My Father Is an African Immigrant and My Mother Is a White Girl from Kansas and I Am Not the President of the United States

Or, How to Disappoint Your Absent Father in 20 Words or Less

My Father Is an African Immigrant and My Mother Is a White Girl from Kansas and I Am Not the President of the United States

Kris Chau

The men in my family love drugs. They love their meths and their cocaines (both cracked and uncracked), they love their pots and their heroins. They have deep and committed relationships with their drugs. I have always had a deep, committed, and loving relationship with my teeth, so I took a decidedly different route. My mother (never known for her eloquence) will call me and shout through the telephone: "Can you believe it!? Your cousin Kurt burgled again! Burgled!"

"Yes, Mother, I can, in fact, believe it."

Asking whether you can believe that one of the men in my family committed a crime is like asking whether you can believe a member of the American Family Association has a "secret gay life." It's a classic story repeated through the ages, and only the most insignificant details change with each incarnation.

I have always been the overachiever in my family—the one who NOT ONLY got his GED, but also finished an ENTIRE YEAR of college. "He has his very own basement apartment!" my grandma proudly explains to her neighbor. "And he's never stabbed anyone."

Gaining the approval of my family has never been a concern of mine. In fact, it was not an idea I had given much thought to until one weekday morning when I was 16 years old and I spoke to my father for the first time in my life.

My father moved back to Nigeria one month after I was born. Neither I nor my sister Ijeoma, who is a year and a half my elder, have any recollection of him. Over the course of the next 16 years, we did not receive so much as a phone call from him, until one day in the spring of 1999, when a crinkled envelope bearing unfamiliar postage stamps showed up in the mailbox of Ijeoma's first apartment. Enclosed was a brief letter from our father in which he explained the strange coincidence that had led to him "finding" us.* It was a convoluted story involving his niece marrying the brother of one of our mother's close friends from years ago. As a postscript to the letter, he expressed his desire to speak to us and included his telephone number.

Roughly a week later, Ijeoma and I found ourselves, late at night, sitting on the floor of her sparely furnished apartment. We shared a pizza, sipped on a couple of beers bought for us by one of her 21-year-old coworkers, and talked about our childhood and our single mother who had no choice but to leave us home alone every night at the ages of 8 and 9 while she worked two jobs to support us.**

Ijeoma and I talked about all the years we'd wondered about our father and what it would have been like if he had come back from Nigeria in 1982 like he promised our mother. What would it have been like to grow up with a dad? Would I still have been so shitty at sports? Would I still have been so effeminate? Would I have still been called a faggot every day in middle school? Would I have known how to be a man? After we'd exhausted ourselves with thoughts of what might have been, we turned our attention to the more pressing matter of what was to happen tomorrow morning, when we would push 14 buttons on a telephone, wait a moment, and then, for the first time, hear the voice that we had only been able to imagine for 16 years.

The Honorable Chief Dr. Samuel Oluo spoke to Ijeoma first. She told him of her plans to study political science (just as he had), about her excitement for starting college in the coming months, and about her job at the bookstore. They spoke for about 20 minutes before it was my turn. My hand shook as I clutched the large black cordless telephone. "Hello..." I said, my voice projecting with all the conviction of a dying lamb. "Ahamefule!" he shouted in return, overblown and distorted by the terrible connection. "It is so great to hear your voice! I have missed you so very much."

Being that I was one month old when he left, I wondered whether it was the pissing, shitting, or crying that he missed so much. If I had made such a lasting impression with some basic bodily functions, he was bound to be impressed by what I had accomplished in the nearly 200 months that followed. "Tell me about yourself! What do you want to be when you grow up?" "Well..." I replied, "I'm already doing what I want to do when I grow up. I'm a musician. I play the trumpet, and I'm already starting to get paid and everything..." At that point, the line grew silent with the exception of the crackling hum of the poor connection. The silence continued for several more seconds until it was interrupted by a much more sullen and reserved voice than had been speaking to me only a moment earlier. "No," he said. "No. I do not approve."

No one in my family had ever said those words to me in that order. "You need to do something more sensible," he continued. "That is not good." Disappointment dripped from his words, flowed through 8,000 miles of telephone line, poured in through my ear, and began to well in my tear ducts. "Put Ijeoma back on the phone," he said, his voice now opaque with resignation. I handed Ijeoma the telephone, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water.

