It all started one day in a conversation at work when a coworker commented that if people did a DNA test and found out their true identity, they may be less proud.
I was taken off guard by this because I had never really thought much or cared much about all the fine lines of my heritage. Aside from knowing I was a good bit Irish the rest was a mystery. And finding out I had some random ancestors from distant continents would not only be fascinating but could provide a great deal of future writing material.
, I quietly ordered the spit kit. Many people are uneasy about sharing that much personal information for a national database. And there are reasons for this, but nobody will want to steal my aging organs; we have no criminals dangling from the tree, and, well, by then I had become curious.
After several weeks I was a bit concerned when they contacted me saying my DNA was inconclusive. Was the Secret Service going to show up at my door because I was in line to a crown? No. No story there. Another test and weeks later the results were in. Turns out I don't have any new writing material, and my ancestors were quite the homebodies.
I am 1/3 Irish which was no surprise. The other 2/3 of my ancestral DNA had hung out around England, Scotland and France. There was just one little 4% from Iceland. Maybe some giant Icelandic Viking took a liking to my great-great-great Irish grandma and that is where I get my height?
Maybe there is a little story there, but as for the rest of it I am somewhat of a European Mutt. Nothing Asian or African. Not even anything from more remote parts of Europe.
My sons have brought in Costa Rican, Puerto Rican, and Sicilian to the mix. And even though we are fairly certain my husband is as much French as I am Irish, his past grandparents did not venture out much either. Our people may have even crossed paths from time to time. Now that would make good stories.
A favorite storybook of my grandchildren is "Are You My Mother?" When Daniel Clay was 2, he would ask me to read it over and over and would say with me, "No, you're not my mother." And then he would light up at the end when the mother bird brought her baby a worm and they snuggled tightly.
It is a timeless age-old intrigue - our identity. Who are we? Who were our people? How did they get here? Who gave us our flare for music and my love of writing? Did Clay and I just happen on having a temper or was it innocently woven into our beings by some rollicking French and Irishmen?
Am I any prouder or any humbler because I know that aside from a slight hiccup in Iceland, I am of European decent? No. It was fun to do the spit kit and examine how all those Grandparents were still right there lurking in my blood.
But at the end of the day this 1/3 Irish girl wears the identity of South Louisiana. A crawfish eating, garden growing, music making mother and grandmother. But I sure am thankful for all those men and women who lived stubbornly to get me here.
Cheers.
