Daddy Issues

My father died when he was 37. I was told that he lay down on his couch one afternoon for a nap and never got up. I heard that it was a stroke that silently killed him. The story of how my father died is a fragmented legend, a story that is vague and mysterious. This is seemingly appropriate since my father has always been a ghost. I never met him and didn't even know his name until I was 30 years old. When I first spoke my father's name out loud he had been dead for over 17 years.

I had wondered about my father's identity since first learning that I was adopted. I grew up fantasizing that I would one day meet my biological parents and that all of my riddles regarding self would be solved. In them - my parents - I would see myself and understand not only who I was but  also who I would one day become. But this is not how things work. We never are given a gift of perfect understanding of self and we can never look to anyone else, particularly our parents to understand who we really are. Now, five years after being given what I long sought after... my biological identity, I still have no clear picture who I am. 

Before I was introduced to the memory of John Bernard Cameron, my birth father, I knew another man as my father. He raised me and did all of the things that a father should do. This adoptive father was (and is) an exceedingly quiet man who is almost as much of a mystery as my birth father. I know he likes sailing and engineering, and had a Porsche when he was in college, but I'm not sure that I know much more about who he really is. It was almost as if he made a choice to closet all of himself away when he slid on the shoes of parenthood. To this day we struggle to find comfortable conversation and common interests, resolving ourselves to communicate only in times when it would not appropriate to be silent. We greet one another on Father's Day and Christmas and he will come into town on the occasional weekend to see my children and be helpful in the endless list of things that overwhelm me...car problems, assembling furniture, computer malfunctions. These are the things that he is comfortable with and that he has used to construct his identity as a father. I long ago learned not to expect anything different.

I think I must have instead placed all my hopes of what a father was on my birth father, once I knew that he existed. I had only a small collection of facts listed on my adoption papers that I used to assemble an image of him. These facts would also become things that I would use to define myself. His self-described interest in sports became an explanation for my athleticism. His Irish-Scotch ethnicity became an explanation for my alcoholism. I looked to the little I knew of him to understand myself, instead of to the father right in front of me. Perhaps my adoptive father had an unfair disadvantage in living with the ghost of my birth father. His every maneuver was evaluated in the context of how my birth father might have executed the same maneuver.

When I finally found my birth mother I finally found some truth about who my birth father really was. She wasn't able to tell me much. Thirty years had passed since they had seen one another and the time that they had spent together was brief. She was, however, able to tell me his name and that he had been a kind and fun-loving man. They had met in Plattsburgh, New York, her hometown and the town in which he had been attending college. The summer after I first spoke to my birth mother, I visited her in Plattsburgh and she drove me around town. Smirking, she gestured to a large old house adjacent to the campus and explained that it was the frat house that I was conceived in. Down the road just a ways, I pointed down an alley to an all but obscured doorway and told her that it was the bar I had picked out to visit the night before. She looked shocked and laughed. That was the very bar in which she had met my birth father.

 In the months after I found out my birth father's name, I can't tell you how many times I entered it into Google searches and genealogy databases. I contacted the university, directing my initial inquiries to the alumni relations. I received the following response:

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On Dec 3, 2010, at 12:02 PM, "Joanne N******" wrote:

Dear Ms Stephan,

Thank you for your contact with the SUNY Plattsburgh Office of Alumni Relations. I understand that you have requested that your contact information be forwarded to John Cameron, perhaps an alumnus of the class of 1979. For the safety and security of its alumni, the college's policy prohibits me from sharing confidential information with you. Generally, though, I could forward your contact information to the alumnus but I have encountered a road block in that process.

My colleague researched the name on the college's database to find an alumnus by the name of John Cameron, class of 1980, and that football and Upward Bound were activities in which he was involved. That is perhaps the same person you seek but I can't guarantee that with absolute certainty.

It is with regret that I must also inform you that the college's database indicates that John Cameron '80 was deceased in 1993. Please know that if this is indeed your birth father, and I would recommend you research that further if possible, I extend my compassion to you that your hope to reach him may not come to fruition.

