50 Days ‘Til 50: Day 41 - Fathers and Sons...again.

Fathers and SonsOn this Father’s Day, it’s impossible to read through Facebook without seeing a post in celebration of Fathers everywhere. I admit I’ve read many of them, touched of course by the photos and sentiments and yet a bit removed as I don’t have a Father in my life and haven’t for a long time…or do I?My story is a bit different from the traditional Mom, Dad, Daughter and Son families I grew up surrounded by. As an adopted child, I as of yet, have never met my birth Father or Mother and would almost guess they’ve both passed on by now. In a strange stroke of luck years back I met one of my blood brothers, Bill, who actually found me. It was an amazing moment to be sure and we actually grew up near each other even attending rival high schools, I in Durham, NH and he in Somersworth, NH. He’s two years my junior and today lives in Tennessee with his wife and family. One year as I was moving to NYC from Florida in a U-Haul and I stopped in Tennessee to meet Bill in what I can only describe was a true Oprah moment for me and for him. When you’re an adopted kid the deep subconscious fear that rules your life is something like “I’ll never be good enough, because if I was good I wouldn’t have been given away in the first place.” And equally insane is the thought that one day that doorbell will ring and the men in black will be there to take you away. “A mistake was made”, they would say. Or “You’re with the wrong family.” Or they don’t want you anymore. Lots of therapy got me to these deepest darkest causes and conditions of why I am the way I am, even today at times. I find therapy fascinating in the sense that things that happened to me as a two year old would be the under lying current for my entire life. I’ve also learned how valuable forgiveness is. Especially of oneself. We all have wounds. It’s part of the human condition I’m afraid and I have a choice every day when I get up and go throughout my day whether or not to be loving and kind or an asshole. Some days it’s a fine line.Bill had access to some then private birth records information about all of us and I was to find out that there were 6 of us children in total. I chuckled inside as I had longed to live like the Brady Bunch and now to find out we could have all filled that tic-tac-toe box with all those smiley freckled faces thrilled me to no end, and the thought of having an Alice made me laugh and smile.Bill went on to locate our natural Mother through the states help but she never responded after she was made aware of his search for her. A story far too familiar for adopted kids who go in search of their blood family members.No matter for me, I was completely satisfied to have connected with Bill.Of course I often wonder what my parents look like, what my siblings look like, if they are still alive and of course what happened to them, especially with 6 children?Were they Vanderbuilt’s or Rockerfeller’s? It was the 1960’s when we were both born so maybe they were cool hippies, who went to Woodstock, and wore beads and played guitars. Free love after all. I suspect their lives weren’t so free and easy however.It doesn’t consume me very much these days besides a fleeting thought. I was adopted at age three and a half into an amazing family, the Fullers. My fathers name is Enoch Doble Fuller, Jr. Sounded impressive to me even as a young child. He was a natural redhead and always was dressed to the nines. As a hotel owner he always looked immaculate, his red hair axe parted on the side, slicked back to perfection. Black horn rimmed eyeglasses. Always in a sport coat whether it was the dead of winter or with shorts in the heat of the summer. Again as a hotelier he had a reputation to uphold. And uphold it he did. Enoch Sr. had already passed on so I never got to meet him, and his mother Abbie lived with us for many years in the hotel.Since I didn’t take my Fathers full name, I never became Enoch the 3rd. Joshua Enoch Fuller would have to do. Or Greg Brady would have been really cool too.I often think of Enoch and what his life was like. He graduated from The U.N.H. with a degree from their hotel and hospitality program. I wonder what he was like on campus. Was he outgoing and liked by all? Was he a loner and introvert? Was he a smooth dresser attracting all the women and envied by the men? Was he a party animal? Due to his hair color his nick name was Red, appropriately. Everyone at the hotel called him Red as well. I do remember he was a hard worker as he had said many times, “Running a hotel is a 365 day, 7 day a week operation.” My Mom was an avid photo taker and I possess album upon album of him being the hotel owner and of our family. We did many things together, traveling, going out for special occasions, summering in lake communities around New England, taking trips to far off strange lands like Boston and Philadelphia and New York City to see the circus and visit family members (no, not in the circus). It was evident in the photographs of his love for me and my (also adopted) sister and especially our Mother, very much.As the master of ceremonies at the hotel he was constantly in the front of the house greeting all the guests, pouring drinks in the bar and would get there in the mornings before anyone else was awake and left after the last cocktail was served into the wee hours of the morning. I imagine he was very tired. Sadly any memories of him would come to a halt after this grand time in our lives. The diabetes that had been with him since boyhood, plus the excessive drinking led to his demise and he left this earth as I was just turning 12. I would carry his loss into my adolescence and have naturally put up some heavy emotional walls due to his death as to lose a parent so young is excruciating. And again, my adopted self was facing yet another person I loved now leaving me, just when I needed him the most. My life continued. I grew up, moved out, and started my own journey.Years later as I was a young man living in Miami. It was a horrid time. More loss was to happen in my life as AIDS was now here and devastated our community on South Beach. My friends would be laughing and dancing in a nightclub one week and then we’d be at their funeral a week later. It was too much to process and I stopped counting the dead. I lost several hundred friends. It was a time in my life that would change me forever. Those of us who survived were looking for anything and anywhere to talk about our loss. The guilt of the survivor. The sadness of burying my friends at age 25 when I should have been out loving and enjoying my 20’s. We went to counselors, grief meetings, sat through lectures by Louise Hay and Marianne Williamson. We were in a collective shock and later we all shared some sort of PTSD. How could we not? My path would lead me to a woman who for lack of a better word, was and is a psychic.Whether you’re a believer or not she was astounding. In touch with spirits in the afterlife, calm and safe in her delivery and manner, and she would hold a small table meeting of sorts at her house. We could sit there and do nothing. We could listen to her to see if she was being channeled by any of the spirits, which she would offer freely what they were there for. We could ask questions. It was beyond any sort of weirdness at this point. Our lives were so weird up to now it seemed to oddly console us all in some way. There were tears and laughter and I would go on to bring many many of my friends to sit at her table. Whenever I would walk into her house she would immediately tell me she saw the color red around me. Every time I came in she saw it and would ask me if the color meant anything to me for it was a very strong energy surrounding me. My friends and I would sit for hours and try and figure out what the color meant. I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me. It wasn’t a favorite color of mine nor did I own anything red, except for maybe some lipsticks in my makeup artist kit. But one day it hit. That day I sat down at her table and it hit me. Red was my fathers nickname (the red hair, remember?)Of course, as I banged myself on the head with my fist. She told me he was and has always been with me since his passing. That he was my guardian. A Heavenly Father. I finally let it all out and cried tears I didn’t even know I had left. It all came out. I did have a Father. He never really left me.I was always being protected and didn’t even know it. I felt him in that moment. I still do.And I would never see the psychic again after that day.So now, on this Fathers Day, I celebrate and am grateful each day for having the family I do today. To all the Fathers in my life who have been my mentors, my teachers, my friends. I am filled with gratitude for you all.And to Enoch, my Dad, wherever you are, I know each day you did the best you could do. Through all the highs and lows of your own life you left us to go out into the world we built for ourselves and show true genuine care for people, to have respect for the people in this world and the planet. To show us affection and that it was ok to share that affection with others. Even if it broke our hearts.And lastly you taught me when all else fails, put on a suit coat, cuff links, and some snazzy socks, slick your hair back, and show up with a smile on. You had the ability and the courage to adopt not one but 2 children, to love us and to care for us. You left us and this world way too early and I wish you could see what pretty amazing kids we have grown up to become.Well, I guess you can.Thanks Dad.Love,Joshua