My dad was not a nice man.
His name was Warner Wilson Baldridge... I think. I'm actually not completely sure. After spending the first few years of his life thrown into, out, and around countless abusive foster homes (and being kicked out of a native american boys school for beating another kid nearly to death), he lied about his age (and his name?) and joined the army as a teenager. I think he ended up getting kicked out of that, too.
Throughout his nearly 70 years of life, he had a number of children with a number of women. I was the last to be born and before he died in 2005, I tried to piece together as much of his tragic backstory as I could to make a list of (at least some of) my half-siblings.
One particular anecdote stuck out to me and struck me the hardest.
My dad told me that he'd had a son named Wendell at some point in the late 1950s. I'm not sure at what point Wendell and his family were abandoned by my dad (or perhaps when Wendell's mother escaped), but I do know that at some point in the late 1970s, Wendell showed up at my dad's door.
My dad realized very quickly that Wendell was gay, so he physically assaulted him, told him 'no son of mine is a fag', threw him out the front door of the house, and told him to never ever come back.
I have met and spoken to a number of my dad's children, but I could never find Wendell. I was able to locate his mother and brother, but they told me that they had not heard from Wendell in decades.
"The Story of Wendell" became a fixture in the back of my mind. I wondered if he had changed his name. I wondered if he'd found a home somewhere. I wondered if he'd found a partner who loved him. I wondered if he loved music. I wondered if he was funny. I wondered if he'd found peace and had broken the cycle of abuse. I wondered if he was still alive. I wondered how I was ever going to find him.
I needed to find him. I needed to tell him that it wasn't his fault. I needed to tell him that he deserved so much better. I needed to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him. I needed to tell him that our father was a sick, sick human being who never made peace with his own trauma and just inflicted it on others as a twisted coping mechanism. I needed to tell him that he was loved.
I needed to tell him that I loved him.
Then came this message from my mom.
Throughout his nearly 70 years of life, he had a number of children with a number of women. I was the last to be born and before he died in 2005, I tried to piece together as much of his tragic backstory as I could to make a list of (at least some of) my half-siblings.
One particular anecdote stuck out to me and struck me the hardest.
My dad told me that he'd had a son named Wendell at some point in the late 1950s. I'm not sure at what point Wendell and his family were abandoned by my dad (or perhaps when Wendell's mother escaped), but I do know that at some point in the late 1970s, Wendell showed up at my dad's door.
My dad realized very quickly that Wendell was gay, so he physically assaulted him, told him 'no son of mine is a fag', threw him out the front door of the house, and told him to never ever come back.
I have met and spoken to a number of my dad's children, but I could never find Wendell. I was able to locate his mother and brother, but they told me that they had not heard from Wendell in decades.
"The Story of Wendell" became a fixture in the back of my mind. I wondered if he had changed his name. I wondered if he'd found a home somewhere. I wondered if he'd found a partner who loved him. I wondered if he loved music. I wondered if he was funny. I wondered if he'd found peace and had broken the cycle of abuse. I wondered if he was still alive. I wondered how I was ever going to find him.
I needed to find him. I needed to tell him that it wasn't his fault. I needed to tell him that he deserved so much better. I needed to tell him that there was nothing wrong with him. I needed to tell him that our father was a sick, sick human being who never made peace with his own trauma and just inflicted it on others as a twisted coping mechanism. I needed to tell him that he was loved.
I needed to tell him that I loved him.
Then came this message from my mom.
Wendell was found dead a few days ago on a beach in California.
The coroner said he'd died of pneumonia.
I had so many questions.
Was he with friends? Did he have a partner? How did his mom find out? Where did he live? What had he been doing all these years?
When more than a week went by and no answers arrived, I began to realize that Wendell may never have found a home his whole life.
His mother sent all the photos she had to the funeral home and they put together a video memorial.
The coroner said he'd died of pneumonia.
I had so many questions.
Was he with friends? Did he have a partner? How did his mom find out? Where did he live? What had he been doing all these years?
When more than a week went by and no answers arrived, I began to realize that Wendell may never have found a home his whole life.
His mother sent all the photos she had to the funeral home and they put together a video memorial.
I wept when I watched it. I'm still weeping. I will never stop weeping.
He was 59 years old when he died, but the last photo of him on the memorial video is from when he was 24. His mother did not have anything more recent.
No one did.
He was 59 years old when he died, but the last photo of him on the memorial video is from when he was 24. His mother did not have anything more recent.
No one did.
We failed Wendell.
We failed.
And we know it.
And we will always know it.
And we deserve to let that failure fester deep into our beings. Because there are a lot of Wendells in this world and we're walking by them every day. And we're failing them, too.
Being named in Wendell's obituary is and always will be one of the greatest honors of my life. A man who I never met. A man who never even knew that I existed.
It is hard to wrap my mind around that fact. Wendell lived almost 60 years and *never even knew I existed*. He never knew there was someone in the world that was cheering for him every day for years and years. Someone who knew his name. Someone who was thinking about him all the time. He never knew that there was someone in the world who spoke of him proudly to friends and strangers with great wonder and hope. He never knew he was being searched for. Someone was looking for him.
And it wasn't just a stranger. It was a sister. His sister.
In a seemingly barren world, he was not alone. He had a sister who was so proud to say he belonged to her family, both biological and chosen.
You had a home with me, Wendell. You still do. You always will.
I will continue to speak your name as long as I live and I will see you in the eyes of every stranger that I meet. We may have failed you, but I will not fail them.
I love you, my beautiful brother.
We failed.
And we know it.
And we will always know it.
And we deserve to let that failure fester deep into our beings. Because there are a lot of Wendells in this world and we're walking by them every day. And we're failing them, too.
Being named in Wendell's obituary is and always will be one of the greatest honors of my life. A man who I never met. A man who never even knew that I existed.
It is hard to wrap my mind around that fact. Wendell lived almost 60 years and *never even knew I existed*. He never knew there was someone in the world that was cheering for him every day for years and years. Someone who knew his name. Someone who was thinking about him all the time. He never knew that there was someone in the world who spoke of him proudly to friends and strangers with great wonder and hope. He never knew he was being searched for. Someone was looking for him.
And it wasn't just a stranger. It was a sister. His sister.
In a seemingly barren world, he was not alone. He had a sister who was so proud to say he belonged to her family, both biological and chosen.
You had a home with me, Wendell. You still do. You always will.
I will continue to speak your name as long as I live and I will see you in the eyes of every stranger that I meet. We may have failed you, but I will not fail them.
I love you, my beautiful brother.
Thank you, Wendell. Thank you for everything.