, dizzy, etc. etc.

I knew after I made the call to my half-brother the prior Tuesday that the truth would be forthcoming, when I told my dad that Thursday that I had called my brother and that he should be aware that his dirty secret was out, I had expectations.

I expected he and my brother would communicate, have a chat about how to move forward and how to tell the others.  Or at least one of them would call me that weekend to either learn more about me or discuss the method and timing of telling the others.

But the weekend came and went without any event.  I anxiously checked my phone and my computer for any sign of communication from either of them.  I checked my spam folders, re-read emails and dialed my own phone just to make sure it was working.  Needless to say it was a very long weekend.

Than Monday morning came and I felt so dejected, unresolved, tired, and worn out.  I had no plan going forward.  My father had seven other biological children that I knew about, I had only called one.  I was pretty certain at that time, I wouldn't have it in me to call another sibling.  Words cannot explain the terror and resolve it took to call my brother and say, "hi, I think I'm your half-sister."

I went to work and tried to pretend I was okay.  At about 10 a.m., I saw an email titled, "What have I done" and my heart jumped out of my chest.  I couldn't even read the words, I saw a mix of letters and paragraphs swirling around and around on the computer screen.   I wanted to throw up, I wanted to cry, I wanted to jump with joy.

I focused over and over and over again on the recipient list.  I counted the names; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN.  There were TEN names on the list.  I knew of 7, there was an extra 3. 

Who were these people, what did they look like?  Were they too in front of their computers?  Why did my dad send an email?  Are they happy to have a sister? Does it say I'm their sister?  Will they accept me? What will my life be like now?  What about my children and their children? What will my dad's wife do?

Excitement was probably the most prominent emotion, but as I scrambled to read the email with all the rambling paragraphs about Christ and the Garden of Gethesemane and my dad's ego and pride all splayed out that finally about three quarters of the way down there it was.  And this is what it said.

"You have a half-sister by my wrong doing, her name is Jana, her number is 800-XXX-XXXX"

THAT'S IT?

How will they know me? What will they expect?  And while I understand the underlying shame of my father's confessions, a sadness filled my heart as I thought to myself, "well, that is my birth announcement"  35 years late without any mention of love or pride for me as a person, just a sadness and sense of shame that I existed.

Well, without thinking and in my eagerness, I composed my own email about me, about my children, about my challenges and triumphs in life, about my pets, about my job, about everything and I hit "reply all"

Now, I regret a lot of things about this action of mine.  What I didn't realize than, is that a lot of my siblings didn't have smart phones or computers in front of them like I did.  I assumed they all got my dad's confession in real time, I had no idea that when they got home later that day, they would see my email first and my dad's second because for reasons only God knows, that is how emails are organized?  I regret that I didn't recognize that they would need some time to digest the email from their father.  I regret that their mother had no idea that this is how they would be told.  But these reasons are not why I'm sharing this story.

Mostly I regret that I shared my personal story with persons who didn't deserve to know about me.

Now that sounds kinda mean, but it is true.  Those siblings that have chosen not to accept me will tell you it's because of something I did or said, but I don't buy it.  There are a handful of siblings that have taken the position since day one that I'm not anything more than "a physical representation of a lie" and that I don't belong in their family and I really regret that they know anything about me.   Not that they know I exist, but that they know my personal stuggles. 

I was so eager to tell them my story and to hear their's I just assumed it would be reciprocal.  But some of them didn't want to know, didn't want to care.  

I have since learned that if someone doesn't ask about you, don't volunteer.  (ironic for a blogger to post this, however, if  you didn't want to read my thoughts, you wouldn't have made it this far, so obviously you are interested.)  I have learned that my story is valuable and I don't want to give it to anyone that isn't interested in paying me for my story, and the payment I expect is time and consideration.

