Faces of My Fathers

1.

I was born Dreng Kettula at noon in Odense, Denmark on the 14th of December, 1983. The first time I saw Dreng, I freaked out, but it’s just Danish for boy. My name is also listed as Arthur Alexander Kettula (My mother’s maiden name) on a hospital form and finally Arthur Alexander Basler (My Dad, Joe’s last name) on my Certificate of Birth Abroad in August 1985. I currently go by Arthur Alexander Kibert Basler, after I had the pleasure of taking my wife’s last name in 2017.  

I’ve spent the last two years reading Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle, which I wrote up my thoughts about in October (see Latest Reads). A large part of the attraction for Knausgaard’s expansive memoir/novel/essay is his focus on fatherhood--both as a son remembering and mourning his father, and as a father of three. He is haunted by an abusive father and I’m not sure he ever exercises his father’s demon. He does humanize him and make some form of peace with his father’s memory. But that is Knausgaard’s story.

I became a father two years ago and Nicole and I are expecting our second daughter in February and it’s certainly changed the way I experienced Knausgaard’s novel. And of course, I’ve thought about my own fathers while reading My Struggle: Joe, Larry, and Rebecca (formerly Michael). When I tell people I have three dads, they usually chuckle, and raise an eyebrow for more explanation. I laugh too and say I have flashcards and I’ll give them a flowchart to explain the history (I don’t really have flashcards). 

When I was a junior in undergrad, back around 2005, I got a call from my Dad, Joe, that he wanted to talk to me about something. I don’t remember the exact conversation, but he told me that I had a biological father I’d never met or heard of. I told him I was getting in my car and driving the 90 miles home to have the talk face-to-face. Two hours later in his apartment, he explained that my biological father was Michael. He told me that my grandparents and Larry had all known too. I called my mom who lived another thirty minutes away and she told me she had found Michael on Facebook. Years later, I would find out that Michael had left the Facebook account open in the hopes Julie would find him. I can’t recall if I drove to see her. My mom thought I was getting suspicious and was starting to figure out my past. She told me she’d gotten pregnant with me during basic training while stationed in Georgia. She’d dated Michael briefly but hadn’t kept in touch after she left for Germany. She told me she sent a letter to him but never heard back and asked Joe to come help her in Germany and he did. I think of Joe, coming to Germany to help raise a child and I admire him in this moment. He must have really wanted to be with her in order to father someone else’s child.

I had no idea. 

I do recall, home on Thanksgiving break the year before, riding with my mom in the car listening to NPR’s “This American Life.” The episode was about a son who found out in his twenties that he had a different biological father. His dad turned out to be African American and the son suddenly realized--looked around and saw--he was darker than the rest of his Italian family. He was able to meet his biological father and they started a relationship. I laughed and looked at my mom and said “Wow! That’s a crazy story.”

She didn’t bat an eye.

Maybe this interaction led her to worry I was getting suspicious?

So I knew that Michael existed in 2005, but my mother had had no contact with him in twenty years, and didn’t know whereabouts at that time. I finished undergrad and did nothing with the info. It just kind of simmered on the psychic back-burner. I wasn’t angry about the news, just stunned. I would tell people about it and they wouldn’t know what to say. It was a bit surreal. I do recall feeling glad to know the truth, to have a piece of my history put right. 

I had heard Joe and Julie’s version of my birth origins and finally, when I met Michael for the first time in 2011, heard his version too. Michael told me that he did receive a letter from Julie, but it didn’t ask for his presence, but money. Michael got the sense that there was someone else in her life already. Michael never answered the letter and there was never a paternity test. Whatever happened with the birth letters, my parents seemed to remember it differently.

In 2011, I was scrolling through my junk mail folder and saw an email from Germany. I clicked on it and read a greeting from Michael. I can’t find that first email but it was a greeting and an offer to connect. My mother passed in 2009 and one of her last conversations had been with Michael. It seems as if she wanted to make sure Michael and I met, not just knew about each other. I flew out to Germany in 2011 and spent two weeks with Michael. Seeing Michael for the first time was like seeing my own reflection for the first time. Beyond our physical appearance (tan skin, tall, medium build, little body hair, thick head of hair), we walk and ride bikes in the same motion. We have so many similar temperaments and passions. We did a paternity test as well and it confirmed that Michael is my biological father. 

