Background

When I was born, my name was Randolph Edouard Paulin. My birth father’s name was Edouard Paulin, so it is quite obvious where I got most of my name. But I didn’t know that was my birth name until I was 13. It was the same time that I was told I had a different birth father, whom I did not know.

Finding this out answered some questions. Most of the Bassett family never treated me any differently than my other cousins and relatives, but a few did. My step-father’s mother, whom I am particularly careful not to call my grandmother, did treat me differently. Even as a young boy and up to the time she died I could see and feel it. For instance, in her later years, I recall her giving a Christmas card with $5 in it to my sister. I did not even get a card. I know how minor it seems through my adult lenses, but as a young boy, it crushed me. It wasn’t the $5. It was the lack of acknowledgment or caring that I was even there.

It’s amazing how much a seemingly small event can brand a young person. Other things also happened, but the news that I wasn’t a blood Bassett did shed light as to why they happened.

New Questions

Yet finding out I had a different birth father also raised many questions. What did he look like? Do I have other brothers or sisters? What was he like? Where does he live? Will I ever meet him? Does he want to meet me? It would take decades before these were answered.

But one question that never bothered me was why he left when I was 2 years old. It even surprises me how little I care why he left – but even that line is unfair. I don’t even want to assume he left – I always thought my parents split up without casting blame anywhere. There were other people, circumstances and events going on at that time. It was the early 1960’s and my parents were young, roughly 20 years old. People change more at a younger age – emotionally and psychologically.

Why my parents parted never concerned me when I first found out about him, and it still doesn’t nearly 50 years later. I know that type of question can haunt some people in my situation and it can take a long time to come to grips with it, yet it was never a fleeting thought to me. I have even tried to dig deep within me, to see if there is a buried emotional cord waiting to be struck around this question – but I have never found such a pocket within me. I am at complete peace not assigning blame to either parent.

Wrong Time

To say my path through my teen years was rocky would be an extreme understatement. I was laying the groundwork for the following decade or more – alcoholism and other addictions. I was crafting the ability to hide behaviours and feelings. I was functional as an alcoholic for many years, but I was still drinking an average of at least 12 beers daily. But I was masking the fiery feelings burning inside me, maybe hoping the next beer could dowse the flames.

Although I have come to peace with my late step-father, George Bassett, (even thanking him for indirectly contributing to who I am now), I hated the son-of-a-bitch in my 20s. His emotional grip on me was draining, nearly debilitating. As much as I screamed “fuck you” to him in my head, I couldn’t shake it. George was so insecure that he dropped my middle name when he adopted me – the name I shared with my natural father.

In my mid-20’s, I started to consider changing my name back to my birth name. I felt that by changing it, I could loosen his grip on me. He didn’t deserve to have me or anyone carry on the name for him.

But then I also realized that he was not the only Bassett around. He might have had the deepest hooks in me but was not the only family member to consider. No one else in the family treated me any differently – cousins, aunts and uncles. I was always an equal part of the family in their eyes. Also, I highly adored my late Uncle John – a wonderful man in so many ways. I could not insult him or any other Bassett in my family by changing my name. So I decided to leave it – the time was not right.

New Answers

Over the years I often wondered about my birth father and his family. I would look up “Edward Paulin” on the Internet and get nowhere. I did this many times with the same outcome. But then in May 2021, through the help of an online service (23 and me), I was to connect with a cousin I never knew. I eventually connected with her mom (my aunt) and many cousins. Then through a lucky Facebook search, I connected with 2 brothers and a sister (although they are technically half-siblings, the “half” part is meaningless to me – they are my siblings!). The details of these discoveries will be a topic for a future blog entry…

Through the wonders of technology, I finally found my missing family. Without exception, everyone I connected with through messenger or talked to on the phone has been very warm and welcoming. They have embraced me and I have happily embraced them as well. Each conversation has flowed so gently and easily. I have had discussions with my brothers, which fill me up with excitement every time. I have been in daily contact with my sister Suzanne. We just met, but it feels like I have known her all my life – the spirit is not bound by time.

Sadly, I found out that my father passed away in 1977 through an unfortunate accident. Suzanne and a couple of cousins have given me some details of that fateful night. But there were 37 years of life he experienced before that night. From the accounts of many people, “Uncle Eddy” was a good man. He cared about others and it showed. I have seen pictures of that I never saw before – a handsome man with a wonderful smile.

