Unsuspected Findings or Two Girls in a Pool
Late July 2016, on a steamy near 100-degree day, I found myself at the nine-foot end of the pool, noodle around my neck, talking for hours with my cousin, best friend, and cohort, Dana.
Exhausting numerous topics, Dana suddenly said, "Why don't you get an ancestral DNA test?"
If anyone knows me, it is my cousin. She had a point. I would have fun with it. On the other hand, I am nothing if not impatient. Those tests take weeks to return results. I mentioned my hesitancy. She persisted--as she can do at times. I agreed to think about.
Two weeks later I was spitting into a tube.
Initially--immediately, two sections of the results stood out as odd. Oh, I knew there was German, both on my father's side and my maternal great-grandmothers. But 49%? My first assumption was the results were skewed somewhat. After all, the Sapps (maternal grandmother's family) and Sheldons (maternal grandfather's side) was almost entirely English. My percentage of Great Britain was only 30%. The second peculiarity was the Russian. I even posted about it on Facebook. It didn't escape my notice that I knew at least two of the Sheldon's had tested and weren't a DNA match. There were many Sapps, Butlers, and Johnsons--but not one Sheldon. There were, however, three women and myself who were closely related--and not one of us knew how.
More test results trickled in. To say I was related to The Greens was an understatement. But how? Two of the women, along with myself, emailed back and forth. The fourth was referred to as the "uncooperative cousin". Through research, a process of elimination and checking dates, my mystery was the first to be solved. My newfound cousin, Mindy, cracked the case. Her great uncle was my mother's biological father.
Wow.
His mother was born in Germany. His father, in Russia. That explained my DNA results.
My mother had passed. Did she know? Did my father know? If she kept it from my sister and I, could she have gone to her grave without telling my dad? He is gone, too. And my grandmother! She was well known to keep a secret--but this? THIS?!
For months I obsessed. Went over every conversation I had with my mother and grandmother that might allude to ...something. Anything. It helps that I have a good memory.
Two conversations with my mother stood out. One afternoon, I was maybe 13 or 14? I was relaying a story of someone who I'd heard of who married someone while carrying another man's child. She responded, in a tone that brought me to my feet, "That happens a lot more often than you think." Well, as an adult I can say yes, yes, it does. It wasn't her words, though. It was her tone. I literally asked her if she was talking about herself. There was silence, then denial. She looked away. She wouldn't meet my eyes. Mother was not a particularly good liar. The second conversation took place about the same age. It was after dinner. She was washing dishes. I was drying. She was probably mentioning she and dad's anniversary. She did that often. It occurred to me I'd never heard when her parents were married. Although my grandfather had passed, I was curious. Bad choice of questions. She said she didn't know. I persisted. "You must know. Everyone knows when their parents were married." According to her, they never told her. She disappeared after the dishes were done. A day or so later my father--always the buffer between my mother and I-- talked to me. He said mom was upset about my questions and please not to persist. I shrugged, agreed but said I didn't understand. Perplexed, he said, "I suppose her mother was pregnant with her and it bothers her. I don't understand it, either--that happens." I have concluded my mother knew. And my father did not.
The one talk with my grandmother was a bit juicier. I was probably 10 or 11. Too young to stay home alone when mom and dad went to his company Christmas Party. My sister wasn't in the room. Likely she was off playing with her dolls. We were talking about Pop-Pop when she, out of nowhere, told me about a "beau" she had. How handsome he was. As she talked, her face softened, her eyes glowed. I began to ask questions. As quickly as she began talking, she stopped. She told me she couldn't tell me because I might tell my mother. This made utterly no sense to my 11-year-old mind. I told her I wouldn't tell mom, but everyone had boyfriends before they got married. It was the only time she asked me to keep anything from my mom.
Mindy and I exchanged family photos. It is glaringly clear my mother was a Green. (AKA Grynkowicz prior to being Americanized.) The other "cousin" is apparently my mother's half-sister. I look a great deal like her.
How did it happen? One can only surmise. I know my mother was conceived during the Great Depression in the spring. Men wandered from farm to farm looking for work. My great-grandmother died--my grandmother stayed to cook for her brothers and father and help raise younger sisters. Life happens.
Finally, do I have the right to write about it? In the end, everyone it could hurt is gone. At the end of the day, it is part of my story, too.
His mother was born in Germany. His father, in Russia. That explained my DNA results.
My mother had passed. Did she know? Did my father know? If she kept it from my sister and I, could she have gone to her grave without telling my dad? He is gone, too. And my grandmother! She was well known to keep a secret--but this? THIS?!
For months I obsessed. Went over every conversation I had with my mother and grandmother that might allude to ...something. Anything. It helps that I have a good memory.
Two conversations with my mother stood out. One afternoon, I was maybe 13 or 14? I was relaying a story of someone who I'd heard of who married someone while carrying another man's child. She responded, in a tone that brought me to my feet, "That happens a lot more often than you think." Well, as an adult I can say yes, yes, it does. It wasn't her words, though. It was her tone. I literally asked her if she was talking about herself. There was silence, then denial. She looked away. She wouldn't meet my eyes. Mother was not a particularly good liar. The second conversation took place about the same age. It was after dinner. She was washing dishes. I was drying. She was probably mentioning she and dad's anniversary. She did that often. It occurred to me I'd never heard when her parents were married. Although my grandfather had passed, I was curious. Bad choice of questions. She said she didn't know. I persisted. "You must know. Everyone knows when their parents were married." According to her, they never told her. She disappeared after the dishes were done. A day or so later my father--always the buffer between my mother and I-- talked to me. He said mom was upset about my questions and please not to persist. I shrugged, agreed but said I didn't understand. Perplexed, he said, "I suppose her mother was pregnant with her and it bothers her. I don't understand it, either--that happens." I have concluded my mother knew. And my father did not.
The one talk with my grandmother was a bit juicier. I was probably 10 or 11. Too young to stay home alone when mom and dad went to his company Christmas Party. My sister wasn't in the room. Likely she was off playing with her dolls. We were talking about Pop-Pop when she, out of nowhere, told me about a "beau" she had. How handsome he was. As she talked, her face softened, her eyes glowed. I began to ask questions. As quickly as she began talking, she stopped. She told me she couldn't tell me because I might tell my mother. This made utterly no sense to my 11-year-old mind. I told her I wouldn't tell mom, but everyone had boyfriends before they got married. It was the only time she asked me to keep anything from my mom.
Mindy and I exchanged family photos. It is glaringly clear my mother was a Green. (AKA Grynkowicz prior to being Americanized.) The other "cousin" is apparently my mother's half-sister. I look a great deal like her.
How did it happen? One can only surmise. I know my mother was conceived during the Great Depression in the spring. Men wandered from farm to farm looking for work. My great-grandmother died--my grandmother stayed to cook for her brothers and father and help raise younger sisters. Life happens.
Finally, do I have the right to write about it? In the end, everyone it could hurt is gone. At the end of the day, it is part of my story, too.
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