Journey

Something of a serious post this evening. They come few and far between from me, so enjoy and absorb it. And no, I am not seeking sympathy or even that much empathy. Just getting some thoughts off my chest.

I am 41 years old and I have never known my father. Oh, I had a step-father, yes. And that relationship was long enough for me to fall naturally into calling him "Dad", but I never felt connected. Many years ago, I think I was perhaps 16 or maybe even a little younger, my Mom came into my room, sat down on my bed as I was doing some homework, and asked to show me something out of the local newspaper. It turned out to be a brief crime report, detailing how someone was being held in the Modesto jail on suspicion of having killed another individual in nearby Ceres. The suspect was my biological father. My Mom and I spoke at great length about this, her knowing I had always had questions about him, where he went, why he never tried to find me. For example, when I was 13, proceedings were started by Dennis (my step-father) and my Mom that would allow Dennis to adopt me and my last name would legally be changed to "Thompson". Involved in that process was the court contacting my biological father and giving him the opportunity to challenge the process. He never responded. And thus, my last name officially became "Thompson" forevermore. Now, around 16, I had the opportunity to confront him; he couldn't do anything. He was sitting in a cell less than a mile or two away from my room and I could easily go and see him. I considered it....and then let the consideration float away. I never went to see him.

My Mom and Randolph William Fagan were not married very long, she getting pregnant at 16 and he being - I believe - 18 at the time. This was 1967 and times being what they were, marriage was the only real option. Or so it would seem, at least. Unfortunately, my father was not what I understand to have been "a good man". Without going into too much detail, my Mom has described instances of drug dealing, drug use, violence toward her and others, alcoholism, and general criminal activity. She grew to fear for her own life as well as mine; one instance found her with a gun placed against her temple. She finally found the strength to leave the situation, taking me with her.

Fast forward to this past month. Perhaps it was the birth of my son Devlin that provided the impetus, perhaps it has just been festering for so long under the surface that I could no longer contain it or ignore it. I asked my Mom for some basic information about my father. She complied with all that she knew. With that information, I attempted to call what seemed to be the best potential contact for additional information, a woman I do not have any recollection of, whom my Mom named as my Great Aunt Carol. A woman with her married name seemingly still resided at the address in Modesto that my Mom had been familiar with so many years ago. I called that number and left a message. After a week of no return phone call, I mailed a letter. A day later, I received a phone call from a man who claimed to be her son.

Bob - Carol's son - and I played phone tag for a number of days before finally connecting. We spoke briefly and awkwardly together. He recalled meeting my Mom when he was still a child and he confirmed that my Mom had probably done the best thing by removing herself and me from my father's influence. According to Bob, he knew my father, said he was alive and well and living in Riverbank (small town just north of Modesto), had completed all of his required jail/prison time. Bob said Randy was a very funny guy, highly intelligent but had unfortunately used his intellect for all the wrong reasons. He had ended up spending most of his life in and out of the penal system and could easily launch into stories of spending time with such "interesting" individuals as Richard Ramirez as well as Charlie Manson. Not exactly a happy legacy to leave your children, but interesting nonetheless.

Bob informed me that perhaps the best person to contact was my great uncle David. Apparently David either knew or had all contact information regarding my father.

I called David this evening, but had to leave a message. We shall see what transpires from that.

I am torn about this even as I pursue it. What reason do I have for doing so? I honestly cannot tell you because I myself do not even know. Perhaps it is simply to be able to have the opportunity to look my father square in the face and say "fuck you". Perhaps I simply want to see him. Overall, though, I think I need to hear from him, from his own mouth in his own words how he could so willingly fuck up his life and leave his child behind. My Mom never made any real attempt to hide me; he could have taken it upon himself, especially in later years, to make contact. According to Bob, I guess I even have brothers I have never met. Until my brother Nate was born, I had longed for siblings, and when Nate arrived I embraced him with all of the love only brothers can share; it is difficult to imagine that I have other siblings in this world......and have never known them.

I cannot imagine leaving a child behind. I think that is the overriding question in my head. I could never leave Sloan or Devlin, could never imagine that not being a part of my life. The "whys" pile up after too much consideration and I wonder if I will even have the will to pursue any line of questioning of ever afforded the chance. And yet here I stand, after almost 40 years, possibly a phone call away from having that very door opened........