The wake was held in the hall of the local fire station. The box containing my grandfather’s ashes sat on a card table covered in a Philadelphia Eagles beach towel. The box was draped with a smaller towel made for the 1960 Championship Anniversary Game of the Eagles versus the Packers. To the right of the towel stood a garden gnome holding a baseball and bat. To the left of the ashes stood a Guinness glass turned upside down signaling that my grandfather had had his last drink.
Toward the end of the wake, just as we were leaving, Pat told me that cousin Jimmy, one of my dad’s cousins, was talking to him about the importance of us all being family, of us all having the same blood.
“Your dad, you, your brother,” he’d said to him and then paused. “Your sister—well, maybe not as far as having the same blood goes.” Pat told me he said it like it wasn’t new information, like it was something they’d always known.
“Wow,” I said. Then, “I think he and his brothers still think of me as a Dunn, though. I mean, that’s the feeling I get being here. That he’s saying it’s important to remember we’re all Dunns.”
“Yeah,” Pat said. “Absolutely. The point is that we’re all still family.”
He told me that he had come to Long Beach Island back in February for Pop’s seventy-sixth birthday. During that trip he told Kathleen that my dad wasn’t my real father and that I was black. He hadn’t done it out of malice; he brought the subject up, assuming that, in the five years that passed since the revelation, my dad had talked to his family about it. When Kathleen said he hadn’t, Pat gave her the details.
I hadn’t talked much to Kathleen on this trip yet, and I wondered if she would be upset and want me to explain. I saw her talking to my mom in a corner of the fire hall and went over to them.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” Kathleen asked.
I followed her outside, worried about what she might say.
“I want you to know that you are my heart,” she said holding my hand. “You don’t know how important it was for John and me when you were born.” She told me that my mom was important to her, too. When she felt like no one cared about her or looked after her, my twenty-year-old mom did. She told me that my mom’s example showed her how to be a mother.
We hugged. Like my cousin Jimmy, Aunt Kathleen seemed to have realized my difference all along, but the fact that we were family was more important.
As the night went on, we reminisced about our days growing up on Grove Avenue. Uncle John recalled us playing hockey in the driveway, and Pat, around four years old, saying to him, “I want to be Hextal! You always make me be Vanbiesbrouck!” We talked about the next-door neighbor’s dog, Sparky, that always growled at us and deflated our footballs and basketballs if they went over the fence. Pat remembered arguing with John over whether it was the Seth Joyner or Reggie White who hit Merril Hoge so hard during a game between the Steelers and the Eagers that Merril Hoge crapped his pants; whenever the subject of someone crapping their pants came up, they would call it Merril Hoge’s revenge.
“Do you remember any of that?” John asked me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I remember it all.”
* * *
The next morning, my family and I went to the beach, for old times’ sake, before saying goodbye to the Drifting Sands and LBI. As we pulled away, I wondered how my dad felt being the eldest of the Dunn clan now that his father was gone. I wondered what my mom was doing all evening in her hotel room. After the wild night, I wondered where, if at all, I fit into this family. And now that Pop was gone, as we rode over the causeway and into the Pine Barrens, I wondered if I’d ever be back.
Thirty-eight
Three weeks after returning from Long Beach Island, I was on a plane to Heathrow for another memorial service for another father. It was the ten-year anniversary of Michael’s father’s death, and celebrating it was an Igbo tradition.
I was exhausted from the Dunns and still suffering from anxiety and depression. The antianxiety medication I took worked for a while, but soon self-doubt, nervousness, and paranoia would flood back, making it hard to manage daily life. I thought about how self-confident and clearheaded I used to be and wondered what had changed. Was it really just the identity crisis and family upheaval I was experiencing, or was it something more permanent?
We stayed in Croydon with Michael’s sister, Kate, her husband, Bruno, and their daughter, Kelechi. Michael refused to stay with his eldest brother, John, because, he said, “Everything in his house is sticky with palm oil.”
Before we left Los Angeles, Michael told me the family planned on wearing traditional Igbo outfits to the ceremony. As a wedding gift, Kate had given me a traditional Igbo outfit that I’d worn at the reception after I’d changed out of my dress. The outfit was black chiffon covered with satiny yellow heart-shaped leaves. Crystals dotted the fabric. The head wrap, called gele, was made out of stiff black cloth adorned with silver and gold metallic thread.
I had worn scarves and head wraps before, but the material of the gele crinkled like wrapping paper and felt stiff as a board. I did not know what to do with it, so I just wore the roomy shirt secured with the wraparound skirt and a shawl of the same fabric that draped over one shoulder. I didn’t want to wear the same outfit twice, and I wasn’t sure if it would be taboo to wear black to this occasion.
The next morning, we got ready for the memorial service. Kelechi, not wanting to look uncool, wore a short black-and-pink sleeveless dress rather than traditional Nigerian clothing. Kate came downstairs in a beautiful, fitted, floor-length, green-and-champagne-colored mermaid-cut top and skirt. Bruno wore a traditional white linen tunic and slacks with a black cap and pocket square to match.
