Journal of Loss and Trauma, 10:337346, 2005

Copyright # Taylor & Francis Inc.

ISSN: 1532-5024 print/1532-5032 online
DOI: 10.1080/15325020590956765

MY FATHERS GHOST: INTERROGATING

FAMILY PHOTOS

ANDREW F. HERRMANN
University of South Florida, Tampa, Florida, USA

This article presents an autoethnographic, autobiographical investigation into the

story of a boy (now a man) and his relationship with his missing father. The
account includes flashes of memory and brief conversations with other members
of my family. After innumerable years, my father was located upon my grand-
mothers death. I recall the special trip I took to Florida in order to reconnect with
my father. After our brief reunion, he disappeared once again. I ask questions
about his emotional state, but find that I am asking questions into a void.
Finally, I come to the realization that he does not want to be found, and that
realization is a form of closure itself.

We often consider loss through the lens of death. The death of a

loved one often creates an emotional and existential crisis for those
still living (Bochner, 2002; Ellis, 1993). However, loss takes many
forms, including the loss of innocence (Ronai, 1995), place, and com-
munity (Krizek, 1992). Divorce is also a story of loss. Divorce is a
different experience for children and adults, because the children
lose something fundamentalthe family structure (Wallerstein &
Blakeslee, 1989, p. 11). While many fathers remain connected to their
children, it is also certain that too many fathers abandon their children
(Jago, 1998; Wallerstein, Lewis, & Blakeslee, 2000). The basis of this
abandonment is multifaceted but includes custody, distance, employ-
ment, and remarriage (Ahrons & Tanner, 2003). Feelings of desertion,
anger, and loss can continue well into adulthood (Wallerstein et al.,
2000). So too can feelings of anxiety, despair, and distrust.
Now that the children of the 1970s (the first divorce decade) are
grown, research on these adult children of divorce (ADCs) is

Received 1 February 2005; accepted 24 February 2005.

The author would like to thank Art Bochner for insightful suggestions.
Address correspondence to Andrew F. Herrmann, University of South Florida, 4202
East Fowler Ave., CIS 1040, Tampa, FL 33620-7800, USA. E-mail: afherrma@mail.usf.edu

337
338 A. F. Herrmann

blossoming into its own arena of investigation (Berman, 1991).

Guignon (1998) reminds us we connect through stories, and ADCs
are learning to tell theirs (Berman, 1991; Wallerstein et al., 2000).
Through stories, you begin to realize that were all in trouble, one
way or another (Coles, 1989, p. 52). As an ADC, I present the story
of a son (now a man) attempting to understand the loss of his father
twice.

My Fathers Ghost

Dad, Im gonna write a story. About me. About you. About us.
Hows it gonna end?
I dunno Dad. I dunno.

My mother, with her dark brown hair and dark Italian skin, sits
across from me at the dining room table. The steam from two cups of
coffee swirls gently into the air and disappears. This is our first visit
since I left for graduate school in Florida, a flat, hot, humid, and sandy
place that conjures up innumerable and unnamable emotions. Not
because of the recent hurricanes, or the recently broken engagement.
These emotions are deeper, and darker. I look at Mom and speak
slowly, Mom, Ive always wondered about something. I dont know
why, but I dont have many clear memories about Dad. Its weird.
Mom sighs a little. No, it isnt weird. You dont have many
memories of your father because he was never really around.
He was never interested in doing family things. He wanted to be
a single, married man.
I wasnt sure I really wanted the conversation to go in that
direction, but what Mom said made sense. My mind kicked against
the idea. Arent dads supposed to be involved in the lives of their
children, especially little boys, especially first-born sons who are
their namesakes? My lack of memories, these blank spots in my
mind where there is no father, have bothered me for years. I
decided not to investigate further that night.

