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When I was born August 19, 1944 I came into the world primed and ready to be someone’s little princess, the most insufferable Daddy’s Girl in the history of Daddy’s Girls. It was not to be. My parents separated soon after I was conceived and he never knew about me. My mother who didn’t necessarily want me, wanted to make sure no one had me, particularly not my father. She had made the mistake of getting involved with a married man, this wouldn’t be her last.
I was minimally tended by a constantly revolving group of relatives and strangers. Mother infrequently flitted in and out of my life when she could no longer find someone to take me. I wasn’t a problem child, I behaved, wasn’t a picky eater and was always cheerful, but I was in every way the extra kid, the outsider. I attended 12 schools between first grade and high school. If there was an advantage it was by the time I got there I knew just about everyone.
I mostly raised myself. I got to do what I wanted to do, became independent and didn’t really care much about what other people thought. I learned to nurture myself. Early on I concluded the chaos and loneliness in my life wasn’t because of me but was a failure of the adults in my life, so I stepped over it and kept on trucking. I read everything, had insatiable curiosity and was a good student. I became close to my teachers, they were important to me in ways I doubt they ever guessed. It wasn’t all something out of Dickens, I have happy memories and that is where I choose to live. On occasion I have written about them here.
I thought about my father growing up the great unknown and unknowable person. My mother told so many lies about who he might be, the name on my birth certificate was a young airman who felt sorry for her. I found him back in the 70s and he didn’t know who my father was either. My grandmother said he was Harry H Hoffman. My mother said he was from Chicago and had flown with the Eagle Squadrons, was back state side for a bond tour. That was perhaps her best lie of all. For years I was convinced she didn’t know for sure. She did say I had his hands and he was artistic. A few months before my mother died I asked her again and her response was it didn’t matter. She didn’t seem to understand I never belonged to anyone, was never someone’s little girl in the nurturing protected way, the connected way every child needs. Most certainly my father was long since dead, what harm for me to finally know.
Five years ago Ancestry sent me a free DNA kit for being a long time subscriber. I come from a huge interesting crazy family on my mother’s side. I tried to get my cousin to take it because I was having trouble finding the parents of my 2 great grandfather. He wouldn’t do it, it was his DNA dammit. Fast forward to Christmas 2016, I gave a test to a good friend of mine who is African American. She had terrific results so I decide to send mine in in hopes of breaking that brick wall of gramps parents, but no thoughts of finding my father altho I had tried for years to find him with the wrong information. I got my results middle of November 2017 and found lots of information on my maternal side including breaking the brick wall, but still no thoughts of looking for my father.
Then Dec 2, 2017 I got a match, a good one, a second cousin that wasn’t on my mother’s side, two more popped up in the next few weeks. It took me into March to find him but the DNA led me right to him. My only regret is not finding him sooner. This is the story of who I found.
Part2