Nurse the Hate: The Ancestry Test

Against my better judgement I sent in my DNA sample to Ancestry.com for their analysis.  This is despite my conspiracy theory suspicions that they are collecting DNA for some nefarious reason that will involve me being framed for a mass murder, or perhaps picked up by stormtroopers for “ethnic cleansing”.  There really is no good reason to send strangers your DNA.  I just got caught up in it. 

There is a belief that the Miller Family’s long held position as being “Irish” is a tad flimsy.  My Uncle Jack Ford maintained we were all Germans and had changed our name from “Mueller” after The Great War to more seamlessly blend into the population and escape the various war crimes committed by family members.  Never a fan of the Millers or his wife’s constant Irish cheerleading, he held fast to that assertion until his end.  I think he got sick of Aunt Rose’s quest to get The Blarney Stone Ring back from a relative “that doesn’t even appreciate it”.  Jack Ford might have had a point as the joyless old Miller family photos definitely have the grim determination of a German heritage to them.  Yet, one must remember that there are no positive Irish American childhood memories on record on the East Coast.  Most Irish American kids grow up being beaten at Catholic School, emotionally ignored at home, and then sexually assaulted by priests.  Worse yet is having to root for Notre Dame, and if your grades are bad, God forbid, Boston College. 

My mother’s side of the family is even more checkered with confusing marriages, unexplained limbs of the family tree, and shady natural parental lineages that have more in common with circus performers than proud Irish backgrounds.  I think it was easier for my parents to respond with “You’re Irish” than explain whatever kind of unholy stew makes up my genetic background when I asked as a kid.  It’s obviously better to pretend a direct link to Ireland than Poland.  With Ireland you can get excited about drinking, shamrocks, “The Troubles”, Catholicism, St. Patrick’s Day and The Pogues.  Compare that if you came up as “Polish”.  With Poland the mind drifts to black and white photographs of Warsaw being bombed and Nazis slaughtering kids.  Maybe Russian tanks rolling through the streets.  Not real festive. 

The problem is that I have spent my entire life regurgitating that I’m “Irish”.  What if this report says that I am something I never considered?  I will have to completely re-think my entire idea of “self”.  The fear is the report comes back with something irrefutable in a region I’m not excited about.  If it comes back that I’m from Eastern Europe, does that mean I need to buy a gold chain and Adidas track suit?  Do I have to start hanging around European train stations and sell burner mobile phones?  I’m not ready for that kind of adjustment.  How about if I come up French?  I can’t pronounce a goddamn word correctly except “Beaujolais”.  I don’t have time to find a dismissive cigarette smoking woman to go to confusing black and white movies with 4 nights a week.  That’s not going to work for me.

I suppose I could adjust to being “Italian”.  Not like one of those cool well-dressed actual Italian guys I see gliding around Milan.  I am talking full on Jersey Goomba.  I will go out and purchase an Italian horn.  I will immediately do that move where Italians from New York launch into “just off the boat” Italian accent for certain foods.  They go from Jersey accent flat into what they think Italian sounds like and then back into Jersey.  Example.  “Hey Joey!  Let’s go to D’Aminici’s for the capocolla!!!  Forget about it!”.  I will become just like every resident of every Little Italy across the country that all feel like they are extras in “The Godfather” and “Goodfellas”.  I might need a track suit and Yankees cap in this scenario, but that’s in the budget.

I am hoping to get some American Indian come up in the mix.  There is nothing I would enjoy more than saying things like “this land used to all be ours until you forked tongues white devils stole it from us” when glancing at any development.  I wouldn’t mind getting an Indian name, though I am concerned the Tribal Elders would hit me with something like “Runs Like Girl” or “Fearful Dog”.  I don’t want to worm my way into their casino business and then have someone say, “What do you think about increasing the ante minimums on blackjack Fearful Dog?” at a board meeting.  That won’t be good for my self-confidence and would likely result in me putting on my old Shamrock hat and seeing if I can blend in at the St Pat’s Day parade just like old Klaus Mueller did after The War.

If I never mention this again, just know the report probably didn’t come out like I’d hoped.