Summer 1974: On a Boat Off the New

Jersey Shore

I just turned 8 years old last week and we are on Dads boat. We are hop-
ing to hook some bluefish. The water is choppy, but it is a beautiful sunny
 My Fathers Ghost 339

day. The warmth of the sun beats upon my face, on what Aunt Marge calls
my chubby cheeks. The boat splashes on the water, as Uncle Ryke gets
himself and Dad yet another Budweiser (in cans, of course) from the Igloo
cooler at the boats stern. Fred, my younger brother by 3 years, is the color of
a cocktail olive, and has been throwing up for an hour. He is now resting
down in the cabin. My line bends. Ive got something. I reel it inan eela
big black slimy squirming eel! Uncle Ryke steps on its head and cuts my
line. Dad with his large knife in his right hand cuts the eel in half, then
in quarters, then in eighths. Theres not much blood. Each section of the
eel squirms on its own, wiggling around the deck, each part seeming to
remember it was just in danger, and that it was just alive. Cool! I say.
I know I was there, because it is one of the first sharp images I
have of my father. There are no pictures of the outing to bring up a
false memory. The parts I do remember are all in my minds eye,
crisp and fresh, as if it happened yesterday. Even in this recollec-
tion, however, there are blank spots that I cannot account for.
The color of the boat eludes me. I dont remember conversations.
Did we actually catch any blues that day? I dont know. I cannot
recall the trip back to dock. I dont remember if Mom was there.
Mom said Dad wasnt around much and wasnt into family
matters. I flip through my only old photo album looking for pic-
tures of Dad. There are black and white pictures of him as a boy
with Grandma. There are pictures of him with Uncle Eric working
on revved-up hotrods. They are leaning in and looking at engine
compartments. Legs are sticking out from under the chassis. There
are women everywhere in early-sixties hairdos and horn-rimmed
glasses. There are no wedding pictures. There used to be some,
but they have disappeared. I never ask about that. No one talks
about it either.
There are pictures of Dad and me. I am an infant, crawling on
the floor in my parents bedroom. Hes half under his and Moms
bed. We appear to be playing hide and seek. I have no memory of
this. Theres another picture of us together. We are standing out-
side a beautiful white church, dressed in matching blue suits. We
dont go to church normally, so this must have been a special
occasion. Dad was chasing me as I ran around the big Catholic
church singing Happy Birthday to Me, blowing out all the can-
dles. I have no memory of this. Mom told me this story. Theres
another picture of us, carving a jack-o-lantern. I dont remember
this either. I concentrate but nothing comes.
340 A. F. Herrmann

Summer 1976: Nannys House

My two brothers and I are all at our maternal grandmothers house, where
we are spending the night. We spend a lot of time at Nans place, about two
blocks from our home on Barbara Place. Nannys apartment is on the third
floor of this house, where she has lived since her husband left her in the
1950s. My mom and Uncle Neil grew up here, in a single-parent home.
My little brothers are on the sofa bed in the living room asleep. At 10 years
old, theres not enough room for my brothers and me to sleep on the pullout.
I am underneath the covers in Nannys bed with the comforter and sheets
pulled up to my neck. There are voices outside. I can hear voices yelling
in the darkness, impaling the quiet of the room. I can make out the voices,
but not the words. Dads voice. Moms voice. Dad is yelling.
Light cracks the darkness as the bedroom door opensand then closes
quickly and silently. I pretend to be asleep. Nanny rushes over to the bed-
room window. She yells out the window Dont you touch her Andrew.
Dont you touch her! I pull the comforter over my head. Scared. More than
scaredterrified. And angry. Terrified and angry and sad. Theres another
feeling though. A feeling I cannot explain. A feeling I cannot verbalize,
something I do not understand. I want to get up. I want to get up and yell
out the window. I want to scream out the window, Shut-up! Shut-up!
Shut-up!! I dont move. I stay motionless and quiet underneath the com-
forter. Im immobilized, frozen in a time that feels like an eternity. Tears
run down the sides of my face, but I do not make a sound. I do not make
a move. Time stops. I cant move. Could I move if I wanted to? I dont
know. Its dark underneath this comforter. I hope Fred and Jim cant hear
this. I hope for this night they are deaf. I am already mute. I wish I were
deaf too. The darkness offers me consolation and insulationat least I pre-
tend it does, but I still have ears to hear. The darkness ultimately takes me
into a deep sleep. No one ever talks about this night. Ever.
Leafing through the picture album, Dad is now literally out of
the pictures and the picture book. There are pictures of me and my
brothers, my mom, my nanny, and Grandma, but no more pictures
of Dad.