I am sorry that I could not really help you, Ms. Stephan. Best wishes to you.

Sincerely,

Joanne N******

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After receiving this news, I was devastated. There would never be the reunion that I fantasized about. He would never offer me his love or protection. He would never even know what I looked like. I, on the other hand, refused to go on not knowing what he looked like. I believed that I should at least know what he looked like. It was the least that I could have of him. So, I contacted the university library and told them my story. I asked if there was anyway that they could check old yearbooks and find out if there was a picture of him contained within one of them. The library directed me to a specific branch called Special Collections, that would be better equipped to handle my inquiry. After some research, a very helpful librarian within that department informed me that there were no yearbook photos of my father, but they had tracked down a photo of the 1978 SUNY Plattsburgh football team, on which he was a player. Somewhere in that grainy sea of faces was the face of my father.

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From: Debra K***** 

To: astephanwrites@yahoo.com

Sent: Fri, December 17, 2010 3:06:25 PM

Subject: Re: Looking for John B. Cameron

Well, the photo we have of him is in his football uniform--you can't really see what he looks like.  Still looking...

Debra

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After some more research, the librarians determined that he might be player number 88. They zoomed in on that player and sent me a scan of the image. He was handsome and smiling and I studied his face in search of myself.

I excitedly sent the close-up of 88 to my birth mother for confirmation. Her response was both humorous and heartbreaking. She said that she was sorry, but 88 was not my father but that she wouldn't have minded to terribly if he was. I dishearteningly sent the librarian, Debra yet another email, sharing the news that we had not yet found our man. I felt guilty for continuing to trouble her with the search, but she was patient and eager to play a role in the solving of this mystery. 

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From: Debra K*****

To: Amanda Stephan <astephanwrites@yahoo.com>

Sent: Thu, February 24, 2011 1:56:16 PM

Subject: Re: Looking for John B. Cameron

Hello Amanda.  Our super-duper, overachieving photograph person has just scanned another photograph of a football player who might be John Cameron.  We do know that at some point Mr. Cameron wore that number, but we haven't yet found any photographs that match the numbers/names without full uniform and helmets on.  So here's another possibility for you to check.

This photograph is from August 1978, which would have been the fall 1979 team.

I hope this is him!

Debra

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It was him! I was finally able to look at the face that I had spent so many years struggling to illustrate in my mind. The irony is that it really didn't matter what he actually looked like. There was just a feeling of peace in really seeing him, instead of imagining him. The gift of his photograph compelled me to continue unearthing him so many years after his death. Using the obituary that I had found in the Delmar Spotlight, a small newspaper in upstate New York, I continued sending emails to anyone that might have known my father. The map of avenues I ventured down included emails to Bethlehem Central High School, where my father was a football coach and the University of South Carolina where he played football in the early Seventies. Neither email resulted in any new information and in both cases there were no photographs to be had. I also contacted the Metro Mallers, a semi-professional football team that he had been a player on. My email was circulated among their contacts and the man who had coached my father sent me an email.

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From:

"James B*****"

To:

astephanwrites@yahoo.com

Hi Amanda,

My name is Jim B***** and I was the owner & Head Coach of the Albany Metro-Mallers during the entire decade of the 80's.  John Cameron played defensive end for me.  He was a great guy and was well liked by the staff & all of his teammates.  John was always upbeat & full of fun.  He was also a competitor in the Scottish games. I believe he threw a ( I can't remember the Scottish name) - It was a large piece of sausage!  A kabor or something like that!  I heard years after his retirement from the Mallers, that he passed away in his sleep during a nap, from a heart attack.  I will try to see if there are any pictures of John, somewhere in storage.  Feel free to contact me.  my telephone number is(386) XXX-XXXX.

