“People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim. What I’ve learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one’s reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one’s master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person’s view requires to be faked…The man who lies to the world, is the world’s slave from then on…There are no white lies, there is only the blackest of destruction, and a white lie is the blackest of all.”
― Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged
My story so far, provided to me by the great Mr. Witt, San Bernardino County Social Services, was my truth. I clung to it. It was mine. I believed that it was all true. Margaret, a beatnik wanna-be hippie, started experimenting with drugs at age 17 or 18. She had a boyfriend, a couple of years older than her, who also dabbled in drugs. It was the 60’s, after all. Hell, it was her own mother who introduced Margaret to smoking pot. But the party didn’t last long. She was arrested, along with her boyfriend, on felony drug charges. And this was an interesting tidbit: it was Margaret’s stepfather who “turned them in.” Margaret’s mother had been married to Joe since Margaret was very young. She respected Joe and considered him to be a fine father figure. According to my truth.
Now I have a new truth. The truth as told to me by Jackson Summer, my biological father. The DNA evidence can’t lie–he’s definitely my father. Unless he has a twin that shares his DNA, which he doesn’t. Of course, with that DNA match, he could be my son. He’s 70 years old–he’s my father.
But here is the troubling part: I’ve been in contact with Jackson for months now via e-mail. We’ve been taking things slowly. He admits that he’s an “old hippie” and dabbled in drugs back in the 60’s (some pretty powerful drugs, at that). Yes, he lived in the same town as Margaret and her family (just a few blocks away). Yes, he’s the right age, exactly. But the description of my biological father and the information provided to me in my “non-identifying information did not describe Jackson (according to Jackson) at all.
In high school, your birth father was the editor of a literary magazine. He was also on the debate team and participated in political groups. He and your birth mother enjoyed talking about literature, intellectual subjects and and attended classes together at the city college in their community. . . Your birth father was also working at a pet hospital . . . and had access to narcotic drugs. . . . Both of your parents were arrested on drug-related charges. . . . We have no record of your birth father after his arrest.
That’s the birth father I knew from my non-identifying information. Consider, however, that all of this information was taken directly from the social services file on Margaret. All of the descriptive information about what happened and who was involved is based on what Margaret told the social worker(s). Remember, Margaret told no one in her family she was pregnant, plus, she was in prison at the time, so no one spoke to social workers or prison personnel about Margaret except Margaret. Margaret could have said anything. She was 18, ashamed, up against a wall (4 prison walls, actually), and being questioned and pressured for information, and also to make a life-changing decision about the baby growing inside of her. She didn’t name my birth father. She said he “didn’t know [I] was pregnant, for sure.” The information indicated that Margaret “signed sole custody relinquishments on December 20, 1963.” Sole custody. My birth father did not know.
Or . . . perhaps Margaret didn’t know the identity of my biological father. Maybe it could have been one of several? Or maybe she didn’t remember the encounter. Or maybe she knew, but she decided to describe something different in order to throw off the authorities. The fact is . . . the information provided to me in the non-identifying information did not describe Jackson Summer. And not just by my comparison. By his own.
I sent Jackson copies of the photos I have of Margaret. I also sent him copies of the letters we exchanged some 20 years ago (which were really no help at all, since Margaret said nothing at all about the time surrounding her pregnancy, except that it was a handicap that needed to be fixed). He contacted several of his long-time friends, including Marian Michaels, and told them about my contact and the “odd coincidences” (as he called them) of my story. No one recalled a Margaret Michaels.
Jackson did not back away; rather, he opened up considerably and told me everything he could remember. I believe what he told me. He has absolutely no reason to hide anything. If he had a secret to hide, why would he continue to tell me his story? The odd part was that Margaret Michaels was not a part of his story. He was also never arrested, as claimed by Margaret. He was not interested in literature or politics and he did not attend any classes at the jr. college. Jackson and Margaret didn’t even attend the same high school! Margaret had claimed that my birth father was the editor of a literary magazine in high school. Nope.
