Raised Mormon, Destined for Wine
Raising my glass to fate
You can’t outrun fate.
You can’t outwit fate; you can’t out-play fate; you can’t out-rub-your-thumb-on-a-rabbit’s-foot fate.
The Context, Part One
In 1978 or so. (Maybe 1977, you do the math). My mom met a guy at a convention for alcohol distributors. My Mormon mom. She worked for Seagram’s and wore a box of “Crown Royal” (I know that the pictures are somewhere. Or they were. Maybe she burned them, but I honestly doubt that).
She was a teetotaler, but had long legs, so she had a job. She just walked around in that convention (or any event) in that box, and I suppose the whole aesthetic convinced whomever needed convincing.
From what I understand, that’s where she met the man who would become my biological father.
He was from New York and working for Wild Turkey. He loved disco dancing. She was friendly and made him feel welcome in a new city. She loved disco dancing. They hit it off.
In fact, they hit it off so well, and they were having so much fun, I decided that after about nine months, I’d crash the party.
The Context, Part Two
I suppose that I was the wake-up call she needed to help her return to the flock.
A little bit more about my biological father. He was born in Sicily, and his family emigrated from Italy to the US when he was a child. I know him now. He is proud of his heritage: it’s his identity. Italian-American. New Yorker. Wine enthusiast.
My mom ended things with my biological father before I was born. She told him she wouldn’t raise me outside of Mormonism. She wouldn’t marry a Catholic. She had to go back to church—the Mormon church. And she intended to raise me in it on her own. She wanted him to have nothing to do with her or with me.
He had trepidations, but he chose to agree to her wishes, and they parted ways. There’s no need for anyone to judge either my mom or my biological father. The facts are the facts, and now I have a great story.
Anyway. That was that. They broke up. No Italian-ness to sully her/my life. No alcohol. No Catholicism. It was all good. See ya, fate!
The Context, Part Three
My mom named me Catania.
Catania was the surname of a client at the bank where she worked (after Seagram’s). She thought it sounded nice. She didn’t know what it was, what it meant, or where it came from.
She didn’t know that it was the name of the city at the base of Mount Etna on Sicily.
She didn’t know that Catania was only an hour and forty-five minute drive away from the birthplace of my father.
She named me Catania, and my Italian heritage remained forever intact.
You cannot outrun fate.
The Context, Part Four
Life went on. When I was two, my mom met someone and got married. A few years later, he adopted me. His surname is my maiden name. He is the man I think of as Dad and I call Dad. He taught me to love baseball and hate New Jersey. (I cannot think of a better legacy.)
And get this: he’s an Irish-American man from Long Island, New York, who went to Villanova, and is Catholic.
My mom still married a Catholic man, despite what she said to my bio father. She still married a New Yorker from Long Island, even though she lived in San Francisco. Life is funny that way.
You can’t outwit fate.
The Context, Part Five
And then, when I was about 31 years old, I had this idea come to me in the shower—that I should look up my biological father on Facebook.
Prior to this, I only knew a few things about him. 1) I knew his name—it was on my birth certificate. 2) I had a single picture of him (front and center in white with a mustache, below). And 3) the stuff I said above - about Wild Turkey and disco dancing.
For the most part, based on what little I knew about him, I tried not to think about him much. And, anytime I did, and asked my mom, the subject was dropped.
Enter fate.
I figure fate is why I was curious about him. I don’t know why I had the thought to look him up on Facebook, other than I did. So, why not?
Well, I looked him up, and there was only one person who had his name. This man (pictured below). Phew.
It was him.
I read his profile. He was the right age. He was in New York. And his profession? Imports fine Italian wines and spirits.
I interrupted my husband’s workout and asked, “Does this guy look like the dude in this picture?” (showing him the one picture I had of my biological father - above).
My husband: “Yeah. Just aged like thirty years.”
[Long pause]
I responded: “I think I found my biological father.”
You can’t out-play fate.
That night, I wrote an email to my biological father. (Can you imagine writing/receiving that email!? I laugh when I think about it.)
He responded.
Yes, he had lived in San Francisco in the 70s. Yes, he remembered my mom. And yes, he knew about me, but he never knew my name. He felt he had to respect my mom’s wishes, but he always wondered about me and hoped I was okay. (He may have even said something about regret in a conversation later, but I can’t quite remember.) The email had moved him to joyful tears—it was an answer to his prayers.
We connected. I let him know that I, like my mom, was Mormon. He said, “Wow, I can’t believe that I have a Sicilian daughter who doesn’t drink wine. Jesus drank wine, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
The Context, Part Six
But you can’t out-rub-your-thumb-on-a-rabbit’s-foot fate.
I ended up leaving the Mormon church.
If You Can’t Beat Fate, Join It
I left the Mormon church four years ago. I was 42 at the time. It is wild to go through a transformation like that. I’ve swung to the other end of the spectrum of belief—deconstructing and reconstructing until finally settling somewhere that feels like a beautiful, divine mystery.
And now, I’ve decided to tempt fate by inviting fate into my life, and maybe even dancing with it. It’s time to accept what was written in the stars:
I need to learn about wine.
No. Scratch that.
I need to learn how to like wine.
No. Scratch that.
I need to learn how to love wine.
Which will be hard because at this point, I’ve had wine once, and it tasted like fingernail polish remover.
But I know: I can’t outrun, I can’t outwit, I can’t out-play, I can’t out-rub-my-thumb-on-a-rabbit’s-foot fate, so, I’m going to raise my glass. Here’s to Bacchus, and Dionysus, and Jesus.
Here’s to wine.
I'll add to your list of needs: You need to visit Catania.