Yours truly,

 Jim B*****

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I wish I could say that I called Mr. B***** but I didn't. I was nervous about what I would say to him, almost as if he somehow represented my father. I did manage to get up the courage for one very important phone conversation with someone who knew my father. After numerous Google searches I tracked down the email address of my father's widow. She graciously replied to my email and even agreed to speak with me by phone. I remember the phone call being awkward, the kind of awkward that I foresee every phone call to be. It's this unnatural fear of phone conversations that leaves me helpless with phone anxiety on most occasions, sending calls to voicemail and returning messages impossibly long after they were left. I'm sure it must have been strange for her to speak of her long deceased husband, particularly to speak of him with the child he had with another woman. I felt disappointed with how little she told me about him during that conversation. She spent most of the call politely listening and telling me small bits of information about the children she had with John. It was as if she was protecting the sanctity of the memory of their family from an intruder. She was not mean, just distant and as time went on my half-brothers proved to be even more distant. At the close of the conversation she said she would send me some pictures and she did what she promised. Strangely, she sent only pictures of herself and her children with my father. She did not send one picture of him. I studied the pictures of them that my father's widow sent, hoping to find some 

similarity and waited for the ever elusive photo of my father. It never came and his widow stopped replying to me. 

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From: "kxxxxxxxxx@hotmail.com" >

To: astephanwrites@yahoo.com

Sent: Fri, June 10, 2011 10:00:06 PM

Subject: Form submission from [Words Matter] - [Contact me...] - [Advanced Form 1]

Subject:

John Cameron's sister Kathy

Message:

Hi Amanda I can't tell you how many times I have thought of you over the years. I'd love to talk to you. John told me the whole story and was heartbroken to have you adopted but your mother had all the say on that. You are lovely and your children and husband are lovely too. I am John's older sister by three years. I loved John so much, we were very close. I miss him all the time. He died of a stroke and I have run marathons and continue to raise money for the stroke association. I think it is a great circle of love for you to reach out to your father's family. I live in Mystic, Ct. I'd love to meet you and give you a hug from your dad through me. He loved you and I am sure his spirit has always been with you. He had a great spirit and a great laugh he was an amazing athlete. Anyway call me or email me back. My home number is 860-XXX-XXXX or cell 860-XXX-XXXX 

Lots of love your Aunt Kathy

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Not long after I had abandoned all hope of communicating with anyone in my father's family, I received an unexpected email. It was from my father's sister. She had somehow found the website that I maintained as a portfolio of my writing and had sent me a message. It meant so much to hear that my father thought of me, and that he might have liked to have me in his life. I was also thrilled that she had reached out to me. It was as if my dream of him appearing to rescue me had finally been realized, with his sister standing in as his replacement. I imagined visiting her in Connecticut and becoming like a daughter to her. Unfortunately, after this initial email, she too seemed to disappear. I never received any more contact from her, and she never sent the picture that I requested.

The mystery of my father doesn't feel like it has been solved, but it does feel like it has shrunk in size. It takes up a smaller space inside of me. I treasure the one picture of him that I was able to track down and can't help wonder why every other attempt at getting a picture of him resulted in nil. Why wasn't he in the college yearbook, or the yearbook for the high school he coached football at? Why would his widow send me pictures of herself and his kids instead of of him? Why would his sister send me her love and his but refuse to send a picture? I've started to believe that he, like my adoptive father, is meant to remain a mystery, maybe because mysteries make the monotony and struggle in everyday life more magical. This sense of magic is important and makes me believe that there is more to life than what we move through each day. I feel this magic when I consider the parallels between my life and what I know of my father's life as well. For many years my father had been working as a salesman and was apparently quite successful at it. Shortly before he died, when he was 35, he had an epiphany of sorts. He wasn't happy as a salesman and wanted to do something different with his life. He decided to go back to school and get his Master's Degree so that he could become a teacher. He wanted to work with autistic children. Like him, I have been compelled by dissatisfaction in the course my life has taken. At age 35 I applied and was accepted to a Master's Program. In the fall I begin classes to become a social worker. I only hope that I have a little more time than he did to understand who I am meant to be.