This diary was inspired by the diary by Anton Bursch.
I was sitting at home at my computer on a Friday night, watching the New York Knicks lose another basketball game, when my wife came to me with the phone.
“It’s someone who wants to talk to you about some genealogy survey,” she said, handing me the phone.
I was, as usual, wary as I put the phone to my ear. I generally don’t like to take calls from strangers, who are usually trying to sell me something or otherwise interest me in something that I’m not. I probably get twenty to thirty telemarketing calls per week. I seldom even answer 800 calls, and usually hang up without responding as soon as I begin to hear the typical telemarket come-on.
The voice on the other end of the line was somewhat hesitant and unsure-sounding, not the pseudo-cheery, aggressive salesman type, with a strong hint of a Southern accent. He explained that he was doing a genealogy survey, and was looking for a someone with my name who had lived at some point in Louisiana. I affirmed that I had lived in Louisiana for a bbrief time in the distant past, and he continued to be very vague. I kept waiting for the pitch line, waiting for him to tell me what he was selling so I could hang up the phone. Finally, I asked him straight out what this was about, and he paused, then asked me if I ever knew a person named ___.
It was like he had punched me in the gut. It took a beat for the name and its implications to register in my consciousness, as it clawed its way out of my subconscious where it had been buried for over forty years. I started to panic. My first thought was that somehow this man was going to try to sue me or blackmail me or otherwise try to get money from me. My telemarketer reflex took over. I said nothing and hung up the phone. I sat there for a number of minutes staring at the phone, dreading that it would ring again. The man didn’t call me back.
I sat there utterly stunned, my emotions in total turmoil. As I started to think it all through, however, the pieces began to fall into place. I checked the phone log, and saw that the man’s name and phone number were there. I checked the area code, and saw it was for northern Louisiana. A quick Google search on the name gave me some basic information about him. He lived in Monroe, Louisiana; he worked as a security manager for a regional grocery store. The relative ordinariness of him gave me some level of comfort that perhaps it wasn’t a scam or a shakedown. I didn’t sleep much that night, going over and over in my mind the risks and rewards of calling him back. On one level, I was terrified that the call could be a life-changing one, that the existence I had constructed for myself and my family would be irrevocably altered by this incredible blast from my past. On the other hand, there was an irresistible curiosity that tugged at me. Could it really be true? What would it mean? Who was this man? There was a risk, to be sure, but one I couldn’t avoid. I had to call him back.
The next day was Saturday, and I waited until the afternoon, when my wife and two teenage kids were out of the house, and I called him back.
“Hi, I’m the guy you called last night,” I said.
“Yes.” Noncommittal, expectant.
I plunged in, no small talk. I was afraid I might lose my nerve.
“So let me ask you this, is ____ your mother?”
“She’s my biological mother, yes.”
“Well, then I guess I’m probably your father.”
“Yes, I know.”
It was the Spring of 1967, I was in my first year of college at Providence College, a short commute from my family's home in Massachussetts. I had done well my first semester, made the Dean's List, for which I was rewarded with unlimited cuts for the second semester. Dumb stuff, giving an immature eighteen-year old with limited experience making responsible decisions the ability to not show up for any classes if he so desired. Needless to say, I took full advantage of the unlimited cuts, and by halfway through the second semester, I was hopelessly behind in every subject. I was also restless and bored and fed up with doing what was expected of me. Finally, one morning, I packed a few clothes in a sports bag, then stood for ten minutes at the front door with my hand on the doorknob. At last, I turned the knob, went out the door, and was gone.
My plan was to hitchhike around the country, knowing that my dropping out of college would quickly lose me my student deferrment, and Uncle Sam would soon be looking to put a military uniform on me. I knew I would ultimately go into the military -- my grandfathers served in WW1, my Father and uncles served in WW2, hey, Vietnam was MY war -- but I decided I wanted a little freedom first.
I headed South, hitchhiking from here to there, and finally ran out of money in New Orleans. I got a job in Burger King hamburger joint on Airline Highway in Metarie. The plan was to work a bit, make a few bucks, then head out on the road again.
There was a girl who worked at the Burger King, freshly graduated from high school. Late night closings and teenage hormones combined to produce the inevitable result, a couple of dumb, inexperienced kids who couldn't resist the temptation. She was quickly ready to get married -- I suspect that getting a husband after graduation was probably her main goal in life at the time -- and initially, I was too caught up in the newness of the physical pleasure to object. I bought a cheap engagement ring, and the plans for marriage were starting to be set. I was totally unprepared for marriage, however, and soon realized that it wasn't what I wanted at that point in my life. So one day, I went down to the local recruiter's office, and joined the Army, got on the bus for Fort Polk and never looked back. The rest, as they say, is history.
I seldom ever thought of her again, and conveniently eliminated her from the "Glory Days" yarns of my old age. I never knew that our dumb teenage passion had produced a child. Not until that phonecall.
I talked with my "son" for about two hours that Saturday afternoon. I put son in quotes, since he continually made the distinction that I was his "biological father" and that his real father was the man who actually raised him. He had been given up for adoption at birth, but his biological mother decided thirty-five years later to find out about her "son". She did a little investigation, found him, then showed up on his doorstep one day unannounced. She told him my name, and the few details about me she knew. I have a large enough footprint on the internet that he was able to find me pretty easily. He had apparently known about me for several years before he finally screwed up the courage to call me.
The call came early last Spring. He kinda left the next move up to me. I told my wife about it, but haven't told my two children -- yet. I haven't talked to him again. I'm torn about further communication. On the one hand, he's my SON, he carries my genes, he is my biological offspring. On the other hand, I'm not really his father, I'm more like a sperm donor. Establishing a relationship with him could get real complicating for both him and me; how do we fit each other into the established lives we already lead?
I don't know the answers.
But that's my story.