"None of us are actually afraid of the dark; we
are scared of what it conceals from us." Raymond Carver
--I do not fault my parents. They didn't get an instruction
manual for life any more than I did. They did the best they could and that is
all any parent can do--
I have decided to take a DNA test. Now for most of my
contemporaries and even my Domestic Partner Donna, this would be somewhere between entertaining and mildly amusing. However, for me, as with nearly everything else that piques my interest, it's just not that simple. I
have put this off for a number of years as not to cause anyone embarrassment and quite honestly, part of me fears what I won't
or conceivably will find. This is likely to be a multi-part and quite lengthy
posting, so I apologize now for my lack of brevity. Okay, so here is my
side of those elements which led me here. Thank You.
(I'm fifteen at this point and terribly naive) On the way
out of school that day, I was reminded by the school secretary that I needed my
birth certificate by the next day or I would be dropped from Drivers Ed. So, I
went home and expected to ask my Mom about it, again, but she wasn't home. The
important papers were kept in a metal file box and I took it upon myself to go
search for the document.
I went into my parent's bedroom and stepped into no-man’s
land. Being in there without being invited was forbidden. Despite my fears of
being caught, i located the box, brushed away a half inch of crud, and opened
the lid. I rifled through the papers and found a birth certificate: The
city was correct, born on an Air Force Base was correct, first and middle names
were correct, and the birth date was correct. There was just one thing, the
last name was wrong... Staring at this document, my young naive brain's first
thought was; Wow! I have a brother born the same day as me. Does that mean I’m
a twin? This is so cool! I continued searching for the birth certificate, the
one bearing my surname and found nothing.
For expediency, I'll stipulate that I had indeed found my
own birth certificate. A revelation with far reaching implications and a
singular truth. I am the product of an illegitimate union: A Bastard. Though
few people even notice children born out of wedlock any longer, it wasn't so
long ago where the last vestiges of this prejudice were firmly and stoically
preserved, practiced, and held as something ordained from on high.
Before I get ahead of myself, yes! I did get in trouble for
rooting through the family files. Yes, there was an amount of drama and stories
surrounding the origins of my birth. Setting down those stories into a
narrative to accompany this journey serves neither the thesis nor those involved.
I will however attempt to encapsulate the importance of a genetic history as a
compliment to family (genetic or otherwise) and the incredibly fine line
between belonging and litter on the highway.
I guess the first time I was truly inconvenienced by the
last name I carry had to do with the U.S. Army and my enlistment. Since my
Social Security card held one surname and my birth certificate another, I was
lumped into a group of people who needed name and citizenship verification.
Fortunately, i had recently gotten married and the girl I married took my name.
In the truest of bureaucratic moves, they simply added an alias to my Social
Security Account. This was good enough for the Army. Well, at least it was good
enough for enlistment.
In the middle of my second year of enlistment, i was
selected to go to France for a test. Once again, the dual name thing caused me
grief when I needed a security clearance upgrade to include a NATO designation.
Eventually, I did get it, but not without some sacrifices. Toward that end, i
won't even go into the whole Warrant Officer/ Helicopter Pilot debacle. Just
know, at the end of that enlistment, I knew I was finished with the U.S. Army.
I don't regret my service. In many ways it saved my life and yes i'd do it
again.
I spent the next thirty years, give or take,
attempting to make my Social Security match my birth certificate. Interesting
factoid, this was not rectified until I was forty-two years of age and was
about to face some legal troubles as a result of the political landscape
following Sept. 11, 2001. In the years following the 9/11 attacks I was
unhireable due to the name game. This was the lowest. I'd been to the Social
Security Administration so often we were all pretty much on a first name basis.
One such trip I got lucky and met a man at the Social Security office in
Denton, Texas who was originally from Kermit. He remembers the Social Security
drives they had in the mid 1970's and in a whip of a pen all that dual name
crap was a thing of the past. The other surname will always be associated with
the file, but only in so far as a point of record keeping. Words escape me, but
just like that I was whole.
There is an old adage: When one door closes another opens.
For me, one recurring set of opening doors has led
to Psychiatrists and Doctors from one end of my adult life to the
other. I know, I know, what does this have to do with a birth certificate?
Actually, not a lot, but they all contribute to the main topic here and that's,
Why I got a DNA test.
Studies have shown some mental illnesses to be genetically
linked to the father. In my case, given the lack of a listed father on the
birth certificate, it isn't as though I can call him up and find out what ails
him. So, it's been old school trial and error. The other group of doors
connected with these folks are your run of the mill, front line,
general practitioner doctor. You know, the guy you go see when you
get sick or need a physical. One of their standard forms is a medical
history form. This is the form that wants to know if you or anyone in your
family has suffered from three columns of diseases. At best, I've only
been able to answer that half way.
Last year, I had a spot of skin cancer taken off my forearm
which ended up running from side to side. This was the fourth piece I've had
removed. In the middle of the procedure the doctor asked me if skin cancer runs
in my family... Well, my Grandmother had skin cancer, but other than that I
don't know. She certainly didn't seem to have it as often as I get it.
Months later I was at a Cardiologist Appointment and was asked if anyone in my
family had a similar heart condition. I remember saying that I didn't know. He
wondered if I could find out. We spoke briefly and decided it wasn't that
important.
Much like runway lights, my direction is painfully obvious.
Get the DNA test. Don't these tests simply tell you where your ancestors were
from?? Uh that should be easy, I’d say Europe, somewhere between Germany and
Scotland. Okay, so maybe what I need to do first is to gather some information
and do a little research on what it entails and what can be learned. This is a
pile of reading and a surprising number of videos on the subject.
I learned quite a bit about the usefulness of DNA testing
across a wide spectrum of need. It's time to do it or let it go Elsa!!! I
ordered my test and in the next installment, I’ll fill in a few more of the
blanks as to what i'm hoping to, and not to, discover.
Until I write again, Peace be with you,
Dave