This past Christmas, Nicole, Arwen, and I flew out to Germany to see Rebecca and Hieke, my step-mother. Michael, now Rebecca, has gone through a wonderful and difficult change to express her identity. It had been seven years since we saw each other in person, but I was thrilled to share a week together. Rebecca has a passion for beekeeping, jewelry, music, history, archeology, great food, and brewing drinks. It was wonderful watching Arwen romp around Rebecca’s house and, by a miracle, we didn’t break anything. Rebecca is generous and kind to Arwen and I’m so glad my daughters will have Rebecca in their lives. 

2.

I was born in 1983 to Julia Kettula and Joseph Basler on a wintry December day in Odense, Denmark. I don’t speak Danish and can’t read my own birth certificate, but Joe is listed as my father on that document. Also, the Family Tree, which my mother filled out, lists Joe as the father with all of his preceding family branched out. 

My mother told me that she was stationed in Germany and was “sightseeing castles in Denmark” when she went into labor. As a kid, I loved being able to tell people I was born in Denmark, like somehow it made me exotic. I was born in Denmark, I think, in part because my mother was unwed and pregnant in the 1980s which was frowned upon in the military. I can’t imagine how tough it was for my mother to keep me. I have her pregnancy journal where she wrote the day she decided to keep me. It’s still odd reading that, to see, written out, the day you weren’t aborted. 

Two days after my birth, Joe and Julie were married in Odense by the mayor. The pictures from Germany show a tiny apartment. My mother clad in fatigues or sweatpants, hair cropped short, sits as crawl in diapers. I imagine my mom heading out the door to morning formation. Joe in his big mustache, gold chain around his neck, and wire rim glasses. He was twenty when I was born. I imagine that their world is upside down, that my mother is exhausted from a newborn and military life. I know now, what a newborn and toddler does to your world. Pictures show snow covered streets and gray skies. Joe worked at a filling station. Either way, my parents couldn’t have had extra money. But there is joy in those pictures as well. Joe holds me while I take a bottle. Joe holds me, spoons baby food to me. Joe came and helped my mother and I love him for it. They married at some point in Germany and had celebration ceremonies with my grandparents and relatives when they returned stateside.  

Julie and Joe moved to North Carolina in 1985. I’ve seen pictures of our military housing in North Carolina, a VHS recording of a birthday party, but most of my memories of Joe are from five years later, once I lived in South Carolina with Larry. My half-brother James was born in 1986. And James looks like Joe: they have the same build, receding hair, and face. James and I never knew that we had different fathers and I’ve never considered him half-anything. Our relationship was always as full brothers and I will always consider him such. He’s grown into a caring, considerate, brilliant man who works and lives in New York City with his wife Christen.

My parents divorced somewhere around the end of the 80's. My mother returned from military duty in South Korea and took James and I to live in Arizona with my step-father Larry. I remember driving through Hurricane Hugo as the first rain bands hit North Carolina. It was a good time to leave the state as the hurricane decimated the area. I don’t remember anything else from the drive or the first time I met Larry, Julie’s second husband. In time I met my step-siblings Jenni and Derek, whom I lived with for a few years in grade school and have had on-and-off again contact over the last decade. 

My relationship with Larry was strained. Larry could be difficult to live with and, in retrospect, I’ve realized that it must have been pretty difficult to be a step-father. I knew Larry’s parents well, having lived with them in South Carolina in the early 90s and spent many holidays in their home. I spent more time with Larry’s family than Joe’s side and certainly Michael, whom I have only met twice. Larry and I fought a lot growing up. I was angry about Julie and Joe’s divorce and vented a lot of that towards him. I spent the majority of my life living under Larry’s roof, from 1993-2006. I can’t say I was ever close to Larry and I blamed him for a lot of the pain in my childhood. I don’t blame him anymore and still talk with Larry pretty regularly. He’s come to meet Arwen a couple times in the last year. Larry is a retired veteran and postal worker. He served in Desert Storm on multiple tours. I’ve seen plenty of pictures from that time: Larry is skinny as a rail, thin blonde hair parted to the side, a huge grin on his face, a desert horizon stretched out behind him. Larry was a Staff Sergeant and drove supply trucks between cities. He tells me that he was about to go back again but my mother got furious at him. He didn’t go back. 

