Growing up in Louisa – Who Am I?
Weekly feature . . . by Mike Coburn
Well, I’ve gone and done it. While my reasoning to why isn’t clear beyond merely just trying to have some sort of fun, but the results are likely to be earthshaking. It isn’t that I enjoy taking tests, even if this one required little effort or thought, and contained absolutely no questions. I figured if I didn’t answer questions, then on what basis could I possibly fail this test? Well, since sending my bodily fluids off to those fine people at Ancestry.com, I’ve come to wonder if my concern should be more about the results that could enlighten a fact better kept secret. For those who haven’t guessed, I’ve sent my DNA sample off to discover from which tree I may have fallen. I explain all of this because, my friends, you may also be at risk by my doing this. You see, we may have well been tree-mates!
My wife’s uncle, believing that he had some noble American Indian blood, perhaps with touches of British roots, was keen to find proof of his heredity. I’m sure, like me he had hoped to find that he was of royal stock. Naturally, when he got back the unsuspected outcome, he discovered that he was not of Native American descent. Instead he was Spanish! It was a shock, but it made sense to me because of his propensity to chase bulls. Oh, he had a share of French Huguenot blood and a touch of English. That explains his love for French bread and tea. He also discovered that several of his ancestors came to this country by boat. Now, it wasn’t clear which boat, or the reason for the trip, but apparently, it ‘took’ anyway. His conquistador great, great, great, great, great, great, grandfather was known to make occasional conquests on the side while searching for gold or a fountain of youth. These side trips undoubtedly led to his current circumstances and the convoluted relationships preceding his arrival. “Not my fault,” yelled out as he tacked another bull’s ear to the wall.
My great grandmother often told me when I was growing up, of her Native American linage that made her 25% Cherokee Indian. I can only vouch that she was on the ‘warpath’ from time to time. I soon learned to hide from her wrath, even if I was innocent of whatever set her off. In time, she figured out my hiding places, so I gave up trying to hide. I never knew her to do anything I thought particularly ‘Indian,’ based on the stereo-types I’d seen in the movies, except for perhaps some light weaving. Because she was relatively light-skinned, and a strawberry blond when younger, I doubted she had her facts right, but then she was my elder and I respected her as ‘salt of the earth’ truthful. Her regular talks that told me (again) of her background made me keenly aware of my Indian heritage. Yes, pride swelled in my chest when I was a youngster over this fact. I remember times when I spread war paint upon my body, let out a yell, and beat upon the homemade Quaker Oats box that had become my drum. Now, I fear what might become of my daydreams should I discover that I would have been a better cowboy. Ugh! Paleface could be the Lone Ranger!
I remember the times that I had collected sufficient box tops and had sent off for the membership card, a decoder ring, and an autographed picture of one of my heroes. The wait for the postman each day was interminable when there was no package for me. I made a habit of arriving on the front porch to be in place when the mail arrived. I usually sat on the porch swing with a stack of comic books to help me handle the stress. Day after day I waited until doubt that they would ever arrive began to set in and prepare me for yet another day’s disappointment. Were these people going to be true to their word? As Murphy (of Murphy’s Law) would have it, the package would arrive on the one day that I was distracted and away from my post. Nonetheless, it did arrive. I kept those trinkets for years and only left them behind to muster into the Air Force. I was fearful to bring them with me as I wasn’t sure the Sergeant would understand.
My point is, now waiting has begun again. How long will it take to get my results? They suggested it might take six weeks or longer. Really, I can wait, but there’s a level of stress growing making me wonder, are these folks going to be true to their word? Then there’s the worry if I may be related to someone famous, or infamous? Maybe I’m the missing link, or maybe I’m your long-lost brother.. Ha, you’d better hope not. You can see from my articles that I’m not quite right.
As a grownup anticipating mixed results, I advise myself, ‘Michael, let’s be adult about this. What is the risk, after all? You have never cared about your heritage, really, and will likely want to dispute whatever they find, anyway. Just relax and go with the flow.’ I am so good at giving common sense advice. I can talk myself through anything. I am so proud. But wait a minute! What if I don’t have Indian blood, or came out of some dark hole, a quagmire oozing such slime as to be rejected of men and thrown into a place of ill-repute. What if I’m but a worm?
I had a class in college once that dealt with DNA and genetics. I can therefore tell myself with some confidence and authority that such tests are only a first step into a confusing discipline of study. For example, some genes are dominant while others are recessive. When one’s sperm and egg begin to formulate what will become you, a good part of prior history is overwritten, or masked in the DNA strands. That makes finding an absolute match to an identifiable genetic background very difficult, if not impossible. Add to that adoptions, secret trysts, and the like, dominate genes may overwhelm the truth in family trees giving too much emphasis to one side of the tree. Like all living trees, they have many, many branches, so following all of them over the centuries will undoubtedly go unfinished. This gives us a fair basis to discount whatever findings may be, but remember, whatever is found, is in fact, there. It’s the percentages that lie, along with missing or hidden data. It may also be the interpretation of the findings. For example, we think we are of English origin, but the test may show you to be Scandinavian. That might not be entirely wrong because many an Englishman has one or more Vikings as ancestors. Of course, there were also Normans from northern France, and Saxton’s from Germany, but still ‘Scandinavian’ is a broad term and that might well include all those countries we call Scandinavia, but may also include some Belgians, or folk from northern France, or Germany, as previously mentioned. What with raping and pillaging, and rescuing of damsels, Englishmen may be a mixed-up lot. If you’re disappointed or disillusioned, here is a disclaimer in which you may find rest. An epitaph may read, “Here lies an Englishman from who knows where.”
For anyone thinking my last paragraph is not scientifically correct, remember please, that I only had a one semester class on the subject, and that was way back in another century. If you know more and want to correct me, please go ahead and do so. I’d be pleased to learn, or mis-learn, more. My experience is that the more I know the better I can disclaim the facts. You may guess that this writing is meant to build a protective wall so when the report arrives, it will not be totally devastating.
I can only sit calmly and wait in hope that all is not bad news. I have faith that once the truth (partial) is known, one of you out there may have the same crazy heritage. We might not only be kindred spirits, but perhaps blood kin. Rest assured, cousin, once I know it’s you, I will relentlessly hunt you out. Then, we shall sit and cry together. Will it be a time to rejoice, or a time for the gnashing of teeth? We’ll see.
My next problem is once I have the results, whether I dare tell the children? My wife will know because she opens the mail. I have no secrets from her, so together we’ll be left to ponder over, ‘What’s next?’ In spite of the forgoing, I do suggest that you, or someone genetically close to you, might also take that fateful step? It’s only a little spit and it’s done. But then, ask yourself if you do, will it make any difference in your life? I suspect it could start a war if you are both Hatfield and McCoy. Then again, once you know, no one else has to know, right?
Meanwhile, the package still isn’t here. mcoburncppo@aol.com
