An Unclaimed Child of a Rock Star
I was around thirteen, I think, when my Uncle Robert gave me the biography, and it was then that I realized what I knew or hoped to be true: I was the third illegitimate child of Jimi Hendrix.
All the signs were there. Spelled out in black and white for me and more to see: Jimi was tall. So was I. Jimi was musical. So was I. My mother went to London a lot in the good old days of rock and roll. Jimi died in London. AND in his bio on page 123 — it clearly states that Jimi had, quote: affairs with several women concurrently before his untimely death — unquote. That was my “in.” Anything was possible.
I’d loved his music since hearing it played on visits to my Uncle’s house, as he schooled me on the brilliant rifts of Jimi’s guitar. This was seamlessly layered between arias performed at Teatro alla Scala by Maria Callas (part of his prized collection) that enveloped the room and provided a dramatic and equally lively change in mood. All of which worked, somehow and fueled my desire to be a part of this musical artistry.
It was soon after I shared my suspicions about my paternal origins with my best friend, Linda, that I asked my mother questions about her time abroad. When did you meet Dad? And where were you exactly when Jimi was playing?
I wanted to write to his other children, Tamara Hendrix and James Sundquist to ask if they’d heard about a third child. A love child who was ferreted off to the genteel suburbs of New Jersey, but something stopped me.
My uncle was the only one I could talk to. I said, “Uncle Robert, is it true?”
He just smiled and said, “Why do you want to be the unclaimed child of a rock star?”
I told him that it chose me. That I was destined to be the offspring of someone who dwelled in the beat of a 4/4 meter with a snare drum back beat.
I took guitar lessons. The teacher said that this was not my strong suit. I said: Do you know who my father is? But he laughed and said I should try the piano, I had the hands for it. I wrote a few songs, but the words sounded thin. Like something a thirteen-year old who wanted to be the unclaimed child of a rock star would write. I sang and was cast in several high school musicals, but this did not provide the desired satisfaction.
My uncle mentioned my concerns to my parents, who laughed and said, “Well, if she wants to believe that she is Jimi Hendrix’s daughter, what can we do? It wasn’t until Linda’s mother demanded further action — as Linda was now convinced that she was Jim Morrison’s daughter — that I was requested to curb my “wild imagination.”
I had even written a poem to air my frustration:
Jimi’s strum and voice so sweet.
Keep me strong with every beat.
When I ponder my demise.
Being judged through doubtful eyes.
I keep the rhythm in my soul.
And know the truth will never be told.
Sorry — I never said that I was Maya Angelou’s daughter.
When it was pointed out to me that the math simply didn’t work. Or that he’d had a sad and untimely death, it didn’t matter. I was the unclaimed child of a rock star and someone, somewhere had made a terrible mistake.
It’s hard to say when I accepted the similarities that I shared with my real father: He was tall. So was I. He had long arms. So did I. And he had something I assume Jimi didn’t have: the undeniable habit of biting his tongue sideways when in the middle of a task that took a fair amount of concentration. And yes, so do I.
I met the newly claimed child of a sort of rock star at a gallery opening a few years ago and could not deny my fascination with the life he had now undertaken. Unlike me, he had never held the desire, nor suspected his connection to his sort of rock star dad. This, though impressive, was not on the Jimi level, mind you, but he did get a mention in a tabloid paper when it all first came out.
I have kept the dog eared, unauthorized biography of Jimi Hendrix somewhere on my bookshelf and am reminded of my thirteen-year-old inventiveness and naivete. And the evidence was there… But that’s all over now, of course. These years later, it is good to have it — on hand — just in case I should ever need proof. Proof that is, of my desire to share a good story with a willing audience, now and then.