I know more questions and answers will follow, but from what I know now, I have the blood of some fabulous people pulsing through my veins.

The Right Time

Over 40 years later, the idea of changing my name has come back to me. But this time I am not running from someone or something. This time I want to embrace fully who I am. I am a Bassett and I am proud to be so. I have done my little bit to bring some respect to the name and I want my son to hold it high.

Yet I am also a Paulin and given the exceptional reception from all members of my new-found family, I am happy to have that name as well.

I have decided to change my name. Currently, my name is Randolph Bassett. My new name will be Randolph Édouard Paulin Bassett. This keeps Bassett as my last name but brings my natural father’s complete name into mine. The change pays deserved respect to him and his family – and it more completely reflects who I am.

It’s in the Mail

It is no longer simply a decision to change my name. I sent out the application a couple of days ago. I will wait patiently now for the revised birth certificate to arrive in the mail with the new name

“Hello, I’d like to introduce myself.

My name is Randolph Édouard Paulin Bassett.

And I am very pleased to meet you.”

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His name was Ken and he was my Big Brother. (No, this is not a reveal of someone hidden within our lineage – I was involved with Big Brothers when I was a young teen!)

I was 14 when we first met. Ken was 10 years older than me and about 10 inches shorter. It didn’t matter how much I physically stood over him because I still looked up to him.

When we first met he lived in Hamilton in an apartment on the mountain. I don’t recall going to that apartment very often because we generally went out – bowling, playing pool or whatever would grab our attention. Although we got along great and talked almost non-stop, we never really talked about how I was feeling or anything too deep. I don’t think it mattered. With Ken, having someone to go out with on a regular basis and have fun was what my spirit needed from him.

St. Catharines

Within a year of meeting Ken, he moved to St. Catharines to be closer to a new job. He moved into a one-bedroom unit in an apartment on Geneva St. Once or twice a month I would visit with Ken in St. Catharines, usually staying over on a Saturday night. Often Ken would buy a case of beer and he would have a few. I don’t ever recall him being drunk – just enjoying some beer. He would give me one or two occasionally. Yes, I was underage, but maybe he thought I couldn’t get into any trouble. Or could I?

On one particular visit, things were going as normal. We had gone for dinner and then settled back into his apartment. He had a few beers and offered me a couple, which I was glad to accept. This particular night I had an elevated taste for the brown pops. Ken went to bed a little after midnight and I had my bedding on the couch I normally slept on. Once Ken was sleeping, I helped myself to a couple more beers. I wasn’t drunk, but I was feeling mildly euphoric – this was all fairly new to me. This particular night I was also feeling adventuresome.

My Adventure

Ken drove a yellow car. I believe it was a Ford Fairlane, or something very similar, roughly 1972 model. It was a big car. At 1:30 in the morning, with Ken asleep in his room and 15-year-old me with a few beers under my belt, I decided to take the car for a ride. How hard could it be?

I got the keys and quietly snuck out the apartment door and took the elevator to the main floor. The parking lot was behind the building. I found the car, opened the door and slid behind the steering wheel. It was helpful that the car was an automatic because having no driving experience whatsoever rendered the steering wheel, gas pedal and brakes complicated enough.

Turning the key, the engine started without a hitch. I backed up out of the parking spot and I carefully memorized which spot I just left. Slowly I drove down the lane-way, stopping at the lip of Geneva St. Given the time of night, there were few cars around.

Turning left, I drove onto the road. I was keeping in between the lines, driving rather well and enjoying every second. I drove down Geneva for a few minutes. Since I started getting a little nervous that Ken would wake up, I somehow turned around and drove back to the apartment parking lot. Thankfully the same parking space was open, so I pulled in.

My Adventure Continues

I went up to the apartment and found that Ken was still fast asleep. I sat on the couch for a few minutes and quite easily talked myself into going for another ride. Same sequence: quietly close door, go downstairs, start the car and go to Geneva. This time I got a little more adventuring.

I turned off Geneva to a long road with almost no cars on it. Carefully I drove it one way to scope the nuances of the road – the gentle bend and one minimal dip in the road. I turned around on the road heading back to Geneva. Holding my breath, I hammered on the gas pedal. I wound it up to around 75 mph (that’s miles, kilometers) in the city of St. Catharines before having to slow down before reaching Geneva. Again, nervous about Ken’s awakening, I went back to the apartment.