That brief conversation hurtled me into a depression that lasted for months. During that period of time, my father made two more attempts to call me, but on both of the occasions that his 14-digit telephone number showed up on my caller ID, I didn't have the will to answer it, nor any idea what I would have said if I had. Eventually, the calls stopped, my life continued, and as the depression faded, I was left with nothing but pure and utter confusion.

When my father abandoned us, he left very little behind: a few photos, an empty storage chest, a copy of his doctoral thesis on the Biafran War... and the name he had given me, Ahamefule J. Oluo.*** Ahamefule is a very uncommon Nigerian name that literally translates to "let my name not be forgotten," a rather ironic meaning for a five-syllable first name. In fact, most people I meet find it absolutely impossible to remember.****

"LET MY NAME NOT BE FORGOTTEN." For my entire life, I had viewed my name as a mandate handed down from the larger-than-life, Mufasa-esque vision of my father that had been growing in my head for as long as I could remember. "MAKE YOUR MARK! BE SPECTACULAR! DON'T LET ANYONE FORGET THE DAY THAT THEY MET THE ONE AND ONLY AHAMEFULE J. OLUO!"

"Yes, cloud-dad. I won't let you down."

It is the name of a legend, it is the name of a star, it is the name of an artist. It is not the name of an accountant. So why did he give me this name if he had hoped I would do something sensible with my life? Ahamefule is not the name of a sensible man.

The question haunted me for years, and I had always thought that someday I would have the courage and the opportunity to ask my father about it, once and for all, face-to-face. But on the evening of February 21, 2006, I received a call from a Nigerian half-brother I had never met, informing me that our father had passed away at the age of 76 due to complications from diabetes.

His passing was a revelation, not only because I had to accept that I would never meet my father, but also because, according to his death certificate, he was nearly a quarter-century older than he had claimed to be. For the entire duration of his marriage to my mother, he had lied about his age. When they got married, she thought he was 30. He was actually FIFTY-THREE YEARS OLD. It became clear that I knew absolutely nothing about this man. I can unequivocally say that I have never before or since been so affected by the death of someone who, in reality, was a complete stranger.

I was heartbroken. My father had died disappointed in me. I had not had the opportunity to prove him wrong and now I never would. I was to remain a failure for all of eternity and my questions would remain unanswered, gnawing at my brain for the rest of my life. Or so I thought.

A couple years later, at a bar, I was approached by a man I had never met. As he walked toward me, he proclaimed very loudly, in an all-too-familiar accent, "YOU ARE NIGERIAN!" Like most people, I tend to be caught off guard when yelled at by strangers, so I did not immediately reply. As he approached, I stared at his face. He looked nothing like me... and at the same time, he looked exactly like me. He repeated, "YOU ARE NIGERIAN, RIGHT?" After another moment of hesitation, I calmly explained that yes, my father was, in fact, Nigerian. "I knew it! From the second I saw your face, I knew it. What village was your father from?"

"My father was the chief of Obibietche," I replied.

The man gasped. "I cannot believe it—I grew up five miles from Obibietche!"

Both of us were shocked by this coincidence. Obibietche is a small village in the Niger Delta, and I had never met anyone who had even heard of it, let alone grown up in its outskirts. I was letting all of this sink in when, out of the blue, he said, "Let me ask you, how is your relationship with your father?" Taken aback by the question, I began to realize what an unbelievable opportunity this could be to gain some new understanding of where my father came from and the culture that had molded him. I offered the man a seat next to me at the bar and began telling him the same story that I have just told you.

As I approached the end of my story, I told the stranger that I was haunted by all the questions that, due to my father's death, would never be answered. I explained that I had spent my entire life trying to embody the meaning of my name: Ahamefule J. Oluo, let my name not be forgotten, make my mark, be spectacular, Mufasa in the clouds, etc. How could it be that my father had been disappointed in me for trying to live up to the name he had given me? The more I spoke about it, the more emotional I became, the more I found myself drifting back to that morning when I was 16 years old and I spoke to my father for the first, last, and only time.

I was on the verge of tears when this man, this stranger, suddenly erupted in laughter. Since I failed to see the humor in my story, I asked him the next logical question: "Why are you laughing?"

He could barely get the words out, "Because you have completely misunderstood your name!"

In shock, I responded, "So... it doesn't mean 'let my name not be forgotten'?"

