Entry 2: Words from Mom

Hi, followers, late night blog rollers, friends and family--here's the second installment of my self-started saga. I have to be honest, I started this to get my name out there, give agents and editors something to google at as they scan my manuscript pages. But as the launch date approached, I felt extremely anxious. Why couldn't I have chosen a more neutral topic such as "How to overcome Writer's Block" (but then that would require an answer, or suggestions...) or "How to Teach and Write and Not go Crazy." The later would also be difficult since I'm crazy (as my students, colleagues, friends, and family can attest to). But I longed for a platform that could grow, and eventually lead to resolution. Not to mention, the search for my father came to mind over and over again like debris from a dream--no matter how much I wanted to will the idea away it kept coming back.

Now that I've started, I do feel brave, and vulnerable, and exposed, but hey, that's what being a writer is about. If I protected myself from exposing my insecurities then my readers would feel shut out, not pulled in. Virginia Woolf writes, "A good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out." But how much of our self exposure is fair? In memoir we must constantly address this issue as we explore our relationships with family, partners, and friends. This blog doesn't just expose me, it also leads my Mom back to a time and place she would often like to forget. But as her last e-mail stated, she remains the "proudest mother on earth."

Even though we live close by, most of our communication is handled through Face Book and e-mail. A few days ago she went in depth about the particulars of my dad. She said of my search (and she's allowed me to quote her), "It does go back to chapters in my life which for me are best left behind, but those choices way back when were yours as well, I see now." As you can see, she's a pretty great mom. While she accepts my choice, she admits to her hesitation, but manages to place me before her own insecurities.

She goes on to say that, "I hope he [my dad] is still charming, witty and handsome in that Robert Wagner way." Who's Robert Wagner?


Hmmm...So that's what he looked like? Interesting. On to more specific details: His first name was Tommy. He had been separated from his wife, Mom can't remember her name. He had a four-year old son at the time of their affair. Their son's name is Chris Ward. Apparently both mother and son moved to Jersey around the time I was born. Tom stayed behind. Mom remembers his good friend John Letts (who had won the lottery) and may still be in touch with Tommy.

I sent a message to Uncle Mike with my updates, and will keep you posted.
Thanks for all of your support!

Best, A.E.

The Search for my Father

Welcome to my first entry. Let me be clear: The Search for my father is an opportunity to explore another angle in my writing project. So much of my life is filled by memories of my young mom finding her place in the world. In some ways, my memoir is a collective coming-of-age--how we learned to accept our place in the world together. The settings range from a small factory town in Connecticut to a horse farm in Central Florida. Glaringly absent, however, is the story of my father.

I want to use this blog as an opportunity to engage with the public, my potential readers, about my quest. As you already know, finding my father could be anti-climactic. In other words, he may be dead, or he may not have any interest in meeting me, but the outcome isn't as important as the process.

Up until now, I haven't in all my 34 years actively tried to find him. In bits and pieces, I've grasped a sense of who he was. Below, you'll see a list of possible facts about my dad. But for most of my life, the word dad was a foreign concept, one with a hint of glamour, kind of like the word caviar.

I met him once, when I was 6. Mom didn't tell me that he was my father before our visit. The three of us went for lunch. Mom allowed me to violate our strict vegetarian diet and I ordered tuna fish. Also, I drank chocolate milk through a straw and blew bubbles, and for once, Mom didn't complain. I sat next to him. He was fair skinned. Thick with muscle and fat. His smile was broad and easy. We ate at a crowded, dark diner. It was spring. After lunch, we went to a park and sat in grass and listened to Jazz music. The world was bright and cheery and I remember sunlight falling onto all of us. Did I sit still? Did I nap on our blanket? Did I learn his name? I can't recall. I remember Mom fidgeted, looked off into the distance a lot, and the man who was my father looked into my face often, and his attention made me feel light, pretty, and alive.

After the park, he dropped us off at our two family apartment. Mom and I trudged up the steps of our second-story home. As I trooped to the living room window to watch him drive off, I said, "He was a nice guy." To which Mom said, "He's your dad." The word hung in the air for years, and it took me until I was 12 to say another word about him. Perhaps I felt that asking about him would hurt her, would imply that she was not enough. So I kept my curiosity shut tight.

Once when I was in college I was tempted to find out more about him. I had considered selling my eggs for extra cash, but the journey to finding my dad seemed too arduous at the time, so I never looked him up, also, I never sold any eggs.

By the way here's my list:

His last name is Ward
He was a performance artist
He had another family--wife, kids
He lived in Connecticut
He wanted to be a part of my life

The first step I've taken is contacting my Uncle Mike. He lives in Connecticut and is practiced at tracing our family's genealogy. While he never knew my father, he's agreed to try and help me find him. I will be keeping you posted.