My Adventure Ends

I didn’t take long for me to convince myself to go for another ride. This one had its own level of excitement – very unplanned. I did my run down that same road, hitting around 75 mph again. Cruising back along Geneva heading back to the apartment I was on cloud nine. I was feeling good – until the car started to make a strange sound. It started to jerk and slow down. I was running out of gas.

I managed to pull over in a parking lot of a tiny strip plaza. This was not good. I had about $6.00 on me, so I had enough for some gas, but the gas station a few stores down wasn’t opening until 7:00. I had almost 2 hours to fill, smoking cigarettes and sweating bullets. When the gas station opened, they did have a can for me to use to fill up with gas and take to the car.

I filled up the $6.00 worth of gas, returned the can and went back to the car. As I was about to get in the car, a man approached me and asked me for ID. Seriously? I found out very soon that he was a plain-clothed juvenile police officer. He had been watching me nervously going about my gas-filling duties and something looked wrong.

He took me back to Ken’s apartment. We woke up Ken so the officer could explain what had happened and I filled in some of the blanks (I didn’t mention the 75 mph trips). After the officer left Ken was pissed off and spoke very little for the rest of the day – until a knock came to the door which would make things worse.

It Got Worse

Having no driving experience or lessons, I wasn’t aware that I needed to back out straight a few feet, then turn the wheel so that the nose of the car doesn’t clip the car beside you. Apparently, I turned too soon.

The knock on Ken’s door was the owner of the vehicle parked beside Ken’s car. He had spent some time trying to figure out who owned the car who dented his. After they sorted out the details and the guy left, Ken was even more pissed off. A short, blasting lecture was followed by even louder, longer silence.

I don’t recall if I took the bus or Ken drove me home. Either way, Ken gave all the details to my mom. There was over $200 in damage and I was told that the money she was going to use to buy me a new bike would be paying that tab.

I never had another visit with Ken after that one and I don’t believe we ever talked again. It was a punctuated ending to a necessary relationship.

The New Inner Voice

My mom, in turn, told my step-dad all the details. He didn’t come over for a week or so to confront me about this. I recall coming up the house one evening and seeing his car on the street. I went into the house, completely petrified about his reaction. He looked at me, paused, raised his fist for drama and said, “When is the last time someone punched you right in the mouth?”

I froze, but he didn’t follow through. Thankfully, he didn’t punch me or hit me in any way. But something odd happened. For the first time in my life, I heard a tiny, barely audible voice coming from deep within me. It was a voice talking to my step-dad. That voice was actually a scream, but the layers of fear turned it into a soft whisper. That voice had eyes and as it looked at my step-dad it simply said, “Fuck you”. These words never left their inner confines, but that moment changed the relationship between my step-dad and me forever.

At The Edge

I have told this story to a few people in the past and to many I seem like a juvenile prankster, getting the due consequences of some stupid actions. Superficially, that is an understandable summary of events. But so much more happened.

My decision to take the car seemed like fun at the moment. Standing on the edge, I had the choice to step back and not go joyriding or leap off the edge landing behind the wheel of the car. The combination of beer and youth created clouds which blocked the view of the jagged rocks below. I chose to leap. The collision on the rocks had many impacts.

One impact from this incident is that I never saw Ken again. We never talked on the phone or got together. It was the first time that my actions, fueled by drinking or anything else, caused a fracture in a relationship. It wouldn’t be the last.

Another impact was the slight, but significant change in the relationship with my step-dad. That inner voice trying to scream out “fuck you” was that piece of me that trying to break the binds of the enveloping, smothering fear I had of him. Those binds were very strong and it would another 20 years before those words actually came out towards him.

The final impact was more subtle. I didn’t even see it then. I was in the early stages of a downward slide. This slide was masterful in its deception, baiting me with some exciting adventures and some fun with drinking. The early stages of the slide barely point down at all, maybe a degree or two. Enough of a slope to start the decline, but not enough to notice. A seeming friend with demonic intentions.