Over the course of time, I told my dad more and more about myself.  When I reflect back, he never once asked about my life, ever.  I wanted him to know the heartache I endured because of his absence, somehow I thought this would make things a little better for me.  To face my tormentor and look him in the eye and say, "this happened because of your actions".   I have also learned that while my life would have been different had he been there, I still would have had heartache so perhaps while his abandonment was a horrible event that I had to learn to get beyond, it wasn't necessarily a cause and effect of all my other woes.

But more than that, I cherish my woes.  They are uniquely my own story.  Things that have happened and things I have overcome are my only trophies, ribbons and awards for a life well lived, even if those trophies, ribbons and awards are only in my mind.   At this point in time, my father doesn't deserve to know these stories.

My paternal grandfather is a WWII hero, a paratrooper that faught and survived some of the most historical battles in all of US history.  My father was content with denying me this heritage.    I only wish I would have denied him the story of me.

Again, for those of you out there with illegitimate parents, you are valuable, you are cherished and your life is worth knowing about, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.  I hope you are smarter than me and save your story for those who deserve it, those who will cherish it and for those that love you as a person.

Growing Up Fatherless

Created with Haiku Deck, the free presentation app for iPad

I grew up not knowing who my father was or anything about him. I didn't even learn his name until I was 19 years old. When I found him, he kept me a secret from his 7 other biological children by convincing me that all I would ever mean to them would be heartbreak. I broke though that horrible message and found a love I never dreamed of, this is that story in Haiku Deck fashion.

The Haiku story is meant to be simple.  There are many layers of complexity in my story.  There have been many different responses by my half-siblings; from being completely ignored, to be called a liar and compared to a thief in the night, to being loved, to being miss-understood and so on and so on.

This Haiku isn't meant to diminish the love of some of my other sisters, it's just that the actions of one sister have stood out and in choosing to wanting to end this Haiku Deck on a positive note, I choose to share her actions as a beacon of hope for other kids born to illegitimate parents. 

My story was filled with heartache, as yours may or may not be.  But if you feel it's worth the risk, than there is hope that you can be accepted and loved by a biological family member out there who doesn't know you exist yet. 

Donor #150

I watched the PBS documentary tilted, Independent Lens, Donor 150 last night and obviously for me, it was a nail bitter.  Absolutely wonderful and a must see for anyone struggling with the issue of fatherhood and its role in this modern world we live in.

If you haven't heard or seen the film, the premise is the story of half-siblings of the same anonymous sperm donor finding each other through the online Donor Sibling Registry, and than later the story is picked up by the New York Times uniting even more half-siblings.

I will do my best not to spoil the film for you, although I cannot share my perspective without at least hinting at some of the outcomes from the documentary.  So you may want to bookmark this page and come back after you have watched the show.

One of my favorite moments of the film is when one of the founders of the online search registry makes the observation that the sperm banks only care about 3 things; making money, collecting donations, and keeping the donors anonymous.  There is absolutely no regard to the welfare of the children in regards to this industry.  She also comments about the need to remove the secrecy of this industry as that SECRECY IMPLIES SHAME.  

Obviously as a child who grew up without knowing anything about my paternal heritage I cringe at the idea of anonymous sperm donation.  Why we have laws that prevent selling our spare parts such as kidneys for income and yet allow half a soul's DNA to be sold as a commodity is absolutely maddening.  Not that I want to see poor people risk their lives selling their kidneys to the rich, but only to contrast the ludicrous nature of our laws.

There was something else very interesting about this show and it was the expectations these children had of who their paternal father might be.  They speculated a doctor, or artist or some other accomplished individual and of course this assumption makes sense.  It is after all the genius of the marketing of the sperm banks and it has permeated our pop culture via movies and TV shows as long as I can remember.

I on the other hand had very low expectations for my father.  I expected the kind of guy who knocks up a girl and leaves town to be a drug addict, a drunk or just out-and-out bum.  I guess that is marketing too.  My father is anything but those stereotypes, instead he is a clean-cut devout LDS man.  He doesn't drink nor smoke and pays his tithe regularly. He raised a dozen or so children and took them to regularly Sunday school class and taught them the importance of family and fatherhood.  He wasn't supposed to be the guy that abandoned his child and hid from state requested paternity testing.