There are many pictures from our two years (around 1991-2) in Arizona. Larry, James, and I on a trip to the Grand Canyon. Pictures of hiking in the mountains: scrub pines and brown hillsides. Pictures of our tiny home in the middle of dirt yards. I remember bits and pieces about Larry from this time: I think he taught me how to use a push lawn mower. I remember his beat up vintage truck he worked on to restore. I know Larry cared about me on some level. He told me how he went to vouch for me with an elementary school principal about some school issue only to find out I hadn’t told him the truth about the situation. He was pissed, and rightly so, but I appreciate the fact that he was willing to go and fight for me. I’ve always admired his ability to help people in emergencies. I remember how fast he reacted to a car accident across from our house. I felt nothing but fear and helplessness as a child and watched him go in and make sure the injured person got care. He didn’t hesitate for a moment. I remember how Larry went to defend James from another principal after my brother got in a fight. Larry told the principal James had the right to defend himself. Larry asked the principal if he would like Larry to come over the desk and kick his ass, would he defend himself. Larry is a great if you need a defender, but he could also be difficult to reason with. It was his way or the highway growing up. At least, that’s what it felt like as a child and teen. My mother always seemed much more conciliatory and flexible when it came to working out problems or making plans. 

I admire how hard Larry worked during my childhood. He worked to provide for us for my entire childhood. Of course, I took this for granted growing up. I don’t think I ever showed him much gratitude and always saw my mom as the source of money or extras. 

As a child I would go play golf with Larry or help him as a caddy. He took James and I out to local courses. Larry would also watch golf on TV and we followed the PGA. Larry taught me to drive in his stick-shift truck. I got the red pickup home somehow without hitting anything. He shared his love of classic rock with me. I still listen to Robert Earl Keen Jr. and Pink Floyd. He gave me the birds-and-bees talk. I’m sure that was awful. Somehow we got around to HIV and how it was lethal (still without treatments in the 90s) and this upset my step brother Derek. Good times. He took me to my first grown-up movies: Jurassic Park and Terminator 2. My mom got pissed when she found out, but I loved that Larry was willing to bring us along.

When Larry got out of the Army around 1993, we moved to his parent’s house in South Carolina. His parents, Dean and Pat, and siblings, Barry and Tammy, embraced James and I. I never felt like an outsider with them or second rate. Even years later when my grandfather Dean passed away, Larry made me feel included when he asked me what I thought was best for Dean’s final days. I was surprised that Larry would ask and it meant so much to me. 

From the mid 90s, my memories of Joe and Larry come into full view. Joe moved to North Carolina briefly, then Spartanburg, South Carolina, with my step-mom Irene to be closer to James and I. We would see Joe once a month for the weekend. I don’t remember Larry and Joe interacting much. They were always pleasant to each other at the hand-offs. The general feel was keep the peace. 

Larry and Joe are polar opposites at first glance. We used to joke “that person is as big as Larry!” He’s tall, boisterous, outspoken, and loud. My dad Joe is not an introvert, but he is smaller than Larry, certainly quieter, and generally more reserved. Larry went off to war. I can’t imagine my dad Joe in the military. Larry has a streak of the rebel in him and shared those stories with me over the years. To be honest, I don’t know much from Joe’s childhood or teen years. If he was a rebel, I don’t know about it. I do know stories from Joe’s time in college: he played pool with sticks that didn’t have cues, and he played lots of soccer. Larry had a mystique about him, not a bad-boy, but certainly a streak of “don’t give a shit,” which was really annoying sometimes growing up. Now that Larry and I have our own lives and space, I enjoy his jovial, in your face personality. I also know that Larry grew up in small town South Carolina with very conservative parents. He wasn’t allowed to play instruments or do art work. He went to a Southern Baptist church that he left and never came back to during my childhood. I wonder how different Larry would have been if he’d grown up with liberal parents. I know Joe grew up in Virginia and his father was in the Navy, but I don’t know much other than that. 