I was on the downward slide and I didn’t even know it…

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Grade 2

In grade two I asked my mom if I could change my name. I was a big Superman fan and I had some plans. My mom said “yes”. Looking back, I am not sure if she didn’t actually hear my question or she was trying to pacify me.   At the age of seven, I didn’t care. I got the answer I wanted and set my plans in motion.

We had wide-ruled notebooks for our subjects, all with smoky pink-coloured covers. I dug out one of my books and erased “Randy Bassett” from the front of the book. I proudly printed “Clark Kent” in its place. I was proud to be Superman’s alter-ego. Sometime later, I had to hand the book in and I did so without flinching. The next day, the teacher handed back all the booklets and saved mine for last. She just simply asked who was Clark Kent. The snickering from the class instantly crushed my pride of being Superman, but since I was the only one without a booklet, I sheepishly stood up. With an eraser in tow, I decided to resume my existence as Randy Bassett.

Later Years

Years later in my early and mid-20s, I thought about changing my name again. I wanted to create more space between my stepfather and me. I was also thinking that he didn’t deserve any good things that I might bring to the name. I realize now that last thought was ego-laced, but I didn’t want him to have any credit for anything I had done or was going to do. The bitter taste of being raised by his hands was still fresh and I wanted a way to make it go away. Cases of beer didn’t remove the taste. Maybe changing my name would neutralize the acidic memories that lingered.

But what would I change my name to? I ruled out “Clark Kent” this time. I thought about reverting back to my birth name – Randolph Edward Paulin. My mom was only 17 years old when I was born. My birth father’s name was Edward Paulin, with, obviously, part of his name embedded in mine. When I was less than 3 years old, my mom and birth father parted ways and my mom met George Bassett. They quickly got married and had my sister, Elizabeth. That was in 1963. According to my revised birth certificate, my name wasn’t officially changed to Bassett until after I started school. George insisted that my middle name was to be dropped since it was the same as my birth father. I became Randolph (Randy) Bassett. Maybe I could change it back to my birth name?

I mulled over other options for names. Aubrey came up a number of times for a first name. I never really came up with solid ideas for alternative last names.

I Think I’ll Keep It

After a short while, I set aside the notion of changing my name. This had nothing to do with my desire to distance myself from George, but that was still there. It had everything to do with my Uncle John. My Uncle John was George’s brother and he was a great man. He was a few years younger than George and he adored George when they were younger. That changed as they became adults and Uncle John was able to see things he hadn’t seen before. I always loved seeing my uncle – he was funny, seemingly always wearing a huge smile. I can still hear his large, jovial laugh, and he passed away over 13 years ago. He was also a loving father who always put his kids first.

I had always admired, respected and loved my Uncle John. He made me feel like a genuine Bassett, even without the name pumping through my veins. There was no way I ever wanted to disrespect or hurt my Uncle John by changing my name, so I simply discarded that idea.

My idea of changing my name had its purpose – to create distance from my stepfather. Like many teens and youths, I spent many years trying to garner the attention of the person I thought I needed it from the most. As wisdom started to slowly trickle in during my late 20s and 30s, I realized that the attention from George was no longer needed. Somewhere, somehow that void had diminished. It was still there, but it was more of a tickle than a gnawing need.

Distance, Space and Time

George and I only lived 10 minutes apart, but we only saw each other twice in the 20 years prior to his death. Although the miles between us were short, the years created a gap between us that I simply accepted as being so. Near his end, I no longer felt angry. Actually, I felt somewhat sorry for my stepfather. He missed so much, never getting to see his wonderful grandchildren, two fabulous children bearing the name Bassett.

It seems that the distance I needed came in space and time, not in changing my name.

The post A Tale of New Names appeared first on Randy Bassett.

It took me a long time before I could say that to my step-father.

The Cot

We lived in a small 2-bedroom apartment until I was 14 years old. It served us very well, most of the time. One bedroom was used by my parents and the other I shared with my sister. We had bunk beds because there was no way 2 single beds were going to fit in the room. There was a period of time when one of our relatives stayed with us, so she shared that bedroom with my sister during that time. I slept on a cot, set up in the short hallway connecting the living room and the bedrooms. During the day, I spent so much of my time running around and playing that I could have slept comfortably on a bed of nails, so the lack of comfort of a cot was not an issue.