August 1983: Fort Myers, Florida

Im 13, which makes Fred 10 and Jim 6. It is nighttime. We are with Reni,
my fathers second wife. We are driving toward North Fort Myers, where
 My Fathers Ghost 341

Dads greenhouses are. We are going to make sure the horses have water, since
we didnt get to check them during the day. The trip usually takes 20 minutes,
and we are about 17 minutes into the drive. Reni drives over on the wrong side
of the road into incoming traffic. Headlights come straight at us. Jim starts
screaming in the back seat. Reni swerves erratically back to the correct side
of the road, but only for a moment. I stare at her from the passengers seat
as she veers onto the wrong side of the road again. Theres something wrong.
I dont know what exactly. Headlights confront my eyesstaring right into
them. I feel like a deer. What the hell is going on? Jim is crying in the back
seat. Fred is yelling. We are going to die here. I need to do something. I dont
remember thinking about what to doI just do.
I punch Reni in the face twice, harder than any 13-year-old has ever
punched. Shes not totally out, but shes out enough. Fred tries to pull her
over to the passenger seat. We turn hard to the left. I grab the wheel with
my left hand as I slide over half into the drivers seat. Reni is making con-
sonantless sounds. What am I doing? I dont know how to drive. I do it
anyway, stretching my legs out to reach the pedals, two white-knuckled
hands wrapped around the steering wheel. I pull the car off the road, down
a sand rock road to where the greenhouses are. I get to the greenhouse
entrance. As I stop the car, Jim climbs over the seat, over me and out the
window, tears spilling down his face. I open the car door and get out. Fred
follows. He looks pale in the moonlight. Reni, in some sort of weird stupor,
straightens up and slides into the drivers seat. I am going to check on the
horses. Shes oblivious that anything happened. She starts the car, closes
the drivers side door, and drives directly into a ditch. The taillights hover
in the air like a low flying spaceship. I run inside the shed. I pick up the
phone. I dial. It rings four times. Hello.
Dad, its Andy. You need to get out here now. I cant believe what
comes out of my mouth next. Reni is all fucked up. She and the car are in
a ditch. Shit! The phone goes dead. The car horn shrills in the darkness.
Fred, Jim, and I do not discuss this night for 20 years. We each
have different memories. Fred says it seemed like another lifetime,
that it happened to a different person. He cant remember details.
Jim remarks the only thing he remembers is his own screaming
and the lights. That night for me everything stopped. And restarted.

Finding and Losing

Look at me. I am a carbon copy of Dad, except my eyes are green.

Hes bald up top, with a horseshoe ring of brown hair around his
342 A. F. Herrmann

globe. He has sharp blue eyes that shine out from within his tanned
face. His full brownand gently grayingbeard frames his face.
Dad drifts in and out of the shadows of my mind and my memory.
I need answers, but there are none to be found. Mom has no
answers, nor do my brothers. My aunt and uncle come up with
nothing satisfactory. I can get information from them about the
past, but information is all it is. It is knowledge about, not knowl-
edge of, my father.
I moved on. Our life narratives never crossed again, but our
stories are still intertwined. I carry around with me the knowledge
that I once knew a man I look like and who has my name. He is
my doppelganger. He is a shadow who attempts to come into
my memoryand I force him out. There is little knowledge there.
There is no life there. There are only questions of abandonment,
loss, personal worth, and identity. There are questions, but no
answers. I began to see the absurdity of looking for answers where
none exist. Looking into these memories is like looking into a
shattered mirror. The reflections I see are scattered in multiple
directions.
How does one learn to be a man when there is no father to
learn from? With no ready at hand guide, I created my own guides.
My guides came from books by Kierkegaard, Sartre, and Camus.
Like Ellisons Invisible Man (1947), the best advice I received was
from his character Crenshaw, the war veteran everyone assumed
was insane. Before leaving for the North, the narrator receives
the following impartation from the crazy veteran:

Now is the time for fatherly advice . . . but Ill have to spare you thatsince I
guess Im nobodys father. Perhaps thats the best advice to give you. Be
your own father, young man. And remember, the world is possibility if only
youll discover it. (p. 156)

With no guide, I became my own guide. I knew Id make mistakes

and I accepted that fate. If I was going to create my own destiny,
well, then, I was going to create itfailures and all. Maybe I am
Cain, the wanderer, the fugitive, the stranger. When people ask,
I reply with the same short answer. My folks got divorced. I dont
know where he is. Six million Jews. Never again. Objectified,
emotionless, narrativeless. Still, sometimes on a cool summers
evening, I can hear my fathers voice shouting in the distance.
 My Fathers Ghost 343

Late June 1997: A Phone Call

Uncle Eric is on the other end of my phone. Three weeks ago Grandma
Herrmann died at the age of 97. Her longevity can be accounted for by
her clean living. She was from Aberdeen, Scotland, and her only vice as
far as I could tell was her stubborn insistence to have tea every day at
2:30 in the afternoon. I just listen to my uncle.
Listen Andy. Your grandmother left a will and as the executor I need
to tell you that shes left some assets to your father. We are going to locate
him. We havent had contact with him in years and I cant seem to find
information on him anywhere. Last time he called your grandmother about
8 years ago he was in Naples, but no longer. Ill let you know what I find.

August 9, 1997: Tamarac, Florida

Ive just driven 400-plus miles from Chattanooga, Tennessee, to Tamarac,

Florida. I am surprised my 1972 green SuperBeetle made the trip in one
shot, only stopping for gasoline. Good God, why didnt I buy a car with
air conditioning? Its almost 4:30 as I pull over into a shopping center with
a Publix. Ive never heard of that grocery chain before. I get out of the hot
car and into the hot sun. I walk to a pay phone. I pull the slip of paper
with Dads phone number out of my pocket. I pick up the receiver. I am
nervous and nauseated. Hes been found. He has no idea that I know where
he is. He has no idea that I am here. I dial the number. It rings twice.
Hello. It is a womans voice.
Reni?
Yeah.
This is Andrew. Andrew, little Andy. Pleasantries follow.
Hang on, he just walked in the door. I can hear in the background
Andy, telephone for you. Who is it? Never mind that. It seems
important.
Hello? Its his voice, but it sounds different. It is still deep, but there
is a touch of Southern in it that startles me.
I blurt out Dad. This is Andy. Im in Tamarac, at the Publix. How
do I get to your place?
Jesus Christ. Youre here?
I nod and then realize I havent answered him. Yeah.
Stay there. Ill be there in a couple minutes.
Look for the green VW Bug.
OK.
344 A. F. Herrmann

