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The story relates the discover and grieving of my natural father.
To begin, it was late summer of 2006. I'd recently finished my six year enlistment contract with the Air Force. Shortly before my discharge, I'd volunteered for a four month deployment to Iraq. It'd been my second deployment. During my first, I'd accessed CABI (California Birth Index) whenever I'd had the chance (I'm a CA adoptee.)
It was a time of transition, and I didn't have any clear cut plans on what I wanted to do. One of the notions that weighed on me was the idea of family. The military, at least the USAF, toutes the idea that it's one big family, and I suppose hearing repeatedly the keyword family prompted me to further pursue my adoption search.
My adoptive father had offered staying with him in the San Francisco Bay Area, after my enlistment, as I'd mentioned plans to utilize my MGIB and obtain my 4 year degree. A number of factors went into making that decision, moving back in with my adoptive father, but I recall one in particular. My adoptive father had had two open heart surguries, and in many ways I viewed that he was on borrowed time. I had the recurring thought of returning to the Bay Area, and something about my father dying. How right I was, about the wrong father...
As my adoption had been handled in San Francisco, I also thought I might be better able to search, as I'd be able to visit in-person, rather than looking through information online, or submitting requests via the US Postal Service.
The school plans didn't end up working out, and in retrospect, I was probably suffering from mild PTSD, and depression. I'd ended up moving in with my girlfriend (whom I later married). I'd purchased a motorcycle, as the Bay Area's traffic tends to gridlock, and lane splitting is legal in CA. Additionally, the insurance quote on the car had been higher than the car note payments, and I'd just paid off the car.
It took me a bit to re-engage in my search. The Bay Area can be such a busy place, unfortunately, about the wrong things. In about fall, I contacted a paid searcher, who I'd located online. I'd known my birth mother's name growing up. My adoptive parents had told it to me on numerous occasions, but I knew little else of my first family. I'd read Shea Grimm's Search Series a couple of times, but hadn't really progressed terribly far in my search. I'd thought that since I'd had my birth mother's name, she might be easy to locate. Alas, she'd had a very common name, and there's in excess of 50 people in the US sharing the same name.
As mentioned, I'd contacted a paid searcher, and gave her the information I had. I'd stressed that I wanted to start with attempting to locate my birth mother, but in a strange twist of fate, she had far better luck in locating my birth father. As it turns out, I have three listings in CABI. Only two of them are publicly available (online). I have one for my birth name, with mother's last name; birth name listed under father's last name (they were unwed), and one that isn't in the online public listing, but in the delayed listing, under my adoptive name. My birth father had a unique enough last name, that only a handful of people in the country share it.
The searcher also quickly discovered that my birth father had passed, back in 1983. He had died in San Francisco of all places, which do recall, I knew almost nothing about him. The searcher put me in touch with two biological uncles, still living, and I formed a much better picture of my natural father. That side of the family hailed from the Kansas City, KS area. My birth father had obtained a four year degree from Kansas State University, with a Poly-Sci major. He was undoubtedly a hippie. I learned from my uncles that at one point in time, he'd had some sort of an arguement and took off on his motorcycle. Traveling from Kansas City all the way to New York. One of my uncles also vaguely remembered meeting my natural mother.
Still, it weighed on me. I had been right in a way, about the death of a father, and I felt very haunted, living again in San Francisco, with the knowlegde that my birth father had passed probably within miles of where I was living. Nevermind that over 20 years had gone by, I had just discovered his death, and I don't think I was at all prepared for this discovery. At some point, I'd taken a trip to the San Francisco Public Library, and photocopied a 10 year period of pages where his last name would be listed. I located one probably published shortly before he'd passed, so I also had an address for him in the Mission District of San Francisco.
