I grew up avidly soaking in the various stories of my parents' lives. They were the chapters of an epic romantic saga that I couldn't get enough of in my youth. Even now, deep into middle age, I still think my parents' story would make a great romantic movie.
My mother, who passed away last summer, was Irish, but she was born and raised in England during WWII. My father, who is still with me, is Native American on his mother's side, and perhaps English on his father's side. He was born and raised in North Carolina.
Although my parents had vastly different lives growing up an ocean apart, I eventually realized that they had one hauntingly sad thing in common. Both were born into families that had been denying their heritage for generations.
I don't know when my mother's people emigrated to England, but I do know their blood remained fully Irish until I was born. It remained Irish because they kept to their own, and they kept to their own because being Irish in England, even today, is an invitation to prejudice and conflict. It must be for this reason that my mother's ancestors, after losing their brogue, assimilated into the English culture so completely, their Irish heritage was nearly lost. My mother, always the proper British lady, identified herself as British, and never Irish.
In a similar set of circumstances, my father's maternal great-grandparents stepped off the Cherokee reservation and into a white world. As each generation chose to blend in with the southern-Anglo culture, they also seem to have chosen to ignore their native heritage. The family's oral history hints of a Cherokee connection, and you can look at my father and see the distinct features of a Native American; but all census records, and birth and death notices clearly state Caucasian. Why? Because, if they could pass for white, they did. It was the census takers and the nurses, and other officials who filled out the forms.
So, it would seem, both my mother and father grew up without a solid connection to their respective heritages. I, on the other hand, have grown up eagerly embracing my Irish heritage, my Native American heritage, and my Southern roots. I want to learn more about where I come from, and although my mother didn't seem to care about such things, it turns out my father does.
Last week we were watching a program on the History Channel that had a five-minute section about DNA ancestry. In barely a few minutes, at my father's request, we were online looking up Family Tree DNA, a company that specializes in genealogical DNA research, and boasts the largest DNA collection in the world. (If you're interested in learning more, I encourage you to visit their website: http://www.familytreedna.com).
My father ordered two DNA test kits in a package that saved him a few dollars, and will trace the "deep ancestral origins" of his father and mother. If my father's DNA sample is unique enough, the test may also point to recent familial geographic regions or countries of origin. So, how cool is that?
The test kit arrived today, and my father, 83, wasted no time reading the instructions, and swabbing the inside of his cheek! The photo above shows a zip lock bag with 3 small tubes in it, each containing a swabbed sample of my father's DNA. Dad will mail the samples back to Family Tree DNA tomorrow, and then begin an anxious wait for the results of his DNA test. He hopes for the evidence that will prove his Cherokee heritage, which he is proud of, and which, he doesn't want to hide any more.
I too am anxious for the results, for my father's sake, and mine. I have always been proud of my Irish and Native American heritages, and I look forward to having evidence that will, for once and all, identify me with and connect me to a proud and honorable indigenous people with a rich and profoundly spiritual culture.
