My DNA story

 I sometimes hear people in Europe think it’s silly that North Americans cling to their ethnic ancestors. But here’s the thing compared to European countries, Canada and the US are fairly new countries that are made up of immigrants. We don’t have “roots” that are uniquely American or Canadian. Yes, there are cliches “Canadians are polite” etc., but because both are vast counties the uniqueness is mostly regional, not countrywide. People in New England are vastly different from people in Texas for example. So, we tend to cling to our European roots. I had friends that were very proud of being Italian and just go to Scottish games and you see that in spades. And some ethnic groups like the Scots were forced out of their homeland and tried to cling to the old country as much as possible.

But I think some of those people are not looking in their backyards. There’s a show called Delicious starring Dawn French. She plays a chef Gina Benelli who is definitely English but her father was Italian and she embraced her Italian heritage, including the food. Would Italians say that she shouldn’t act Italian because she obviously has an English accent and lives there? Look at Peter Capaldi who is as Scottish as you get and speaks Italian. The other thing about not looking in your backyard is all the wars (some ongoing) over ethnicity in Europe, so it’s there as well.

Here is a personal insight involving my ethnicity and DNA. My father was a Newfoundland, my mother was from London, my sister and brother were born in Newfoundland and because of my father’s job, I was born in Montreal. My sister, although she spent the first 10 years of her life in Newfoundland doesn’t really think of herself as a Newfoundlander. I left Montreal when I was eight months old and definitely do not consider myself a Montreal native. I did think of myself as being a Newfoundlander because I loved visiting there, loved the music, loved everything about the place (it felt like home to me) -- and I picked up a lot of my dad’s nuances. I would call this a nurturing effect. 

But here’s the thing. I had a feeling that my father wasn’t my biological father since my parents separated right after I was born so I took a DNA test that confirmed it.

Now here’s the interesting thing.

All my life I always said that being English on both sides was a bit boring, I wanted to be Scottish. I love bagpipes and I played drums in a bagpipe band for years. I went to the Scottish games with my ex-husband, who was of Scottish roots, and I was always a little jealous that he could claim a clan and I couldn’t.

The other interesting thing is I had to go to New Orleans for two weeks for school. I absolutely fell in love with New Orleans, felt like I was “home” again. I’ve always enjoyed Zydeco music and often when to the Cajun festival here in San Diego. I had no idea where this feeling came from.

So here is what my DNA said* 20% Scotland, 32% English, 9% Irish, and 21% French. French?? I couldn’t be further away from France if I tried. I don’t like wine, am not into cheese, and never had the hankering to visit there. My sister (who is technically my half-sister now) on the other hand, loves France, drinks wine, adores cheese, and doesn’t have a drop of French blood in her. And the other surprise was Indigenous Americas – North. Huh?

Then I did some digging to find out who my biofather was. I had an idea and it was confirmed by a second cousin. He was Arthur Edward McDonald! So that confirms the Scottish connection and I now have a clan affiliation. But where did the French come from? Turns out Arthur was from D'Escousse, Nova Scotia a town on the Ille Madame island, one of the Acadian areas of Nova Scotia. Apparently, a lot of the McDonald men married Acadian women. I have a long line of Acadian names like Pettit, LaFave, Douchette, etc. If you know your history a lot of the Cajons were originally Acadians who moved down to Louisiana bringing their culture and music. One of my biological grandmothers was part Mi’kmaq, so that’s where the 3% came from.

Now here’s the funny part. If you know anything about Atlantic Canada genealogy, it’s that everyone is related somehow! A lot of endogamy in the trees. Well, it turns out that the McDonalds stopped off in Newfoundland before settling in Nova Scotia and you got it… I’m related to the Durnfords about five generations back. I’m also related to my Cape Breton stepfamily through the Acadian lines. Ain’t genealogy and DNA grand!

*Ethnicity estimates are fluid and an estimation based on comparison with others.   

 

Halloween at work

 

Cameron Highlanders

Clan Donald

Me, Pimms, and the Baroness

Funny story about the first time I was introduced to Pimms (a fruity gin-based drink). Back in the 90s when I was living in Virginia, I was a tenor drummer in a bagpipe band. We were commissioned to play at the British Admiral’s house for a garden party in honour of the Queen’s birthday. I was told that the admiral was knighted so he was Sir Admiral but also that his wife was a Baroness in her own right. I believe at the time he was the head of the NATO command on base.

During the winter and for special occasions we wore full highland dress — feather bonnets, plaid, jacket, spats, and all, so I was decked out.

