Still, at least once a day, I fill something out with my Real Name, and sometimes it gives me pause. Having a surname means you come from somewhere. It means you didn't just hatch from a stray egg, or fall to earth like Bowie in the aptly titled sci-fi film (which I saw way too young; thanks, Mom). It means you, and your name, were kind of designed by someone else. And the stamp of that design stays with you throughout the course of your life, unless you just cast it all away and start anew. I haven't yet, but it crosses my mind every few years or so.
The people who knew my biological parents always have extreme opinions of them, one way or the other. They were very much a set, from what I'm told, and they certainly left a dent in the collective psyche of their peers, before my birth. They were both songwriters and performers, and were on stage together more often than not. My mother was known for her hauntingly beautiful voice, outspoken opinions and musical laugh; my father for his lyrical genius, brooding temperament and sloppy rhythm guitar playing. To my knowledge, they collaborated for the better part of a decade before other things developed and took them down separate roads. (I think I'm one of those developments, but that's not what we're talking about.) I've seen all of the photos, heard all of the music, and had all of the words memorized by the time I was five. I did see the tail end of the magic in person in my toddler years, but it's hard to discern which of those images are memories and which are things I've been told. Lord knows I've been told quite a bit.
As I've grown older, the folks who knew my parents in their time of prolific creativity have found me, in all of the usual ways. The internet has made it so that no one can really stay anonymous, much less a girl from Miami named Buick. I am often told how much I look like him or her, and how much my music reflects their styles and talents. I once had a stranger stop me on the street in Coconut Grove, when I was about thirteen, to ask me if I was my father's kid. That's how strong the resemblance is, in some ways. I don't mind hearing about them, but it is sort of strange. It's like being told that the characters from from some movie are your parents. It's like that, because that's not what I know of them at all.
I never lived with my biological father past the first year of my life, and let's face it: I don't remember that. I was mostly raised by my mother and my brother's father, who is the only man I've ever called "Dad". I did spend some time with my father in my younger years, seeing him for an occasional weekend here or meal there. Most of what I know of him has been relayed to me by other people. I've formed my own stories about who he is was and is through his music, but I don't really know the truth, and it's unlikely that I ever will. He opted out of knowing me when I was about sixteen, and that was that. My imagination has had to fill in the many blanks that my heart hasn't had the energy to.
The opposite is true of my relationship with my mother. I know her as well as any daughter knows her mother (which isn't as well as some would assume), and could probably ace a quiz on her likes, dislikes and quirks. But, that's not the woman from the stories of her youth. I'll never know that person, and I'm now older than she was when she left that life behind. Aside from the music, our life paths have been remarkably different, and our personalities reflect those choices. I think it's tricky to be a daughter with a strong mother. I think there always lies a quiet question as to who you really are, in the dark night of the soul. I think it's both terrifying and weird to realize that you are, in fact, your own person at a certain point. I've felt for some time that I'm walking on on uncharted territory, and that the people who designed me wrote no map for where I am. For a while that felt lonely, but it's starting to lighten up around here. I'm even excited by the new and unexpected turns once in a while. At least they're finally my own.
I've recently come to know the teenage daughter of a friend of mine who passed away almost seventeen years ago. Her daughter wasn't two at the time, and had been adopted by another family, so I hadn't seen her in those formative stages. She found me through this very blog a bout a year and a half ago, because I had written about her birth mother here and the name jumped out at her in a Google search. Since then, I've been getting to know the wonderful, talented and sweet young woman that she is, and it's been a true pleasure. I'll admit that when I was first connecting with her, I compared her to her mother in every way. She does look quite a bit like her, and there are some similar tendencies towards the arts, etc. But, all of that fell away pretty quickly as I started to pay attention to who she is, and less to who her mother was. She deserves that attention and respect, as we all do. Where we come from is only part of the story. Where we're going is the rest.
I know I look like him and sound like her. I know that I share a love for the writing of a dead poet with him, and a passion for horror with her. I know, I know, I know. I also know that I can't keep a plant alive and would never, ever put Jimi Hendrix on the stereo. Ever. Some of it's in my blood, and heart and bones... And some of it's all me: my design.
Thanks for listening,
buick audra _______
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