tonight after consuming my ultimate comfort food (outback wings and blue cheese w/ some of their pumpernickel bread and a pint or two of Fosters) I was driving home listening to “NPR, National Public Radio,” as they say between programs, and there was a report about the Congo and Minister Lumumba. This reminded me of another Lumumba, a brother who I met for the first time over the phone in April in St. Thomas. I left the whole thing alone after my last entry about it.

Being fine with not knowing my father because I made it this far vs. knowing the family I have but never knew. The two brothers that I did meet … well lets not put family business out there like that. this is about me. So courage and Fosters had me calling Lumumba a couple of minutes away from the house. I apologized for not calling him back after our initial contact and explained the reasons for my apprehension. that I would stand nothing to gain but disappointment.

He thought I had a right to know. its awkward asking someone how old they are, how do they spell their name when you’re both grown and share a parent. I wanted to get off the phone again but didn’t know how, or where to leave it or what to do next. I pulled up in the driveway when he started to refer to the urban legend as Daddy, a weird term that threatened to add more dimensions to the entity i only knew by first, middle, and last name.

I got out of the car and he discussed the relationship he had with other siblings of his. of ours. i kept referring to stuff in terms of his or mine and he would say ours. it’s jarring. being such a solitary creature for so long. it’s all i know.

“How many of us are there,” I asked him. The words came out like someone else said them and I couldn’t take it back. it was too late. i felt like I was one of a group of test cases. a batch of specimens. one of The 4400. He started to name separate names. and he kept going. I felt out of my body. I didn’t feel comfortable standing there, leaning against the top of my car. I saw my neighbors but I began to lose touch with who I was. 5, 6, 7, 8. I wanted to sit down on the pavement. 8 called by name and two more that he had heard of. One of us worked at the TSA. She might have screened my luggage. 10 he knew of and was pretty sure there were more so maybe 15.

He tried to see about conferencing “our” sister Tania on the phone. he tried to but couldn’t since I called him he asked me to dial her number. “Seven Oh Four…” I have a sister living here in North Carolina. I am getting way more than I bargained for in this phone call. I called her, and left her a voicemail. Something else I can’t take back. I also heard about how abusive my father was. <therapy> As I write this I realize I exhibited no desire to contact my father. But I think on some level it does fuck with me. there’s always been a vague quality to my existence (hence the blog title, perhaps?) which probably has affected all of my relationships none of which have been very substatial. </therapy>

I thought of setting up some type of network for me and my siblings.

it’s almost an Oprah moment.