"Oh! No, that is exactly what it means, but you have misunderstood. Ahamefule is a name that a father gives to his first-born son. It is a celebration of the continuation of his bloodline. It doesn't mean let YOUR name not be forgotten—it means let HIS name not be forgotten! It has nothing to do with you!"

I was stunned into silence. After about three more minutes, the stranger's laughter subsided and he took a deep breath. "Ahamefule. That's a hard name to pronounce. Do you go by a nickname?"

"Yeah, well, most people just call me Aham." At that moment, he was overcome with laughter for the second time. Now, the first time it happened I was just confused. This time I was annoyed. "What's so funny now?" I asked.

He was barely able to catch enough breath to speak, but with tears streaming down his face, he squeezed out, word by word, "That... just... means... name!"

That was the end of our conversation.

All those years of wondering, the weight of those questions... and it turns out that the questions were never real to begin with. If I had known the true meaning of my name, would I have lived my life differently? Would you still be reading this? Would you have any idea who I was? I'm not sure, and I don't really care anymore. The name Ahamefule was never a charge of greatness—it was nothing but a selfish and contemptible man's tribute to himself. If I had known what my name really meant, would I have lived in a way that would have made him proud? I have no way of knowing that, because I don't know who the fuck he was. But I know who I am. I am Ahamefule J. Oluo. recommended

*We weren't hiding.

** It was about that time when, at 8 and 9 years old, we tried to show our appreciation for our mother’s efforts by making her a Mother’s Day candle using crayons, sewing thread, and a microwave. Interesting statistic: Did you know that 8- and 9-year-olds left at home alone have a 113 percent chance of setting the house on fire?

*** Actually, he chose only the “Ahamefule” part. My mother, a white girl from Kansas, wanted me to have a simple American name, so they compromised. And that is why I am named Ahamefule Joe Oluo. Thanks for putting your foot down on that one, Mom.

**** It wasn’t until about a year ago that I found an effective method of teaching people to not only pronounce it correctly, but hopefully remember it for more than two and a half seconds. I go by Aham, and most people can pronounce that—it’s two syllables (AH-HAHM). Now think of someone named Aham who is a very unreliable fishmonger. AHAM-MAY-FILLET. Or he may not. He’s terrible at his job.

Ahamefule J. Oluo is a comedian and musician. His website is www.nowimfine.com.


Comments (77) RSS

Oldest First Unregistered On Registered On Add a comment
oh this is so awesome Joe. that is the name I use to call you. I hope that is okay. But I can call you Aham now. I am amazed that you guys spoke to him....this was so well written and had me captivated the whole time! I look forward to more in the future....
Posted by melissag81 on July 6, 2011 at 9:17 AM · Report this
More, I Say! 2
This is a really great story, and a wonderfully written piece.
Posted by More, I Say! on July 6, 2011 at 9:45 AM · Report this
CharlesF 3
This is the kind of story we need more of in America. People admitting their disappointments and limitations and getting over them. Congratulations to you for this very brave and well-written story.
Posted by CharlesF on July 6, 2011 at 10:23 AM · Report this
alithea 4
this is awesome and excellent, and as i was also blessed/cursed with not-the-name-of-an-accountant, i have an overwhelming sense of empathy.
Posted by alithea on July 6, 2011 at 10:40 AM · Report this
vsgirl86 5
Very well done.
Posted by vsgirl86 on July 6, 2011 at 10:43 AM · Report this
procupcake 6
This is a great story. Thanks so much for trusting us with it.
Posted by procupcake on July 6, 2011 at 10:53 AM · Report this
"Ahamefule is not the name of a sensible man"...because anyone with sense could never have left you. Your insight is amazing, I hope sharing gives you some measure of peace.
Posted by ens2116 on July 6, 2011 at 11:05 AM · Report this
Tracy 8
Great feature!
Posted by Tracy on July 6, 2011 at 11:09 AM · Report this
You used 25 words. That's not 20 or less! But great story.
Posted by asdfjsdfj on July 6, 2011 at 11:10 AM · Report this
Cool story man. Are you diarrhea from the frotcast?
Posted by Jeff Gib on July 6, 2011 at 11:15 AM · Report this
My name is Mustafa. While more common than Ahamefule, I feel I can share your name-difficulties.
Posted by no account on July 6, 2011 at 11:16 AM · Report this
this story kind of made my morning
Posted by Thyme on July 6, 2011 at 11:18 AM · Report this
A touching story, although I confess I did chuckle at your revelation.