Jackson was known for his art. He was a jewelry maker and metal worker. He used to sell his art and jewelry at the beach every weekend. He had a small studio/shop on the corner near the beach and hung out with other artists and “creative minds,” as he called them. He told me stories about how his community was a great artist mecca back in the 1960’s and there were even some artists who traded their art for real estate and other valuable items. He never worked at a pet hospital. That’s not where he got his drugs.
Jackson has been very open with me about the drugs. He admitted that from about age 15 to 23 he went through a period of rebellion against his mother (his mother raised him alone; his father had died when he was very young), exploration, and searching for the “truth,” or meaning of life. He told me stories of experimentation with mescaline and LSD, inspired by his reading of Alex Huxley’s The Doors of Perception. He was, and still is, great friends with Dale Pendell, a contemporary poet, author and expert on pharmacology, ethnobotany and neuroscience.
The 1960’s. What a decade, right? The pharmaceutical industry exploded with research into new drugs. Drugs were legally developed for every ailment. Thanks to the industry’s aggressive media campaigns, every medicine cabinet filled up with drugs for every sort of ailment. The phrase “better living through chemistry” actually came from a legit DuPont advertisement. Drugs were portrayed as wonders of modern technology. In the early 60’s, drugs were not seen as evil. So, of course, young people, as young people are want to do, experimented. Jackson wrote to me about his drug use and experimentation with mescaline and LSD. For him (luckily), it was all a positive experience. Except for one thing: he believed his drug use was the reason he lost the love of his life: Marian Michaels.
He and Marian went to the same private high school (not the same high school as Margaret). They met when she was 14 and he was 16. She was 1 grade below him in school. They fell in love as teenagers–Jackson tells a sweet story of their young love. Jackson’s drug use continued into his late teens (and escalated) and this is where the problem started between Jackson and Marian. I believe that Jackson was being completely honest with me when he wrote:
The sad part to all this was that because of my drug use I broke the trust which I had built between Marian and I. I was no longer the person she had grown to love.
Jackson explained to me that at that point he “went into the mountains” and stayed there for several months until he was “no longer addicted.” But when he returned home it was too late. Marian had moved on. She eventually married and had 2 children. Jackson also eventually married and had a daughter.
Later communication with Jackson revealed what “into the mountains” may have meant:
You were born when I was 20 and looking back at that time I was in Big Sur living and working at Deetchen’s Big Sur Inn. I think I had started working there sometime in 1962…… at least I have a few photos of me there which are dated 62.
My math indicates that I was conceived in April 1963 (born mid-December, one month premature), so perhaps it was a fleeting encounter (possibly drug-fueled) with Margaret in the Big Sur area. My “non-identifying” information indicates that Margaret “moved to San Francisco for awhile, and then returned to her parents home to finish high school.” There is no further detail about her move or visit to “San Francisco,” but remember, the information in that report was put together from the interviews the social worker(s) had with Margaret while she was incarcerated. She could have said anything, true or not.
Jackson and I are still communicating, although it has slowed down a bit. He had indicated a desire to submit DNA to another company (or resubmit to 23andMe under another name) and to ask his daughter (who is 37 years old) to also submit a sample to see what kind of a match is revealed between the 3 of us. I understand his trepidation. But DNA doesn’t lie. I believe he is my biological father. He’s not so sure.
Laureen . . . I want you to know that I would be proud to have you as my daughter… I have no negative feelings but I am very confused about all of this. It seems so unlikely that our DNA would be so close and then the connection to the community where I grew up . . .
What I would really like to do is talk to Margaret . . . That would settle things . . .
Even back then I doubt I would have been drawn to someone like that. All of the women that I had any relationships with (there were not many) I still know and we are still friends, including Marian.
I provided him with the address I have for Margaret. He told me not too long ago that he started to write several times, but started over. He wanted to say just the right thing. I know the feeling. I don’t think he has written to her yet. I don’t even know whether he still intends to.
Next: We’ll explore the crazy possibilities . . .