What was an issue was the fighting I recall coming from the living room while I was supposed to be sleeping. They were only 12 feet away, but being around the corner where they couldn’t see me must have offered an illusion that I wasn’t there or that I was sound asleep. The darkness in the hallway did little to mute the arguing. I pretended to be sleeping, not wanting to get involved in any way. I am absolutely certain that my mom would have done or said nothing to me, but I wasn’t so certain about my step-father. I would just lay there, wanting it to stop, but with no ability to make it stop.

I do recall some of the topics. The common topic was my step-father’s girlfriends. This didn’t make any sense to me at all. How can he have girlfriends when he was married? There were other topics as well, but I don’t recall them. Sometimes there were other people in the apartment, making the arguments that much more intense. I just laid there, eyes tightly shut, feigning sleep.

I watched, observed and absorbed.

Bringing Things Together

When I was 10 years old my mom and father split up. Looking back it was the best thing for my mom and ultimately for all of us. Up to the time he left, my step-father was the disciplinarian. That seemed to be his sole role. My own memories of his dealings with me didn’t seem too bad. Years later I would hear stories from other family members about the extremes he used when doling out my punishments.

After he left our family, his role as the authoritarian continued. I would only see him when I was due for some lesson. Up to age 16 I got into trouble frequently. Sometimes we would say we were sleeping at other friend’s houses and stay out overnight. One night we decided to camp out in a 45 floor building that was partly built. We got caught. On another one of these sleep-outs, we broke into a bunch of Wonder Bread trucks, looking for pastries and goodies to feast upon. We got caught. Another night I was staying with an adult friend (he was my Big Brother). I was 15 years old and after he fell asleep, I took his car for a joyride, driving 70mph through the streets of St. Catharines. Eventually the car ran out of gas… and I got caught.

You’d think I was a dumb delinquent, getting caught all the time, but there was probably so much more to it. Most people do not recognize the drivers behind what they do or say, least of all a young teenager. Like many behaviours driven by forces and influences completely unaware to me, my actions seemed to be serving a purpose. I would do something deemed needing correction, mom would call dad in and he would “correct” me. Even though I was getting beat up and beat down, there was something else going on. For those moments, however uncomfortable, the family would be together, my dad would be around.

Even more, I watched, observed and absorbed.

Emotional Lightning

Around age 15 or 16, the pressure of internalizing all I that was watching, observing and absorbing started to build cracks in my foundation. I couldn’t identify what I was feeling, so I didn’t recognize what was flashing out of me – bolts of anger, frustration and depression with the trailing thunder meant to create maximum impact with the least amount of time. In a very short period of time, the pressurized container emptied, leaving an even larger problem.

That quick escape of molten emotion left behind a smoldering vacuum at my core, a tank which I would spend years trying to fill. Drugs and alcohol would at least partly fill the reservoir temporarily, but the tank had leaks and would never stay topped up with these deceiving promises of fulfillment. What seemed pleasurable, like drinking way too much, too fast and too often, became a chore to take away the imploding pressure of this emotional vacuum. I wanted to stop, but the drive to fill the void persisted … maybe the next time the tank will stay filled, yet it never did.

Through this cycle, despair would inject its influence. So viciously caught in this cycle of filling, emptying, filling, emptying, I found it hard to see beyond the present moment and borrow a piece of hope from the future. In some of those moments, it simply seemed easier to leave, easier to die and stop the seemingly endless spiral into the darkness. Fortunately, there was a little piece deep within me that wanted me to live, but it was dormant, waiting quietly on the sidelines, watching the internal turmoil unfold. It did show when called upon. It helped me reach out to someone a couple of hours after I took hundreds of aspirins and sleeping pills one night. It also helped me reach back and find my footing on the dresser that I had just stepped off in that cold, dark garage.

During one of the many stays in psychiatric wards, I was assigned to a social worker named Carl. I saw Carl very regularly until I was 20 years old. He was very influential in helping to start sealing the leaks in my emotional vacuum. The seeds he helped to plant would eventually grow, slowly giving me more internal strength. I was lucky to have someone like that on my side to help turn the tide.