I put the receiver down. It is done. Hes coming. Who is this man I
just called? What does he look like now? What is he driving? Does he
work? What does he do? I know almost nothing. Do I really want to do
this? I am sweating, but it isnt only from the Florida heat. Im nervous.
Scared. I could get back in the VW and take off, head back up Interstate
95, back to Tennessee, or to New Jersey, or Canada. I could forget all about
this, couldnt I? No. No I couldnt.
Dad is shorter than I am. When did that happen? I missed that. I
look him in the face. He has Grandmas blue eyes. He is balder and his
beard is grayer. Hes gotten fatter too. We shake hands. Good to see
you. Fifteen years? Youve definitely grown up. I dont remember
anything I said. I was too nervous to think. I follow his car to an apartment
complex. He parks and gets out his car. He walks toward mine. What am I
doing here? Am I a visitor, or an alien? Maybe he is the alien. I dont
know.
We go into the apartment. It is bland, like most apartments built in
the nineties. Reni is sitting on the couch. She gets up. Shes put on a lot of
weight. Shes no longer the skinny 100-pound waif I remember. She looks
like a female version of Santaplump with curly white hair. Well look at
you, she says, getting up. Jesus Andy. He looks just like you. She hugs
me. I hug her back, tentatively. This is the woman who almost killed us?
Shes unrecognizable to me. Another alien.
Dad takes me into the kitchen. Im gonna make some dinner.
Ummm . . . hamburgers OK by you? Yeah.
Reni and I are talking, but I dont remember what about. Awkward
chit-chat. The smell of the burgers fills the room. Dad comes around the
corner. Catch. He tosses me a Budweiserin a can. I dont want to tell
him that I dont drink this swill. I dont want to be rude, and I really need
a beer.
The hamburgers are ready. I prepare mine with a little mayonnaise
and mustard, lettuce and tomato. I take a bite. And I remember. I remem-
ber being in the backyard of our house on Barbara Place. Dad is barbecu-
ing. I just opened a present from Grandpa in Arizona. Its a B.B. gun. My
cousin Paul, who is a year older than I am, runs around the backyard with
the gun, shooting at trees and fence posts. Paul takes aim. A bluejay falls
from a tree. We walk over to it. It is twitching and lurching on the ground,
an eyeball gone. Gimmie that! Its Dad. He had come up behind us. He
grabs the gun from Paul. What the hell is wrong with you two? Thats not
right. That bird was innocent. It didnt do anything to you. Go get some
food. Paul and I got burgers.
 My Fathers Ghost 345

Dads burgers are spectacular. As I sit in his living room in this alien
space with two people I barely recognize or know, this hamburger with the
small pieces of bread, chopped up onion, and the slight tang of garlic brings
me home. It brings my past here, with me now. This is my dad. This is my
stepmother. They are not aliens. I am not an alien either. I am not exactly
comfortable, but I am no longer completely ill at ease.
The next 2 days are a whirlwind. We take pictures on Renis camera.
We go out to a driving range and hit some balls. Dad and Reni both work
at this golf course, so we stay a long time. I stink. Everything is hooking left.
I dont know what I am doing. I dont golf. We barbeque. Back at the house
Dad and I sit on the couch, drinking Budfrom a can. Reni starts laughing
from the other side of the room. You guys even sit the same way. Dad and
I look at each other. We are both slouched down on the couch, legs pointing
straight out, toes pointed back toward us. Odd, I sit like a man I havent
had any real contact with in almost 20 years. I am my fathers son after all.
The next morning, Dad and Reni say goodbye as I leave. Ive got the
phone number and Ive got their address. I hug Dad.
I wish I had more time, I tell him, but I dont. Ive got to be back
to work in 20 hours. Send me copies of those pictures. We hug again, as I
slither into my Bug. The last thing my father says to me is Ill send them.
Keep in touch.
Two weeks later, home in Chattanooga, I call my dads number. It
rings three times. The number you have reached has been disconnected.
There is no more information available. Please check the number and try
again. I try again. Same result. My mail to him is returned undeliverable.
Hes gone.

Letting Go

Ive not heard from my father again. Now it is 2005 and Im living
in the same state I assume my father is in. Can I find him? Do I
want to find him? Perhaps a more important question needs to
be asked. Does he want to be found? I dont believe that he does.
He knows how to contact his sister and his brother. He could find
us if he wanted to. I am not going to press the issue. In Greenspans
(1998) book on the Holocaust, Victor interrogates the scriptures.
Just like Victors scriptures, my memories and questions hold no
answers.
And so I ask my fathers ghost: Do memories of me hurt? Is it
the felt shame that you were never there for me, Dad? Is it the
346 A. F. Herrmann

knowledge you failed as a father and a husband? Do I represent

shattered dreams, unfulfilled desires, and a broken life?
Dad, I still dont know how our story will end. I wont look for you
this time, Dad. This time, it is up to you.

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Andrew F. Herrmann received his MA in communication at St. Louis

University. Currently a doctoral student in communication at the Univer-
sity of South Florida, he focuses on organizational communication, identity,
and personal narratives.