So the kids of sperm donors expect doctors and children of illegitimate fathers expect drug addicts each for their respective fathers.  But when you pull back at the layers of these two fatherless homes, it really makes more sense that a guy with limited financial means would be the far more likely sperm donor.  And also that the guy pretending to be perfect the far more likely suspect of illegitimacy.  

So that brings me to the other part of the equation here which is the role of the mothers in this anonymity.  Somewhere we got lost in our pursuit of women equality.  Somewhere when society said, "Women can do anything a man can do" that they rolled into that tag line that women could somehow be a father too.  By accommodating anonymous sperm donation, we as a society reduced the role of fatherhood into nothing more than a contribution in a little cup.  Now we wake up to a world facing an epidemic of fatherless homes and wonder why?

Now I will be the first in line to burn my bra for equal pay, but just as I would never want my role of motherhood reduced to the gestation period of birthing a baby, we have to stop behaving as a society as if dad's don't matter.  I suggest we start by recognizing that a child has a right to their DNA records and heritage.

I'd like to amend this post, after reading comments on this blog about the same topic, I agree that the phrase Sperm Donor should be changed to the word Sperm Seller.  It's just another marketing gimmick by the Sperm Banks. 

bearing said...
Ann, why do you persist in calling him a "donor" and in writing that he "donated" his sperm?
By all meaningful definitions he is a seller of sperm. The term "donor" is deliberately used by promoters of this practice to deflect attention from the fact that it's a lucrative business, not a charity, that they run.
Surely you value precision more than obscureness here.
2/14/07, 2:28 PM

The timeline

For the sake of references to my other posts and for the benefit of my own memory and the desire to be historically accurate, I'm making a timeline of the story of finding my illegitimate father.  Theses events are recorded as I have learned they happened, not how I learned about each event.

About 1971 my father marries his wife

About 1972 my father has an affair with my mother, his wife is 2 months pregnant with their second child during this affair.

1973 I'm born and my father leaves a good job in the state I was born and to the bewilderment of his family, he moves to Hawaii.

About 1978 the State of Utah sends a letter to my father asking him to resolve the issue of my paternity.  His wife receives the letter, confronts him with it and he denies the allegations to her.  To my knowledge, this is the last communication between the State of Utah and my Father regarding the issue of my paternity.  About this same time, when my maternal half-siblings leave for a weekend trip with their father, my mother tells me with no other words or explanation, "you don't have a father".

About 1980 my step-father of the time tells me that my biological father lives in Hawaii and has two children.  This is all I will ever know about my father until I am 19 years old.

About 1991 I summon the courage to ask my mother for information about my father so I can find him.  She only recalls his name and a few other pieces of information, one key piece of information is that he went on an LDS mission to Germany before I was conceived.  Using the LDS missionary indexes I find my fathers parents address, they haven't moved.  I meet my paternal Grandmother who along with showing me a photo of my dads 7 other children, gives me enough information me to know my father moved to Washington state.  She also warns me that he will never choose me over his other children. I locate my father's home address and phone number.  I call my father and ask to met him, he agrees.

Between 1991 and 2008 we have a secret relationship filled with incredible turmoil and conflict.  I ask him to leave me alone numerous times and yet we somehow always stayed in touch. During this entire 16 years he refuses to tell his wife and kids about me.

About 2007 I have a medical scare and the desire for a complete medical profile moves to the forefront.

The News Breaks:

April 2008

I ask for a paternity test, my father gets wormy.  His replies are cryptic and indirect.  He asks me to call him at a hotel over the weekend to discuss the paternity test, all the while not realizing that I see calling him at a hotel as a sleazy and disgusting act.

Using a public records search for $39.00, I locate my eldest paternal brother and call my brother on a Tuesday. I explain I have reason to believe that I'm his half-sister and ask him to reach out to me when he is ready to talk about it.  My brother goes from anger to complete confusion on the call and I know he is hurt, I hang up with the knowledge that life will never be the same for any of us.