Just before our move to South Carolina in 1993, Joe flew to Arizona, picked James and I up and drove us back to Wisconsin for a summer trip. Once we made it to Milwaukee, Joe got stuck in his old Ford Escort and had to cut himself out of the seatbelt. And somehow we were locked out of his apartment briefly--his apartment keys were back in Arizona. I guess he forced a window or called the super? There was just this feeling like things kept getting mixed up. I recall Wisconsin in all its summer glory: green trees and rolling hills, brats, Super Mario Brothers on my grandparent’s Nintendo, tramping around downtown Milwaukee, visiting museums, and getting geared out in blue and yellow Brewer’s t-shirts and ball caps. I think I saw a Brewer’s game and witnessed Ken Griffey Jr. play outfield for the Mariners, but that memory may be invented. 

My grade school years, split between living with Larry and visiting Joe were difficult for me: My parents put me in group therapy at my middle school. I recall sitting in a circle talking about divorce with other kids. I think I met with the school counselor one-on-one in middle school too. I was enraged by my Julie and Joe’s divorce, like some fundamental part of my universe cracked. Larry wasn’t Joe, could never be. I think this, combined with the usual layer of son vs. dad that every child and teen feels for authority, led to much of my spite towards Larry. I would scream and yell when Larry and I fought over piddly disagreements. I recall punching my bedroom wall until it cracked. I would yell and fight with Joe too. And I argued with my mother: Why did she leave Joe? Why was she with Larry? She wasn't able to answer. How do you explain adult marriage and divorce to a child? You can’t without resorting to euphemism and oversimplification. I know that now as an adult, married twice, and now a parent myself. Some concepts don’t translate into the world of a child. 

Weekends at my dad Joe’s apartment: paper football games at laundromats, tennis with James at the complex’s court, swimming pools, watching movies, playing checkers and chess. My step-mom, Irene, introduced us to the amazing Filipino cuisine. Joe would take us to church as kids and I never really got it then. No one ever explained what Christianity was. I always felt alien in the services, bored and annoyed. I am grateful that Joe made an effort, that he moved south to be close to James and I. Irene tells of a pickup for the weekend, and she said she cried and cried, how sad she was to see our broken family. 

We were a sad family in many ways, but, of course, it wasn’t only sadness. 

I remember laughing so hard, I cried, as Joe did silly impersonations of Captain Kirk with a sock puppet on his hand. Joe has a wonderful sense of humor and makes endless puns. I’ve always loved how much he can remember from plays he read in grade school. His memory and wit are endless. I loved watching Galaxy Quest and comedies with Joe. 

I’ve always admired Joe’s ability to work with elderly people. He’s been a physical therapist most his life. He has a passion for healing and I’ve seen him at work a few times: he always has a smile on his face, always shows respect and care for his patients. Joe has a gentle spirit and it works so well with the people he takes care of. I think of that part of his personality and wonder if it helped him “bury the hatchet” with my mom. Whatever happened at the end of the relationship in the late 80s, Joe didn’t leave James and I. I am so grateful that he stayed in our lives. I am so grateful that he stuck around. I can’t imagine how tough it was to move his life south in the mid 90s. 

Joe and Irene had a daughter ten years ago. My little sister, Dianalisa, is not related to me by blood. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know that, but one day I’ll explain it to her. She lives three hours north of me and I have loved seeing her grow up. I wonder who Joe is to her? He’s been there and shared her home her entire life, seven days a week. I’m sure we experience him as a father in very different ways.

I lived with Joe for a summer between college semesters. I wasn’t the best house guest as I’m pretty sloppy and got used to living in my own dorm room by that summer. Joe has always been there for me when I was having a tough time. He’s generous and I know that he helps to take care of many other family members as well. 

By the time I was in high school, I still saw Joe regularly, but I felt like we were always playing catch-up. For example, I had been driving for close to a year on my own, but when I drove with Joe, he would panic because he missed all my student driving. The natural consequence of spending more time with Julie and Larry, going to my dad Joe’s apartment on weekends felt like another life. As a child I would sometimes threaten my mom that I would move in with Joe permanently. Of course, this never happened as I was far too close with my mother. 

