Mirrors

I found my father this year, through 23andMe.

This will be a surprise to some, old news to others.

It has been a difficult journey, not to mention a long one. My father died in 1994, three years before I even began to search. I will never get the chance to speak with him, touch him, hear from him in his own words. My extended family, however, has been overwhelmingly kind and accepting, answering questions and telling me things that help me understand many things about myself.

My father did not marry before his untimely death, and I am the only child anyone knows about (now!), the surprise one. He never knew that I existed, but his sisters and my uncle, his best friend, tell me that he would very much have enjoyed knowing me. He adored his nieces and nephews.

I found out that my father played the flute. One of my aunts still has his flute. It gives me chills to think that I could hold it one day. I learned that my father was an avid fisherman, an extremely skilled one, who loved the rivers of California and Oregon, and sea fishing, too. That yes, indeed, he had lived in Hawaii for a year, and that he did not go to Vietnam. He was 6'4" with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. 

My father was a night owl. He loved to read: books and books and books. He died with a book on his chest and his reading glasses on. Sounds like a good way to go, except that I am heartbroken that he was alone and so young. Maybe if he had been 95 years old! My father, by all accounts, was a charming, loving man. Messy, too. Oh, hell yes. It's in the genes. Maybe not so much the seven-year-plan for undergrad. It was the '60's, though. But I can see Tobey doing that (and Tobey looks even more like him than I do)! And yes, the zoology major.

Although he was born and raised in the Chicago area, he lived at Lake Tahoe for the last 20+ years of his life. On his way to Hawaii, where he lived during the time I was gestating, he stopped and fell in love with the Sierra. I can absolutely understand that feeling. Tahoe is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. He apparently lived for the outdoors: fishing, but also hiking and swimming, etc.

I realize that I could have crossed paths with him, maybe, up at Tahoe in '93 and '94. And maybe when I was in Chicago in the summer of '94 I may have brushed shoulders with my family. It's all so very strange.

It's also uncanny but wonderful to look so much like him. One of my aunts told me recently that she had dinner with one of her childhood friends who knew my father well. They looked at pictures of me, when I as a child and now. The family friend said, "Holy shit, she looks just like him!"

Here is my father, in his fraternity photograph from 1967, and a picture of me from my senior year in high school, in the fall of 1986:

I am definitely his daughter. I guess I have him to thank for all that eyebrow waxing I have to do!

I have also learned that I have other relatives' eyes and teeth and smile, etc. I love hearing about resemblances, no matter how small, probably because I never looked like anyone before. My aunts say, "We see these traits in you because we know our family. We will show you."

One of my great-grandfathers was a diplomat in Germany after WWI. He married a German woman from Koblenz. So I am German. No more making fun of Mark. My grandfather was Swedish-American. I am Scandinavian, although I wouldn't have thought so! I was also excited to learn that my great-great-grandfather came from Poland and was Jewish, so there's the Ashkenazi ancestry that my friends could see in me all those years. One of my great-aunts was a painter and graduated from the Art Institute in Chicago. They're a very artistic family. Sound familiar?

I have been able to watch short little video clips that the family had of my father from different vacations. Its amazing to see his sense of humor and posture and eyebrow arching and smile. I can see myself in him. I will be curious to hear what my family says they see of him in me when I meet them, in terms of gestures, etc.

My father's ashes were scattered in one of his favorite rivers for fishing. A few months before my father died, he asked my uncle to scatter his ashes there at the appropriate time. My uncle didn't give my father's request much thought; he was well (or seemed well), they were hiking and fishing. But when the sad time came, and my uncle lovingly carried out my father's wishes.

A few weeks ago, my family and I went to that river, which empties into a lake where we left flowers to honor my father. Tobey was especially moved and created a small tribute from the flowers and some pinecones and stones. We all spoke to my father on that warm, peaceful afternoon, and a breeze came up as we left, as if to say goodbye to us in return.

Having found my father is like looking in a darkened mirror: the image returned is similar to me, of me, but not me: mute and smoky. I still have to do so much work on my own. How do I even begin to mourn someone I never met, but who lives on within me? It's a constantly changing mix of odd, euphoric, and sometimes very painful feelings. It clearly will be a long process of learning about my father, and about myself. I am fortunate to have people who have chosen to walk alongside me as I discover, and who willingly guide me.