I’ve never met my father. As far as I’ve ever been concerned he is just a distant figure of my imagination. He doesn’t really exist. For all intents and purposes I always assumed I was born through immaculate conception. Let’s examine the proof: 1) I dabble in carpentry; 2) My name means “gift from God”; 3) One of my closest friends is a prostitute; and 4) Once I touched a leper.
I could be the messiah. There’s no proof I’m not.
A photo of me at fourteen months. Right around the time my father made a run for it. What the hell was his deal? Look how friggin’ cute I was.
As I get older my curiosity only continues to get the better of me. There are things I want to know. On some level I would like to understand my father. Why he made the decisions he did. Why, after all this time, he doesn’t want to at least foster some sort of relationship with me. I know I’ll probably never get any answers, but I did find out there’s something I can get.
Pictures.
I was outlining a writing project and I was looking for the “meet cute” for the two main characters. I like to pull from real life so I asked my mom how she and my father met thinking if it was cute enough I would use it in my story. That’s all the information I wanted, but in speaking about the situation I made an off-hand comment that I wish I had photos of my dad when he was my age.
My mother informed me there was a large chance my grandparents on his side still had many photos in their possession. Hell, my dad may even have some. What’s more was that she may or may not have had a way to contact him.
The last I’d heard of my mother and father speaking was seven years ago after I graduated high school. My mom emailed him a graduation photo with the caption, “You had nothing to do with this.”
She’s brutal. I love it.
For the next hour and a half my mom tried our best to concoct a plan to get any photos of him and I that they may have. The only condition is neither one of us wanted to speak to them directly.
It’s like a sad heist movie. Actually it’s more like my very own Riding in Cars With Boys! I can’t wait to be completely disappointed in the end! Won’t that be exciting?!
I thought about emailing my half-brother through Facebook with a simple line, “I need Dad’s email address.” Too ballsy. I told my mom I would just call my other grandparents, lie and say I had a terminal disease, and demand the photos. Too outlandish. I considered emailing or calling my dad and simply asking, “Could I have any photos of you and I that you may have? …You know, since you’re not like… using them or anything?”
As we ran through various ideas on how to get the photographs I began to realize how proud I was of my mother. How much I admired her. How difficult it must have been to pull double duty all those years. How much she must resent my father. And how regardless of all that she was helping me reach out to discover a part of myself I never acknowledged or understood.
She may be crazy and arguing with her may be like having a giant argument with myself, but there’s no one else I could count on to go out of their way to get me something I didn’t need in the first place. That’s a mother’s job after all, isn’t it? Tell me. How much stuff did you get as a kid that you really needed? Yeah. That’s what I thought. None of it.
The more I contemplate the idea the more I think that maybe it’s a bad idea. Seeking out my father. Trying to make first contact. How’d that work out for the crew of the Enterprise in Star Trek: First Contact? I can’t remember.
Whatever. He’ll probably just want money.
This Is a Blog 
I never met my father, either. He left when I was born. Except for this one time in high school when I wanted to sue him to pay for college, my mom rarely spoke about him while I was growing up. I got up the courage to ask my mom for his name and number this year. She scoured for a contact that might still be in touch with him and produced a phone number. She spoke to him first, then gave me the number to call. I did. I found out I have 2 half brothers. After that one brief call and a follow up email, he never called or wrote again.
At least before I could pretend he didn’t care to contact me or have a relationship with me because he couldn’t find me, didn’t have a contact, failed to find a phone number, any excuse I could come up with to not feel rejected by the person responsible for creating half of my being. Because if the guy who gave you half of your chromosomes doesn’t want you in his life, what chance do I stand to find another guy whose not (socially or genetically) bound to love me? If my dad overcame the instincts that nature engraved in his DNA to love and protect his son and completely shrugged off social constructs binding him to my mother, to me, then I can’t have all that much faith in finding long-lasting love from any other man. (Not to mention that the closest thing I have to witnessing a functional relationship is Monica and Chander, Rachel and Ross.)
I digress. I regret having called him. Now I know he has the means to contact me but has actively chosen not to do so. He lives in Germany and I sent him an aggressive letter on German’s father’s day. It had been 3 months since we first spoke with no contact. That was a month ago and still no word.
Don’t do it. It gets worse.
Well said, Jonothon! I can definitely relate to your situation and how you feel. But, I seem to have a heart and have found myself wanting a “daddy” in several instances of my life. I believe I’d want him to meet my girls, but, who wouldn’t want to meet them? They’re amazing!
And yes, your mother is amazing. Double duty has to be difficult, but that just makes her even more exceptional! I do think that if you do not at least attempt to contact him at some point in your life, you might one day regret it….when it’s too late. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision for you and your mother! Good luck, cuz!! =}