A 2nd Chance to make a 1st Impression
Jan. 1st, 2019 10:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adoptedwriterWhen I met my birth father, I must’ve scared him off. Over the phone, during our initial conversation in the fall of 1987, we agreed to meet at a Denny’s Restaurant. I told him I’d be wearing a purple sweater and jeans so he would know who I was. He told me he’d have his Cincinnati Bengals jacket. Everything was a go. I knew that one of his daughters, (my half-sister) was a cosmetologist, so I made sure my hair, makeup, and nails were perfect.
It was an almost 80-degree day in October, too hot for a purple, wool sweater with snowflakes, but I wanted to keep to my word in spite of perspiration beads sliding down my back. My husband and I arrived at Denny’s ahead of time and ordered our dinners, figuring we could eat on our own and focus on conversation later, but I couldn’t touch my fish platter. I was afraid of getting broccoli in my teeth.
When my birth father did arrive, right on time, he was wearing a blue t-shirt, clutching his black and orange Bengals jacket in one hand. I recognized him right away even though I’d never seen him before, not even in a photo. I would have known it was him even without the NFL team Jacket. He looked like me if I’d been a man.
His haircut was stylish and youthful, his jeans and gym shoes were cool, and he reminded me more of a big kid than someone who was a dad; especially an older dad of grown children. It was obvious he liked to have fun. He came as he was, simple, casual and curious. I liked his relaxed style. He gave off a vibe of having wisdom that comes with maturity, but also a sense of playfulness. He wasn’t highly educated, but he knew things. He knew about life. He’d been in the U.S. Navy and had traveled the world. He knew how stuff worked, loved fishing, football, and other sports.
I let him ramble on and share his life. Besides, being a good listener was supposed to impress people. I was truly interested in getting to know him, and I hung on to every amusing tale he told about his intoxicated Irish neighbors across the street to the time he babysat his daughter’s yappy poodle puppy. Any question of mine that he could answer naturally without me having to probe would feel less like an interrogation I figured. (One thing I learned early on in my searching for biological family members was to let other people talk. You’ll get facts and stories you might not dream about asking, but those musings will be rich and detailed.)
Every vignette he shared about his life, brought more questions, and I had to walk a fine line between queries that moved our conversation along and appearing too nosey for a first meeting.
My birth father and my husband shared about work. We chatted about owning a home and yard care. I felt like we’d reached some common bonds about living life. I had the impression that he would think of us as a nice, responsible young yuppie couple who had our $h!t together and wanted nothing more than to get to know him as a human being in the here and now.
We arranged to meet again two weeks later on a Saturday night at a nice Italian restaurant called Sorrento’s. However, my birth father never showed. He had the decency at least to call Sorrento’s and tell them that if we were there, that he had to cancel because one of his kids had been in a car accident, and he had to go to the hospital. The maitre d’ summoned me to the phone, and I spoke with my birth father. He seemed very concerned that I believe him. I told him that of course, I did, and I totally understood, ( although inside I was totally crushed). His last words to me were, “I’ll call you.”
The last time someone used the words, “I’ll call you” on me, it was after a date with a guy I never heard from again. My birth father probably said the same thing to my birth mother back in 1961. I’m pretty sure I relived that moment my birth mother’s life in one evening. I was kindly dumped. At least that’s how it felt.
I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t cool or witty enough. He must’ve felt that I wouldn’t fit in with his family. No matter how perfectly I presented, I did not qualify. Maybe I scared him away by being too smart, too well dressed, too uppity or too dumb about sports. Maybe I smelled bad. Emotionally, I beat myself up for failing for years.
Or maybe it was him. Maybe he was the one who regarded himself as unworthy. Maybe he felt he had nothing to offer to our relationship. Perhaps he felt guilty. Could he have felt awkward about the little “affair” he’d had 26 years before? Maybe he was hiding a dark side he did not want me to witness. I’ll never know what went through his mind in the fall of 1987, but I moved on in life and worked hard, raised my kids and tried to be a good friend and neighbor every day.