By the time I was a teen, I spent less and less time at home with Julie and Larry. Of course, that is the case for most teens, but I really didn’t want to be around them. There was so much discord and tension in our home. I would escape to spend whole weekends at my friend’s houses. When I went away to undergrad, I came home for bare minimum amount of time.

All the hatred and venom disappeared in the time I became a Christian. I don’t hold that faith anymore, but while I did, it changed my view of Larry. I was able to let go of much of my disdain and see differently. Also, Larry went through drastic changes after my mother died in 2009. I see Larry now as a glass sculpturist, musician, lover of animals, parent to another set of step-daughters--not just a harsh authoritarian figure. Larry has mellowed just a touch over the last decade and I like that version of him. He’ll still be the first to tell you his political views or strike up a debate about anything, but I love that he is willing to try new things, travel, and grow a creative side. That part of him was just starting to emerge when I left for college and I hope that he continues to find meaningful passions. 

Joe and I shared a brief religious time where we both claimed Christianity. It was a good time for us and I treasure the closeness we had then. Since I left the church and claim atheism now, that side of our relationship is gone. I see Joe and how intentional he is with my little sister, exposing her to religion and sharing that with her; I wonder if he regrets not being open with my little brother and I about faith when we were kids? Julie and Larry didn’t make religion part of my childhood and I am grateful for that. When I was an adult and was exposed to ideas of faith, I had a genuine moment and converted. As far as I know, Rebecca isn’t a believer in any faith, but I do know that she grew up in a family that tried out many religions and left her with a critical view of religion. Larry told me of his experience as a kid where his church’s pastor had an affair and left the church. That seemed to be his lasting impression when it came to religion. I have very strong opinions about religion and have not made it part of my daughter’s life, but I will support her later when she makes an adult decision about faith, or not. 

In the middle of college, by pair of fathers, became a trio. Rebecca and I have kept in touch via email and phone calls and I often wished she lived in the states. The physical distance between us has always felt much farther than an ocean. She missed the first twenty-five years of my life and there’s no way to instantly catch up on that. My trip to meet her in 2011 was a joyous occasion; I felt like part of my history and self was mended.

3.

It’s hard to talk to Joe about Rebecca, not because I think Joe would get upset, it just feels awkward. I don’t want Joe to think he’s less of a father to me, because that’s not true. But, we don’t really discuss Rebecca. I do talk to Larry about Rebecca and it feels like Larry isn’t bothered by her existence, like Larry is able to be a bit more objective about it, and that makes sense to me. It feels like I’m an island between all three of my fathers, for they don’t interact with each other. Larry and Joe live thirty minutes apart but haven’t interacted much since my mother passed away and James and I grew up. 

It’s been over ten years since I found out the truth about Rebecca, and I am still processing it. I don’t know if I’ll ever quite figure out what it means to have three fathers. Of course, finding out at 21 was a disorienting experience, but I still feel the same as I did when I first heard about Michael: I’m just glad to know the rest of my story. I don’t see the use in being angry about it or lashing out. I often wonder what it was like for my family to hold that secret for so long. It must have been awful at times, must have been such a weight. Or maybe not. Joe came to help my Mom in 1983 and he was my father then and is still now. Biology is only part of what makes a father, a father figure. When I found out that Nicole and I were expecting Arwen, I knew for a fact that I would be there when she was born and she would, for better or worse, know me. I feel the same about my second daughter, due this spring. I’ll be there to greet her and weep in joy over her birth.

4.

I imagine sitting down at a bar one day and having a beer with my fathers. I think we’d have a good time. Of course there’d be the usual small talk and awkward first few minutes but Larry would let out a trademark grunt and tell a story about driving supply trucks through the desert, or Joe would tell about time I bruised his ribs wrestling, or Rebecca would laugh and tell about the time the Russian tanks were warming up on the other side of the border. 

I love all three of my fathers and can’t imagine my life without them. I’ll make sure I get the first round of drinks--I owe them that much for starters.