The Search Is On
In the eighties, the tools to find people did not exist. I had to use good old-fashioned private investigation. I remember my mother telling me my father use to teach art at a school in Eugene. In 1987, circumstances required that I be transferred to a new high school. (I started my rebellion earlier than my mother—perhaps that is a character one inherits.) I started my senior year at North Eugene High School. Since I was in the area, I called the school district to see if they had record of my father. They did; he taught at the very school to which I had transferred. It was as if God was finally joining the search party. The day after I made the phone call, I showed up to school early, anxious to learn more.
Within hours of my arrival at school, I discovered two people who actually knew my father—my math teacher and the school principal. After talking with the principal, he offered his support, suggesting I call the district again to learn where my father earned his bachelor’s degree. “The school may have a record of his permanent address. You’ll have to wait until after school to make the calls,” he said apologetically. I didn’t mind, I’d waited this long to find him, what was a few more hours? Then he made a second suggestion that would change the way I saw myself from that day forward. “You could see him if you wanted. We keep yearbooks down the hall. I bet his picture is one of them somewhere.” I was stunned, almost too shocked to pursue the possibility. “I have to go back to class,” I stuttered. “I’ll right you a pass,” he offered.
What happened next I can only liken to the climax of a suspense thriller. Tension chords played on my nerves as I walked the long hallway that extended the length of the school. Of course the yearbook office was way down at the end, in a wing I had never been. As I searched the bookshelves, I tried to think which book I would find him in, in the year of my birth or the year prior to conception? I found 1969. Nothing. The year 1971 did not give me anything either. I searched for 1970 but couldn’t find it. I cursed the devil, just like him to interfere at a time like this. Then I found it, tucked behind the ’70s. I searched the index for his last name to no avail. I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears, the devil mocking me. “He’s not here, you’ll never find him. You’re lost.” I refused to quit, arguing against his discouragement, this has to be it! I looked through the contents; there was no listing for faculty, only a section for academics starting on page 181. I turned to its beginning and flipped the pages one by one, slowly, searching the faces on the page, looking for blackness. By page 190 I was almost in tears, the movie music of this thriller reaching its crescendo. Where is he?! Then, on the bottom of page 196, I search stopped. There, my eyebrows, my nose, my lower lip. My father. It was done. I was finally complete.
Historic Findings
The story flew by quite quickly after that day. The district office gave me the address of my father’s alma mater. I mailed him a letter, which was an awkward exercise. How do you introduce yourself to a father who doesn’t know you were ever born? I found the words, simple and to the point, and slipped the letter in the mail just days after my discovery. About three weeks later, I received a phone call. The voice on the other end was old, speaking my name in an unfamiliar way. “This is your grandfather.” It took a few seconds to register: Grandpa who? Grandpa Franz never calls. Then it hit. The tears exploded in response as he spoke. “I wanted to tell you I received your letter and the first thing you should know is, we love you.” I cannot explain how deeply that simple statement affected me. In that moment, with those few words, I felt fortunate and relieved, like finding a lost heirloom previously assumed gone for good. I have never experienced that combination of emotions again, but I think it is what most people seek when searching for their identity, tracing history in hope of finding that Christ-like, born again feeling: I am loved, I am wanted, I am an important piece of someone’s story. Months later, during spring vacation, I become a part of that history when I went to meet my father’s mother and father in Cleveland, Ohio.