On that Thursday, my father sends another cryptic and vague reply with via email about my desired paternity test. I reply and add to the post script that I spoke to the eldest brother earlier in the week.  My father will deny ever receiving my email. 

On that Saturday evening, my father confesses to his wife that he fathered a child.

On the following Monday, my father sends an email to his 7 birth children and 3 foster children titled "What have I done" and confesses to them that he fathered a child. I am cc'd in the email.   In my excitement, I sent everyone a follow up email asking telling them more about me. (For the record, this was a dumb move on my part)

On that day, I communicate via telephone with the oldest foster sister and oldest birth sister. I communicate via email with the youngest foster sister and the two youngest birth sisters. 

Later that week, I send an email to my oldest brother to express my sympathies for how he learned of me.  He replies in anger, accuses me of lying and telling me I must be cruel to not understand he's mothers position and how difficult it must be to see my face, "the physical representation of a lie"

Between 2008 and 2012

I meet the oldest brother once and have had limited communications with him over the years.  He did accept my Facebook friend request.

I have yet to meet the two middle brothers. Although we have engaged in terse political emails. I have also communicated and enjoyed talking to their wives. 

I have only fought with the second oldest sister.  After six months of no communication, she reached out to me.  In my hurt, I snapped back at her.  Because of this one comment, she has vowed to never accept me.

I met my fathers wife and had a wonderful talk with her that lasted over 19 hours.  We got along great, however once I disagreed with the second oldest sister, she called me and threatened me over the telephone and vowed I would never be part of her family.  She did later invite me to a family event provided I understood I was not to be included in any of her family photos. I didn't attend.

I have become incredibly close to other second youngest sister, and the middle foster sister.  I also very much enjoy the company of the oldest and youngest sisters and the youngest foster sister.  I don't talk very often the oldest foster sister.

I guess the dynamics of the sibling relationships are fairly normal, even for families that grew up together.

Back to the relationship with my father.

May 2013 - he sends me a package with delivery tracking notice. The package is a letter that is truly awful with an award he received in 1980.  The award is for building an energy efficient home.  In the letter he denies climate change and tells me to read the bible. He also insinuates he is more energy conscience than me, as if it were some sort of contest.  I find this to be so completely childish, the only thing he didn't include is a tape recording of him saying, "nah nah nah nah"  This stems from a fight years ago, when he sent an email blasting the position of environmentalists. I asked to be removed from his email list and he has never forgiven me.

I had hoped that this would mark the end of the story between him and me.  But than just the other day he includes me on the cc list of another ridiculous email.  Sometimes there just isn't enough spam filters in the world.

I am not a lie and I certainly am not "illegitimate"

It's been a while since I posted any thoughts.  Mostly because things with my dad have only gotten worse and I was hoping they would get better.  Well, they didn't. 

The pinnacle of this disaster love story is a package he recently sent me, a very childish package.  He called me names, inferred I was an idiot because I believe in climate change and those were the nice parts of the letter.

The most infuriating was he decided once again to explain to me how difficult it is for his wife to meet "the lie".  How can a person refer to their own child as a "lie"?  

Why is it that society sticks those of us conceived by black hearted cheaters get the life long labels?  I am so sick of it, I'm not a lie?  

Illegitimate, why we have forbidden every prehistoric dark age label. We don't use the N word, the R word is on its way out, we have respectable names for members of the LGBT community, we don't go around calling victims of human trafficking horrible names.  But if you are conceived by a man who lies to your mother, who lies to his wife, who lies to the authorities and than lies to his other children and every soul he comes across, you still get the rotten label of illegitimate? A lie? A secret-love child? Or a bastard?

I don't think so, the only person who should be called a lie is a my father, yet he calls me a lie. 

I made a post earlier saying I thought I loved my father, I'd like to retract that post at this time.  My father is a horrible person who refers to his own child as a "lie".  I hope I never see him again.