I had to finally make peace and know that it was his loss. I had lost as well, but this rejection was all on him. In spite of all that, I also knew that should he or anyone in his family reemerge to connect with me, I would be here, anxiously waiting and never giving up hope for a reunion and more answers revealed about my biological family.
It was an almost 80-degree day in October, too hot for a purple, wool sweater with snowflakes, but I wanted to keep to my word in spite of perspiration beads sliding down my back. My husband and I arrived at Denny’s ahead of time and ordered our dinners, figuring we could eat on our own and focus on conversation later, but I couldn’t touch my fish platter. I was afraid of getting broccoli in my teeth.
When my birth father did arrive, right on time, he was wearing a blue t-shirt, clutching his black and orange Bengals jacket in one hand. I recognized him right away even though I’d never seen him before, not even in a photo. I would have known it was him even without the NFL team Jacket. He looked like me if I’d been a man.
His haircut was stylish and youthful, his jeans and gym shoes were cool, and he reminded me more of a big kid than someone who was a dad; especially an older dad of grown children. It was obvious he liked to have fun. He came as he was, simple, casual and curious. I liked his relaxed style. He gave off a vibe of having wisdom that comes with maturity, but also a sense of playfulness. He wasn’t highly educated, but he knew things. He knew about life. He’d been in the U.S. Navy and had traveled the world. He knew how stuff worked, loved fishing, football, and other sports.
I let him ramble on and share his life. Besides, being a good listener was supposed to impress people. I was truly interested in getting to know him, and I hung on to every amusing tale he told about his intoxicated Irish neighbors across the street to the time he babysat his daughter’s yappy poodle puppy. Any question of mine that he could answer naturally without me having to probe would feel less like an interrogation I figured. (One thing I learned early on in my searching for biological family members was to let other people talk. You’ll get facts and stories you might not dream about asking, but those musings will be rich and detailed.)
Every vignette he shared about his life, brought more questions, and I had to walk a fine line between queries that moved our conversation along and appearing too nosey for a first meeting.
My birth father and my husband shared about work. We chatted about owning a home and yard care. I felt like we’d reached some common bonds about living life. I had the impression that he would think of us as a nice, responsible young yuppie couple who had our $h!t together and wanted nothing more than to get to know him as a human being in the here and now.
We arranged to meet again two weeks later on a Saturday night at a nice Italian restaurant called Sorrento’s. However, my birth father never showed. He had the decency at least to call Sorrento’s and tell them that if we were there, that he had to cancel because one of his kids had been in a car accident, and he had to go to the hospital. The maitre d’ summoned me to the phone, and I spoke with my birth father. He seemed very concerned that I believe him. I told him that of course, I did, and I totally understood, ( although inside I was totally crushed). His last words to me were, “I’ll call you.”
The last time someone used the words, “I’ll call you” on me, it was after a date with a guy I never heard from again. My birth father probably said the same thing to my birth mother back in 1961. I’m pretty sure I relived that moment my birth mother’s life in one evening. I was kindly dumped. At least that’s how it felt.
I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t cool or witty enough. He must’ve felt that I wouldn’t fit in with his family. No matter how perfectly I presented, I did not qualify. Maybe I scared him away by being too smart, too well dressed, too uppity or too dumb about sports. Maybe I smelled bad. Emotionally, I beat myself up for failing for years.
Or maybe it was him. Maybe he was the one who regarded himself as unworthy. Maybe he felt he had nothing to offer to our relationship. Perhaps he felt guilty. Could he have felt awkward about the little “affair” he’d had 26 years before? Maybe he was hiding a dark side he did not want me to witness. I’ll never know what went through his mind in the fall of 1987, but I moved on in life and worked hard, raised my kids and tried to be a good friend and neighbor every day.
I had to finally make peace and know that it was his loss. I had lost as well, but this rejection was all on him. In spite of all that, I also knew that should he or anyone in his family reemerge to connect with me, I would be here, anxiously waiting and never giving up hope for a reunion and more answers revealed about my biological family.