One thing though, Australians pronounce the 't' in 'fillet' so I suspect I would still pronounce your name incorrectly. Apologies.
Posted by travelator on July 6, 2011 at 11:33 AM · Report this
Basically, the story of my life, my own father. Thank you for writing this up. It is a good read and good food for thought.
Posted by Leen on July 6, 2011 at 12:06 PM · Report this
Sandiai 15
Your father let YOU down, dear, not the other way around.

A beautifully written story. You are clearly talented. I predict great success in everything you do.
Posted by Sandiai on July 6, 2011 at 12:42 PM · Report this
RatGirl 16
Wonderful piece. Thanks so much.
Posted by RatGirl on July 6, 2011 at 12:50 PM · Report this
the_april 17
Beautiful story, thank you for sharing. Dads are difficult things to have, sometimes.
Posted by the_april on July 6, 2011 at 12:51 PM · Report this
I loved this.
Posted by kersy on July 6, 2011 at 1:07 PM · Report this
This is a beautiful piece. I hope to read more of your work.
Posted by Tipitina on July 6, 2011 at 2:00 PM · Report this
At sixteen, you could hardly have been expected to have come up with the right riposte (or possibly one of many right ripostes) to your dad's disapproval of your (then) chosen career: "Yeah, well, DAD, I don't approve of the fact that you skipped out on me when I was a month old. I've had sixteen years to get over my disappointment in you. I'll give you 16 months to get over your disappointment in me. Bye."
Posted by Francisco Hulse on July 6, 2011 at 2:36 PM · Report this
This is among the best things this my favorite rag has ever managed to publish. You are a hero, sir.
Posted by gloomy gus on July 6, 2011 at 3:07 PM · Report this
your name has ten thousand meanings. To your father, it is a tribute to himself. To a 16 year old, it is a commandment to excel. To a new friend, it is an unreliable fish monger. To a Nigerian, it is a man called Name! To your lovers? To your children? To yourself?
Your name has ten thousand meanings.
Posted by Caralain on July 6, 2011 at 3:17 PM · Report this
Solomon Georgio 23
This wonderful piece, Ahamefule. I appreciated reading this greatly.
Posted by Solomon Georgio http://www.facebook.com/solomongeorgio on July 6, 2011 at 8:44 PM · Report this
Great story - thanks for sharing it! You have already done great things.
Posted by ballardorbust on July 6, 2011 at 9:16 PM · Report this
Thank you for this wonderful piece.
Posted by Eric from Boulder on July 6, 2011 at 9:20 PM · Report this
Ben G 26
Thanks for sharing.
Posted by Ben G on July 6, 2011 at 10:18 PM · Report this
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Texas10R 28
A narrative is not necessarily made more compelling through the overuse of CAPS, despite the accolades of well meaning, guilt-ridden white folk.
Posted by Texas10R on July 7, 2011 at 4:45 AM · Report this
Thank you.

I too grew up without a father, from the age of six - in my case I remember that he loved me unconditionally.

You are a very strong person.
Posted by Lycurgus on July 7, 2011 at 4:54 AM · Report this
I started this article thinking "wow your family is terrible people", and ended it thinking "wow your family is really interesting and your life is amazing". Godspeed.
Posted by Avery Unregistered on July 7, 2011 at 5:38 AM · Report this
brandywineseattle 31
I found this piece both touching and inspirational. I understand more of the lifestyle you've described than most probably do, and was recently contacted by MY absent father...who I wish had never called.
Thank you for reminding us all that we are more than the sum of our genes. XOXO and best of luck!
Posted by brandywineseattle on July 7, 2011 at 6:34 AM · Report this
32 Comment Pulled (Spam) Comment Policy
Fuck your dad and his disappointment. You don't owe him a goddamn thing.
Posted by Sausagefingers on July 7, 2011 at 8:06 AM · Report this
scary tyler moore 34
Posted by scary tyler moore http://pushymcshove.blogspot.com/ on July 7, 2011 at 8:23 AM · Report this
@28 he used caps all of two or three times to indicate Mustafa cloud dad booming/enthusiastic Nigerian guy at bar yelling. If you're going to try pooping on a parade at least make sure it'll stick.
Posted by The CHZA on July 7, 2011 at 9:22 AM · Report this
Wonderful work. Thank you for sharing. Good luck on your journey to understand yourself and your father--even for those with less complicated stories, it is the work of a lifetime.
Posted by sfgurl on July 7, 2011 at 9:23 AM · Report this
So, your father abandoned you, and you have already yourself fathered two children by different women who you are now claiming you "hate" on your website.