Even though Michael was the one who’d told me to wear something traditional, he wore black slacks and a suit jacket with a white linen shirt. To cover the “traditional” aspect, he wore a long, beaded necklace with a beaded pouch that was part of the traditional Yoruba religion Ifá. Like many middle-class Nigerians, he and his siblings had been raised Christian. Some frowned upon traditional religions, considering them uneducated and superstitious, but practicing Ifá was something that made Michael feel closer to his culture.
I wore a burgundy ensemble with a flared head wrap that Michael and I purchased from an African dress shop in LA. I asked the woman working there if she could show me how to tie the head tie, which flared like a peacock’s tail in the display window. I made detailed mental notes as she worked the magic of transforming a rectangular piece of fabric into a ruffled sculptural crown on my head.
“Did you tie that yourself?” Kate exclaimed. I nodded, not mentioning that I’d had to use half a dozen safety pins to make sure it stayed in the proper shape on my head. Kate said she did not know how to tie gele. I had to admit I felt some pride.
It was a sunny September day for the memorial service. We met up with the rest of the family members outside the Catholic church to see the programs. There had been disagreement among the siblings about whether to use separate photos of their mother and father or a photo of them together. Their parents were separated for many years before their father died, and some of the siblings, including Michael, thought it was false nostalgia to portray them as a couple.
It reminded me of the controversy over the slideshow my mother made for the gathering after Pop’s funeral. Pop married Paula later in life, took up traveling to Ireland, and was very involved with her grown children. My mom and others in our family resented this new version of his life, saying he hadn’t been there for his own kids and shouldn’t get a do-over now.
In the end, separate photos were used for Michael’s parents.
Michael’s elder brothers wore traditional Nigerian shirts. Their wives were dressed like Kate, in fitted tops with capped sleeves and matching full-length, fitted skirts that flared at the knee. Even Phil, James’s Irish wife, wore this kind of outfit. The two elder wives wore gele.
I glared at Michael; even though I didn’t know Nigerian fashion, I
could see that my outfit was different from the others: boxy, heavy fabric with large yellow satin flowers and yellow satin scalloped edges on the hems. Their dresses looked more modern, and I didn’t remember seeing such ensembles—made out of traditional fabrics but with a modern silhouette—at the import stores in LA. I wished Michael had known more about what his sister meant by “traditional.” Maybe he was more out of touch with his home culture than I’d realized.
The church was packed with friends and family. Nearly all the married women wore outfits of George fabric, brightly colored silk patterned with metallic thread, beading, crystals, and appliqué flowers, like the outfit Kate gave me before the wedding. I wished I had worn that outfit. Gele towered like skyscrapers. I’d never seen anything so glamorous.
After the short, solemn mass, we drove to a banquet hall for the post-memorial party. Many more people attended. Long foldout tables and folding chairs filled the room, with space at the front for dancing. A microphone was set up for speeches. In the kitchen at the back of the hall, huge aluminum pans held enormous amounts of chicken, beef, goat, jollof rice, stew, and pepper soup, which was way too spicy for me. Beer was plentiful.
Michael’s eldest brother, John, began the gathering by talking about how important family was. Each spouse of an immediate family member was asked to come up to the microphone in the center of the room and state which family they represented.
John addressed the group in English out of regard for those of us who “had forgotten to learn Igbo,” and a chuckle rose in the room.
Until that moment, I felt like I was stuck between cultures and had to choose: one that represented the Irish American father who raised me, and one that represented the black father I didn’t know but who carried the key to my African American identity. Through Michael, I became part of a mixed-race British Nigerian family, where black, white, and mixed spouses were accepted with equal love along with a rainbow of cousins, nieces, and nephews. They were the surrogate mixed family I never had, comfortable in all the identities they represented, and cosmopolitan beyond my wildest dreams. But despite their hospitality, I didn’t feel at home in London. I didn’t catch the jokes and references and sometimes didn’t understand their British accents. They speak a lot faster than the British shows I watch on TV, I thought. Some of the conversations included Igbo and pidgin, and Michael had to act as my translator. My Americanness set me apart, overriding our shared African and even mixed heritage.
Phil’s turn came to declare her family ties, but she was shy and passed. Everyone knew and loved Phil, and no one took offense.
My turn was next. In front of me sat a sea of people of mostly Nigerian descent. It reminded me of standing in front of Mr. Lynch’s World Cultures class but in reverse. I was the foreigner here, except this crowd was welcoming, and my difference was not a source of mockery. I could have passed and let the other family members continue their speeches, but I wanted to be seen.
“I am one of those who forgot to learn Igbo,” I said. “So I will speak English. I am Sarah Valentine, and I represent the Dunn family of Pennsylvania and New Jersey in the United States.” I told the crowd I was grateful to be part of the celebration and thanked them for welcoming me into their family.