After we played the Admiral invited us to stay and enjoy the party which I did. I found it a bit boring, a lot of ladies with hats drinking white wine type of party, so I wandered around and soon found the British squids in the kitchen. I did my usual story … Canadian in US Navy, but family was all Royal Navy … and “Bob’s you uncle” I was one of them. They said to forget about the white wine and have some Pimms with champagne. Well for anyone who knows me, I can’t say no to champagne!  The thing about Pimms though is it sneaks up on you because it doesn’t really taste like alcohol (sort of like those Jamaican rum drinks).

After a few, I was quite toasted and decided to wander around outside again. I didn’t really talk to anyone, didn’t trust myself, but I noticed there were a few Siamese cats in the yard and tried to pet one, but they were skittish. After a few minutes, I realized I had to use the washroom, so I went in the house and asked for directions.

Someone told me the washroom was at the top of the stairs, a beautiful sweeping curved stairs right out of Gone with the Wind. I must explain here that the admiral lived on “Admiral Row” on base. These houses were part of the 1907 Jamestown Exposition. (Each home represented the architecture of each state that contributed funding during the event.) After the establishment of Naval Station Norfolk, the homes were eventually converted to houses for flag officers. They are beautiful and very large houses. As I was going up the stairs, I noticed it was lined with pictures and etchings of donkeys. Rather odd I thought.

A few minutes later I’m outside again and I started talking to this older, rather dignified-looking lady. Now, remember, I’m still toasted at this point. During the chitchat, she mentioned that she had donkeys back home in England, to which I stupidly replied “oh, is this your house?” Then I said “So the cats are yours, I tried to pet one but they were skittish.” I must point out that I think she was a little lit herself, but in a polite English way. She was like “Oh yes, you must meet one” and proceeded to take me upstairs to her bedroom because her favourite cat always hid under the bed when strangers were around. Try as she might, the silly thing would not come out when she called so she asked me to help.

So that’s how I ended up, drunk, in full Scottish regalia, prone under a baroness’s bed trying to coax a cat out from under the bed. 

The Deafening Silence

 It’s 3 a.m. and I’m wide awake. Probably the steroids the doctor put me on for my post-COVID cough. I was lying in bed and naturally, my mind went to Cindy. It’s been 56 days since I lost my best friend…but who is counting.

Grief is a funny thing; you react differently each time.

My parents passed away when I was a young adult, my dad when I was 19, and my mum when I was 26. I mourned both differently. I was much calmer when my father passed away for many reasons. For one, I had been having dreams and predicted his death. It happened almost exactly how I dreamed it. At the time I was living on the other side of the country and I had a guilty conscious because I was mad at him over stupid 19-year-old things and wasn’t speaking to him. The day before he died, I had a phone conversation with him about the boat he had bought. I just knew. He died the way a Newfoundlander wanted to go—he had a massive heart attack on the deck of his boat, his favourite ballcap on, and a beer in his hand. I was sad but not heartbroken. I also knew that he was getting COPD and wasn’t going to have a good quality of life. He was only 62.

My mother was different. She passed away from cancer when I was 26. I was lucky, the Navy sent me home on a compassionate transfer so I could take care of her for the last two months of her life. This was not a sudden death and I was very much in denial. For one, she was the healthiest cancer patient I’d ever seen up until the end. She wasn’t gaunt or looked like she was wasting away. She just quickly let go the day my siblings flew down from Canada and all her children were finally together in the hospital room. She was only 61.

I was utterly lost and Cindy came to my rescue. I had to go back to my command in Connecticut and she decided she was going to move up there with me. She sold her condo and came north.

I was a wreck though because I really hadn’t come to terms with losing mum. I remember the guilty feeling the first time I laughed over something. The pain would just overwhelm me. I felt like an orphan. But I had to work, and I was driving boats, a dangerous job if you don’t pay attention. So, I held everything in. Then one of my petty officers came to me because her mother had cancer and she was overwhelmed. In consoling her my pain came to the forefront and I started having medical issues due to the stress of that and the horrid department I was in. I still tear up when something important happens in my life and I can’t call my mother.

With Cindy it’s different. The Grief is a blanket. Nothing that interferes with my life like with mum, but just something that’s in the background…always. I don’t have the gut-wrenching sobbing I had with mum, it’s a little tear that leaks out of the corner of my eyes when I see the flamingo glasses she bought, the flamingo fabric I bought to make her a pair of Bermuda shorts when she was finished with her treatment, the shells on my dresser that we collected so many years ago, the “friends” bracelet I wear, or the puzzle I bought and hadn’t mailed yet. Putting that puzzle together with my husband was very soothing.

I can’t explain the mind-numbing quietness I feel. We communicated for 52 years via letters, phone calls, and later almost daily text messages. And now there is
deafening silence. Her last text to me was “I love you too.”

I bought this soon after she passed away. It seemed appropriate, she loved puzzles and I have a hole in my heart.