Way to set the bar high.
Posted by certaindoom on July 7, 2011 at 10:13 AM · Report this
@28: Way to jump to conclusions. His two children are from his first marriage and he is a devoted father who was their primary caretaker for most of their lives.

Your desire to see the worst is sad.
Posted by ijeoma on July 7, 2011 at 10:32 AM · Report this
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Thank you everyone for your kind words, I am glad you liked it.


@37 Just to clarify, both of my children are from my first marriage, they have the same mother and I have been raising them as the custodial parent since we divorced... I am not my father. And the "2 ex wives that I hate" on my website.. that is a joke....you know....in that series of jokes....that it was in the middle of. I don't hate them, I have a perfectly fine relationship with them. I just thought it was a funny juxtaposition.
Posted by Ahamefule J. Oluo on July 7, 2011 at 10:35 AM · Report this
This is just a wonderful piece on so many levels. And what a gift it is to us reading it.
Posted by ravished on July 7, 2011 at 10:37 AM · Report this
this was awesome! Good luck Aham
Posted by yabbadabbasabbath on July 7, 2011 at 11:52 AM · Report this
Wonderful piece! Please keep writing.
Posted by rae rae on July 7, 2011 at 11:54 AM · Report this
Rubykelp 44
The place where he runs into the Nigerian man (YOU ARE NIGERIAN!)brought this to mind from Trading Places
Posted by Rubykelp on July 7, 2011 at 12:18 PM · Report this
John Horstman 45
Great piece!

@35, 38: DO NOT FEED THE TROLLS. Writing combative things about both the article AND the commenters definitely counts as trolling; add to that the mischaracterization of the article and the complete lack of any connection to "white guilt", and there's no question. Just let him wither and die without sustenance.
Posted by John Horstman on July 7, 2011 at 12:56 PM · Report this
Ignoring dumb people isn't fun.
Posted by The CHZA on July 7, 2011 at 1:45 PM · Report this
seferiana 47
this was absolutely beautiful to read!
Posted by seferiana on July 7, 2011 at 2:21 PM · Report this
Loved this, especially the postscripts. I like "Aham" actually, especially considering it just means name. Gets the job done, fillet or no.
Posted by Augusta Blank on July 7, 2011 at 2:22 PM · Report this
Great fucking story, kudos
Posted by Enig on July 7, 2011 at 3:06 PM · Report this
I liked this. Was sad for the young boy missing a father, but am guessing he did better without the daily influence of a overbearing egomaniac.
Posted by beva on July 7, 2011 at 6:45 PM · Report this
As someone who also grew up without a father and was disappointed after making contact with said father, I loved and appreciated reading this story. Thank you very much for sharing this.
Posted by canada girl on July 7, 2011 at 7:31 PM · Report this
bearseatbeats 52
Nice job, sir.
Posted by bearseatbeats on July 7, 2011 at 8:30 PM · Report this
nicely written. you are funny.
also don't sweat the dad thing, it has obviously made you great at thinking the way you think.
Posted by michaelkeselman on July 7, 2011 at 11:06 PM · Report this
dereksheen 54
Ahamefule, this was a fucking WONDERFUL story!! Well done! A drink to our fathers is in order. I say we order them at a bar, leave them untouched, and go to another bar across town?
Posted by dereksheen http://Derektime.com on July 8, 2011 at 11:34 AM · Report this
Larry Mizell, Jr. 55
salute. this was really good. i am moved.

i had a strange relationship with my name and my father for a good portion of my life. i came to the same conclusion you did. stand proud, sir.
Posted by Larry Mizell, Jr. on July 8, 2011 at 3:30 PM · Report this
Thank you for sharing. That was a great read. I wish you the best. Your father missed out.
Posted by yesSir on July 8, 2011 at 3:55 PM · Report this
Thank you for sharing your story and thanks to the Stranger for publishing it
Posted by Zas on July 8, 2011 at 7:40 PM · Report this
I commend you for being so civil when you spoke to your father that first time. I wouldn't have given that glorified sperm donor the time of day, turning 16 years of parental abandonment into elder abuse.