Getting to Thank You

So now to say “thank you” to my step-father. First, a thank-you for nothing. Thank you for not being there when I was a little boy when I needed you. Thanks for opening up an opportunity for me to deal with alcohol abuse for nearly 20 years. Thanks for helping to create an emotional environment inside of me that was so toxic that death seemed like a viable option. And no, I am not being sarcastic. I thank you for these because these dusty paths to where I am now were constructed largely by you, and I love where I am now (but there are easier paths to here!)

Next, I thank you for everything. The void in your shattering infidelity taught me relationship integrity, and I never cheated on anyone I was connected to (dating or marriage) ever. Also, thank you for helping me to be a better father to my own son, for showing me that there are two sides to a hand: one side that provides discipline (figuratively, in my role as a father), but more importantly, the other side that provides the guidance and nurturing a young boy needs.

George, my step-father, died a few years ago. Even though we only lived 10 minutes from each other, we saw each other only 2-3 times in the 20 years before his death. I remember when my brother-in-law called me to tell me that he passed away, simply saying “I’ve got some bad news. George is dead”. I felt bad at first because I thought he was talking about my Uncle George. Then it dawned on me that he was referring to my step-father. I was surprised at how little I felt either way – no relief, but no real sadness either, beyond that which I would feel upon hearing of the passing of anyone else. I will never be able to say thanks to him in person, but that is not the point. What is more important is that I am at the point of saying thanks to him, wherever he may be.

I watched, observed and absorbed. Then I eventually grew.

Thank you, George. Thank you, Dad.

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Unfortunately, too many of us swim in regrets. We wish things would have been different, that someone had treated us better or that we did (or didn’t) do that “thing”.

I can remember the day when regrets seemed to vanish from my way of thinking. Prior to that day, there were many times I wished for things to be different in my past.

In my second year of post-secondary, I dropped my English class. This gave me one course less than a full load of subjects. Many classmates with lower averages than I did got into medical school the following year, but I did not. I didn’t have 2 full years of post-secondary completed. If only I didn’t drop that course…

From far away, I drooled over many girls in school. That radiant beauty in the black skirt I would watch almost daily as she left school. That tall brunette in Red Deer College who attracted me and petrified me all at the same time. If only I had asked one of them out…

I dropped out of grade 10 four times. Skipping classes, slowly sinking into a world of sheer solitude, making friends with people within my imagination who came too easily when I was stoned. I never graduated from high school. If only I applied myself…

I quit drinking a hundred times or more during my 20’s and 30’s. Many times I promised myself that this was going to be the last case of beer I will drink. I would make sure I drank it all that evening so there will be nothing to drink in the morning – in full support of my will to quit tomorrow. So why am I at the beer store again…

The list goes on. So many things that would swirl around in my head, pulling me to fantasize how my life would have been so much better.

But then the day arrived when my mindset shifted almost immediately. It was on that day that the mere idea of regrets seemed ridiculous for two reasons.

First, I did not have a rewind button. I could not simply hit that non-existent switch and revert back to a time of my choosing. Yearning for something to be different meant I was burning energy on something that was absolutely impossible to do.

Second, even I could change something, the ripple effect would be uncertain. Some people refer to this as the “butterfly effect”. Suppose I could hit rewind and change something and let’s say I changed two things: I quit drinking in my mid 20’s and I didn’t drop that English class. Maybe I could have become a doctor, maybe even a specialist. Just as possible, with access to various medications coupled with a predisposition to addictions, I could have become hooked on some drugs that could have caused untold damage. Fast forward to today, my life would be so far different than it is right now – good, bad or otherwise. The key point is that my life would be unlike it is now. People in my life would be different, I would not have met Sue and I would not have my family.

The day that changed me forever was the day my son was born. Almost instantly he became a part of all timelines in my life – like he was always there. His arrival also brought me the glaring realization that I would not trade him in for anything. Since I was completely unwilling to change him being there with me, why would I want to alter anything in my past that would risk losing this little boy, only hours old?

That was the last day I dwelt on regrets. I still have momentary second guesses – like, maybe I really didn’t need that last slice of pizza. I also have done things that I am not proud of (topics for future blog posts), but there are no regrets.

I do not judge anyone who is weighed down by regrets, but for those folks, I have two questions: (1) As you look around your life, who and what would you miss if you changed something way back when? And, (2) Do you have a magic rewind button to send you back to yesterday?

For me, I think I’ll pass on the time-travel train with the regrets engineer at the helm. I like where I have arrived.

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