Here
I do not exactly know where my genetic material comes from. Oh, I know who my biological parents are, no doubt in my mind on that. I know the previous generation of my family, no big mystery there. Beyond them lie long and tangled lines of subsistence farmers and immigrants, unknown, and I suspect, unknowable. I never asked much when I was younger, and they were still alive. It was, and is, a family of 'not talking about it.' "It" being anything at all really. I do not even know the names to start to look, even if I were willing to look.
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Which I am not. I worked at a local history/genealogical library, shelving material, for several years in college. Dusty old stuff, microfilm, maps, daguerreotypes and other early photographs, newspapers from the previous century, a whole wall of books about Lincoln. So many books on one (geographical) subject that the first two Dewey numbers were omitted, being redundant. All of which, honestly, I do find interesting. The majority of genealogists I wanted to hit with a large atlas. The handful of historians and a few amusing and pleasant genealogists could not defray the cost of the nasty ones. When the requests came down for more rolls of microfilm than could be looked at in a week, all urgently needed immediately, I yelled at them - from the safety of the sub-basement, "Who cares! They are all DEAD! And they were probably idiots just like you!"
I often wondered at the familiar names of strips of farms on a framed map near the always-breaking microfilm machines. But that was the side of the family I didn't much like anyway. It felt too hypocritical to look for family I would not have wanted to know. I don't care what their names are, what kinds of work they did. They were all poor, they are all dead. This is my inheritance. I take no blame, no credit, I have only my own life and I am satisfied.
On the local news last night was information on getting genetic testing, to map the path of my ancestors. I wanted it. Then felt guilty. I am not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors? Yes, I do. I want to know if my meager evidence suggesting I have native genes as well as Old World ones is accurate. (The impressive family noses, the straight black-brown hair, the inability to handle alcohol, despite being Irish and French.) I have seen girls in French Impressionist paintings that are clearly cousins, Bouguereau painted my genes. I want to know the path taken, the streams flowing through, the obscure story. We all come from a handful of mothers many thousands of generations ago. The record of love and rape is mapped in our DNA, our mitochondria, expressed in our noses and appendices.
I have always liked maps. I want one that accurately says "You are here."
Posted by Zhoen on Thursday, April 06, 2006
13 comments:
Genealogy is my thang. How may I help?
Just be good to the minimum wage aides who get your materials, which I am sure you do.
I so much relate to the mystery and intrigue of this - and the who-cares about the more immediate family. I suspect nothing terribly exotic in my family line, but regret that I've never been able to trace back a little.
My family came from the prairies - but before that...?
When I went to Holland, years ago, I was stunned to see the subjects of Dutch Master's paintings grocery shopping or walking their dogs.
Are you going to do it? Get the DNA testing? It would be so interesting, Zhoen! If you do it, you must promise to tell us.
(o)
I think I know less than I think about who I am. I do know one of my ancestors is listed in some Scottish census record with the occupation "mole catcher" next to his name. However, his real occupation, I was once told, was whisky smuggling. He also had 14 kids.
I wonder what I've inherited.
Your final sentence says it all, and says it exquisitely.
"I'm not on speaking terms with my immediate family, but I want to know my ancestors?" - this touched me so much, Zhoen. I've often visited this thought, and felt for that same reason that I was a terrible hypocrite, but not been able to banish it. I may well one day start burrowing back through those generations of Welsh and English farmers and miners, and who knows who else... Perhaps - aside from the interest this holds for anyone who can look coolly at herself and wonder how she came to be like this - there is an additional poignant motivation for those of us who don't feel much 'belonging' to living family.
Yes, that last sentence is so powerful ... let us know if you decide to go ahead with this.
Your quest sounds authentic, to me. I read somewhere not too long ago, that part of our journey as humans is the waxing and waning of genetic influences on our lives.
It seems that we are strongly affected by our genetics up to around puberty, when we begin a several-decade moving away from those influences. But as we move into middle age, our genetics reassert their influence, as it were.
Wanting to know your genetic history/herstory is a valid desire, I'd say. You may learn much, some of it truly surprising.
And also, it seems, according to recent genetic research, we carry the imprint of disasters, traumas and events experienced by our ancestors. Certain of my frailties may have been caused by my great grandma's privations in the Irish potato famine!
I , too, would like to know where I came from and I envy you these genes
(o)
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