As mentioned, it was a time of transition. My girlfriend at the time, and I broke up for a bit. I ended up leaving California again. I went back to Boise, ID, near where I'd been discharged, but realized that wasn't the correct place for me to be. Somehow or another, I decided to go back to New Orleans. I'd lived there for a period of 6 months, well before I'd enlisted, and in the time I'd spent in the Air Force, I'd visited there a couple of times. My schooling had been at Keesler AFB, MS a short drive from New Orleans, and in the last two years of my contract, I'd gone back down to that area twice for schooling, so in a number of ways I was familiar and comfortable in the Gulf Coast region. On top of that, my bio-paternal grandfather had apparently spent as much time as he could in New Orleans. Later in life he'd been inducted in as an Elder Statesmen of Kansas City Jazz.
New Orleans was also still dealing with the aftermath of Katrina, and I'd been thoroughly dissappointed with any of the governmental responces to the disaster. The federal government especially, which could send me across the world to fight in an oil war, but couldn't seem to deal with New Orleans in any sensible fashion. I still have a nice collection of stories I'd heard about FEMA experiences. As much of the New Orleaneans had their own form of PTSD, I found it much easier to relate with them on the whole, than I had with the general populus of the Bay Area.
Lastly, New Orleans has one of the biggest ghost populations. Whether the veil is thinner in New Orleans, or "the swampy death", as the French used to call it when a colony, had so many deaths over the years, it's common knowledge in the French Quarter, that the longer you're there, the more apt you are to encounter a ghost of some sort.
I had two "ghosts" if you will. My biological father, and his father, my biological grandfather. One of the weird coincedences I'd discovered was the date of my bio-grandfather's passing. The day before St. Patrick's day, of 2004. I had been in Germany on that date, having just completed my first deployment with the Air Force. In retrospect, a renewed interest in searching CABI during that deployment made much more sense, and if my bio-father had any knowledge of my existence, his father would have been the one family member he'd have shared it with. In my own way, I'd held a wake for my grandfather's passing, enjoying numerous Guiness at an Irish Pub in Frankfurt Germany. The Wilhm family, US, traces back to the Wihlm family from Alsace; Alsace having gone back and forth between France and Germeny. Very strange coincedence indeed that I should take 3 days leave in Germany, my first visit there, at the same time my grandfather passed on.
While in Boise, there was a day I'll never forget. A friend of mine had taken me to a Flogging Molly show when I'd lived there, and I'd acquired three of their CDs. I was still discovering their music, and one song started playing in my car, "The Likes of You Again", which begins with:
Here's to you, I sing for my daddy-o
As I lay him down to sleep
It's been so long, since I lost my daddy-o
Hope he's watchin' over me
I lost it, and had to pull over. The tears were flowing for a while.
On leaving Boise, ID for New Orleans, a trip I'd made before, I phoned one of my bio-uncles who still lived in the Kansas City, KS area, and told him I'd be passing through, inquiring if he was up for a visit. I ended up staying with him for a night, and am so grateful that I had that opportunity. During my visit, he took me to my natural father's grave, next to his mother, my bio-grandmother, and I think even further, my bio-great-grandmother. I took photos, even though I don't recall specifically the location of the cemetary. Also, my bio-uncle pulled out a photo book that my grandfather had sent my father shortly before his passing, back in 1983. Though both men had passed, there was a sense of completion, in being able to see what they looked like, and physically touch items they'd shared between them. Also during the course of the visit, my uncle showed me his motorcycle. As all three of the brothers rode motorcycles, it didn't surprise me, my comfort in also being a rider.
Ultimately, New Orleans was very beneficial for me. Though living there can prove to be a most difficult challenge, you learn what's really important in life. I came to terms with the "ghosts" of my past. The closing chapter on that stay in New Orleans ended up with my renewed search for my birth mother, ultimately contacting the adoption agency to request my non-identifying information. I re-enlisted, but with the Army this time, my grandfather and two of his brother's had been WWII veterans. Having free Notary Public and legal advice never hurts in a successful search. But that's the topic for another post.
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