All Past is Hearsay

She was buried in a place called hope.

Every time I read the obituary, every time I look at her picture, I search for some subtle detail — a glimmer in the eye, a crooked smile, a hidden dimple — for the slightest hint of shared DNA.

But I don't see anything, really. No similarities. Just that line about her place of burial, and the realization that — perhaps — we are keenly alike in our sense of irony.

She was buried in a place called hope.

She's my father's mother. But for as long as I've been alive, I've been physically unable to call her "grandma" — she died too long before I was born.

And though I've seen a picture of her once before, this was the first time I'd seen her obituary. Until a couple months ago, none of us knew even the slightest detail of her death. Not even my father, who was too young to remember.

But the more I stare into that photo, the more I look at her features — the more I question the very nature of my heritage, which had long been sold to me as something to the effect of: two different Native American tribes, some Dutch, some English and some Irish. Maybe.

When people ask me about my lineage, I generally utter the word "mutt" and change the subject. I mean, until two months ago I didn't even know a thing about my own grandmother (there, I said it). How on earth could I trace my lineage back further than that, on either side?

It's something I've often envied in others: an understanding of roots; of heritage; a discernible, undeniable history.

I feel like the progeny of mere chromosomes completely unconcerned with preserving their present, all the while obsessed with their past.

There again: the irony.

So on my paternal side, it looks like — yes — I'm 1/16 of a local tribe. On my maternal side — where history is only slightly better preserved — there's a picture of a man, supposedly my great-great-grandfather (though no one's certain) with dark skin, dark silky hair, a pointed nose and an impressive stature. They say he's Cherokee. Though, again. No one knows for certain.

When I was a kid, I was tremendously proud of this purported Native American lineage. It was the only thing I had to latch onto, as far as ethnicity is concerned. We'd go to the occasional POW WOW or war re-enactment and watch card-carrying Native Americans beat on drums and chant around campfires. I generally felt connected to these people, knowing that — if you looked back far enough — we shared the same, bittersweet history.

My family generally paid a small fee to attend these activities. And it wasn't until I hit my early-teens that I realized just how sad the whole situation was. I was paying to observe the remnants of a society (estimated to be 1/8 of my ancestry) all but annihilated by the remaining seven-eighths.

You can see this gross monopolization in my features, too. My pale white skin (but, oh, does it tan well!). My blue-green eyes (they were darker when I was younger). Those quintessentially high (or so I'm told) cheekbones, and a faint almond shape to my eyes.

But it's all so muted — diluted — by everything else. Like staring at the face of a woman just two generations removed and turning to someone, saying:

Do I look like her? Can you see?


Tell me you see.