As I walked back to my seat, Phil said, “What are you doing, making me look stupid!”
My family made me feel like my identity was an either-or decision. Now I realized it was possible to acknowledge the multiple families I held within me: the family that raised me, the family that embraced me, and the family I didn’t know.
Thirty-nine
In the fall of 2012, Northwestern University’s English department recruited Michael for an endowed professorship. Part of his incentive package was a permanent lectureship in the department for me. My contract with UC–Riverside expired at the end of the academic year, and though I went to a series of interviews at other universities, I did not get another position.
Part of UC–Riverside’s counteroffer to keep Michael from leaving was a tenure-track position for me, but the offer would be void if Michael decided to accept the offer from Northwestern. We argued about what was best. I deserved the tenure-track position—I’d worked my whole life for it. But Northwestern’s offer was better for him. I couldn’t blame him; I would have taken the position, too.
Our relationship was already strained. Between his traveling and my erratic health, we grew apart. He turned to religion, and I met someone else. In the spring, we agreed to go to Evanston together though we were already separated. I didn’t want to leave LA—I planned to make my life there—but other forces were pulling me forward.
Forty
Evanston, Illinois, a college town just north of Chicago, turned out to be beautiful. My apartment was a ten-minute walk from the university, which was on the coast of Lake Michigan. Parks, shops, and stately homes lined the streets. People jogged, pushed strollers, and walked dogs, sights rarely seen in LA. I taught creative writing in the English department as a visiting assistant professor. I’d chosen that position over a lectureship because at the time I didn’t want to stay.
In October 2013, my brother Tom was getting married to Julie, who’d survived the Dunn gathering at Pop’s funeral so well. A week or two before the wedding, I received a call from my aunt Liane, my mother’s sister, whom I hadn’t talked to since I was a kid.
“Dani gave me your number,” she said, and I vaguely remembered my cousin, her daughter Dani, messaging me on Facebook for my contact details.
So many changes were happening in my life that I’d put the search for my biological father on hold. I got used to the idea of considering Gideon, the Kenyan in the photo, my father even though part of me knew it was a fantasy. My marriage was gone, the city I loved was gone, my friends had moved away. What did I have to hold on to? I felt more broken than ever and couldn’t face more uncertainty.
“Your grandmother and I talked about it for a long time,” she said, “but she didn’t want to tell you. I think you have a right to know.
“I was worried about your mom when she went to college,” Liane continued. “Her friends told me she was drinking, partying, and dating this strange guy. He was called the Prince, and he wore white robes.”
“Was he African?” I asked. “Did he have an accent?”
“No,” she said. “I think he was American. He even came to the house one day asking for her.”
For the last eight years, my grandmother and aunt had debated whether or not to tell me about my biological father. My grandmother didn’t reply when I sent Gideon’s photo, and my grandfather must have known about his nickname.
So everyone knew. Everyone had known, including my mother, since before I was born.
“Do you know his real name?” I asked. “Was he a student?”
“I don’t know,” Liane said. “I just know his nickname was the Prince. When I went to campus to see her, to talk to her, she wasn’t there. I don’t know where she went.”
“My mom never told me any of this,” I said.
“I don’t know when your mom became like she is,” Liane said. “We haven’t talked in a long time.”
“She told me she was raped,” I said.
“She never said anything about that,” Liane replied.
The 1970s were a time of Afrocentrism, but it seemed like the detail of the Prince wearing white robes could be an exaggeration.
“Does anyone know his real name?” I asked.
She thought for a moment and then said, “Talk to Forbes. And Karen. She was your mom’s roommate in college.”
I saw Liane at my brother’s wedding a few weeks later, but we didn’t talk about what she’d told me. My mother was there, and I chose not to confront her about the version of her time in college that Liane gave me. After years of fighting, I knew it wouldn’t change anything, and even if I pushed, I knew I would not get the answers I wanted. I finally followed Dr. Wade’s advice and stayed in my square.
Over the next two year
s, I finished writing a book based on my dissertation. It also took me that long to work up the courage to contact Karen about the Prince and what happened to my mother that night. I found Karen on Facebook and contacted her through Instant Messenger.
She said there were two African American guys that she and my mother knew in college. One was the manager of the cafeteria where Karen and my mom worked for a few semesters. This was probably the same guy my mom mentioned when she’d revealed the story to me.
Karen described the cafeteria manager as “a very nice and good-looking man.”
The other guy went by the name the Prince.
“No lie,” Karen wrote. She said the Prince was also very good-looking. He was a smooth talker and sat with them often in the dining hall.
“He was very attentive to your mother,” she wrote. She remembered that my mother had met up with him for the party, but Karen didn’t go. She confirmed the Prince was an American student, not African. She remembered that my mother came back early the next morning, on her own, it seemed, and that she didn’t talk about what had happened the previous night.
When I Was White Page 22