However, pointed questions such as "why do black men prefer white women, hispanic women, even Asian women over black women" and "why do black men, even educated, financially stable ones, have such a high failure rate at fatherhood" would surely have been on my mind.
Posted by ponder on July 9, 2011 at 12:11 AM · Report this
59 Comment Pulled (Spam) Comment Policy
best piece of self reflective writing i've read in years. i'm proud of the man you are and i don't even know you! Bless you!
Posted by karenmulhern on July 9, 2011 at 8:12 AM · Report this
I really enjoyed your story, thanks for sharing. My heart went out to you at first, feeling your pain over missing your dad, and disappointing him. Then I came to the same conclusion you did. His abandonment of you made you the talented man you are today. So in some ways, he did shape your future. But remember, the only actions you control, are your own. So put the disappointment and misery behind, add some jokes to your act, and keep on going. Good wishes to you.
Posted by sharribell on July 9, 2011 at 9:37 AM · Report this
Beautiful! Thanks :)
Posted by bear on July 9, 2011 at 10:06 AM · Report this
Great story, would have like 600-700 more words tho
Posted by Poopyhead on July 9, 2011 at 8:14 PM · Report this
No relationship should be taken too seriously
Nervous Dad
Posted by Nervous Dad on July 10, 2011 at 9:18 AM · Report this
My dad abandoned me in different ways, but I totally identify with your experience Aham. It felt good to read.
Posted by Jude Fawley on July 10, 2011 at 3:31 PM · Report this
66 Comment Pulled (Spam) Comment Policy
67 Comment Pulled (Spam) Comment Policy
I absolutely love this piece. Being a Nigerian girl as well, I can understand the desire/ pressure to please our parents. But the only way to that is to please ourselves and be good at what we do; and in doing that we end up pleasing them in return. God Bless you and may you make Him proud instead.
Posted by Feyisdiamond on July 11, 2011 at 9:44 AM · Report this
That was so good! Wonderful piece. You rock, I'll be looking for more from Ahamefule now.
Reminds me of this quote:

The fifteen-year-old daughter of a friend once addressed the old Carl Jung as follows: “Herr Professor, you are so clever. Could you please tell me the shortest path to my life’s goal?” Without a moment’s hesitation Jung replied, “The detour!”
-Richard Kehl
Posted by Sparklingbugs on July 11, 2011 at 11:19 PM · Report this
Awesome essay. It added a lot to my morning:)
Posted by JrzWrld on July 12, 2011 at 5:58 AM · Report this
This was a wonderful story that broke my heart.
Posted by TheFrogandtheSquirrel on July 12, 2011 at 10:35 AM · Report this
I love this story! I immediately went to your website to see if you are performing in the NYC area, but no... Will the world hear about it if you do head out East for a few shows?

Anyway, congratulations on all your revelations. You write wonderfully.
Posted by LexTremendae on July 12, 2011 at 3:45 PM · Report this
Rev.Smith 73
Well done & carry on sir. Can we fire charles m now??
Posted by Rev.Smith on July 13, 2011 at 7:06 PM · Report this
Aham- You are amazing. You are talented, and you are beautiful.
( love Jon, Katie and Jack)
Posted by Chefladykatie on August 6, 2011 at 1:35 PM · Report this
You sir, are a very talented and warm human being. Any dad, worth his salt, would be very proud to have you as a son.

My name is Steve West and I too am happy that I am who I am. :)
Posted by Tableserver on July 23, 2013 at 5:22 AM · Report this
You never thought of just changing your surname?
Lots of kids I know of that same birth situation just drop the Nigerian last name since it has no 'family bond' worth with it, compels unideal questions/attention and that at least minimizes the dishonorable stigma.
I've seen people make it into a middle name or just dropped altogether.

Evidently your birth father couldn't be a better person but certainly gave life to one. Consider the surname change - sooo many people do.
Posted by SouthernforComfort on October 22, 2013 at 2:45 PM · Report this
Southern Addendum - On second thought, now that you're a bit of a published author/musician under that name... Ah WELL! Just ride it out. lol
Posted by SouthernforComfort on October 22, 2013 at 2:57 PM · Report this

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