Part 1: An Identity for Baby Boy Williams & X-Rand (First Generation)

Grinning from cheek to cheek, I couldn’t wait to get my driver’s license in 1986.  First things first, I had to submit a copy of my birth certificate with the California Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) for identity verification purposes.  So, I scurried down to the San Francisco Health Department to obtain a copy of my birth certificate.  “How long will it take?” I queried the clerk.  “Oh, about an hour,” she said.  “Good service,” I thought to myself.  In the past, it would’ve taken weeks to receive your birth certificate.  An hour…not bad, not bad… 

 I proceeded to the bench and sat down, staring at the clock, thinking about the ventures of driving around the Bay Area.  Time passed…  “Mr. Rand,” the clerk announced.  “Here’s your birth certificate.”  My eyes bulged, since it would be the first time to behold a copy of my original birth certificate.  As I drew the document closer to view, I noticed that the box for the first and middle names was blank—only the surname Rand was recorded.  What an unexpected revelation!

 “Wait a minute,” thinking out loud. “This has to be mistake, right?”    Then, I shifted my eyes to the date my mother signed the birth certificate (11-20-58) and the date the local registrar received it (Dec 2, 1958)2.  I’m thinking, “Wow, two to fourteen days respectively after my debut into the world, and no name?”   It was as if time had frozen, standing in a motionless state, wondering, “What were they thinking?” I pondered, “What’s in a name?” My identity was left to question, so I thought, as I felt vulnerable.

Historical & Social Context

I grew up within a closely-knit, supportive extended family system (maternally based). However, I was acutely aware of the absence of my biological father.  Our formal meeting occurred in 1962. At the time my mother and I were residents at 273 South Ridge Road in the Hunter’s Point District of San Francisco, California in public housing1.  It was a typical Bay Area day--cool and foggy when my father made his appearance. My mother shrugged me on as she impatiently shouted, “Go on. That’s your father!” I remember hesitantly walking toward this towering impenetrable figure, perched at the end of the walkway near the street’s curb.  To this day, all attempts to extend my memory and recall of our first meeting and its outcome have been unsuccessful; my mind goes blank.  Poof!

 Up until my father’s demise in 1986, our contact at best would be described as capricious. Yet please do not misconstrue my intent.  My father was a “good provider,” as some would say.  Yes, he was a responsible provider (i.e., financial supporter) and for that part I am appreciative.  The problem consistently remained one of limited access.  Subsequently, over the course of time the relationship between my biological father and I did not reach maturation. In other words we developed a superficial relationship. My sense of detachment toward him was evident by my deliberate absence at his Homecoming Service (funeral).  “No feelings, no sadness, nothing…” so I thought.    

 Self-Discovery Through Family History

As I grew older and matured, I vaguely began to recognize some of the repressed feelings (pain) buried in my subconscious—guilt & shame as a result of being born to unwedded parents.  Somehow, I learned to block out (mentally) the ignominious, prevailing notion at the time associated with “illegitimacy” or a “bastard” child.   For years, like festering sores, I unconsciously harbored scars from these events.   It wasn’t until 1984 when I started to research my maternal family history that these feelings gradually began to dissipate.  Yet and still, I purposefully avoided researching my paternal ancestry.